Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers Read online

  Mistress Meg

  and

  The Prigger of Prancers

  By Miriam Bibby

  Copyright 2012 Miriam Ann Bibby

  First Published in 2012 by Miriam Ann Bibby

  All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  Cover Art Copyright Leena Pekkalainen 2012

  More of Leena’s art can be seen at www.leenasart.blogspot.com

  Contents

  Prologue: Guildern 1589

  Chapter 1: Brother Nose-all Runs an Errand

  Chapter 2: The Cunning-man

  Chapter 3: The Riding Master

  Chapter 4: Davey

  Chapter 5: Rogues on the Road

  Chapter 6: Pegasus Invisible

  Chapter 7: The Constable Calls

  Chapter 8: Follow the Frog

  Chapter 9: "Is thy servant a dog?"

  Chapter 10: By Moonlight

  Chapter 11: Guildern Fair

  Chapter 12: Saturn's Blows

  Chapter 13: Justice

  Envoi

  Prologue: Guildern 1589

  Kites, ever watchful for something tasty being thrown into the streets or back lanes of Guildern, soared and swooped on the fickle March wind. Below them, the chimneys streamed smoke and the occasional slate rattled down from the better constructed buildings that lined the main street. The wind swept down and whipped the surface of the duckpond into a wave-tossed ocean on which the ducks rode like Viking ships. Then, as though tiring of this, the wind turned back to do battle with the kites again. Talons out, the kites resisted. Something had caught their attention far below.

  A little black bundle that had started to emerge from the front of Guildern's finest inn, paused and then, revealing itself to be a small, jaunty dog, moved purposefully off under the swinging inn sign and down the street. Instinctively the kites knew the dog would be going to the butcher's shop not far away. Perhaps this was not the first time he had set off in that self-important way, as though on an errand of some significance.

  The chimney of the room that overlooked the inn sign smoked a little more fiercely than the others clustered around it and a faint sweet scent rose up and was carried on the wind. In this room, a young woman was waiting nervously to hear her fate from a woman in a veil who sat facing her in the darkened room. The little black dog was the servant of the veiled woman, who had a well-deserved reputation as one who had secret knowledge: a cunning-woman. That is to say, the dog was one of her servants. The other was sitting smoking and casually listening to the talk in the common room of the inn. Talk of horses, ale, tobacco, women, and gold.

  Chapter 1: Brother Nose-all Runs an Errand

  A little black dog with a rough coat and bright marmoset eyes was trotting briskly along the rutted road from the Goat in Chains. He had the handle of a small basket clamped firmly in his teeth which gave him a cocky and fierce looking grin. He was not as confident as he looked, though. Every now and then he turned his head slightly so that one eye could peep back cautiously over his shoulder. He was new to this town and experienced enough to know what local dogs thought of strangers. If they saw where he was going he would be in for it.

  Fortune was with him. When he arrived at the butcher's shop, the block outside was scrubbed clean and there was nothing, no scent, no scrap, to tempt any hungry mongrels into hanging around. It was Lent and the local dogs knew it. They were somewhere else for the moment, scavenging in an alleyway or scratching their fleas or killing ducks on the pond. However, their instincts were as keen as his. He knew they could be on him in an instant.

  He entered the shop cautiously. There was no meat to be found in the room that led off the street, just two barrels of salt fish and some wild fowl hanging up on hooks. The whole town, including the butcher's shop, was full of mournful Lenten sanctimony. However, a sharp-nosed dog could definitely tell there was meat somewhere nearby. His nostrils twitched with pleasure. In a back room the butcher was cutting up joints, with sharp, clean whacks of a cleaver, and for a moment he was unaware of the little dog sitting up on his haunches in the shop. It might be Lent, but the butcher hadn't passed up the chance to make the best of an unfortunate cow that had fallen into a ditch. He was planning to let some of his very special clients know about it. Suddenly sensing a customer, the brawny man turned.

  His eye scanned his premises. Surely his instinct wasn't wrong - he knew that someone had come in. Then, a curious noise from the floor - a sort of apologetic barking cough - alerted him to his visitor. The dog was sitting up with an appealing look in his eyes, the basket still held in his teeth. A grin spread across the butcher's face. He wiped his hands on a bloody, and then a clean, cloth.

  "And what can I do for thee, brother?"

  The dog raised the basket a little higher.

  "Oh, ye've brought me something?" The butcher bent to take the basket from the dog's narrow jaws. The dog gave it up willingly and sank back into a sitting position, his tail wagging just a little.

  In the basket was a note, which the butcher opened and read slowly and carefully. Along with the note was a small, elegantly shaped bottle with a tightly sealed stopper. The glass was dark green and covered in a lacework of gold wire. Its contents were thick and viscous. The butcher nodded and took the note to the block, which was scratched and scarred from knife and cleaver. He took a cloth and wiped the surface. Rubbing his chin, he thought of a reply. He was proud of his literacy - he could read his Bible and write enough to serve his needs, an opportunity unknown just a generation or two earlier. However, he did not have writing implements here and he could not take time away from his work to find or send for them. His lad would not be back for an hour or two - he was away with the horse to take a message about a herd of cattle that the butcher was purchasing to fatten up over the summer. He glanced at the little dog waiting patiently. Then he found a piece of charcoal.

  Scratching his head in thought, he paused before putting down the words at the foot of the paper, saying them aloud whilst he wrote them as neatly as possible: "Thank ye ..."; then, because he had heard it somewhere and it seemed to be of the gentry, he added, "... Yr. sarvant, A. Eaglestone".

  It would do. He took a coin from the purse at his belt, wrapped it in the paper, and put it back into the basket. The dog waited, tail wagging hopefully. Then he sat up again to beg, and barked, nudging the basket with his nose.

  "Ah ... I see ... your delivery fee, master ..."

  Selecting an appropriately sized bone from the growing pile at the back of the shop, the butcher put it into the basket before replacing the coarse linen cloth cover. At this, his own dog, which had been lurking in the shadows watching him work, rose to its feet. It glanced at its master indignantly, and at the interloper with malice. It was a large and bristling mastiff type and it dwarfed the little terrier-like dog, who held his ground regardless, although his ears were less perky and his tail did not wag with as much confidence as before.

  "Quiet, Ruffian! Ye'd not deny your brother a taste of your pickings, would ye? There's plenty for all. He has done me a service." Whether the dog's name was ruffian, or simply his nature, was not clear; but the little black dog was not interested in putting it to the test. The larger dog slunk back to its place and lay down, looking at the smaller dog with contempt. Just keep out of any alley that I choose to walk down, his expression seemed to say; if I find you alone, take heed!

  The smaller dog barked his thanks to the butcher, took the handle in his mouth once more and whisked out of the shop. The larger dog growled his disgust and put
his nose on his paws sorrowfully. The butcher stepped outside and looked along the street after his "customer". The small dog had carried errands before and it was not far to the inn, but it was as well to be sure.

  The little black dog had glanced up and down the street to see if all was clear before starting to run towards the inn over the uneven paving stones. This was the first day in over a week that it hadn't rained and the stones were still spattered with dirt that had been thrown up from the road. This time, though, he was out of luck. A yellow cur turning a corner spotted the small dog as he ran - and quickly alerted his street brothers to the stranger. Soon a motley pack had gathered and was happily and noisily giving chase, some galloping easily along, skinny and fleabitten like hounds out of luck, others, small, with upright ears and spiky coats, scampering hell for leather on their short legs as they tried to keep up. Brown and white, yellow, spotted and brindled hides came out from hiding to join the chase.

  "Grrrrrrrr!" "Yow, yow, yow!" "Horooo!" "Howooo!" "Yik, yik!" The chorus swelled behind him. In the wake of the dogs ran ragged and mostly barefoot children, who had also appeared out of nowhere, laughing and jeering at the idea of some unexpected fun.

  The inn was still some way off. The little dog knew he could not outrun them and keep hold of the basket, but he had uncommon sense and a head start. Quickly looking around for some means of escape, he spotted a ancient cart loaded with turnips bumping its way slowly up the street ahead of him. The axles squealed as it jounced through the ruts. Taking stock of the situation and the distance, he put in an extra spurt and managed to leap on board, squeezing through a gap in the woven hurdle that was serving as a temporary tail gate. He turned and hooked the basket over a piece of the hurdle that was sticking up. The turnips jounced and bounced and the motion of the vehicle frustrated his attempts to stay upright. He didn't know that they were turnips, but he knew they were hard and uncomfortable and a nuisance. The screaming pack grew closer. They knew, and so did he, that they would catch up with the cart and its aged dun cart horse in no time. The carter was oblivious to both his passenger and the noise going on behind him. Barking dog packs were not a novelty and there was no reason to associate it with his cart, his horse or his turnips.

  The cart was approaching the inn; the dog pack was approaching the cart. The fastest of the dogs reached the tail and leaped up, its jaws snapping close by the basket. The little dog snarled and snapped back, its little teeth coming close to the nose of the large dog, which fell back in surprise. The carter slowly became conscious that the noise was in some way connected with him. His horse broke into a jog, causing the cart to jolt and bump even more. Glancing back in alarm, the carter saw a small black dog, with a face like a cat, or a tiny monkey, bouncing about on its hind legs on top of the turnips, barking and snarling at something in the roadway below. A set of snapping jaws and clawing paws, presumably attached to an extremely large dog, appeared momentarily above the top of the hurdle before disappearing again.

  "Hoy!" The carter's shout was intended for the little dog, but the horse took it as some command to go faster and obeyed. The dog glanced quickly at the man before deciding that the large dog at the back of the cart was the more pressing of the two problems. Before the incredulous eyes of the carter, the small dog caught hold of one of the old frayed ropes fastening up the hurdle and began dragging on it with his teeth, growling and tearing at it. The head and paws of the larger dog appeared again in mid air. The little dog worried at the rope like a rat, before giving it a sudden flick into that lifted it over the frame. Then he began to hurl himself at the hurdle, the turnips rolling about under his feet.

  "Hoy!" shouted the carter again, indignantly. "Not thee, thou son of a ... whoooooa!"

  The horse quickly slid to a stop at his order; the turnips shot forward, then back and then forward again; the hurdle collapsed and the load began to spill all over the road, accompanied by an angry yelping from the large dog as it struggled under the hurdle and the turnips that were tumbling over it. Simultaneously, the carter saw the small black dog grab something from the side of the hurdle that was still hanging from the cart and apparently fly through the air with it in its teeth. He turned his head for a better view and saw it land running. It headed towards the open door of the inn, with six or seven madly barking dogs close on its tail.

  "Hoy!" he shouted again, feeling that someone or something, somewhere, should take some notice of him. As the porter of the Goat in Chains came to the door by the archway of the inn to see what the disturbance was about, the small dog dashed between his legs into the interior and the carter was able to see that it was carrying a basket in its mouth. He pinched himself just to make sure he was awake. There would be no point in stopping to replace his load if this were merely a bad dream.

  The porter reached for the chair on which he'd been dozing and began laying about him, with some ripe curses for additional effect. The dogs quickly got the message and began running back down the street with the largest dog, now freed from the turnips, loping at the back with its tail between its legs. The porter and the carter stared at each other.

  "That dog ..." began the carter.

  "Which dog?" said the porter, justifiably confused.

  "That one with the basket and the face ... the face like a cat," said the carter.

  "A dog; wi' a cat's face and a basket?" said the porter. "Early for the alehouse, ain’t it, carman?" Putting the chair back inside, he seated himself again in the shelter of the doorway out of the brisk March air.

  The carter opened, and then closed, his mouth. Evidently the porter had no intention of helping a poor working man whose load, indeed whose livelihood, had just spilled over the road. He jumped down from the cart and went round to the back to see the damage. The horse, who was clearly the intelligent one of the partnership, sighed and lowered its head. Resting one back leg, its eyes began to close. Its hairy lower lip jutted out and trembled as it dozed.

  Muttering, the carter propped up the hurdle against the wheel of the cart and began to replace the turnips. After a few minutes he heard a slight sound and looked up to see a plainly dressed woman of middle age standing beside him. He knew a gossip when he saw one. Misery loves company. Some people seemed to spend their lives waiting for ill fortune to occur to some poor working man, just so that they could make it worse.

  "Spilled the turnips, hey?"

  There didn't seem to be anything worth saying to that, so he grunted and carried on loading the cart.

  "The dogs, hmmm? What are magistrates for, hey? Every day we have such as those to deal with. Yammer, yammer, yammer! And the mess! What are magistrates for, hey? And some day it will be worse than some spilled rotten old turnips and a few slaughtered ducks ... that's what I say. One day those hungry curs will carry off a baby, what d'ye think?"

  "How d'ye mean, rotten?" said the carter, responding to the only comment that had relevance for him. "These turnips are fine and solid and would ha' made a good price, it hadn't been for that dog."

  "Fine turnips? Phooo, they are worm chewed and spiled wi' frost. Fit only for sheep."

  Before the carter could protest, the woman continued, having caught his attention: "But I saw all ... I saw the dog! Uncanny the way it goes about its business. Devil's pup, all black and wi' the face of Satan."

  "Devil's pup?"

  "Ah." She leaned towards him confidentially. "Belongs to a cunning woman, they say. Some say it's white magic, but they're all witches, say I, hey? They have familiars, don't they?"

  The carter looked at her uneasily. "You saw it? A witch's familiar?" She nodded smugly with the vindication of a gossip.

  Superstition was the usual condition of country people. The carter was no exception. He felt a chill pass over him. Perhaps it was the evil eye ... he shuddered and began to throw the turnips onto the cart quickly. Now he came to think of it, there had been something uncanny about the dog, the way it danced about on its hind legs - and it had certainly been carrying a basket when it
jumped down from the cart. However, like many of his age and circumstances, he did not pass up the chance to make something of the situation.

  "Someone should make good my losses," he grumbled.

  "Phooo ... what losses? A few mouldy turnips coated wi' a bit more mud?"

  "A valuable crop, damaged, Goody!"

  "Shooo ..." The dame blew out her breath disbelievingly. "Fit only for sheep!" In fact the carter had been taking the turnips for sheep just four miles away.

  "I could drop the price for 'ee if ee'd like a few?" he said in what was intended to be a winning voice.

  "Phoooo!" said the woman deprecatingly again, and walked off in search of better gossip.

  The carter turned to his task again, rammed in the hurdle hard against the turnips and found a less frayed piece of rope to fasten it with. He jumped back up on the cart and gee'd up the old dun horse. As he bumped along he considered his lot. Perhaps a witch was to blame; or perhaps it was sinful and envious thoughts when he should have been praying. Perhaps it was because he was habitually envious of the carriers who passed through from time to time with their strings of sturdy pack horses, when he only had an ancient cart and horse to take vegetables a mile or two. Not once however, did he blame his lot on coincidence or an ill-packed load.

  When the cart was at a sufficient distance, the gossipy dame returned to pick up a few of the turnips that still lay in the mud. Waste not, want not.

  * * * * *

  Inside the inn, the little dog bounced up the narrow, twisting wooden stairs and along the corridor to a door set in the panelling where he set down his basket. He scratched at the door, barked once and waited. When nothing happened, he took up a listening posture, head cocked on one side. Faintly within he could hear a gentle, confidential murmur of voices. He sighed, lay down and put his nose on his paws. Neither patience nor self restraint came easily to him, but he would try. Every now and then he sniffed the basket and looked up at the door hopefully. When nothing happened, he sighed and put his head back down again. Soon he was snoring gently, his nose and ears twitching slightly.