Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell Read online

  Mistress Meg

  and

  The Silver Bell

  By Miriam Bibby

  Being the continuing adventures of cunning-woman Margaret Loveday

  and the Elizabethan rogues, first met by readers in

  ‘Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers’.

  Copyright 2014 Miriam Ann Bibby

  First Published in 2014 by Miriam Ann Bibby

  All rights 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 image of Bethany Martin of Les Amis d’Onno by Tom Langland. With many thanks to Sue, Bethany and Jacob Martin and their horses. Les Amis d’Onno website: http://www.lesamisdonno.com/index.htlm

  FB page: https://www.facebook.com/lesamisdonno

  Thanks and acknowledgements also go to Mr David Beasley, Librarian of the Goldsmith’s Company, for introducing me to the wonderful “Memorials of the Goldsmiths’ Company being gleanings from their records between the years 1335 and 1815,” by W.S. Prideaux. The goldsmith in my story is not based on any real life character or event. Silver bells, often with gold banding, were the usual prizes for running horses in the early days of racing; the only two existing examples are in the Guildhall in Carlisle.

  Contents

  Note on Elizabethan currency

  Prologue: Marcaster, May 1589

  Chapter 1: The Road to Marcaster

  Chapter 2: The Craftsman

  Chapter 3: The Rivals

  Chapter 4: Venus and Vulcan

  Chapter 5: Dark Horses

  Chapter 6: For Want of a Shoe

  Chapter 7: Greyhound or Portcullis?

  Chapter 8: The Running Horses

  Chapter 9: The Conspirators

  Chapter 10: Gold and Ruby

  Envoi

  Note on Elizabethan currency

  Until 1971 the currency of the United Kingdom was non-decimal; that is the pound was not divided into 100 new pence as it is today, but into 240 (old) pennies. The currency of Elizabethan England consisted entirely of gold and silver coins, and their value was determined by the quantity of these metals that they contained. In addition to coins in circulation from previous reigns, which although having the same name might have a different value to Elizabethan coins, the coins minted during the reign of Elizabeth I were:

  Halfpenny

  Three Farthings (= 3/4 of a Penny)

  Penny

  Three Halfpence

  Half Groat (= 2 pennies)

  Threepence

  Groat (= 4 pennies)

  Sixpence

  Shilling (= 12 pennies)

  Halfcrown (= 2 shillings and 6 pennies)

  Half Angel (= 5 shillings)

  Crown (= 5 shillings)

  Angel (= 10 shillings)

  Halfpound (= 10 shillings)

  Ryal (= 15 shillings)

  Pound (= 20 shillings)

  Sovereign (= 30 shillings)

  Prologue: Marcaster, May 1589

  Mist rose in wraiths over the River Mar. The air was cool in the grey dawn light, but the men on horseback, grouped together on the flat meadowland that bordered the river, were experienced weather watchers. Later, they knew, it would be a glorious day. No-one spoke, but there was the occasional clatter of stirrup on stirrup as two of the horses moved closer together, or the sound of a horse snorting or grinding its teeth on the bit. In brief moments of utter stillness, the men and their horses became a group of mysterious statues in the weaving mist. It began to lift as the rays of the sun brightened the sky, far across the plain to the east where the Mar meandered its way to the sea.

  Out of the east came drumming hooves and, as the shreds of rising vapour gave up the ghost, a horseman, who had been merely a shadow in the cloud, came thundering up to the group of riders. He did not stop, but carried on at speed past them and down the river bank towards Marcaster. As he passed, some of the horses swung about and whinnied after him. Heads and eyes turned to follow the rider’s progress. The man and the black horse did not lose a stride, but kept on going towards a clump of trees that lay between the mounted men and the town. As the rider approached the trees, he began to slow down and by the time he reached them the horse was walking, throwing its head up and down and blowing through its nostrils. The rider turned and began to walk back towards the men on horseback.

  Sir Richard Grasset, seated in the midst of the riders, nodded with satisfaction as the black horse with the white star approached him. The rider bowed low in the saddle.

  “All’s well,” said Sir Richard. “You, Mark - and Jack - take him gently to the stable; spare no expense for his comfort, in my name. And you have my instructions. No-one is to touch this horse other than yourselves. You understand? No-one. If there should be any sign of lameness - or aught else - send word to me immediately.”

  “Aye, Sir Richard.” The older man, Mark, took the reins from the now dismounted rider and the two serving men rode off towards Marcaster leading the black horse. The servant who had ridden the horse swung into an empty saddle and took up the reins. Sir Richard, with a look of grim satisfaction on his face, raised a gloved hand to lead the way back to Marfield Hall. He had done everything in his power to ensure his horse’s success in this match. Now, it was in the lap of the gods.

  Chapter 1: The Road to Marcaster

  Matthew lay flat against the ground, so close to the grass that he could see the spiders’ webs outlined in dew hanging from the blades, each with its tiny spider in the centre. Some of the webs were dotted with insects even tinier than the spiders. Every detail was so clear that he could see it even if he closed his eyes. The earth smelled of spring, a green, rich scent that made his mouth water. That, and the hunger that drove him to hunt. He thought about those who never felt that hunger, the need for food that honed the hunter’s skills. He felt sorry for people who had never known need in their lives. They had never lived.

  Two long ears rose up above the grass stalk horizon in front of him, followed by a round, white-ringed, unblinking eye fringed with gingery lashes. Then a nose and twitching whiskers and a mouth that nibbled from side to side as it chewed on a bite of grass. The rabbit was grey brown, young and fleshy. The hunter was prepared for this; his hand, holding a stone of just the right size in a sling, was held steadily in the air at exactly the right angle. Leaning on the other forearm, he lifted his head and shoulders a fraction. No room to swing the sling, but room enough to flick it accurately. Time stopped; the moment was perfect …

  Something small was crashing through the grass beside him. Something small that panted and hurled itself at him, licking his ear and then his face enthusiastically. A little black dog with a madly wagging tail and bright, lively eyes. Cornelius!

  “Madre de Dios!” said Matthew, attempting to detach himself from Cornelius. “Brother Nose-all, what the devil are you doing here?”

  The coney, only slightly alarmed, disappeared from view.

  “Shite!” said Matthew, switching to robust Anglo-Saxon. He sat up, releasing his tense muscles. The coney loped away in a leisurely fashion. Some of the other rabbits that had come out to graze in the dawn light took their cue from it and headed back towards the sandy burrows. Down at the far end of the warren, one of the warrener’s terriers yapped.No-one had told Cornelius there were dogs in the vicinity. He gave one, short sharp warning bark in reply.

  Matthew didn’t waste any time. Scooping Cornelius up into the crook of his arm, he ran, bent double, under the line of the long mou
nd on which he’d been crouched. Heading swiftly towards the plantation of oak and elm trees to his left, he soon gained their shelter and stopped to listen. There was a fair amount of barking going on and if the warrener knew his job - which he undoubtedly did - he would spot the movement amongst the conies and go to see what had disturbed them. Matthew hared through the plantation towards the lane that led to the Marcaster highway, wading along a section of drainage ditch for good measure to spoil his trail. Mist rose above the water in eery wreaths. The one rabbit that he had caught bounced against his hip on a string. As he reached the orchard by the road where he had left Meg, he halted again and listened. There was still barking; but it appeared to have gone in the opposite direction. Safe for the moment - but where was Meg?

  Matthew waited under the canopy of blossom and buds. The air was filled with the sound of insects buzzing and the scent of plum, apple and hawthorn flowers. He turned around slowly.

  “Meg?” he said, uncertainly. He was sure it had been here, by this old apple tree, that he had left her, with the packs. The barking sounded a little closer now, but as though it was down the road, rather than back the way he had come.

  A dead coney flew over his head and landed in front of him. Cornelius pounced on it immediately and, out of habit, Matthew grabbed it from him before swinging around with the coney in his hand. Meg was standing just behind him.

  “Impressive,” said Matthew, with just a hint of irony in his voice. “Can you make us all invisible?” He nodded his head down the road towards the sounds of barking.

  Meg said nothing, but dangled another coney in the air. Matthew’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Where did they come from?”

  Meg grinned.

  “Out of the warrener’s bag.”

  “What?” Matthew was genuinely surprised. Then, looking suspiciously at Meg, “And just how - you don’t mean … “

  “My thanks to you and Brother Nose-all for the diversion.”

  “You used us deliberately!”

  “I? No, no, not so!” replied Meg in a mock affronted tone. “Brother Nose-all and I grew a little weary of waiting to break our fast and wondered if you had nodded off; so we came in search of you. And spying that the warrener had left his bag hanging on a post, an opportunity presented itself; in which Cornelius assisted, although most certainly not at my bidding.”

  “And if Cornelius and I had been taken off to the constable, what then?”

  “I should have said that you were a pair of excellent servants who were doing nothing more than your duty for your weary and hungry mistress.”

  “And if that was not believed, then?”

  “D’ye think we might discuss this at some better time and place?” said Meg. “I believe that the warrener might prove somewhat protective of his coneys; not to say argumentative.”

  “The packs …” said Matthew.

  Meg reached up into the branches of the old apple tree. As she did so, the emerald in the ring on her finger was a match for the young leaves.

  “‘Tis a pity we need to leave in such haste. This would make a very pleasant place to rest awhile.”

  There was a renewed burst of yapping down the road.

  “Don’t say anything, Brother Nose-all!” warned Meg

  Matthew was listening, hard.

  “Wait - I think I can hear more voices. It sounds as though they are arguing.”

  “They? I saw only the warrener and a lad. How many are they? Are they coming this way?”

  “I think not.”

  “Get under the hedge. If we crawl right under it, we can peer out in safety.”

  “And what about the coneys?”

  “Put ‘em in the tree.”

  Matthew was sceptical, but hid the rabbits in the foliage and crept under the hedge alongside Meg. Cornelius lay quietly between them, trembling with excitement. Once again the scent of the earth was in their noses, the green scent of spring, along with leaf mould, buds and blossoms. Even the dust of the road had an early morning smell. Matthew tried to forget the coneys and how hungry he was.

  Peering down the road, they made out three figures surrounded by several leaping, barking terriers of different shapes and sizes. Meg and Matthew looked at one another through narrowed eyes. There was something very familiar about one of those figures.

  * * * * *

  Frater John was the injured party and he adopted an injured air. One of the terriers had attached itself to his arm and another to the back of his leg, before the warrener had called them off. The warrener was trying to play down the situation but the Frater was not about to let it lie.

  “Aye, well!” he said. “Y’can see that I have no coneys about me. And such treatment of a poor old man like meself, who has seen service for his monarch. Setting the dogs on ‘im!”

  The warrener looked at him assessingly. It might be true, or then again it might not. He saw an elderly man with guileless blue eyes, a red face, an untidy beard and a circle of fluffy white hair like a tonsure. He was wearing a garment that might once have been white but was now grey and brown with dust from the road; and he had battered and dusty buskins on his feet. A grubby piece of blanket was fastened over the man’s shoulders like a cape.

  “I’ve served the Crown as far back as great Harry himself, her Majesty’s father, God save her! I were a lad then, o’ course …”

  “I can see ye’ve no coneys about ye,” said the warrener, ambiguously. He looked the Frater over. “Ye don’t look damaged.”

  The Frater upped his stakes. “Do I look like I’m the sort to go chasing coneys all over the countryside? Well, do I? I’m sure if yer master knew what had happened to an old man - an old man with a licence to collect money for his comrades …” The Frater began to cough.

  “My master won’t see you, if that’s what ye’re thinking.”

  “Nobody asked him to see me, did they? I wasn’t thinking of seeing him, was I? Just - setting it to rights.”

  “Ah, I see it,” said the warrener. “Well now, I would have the authority of Sir Richard to give you a little something by way of - assistance.”

  “Sir Richard?” fished the Frater.

  “Aye. Sir Richard Grasset,” said the warrener. “My master.”

  “Great man, is he?” pressed the Frater. “A generous man? Does his part by the poor?”

  “Great enough hereabouts,” replied the warrener. “Here’s a half groat.” He put a coin into the Frater’s hand and pressed his fingers down over it. “And if ye see any coney poachers hereabouts be sure and let me know. Sir Richard would reward ye well enough for that! And so would I.”

  “Trust me for that!” said the Frater, nodding and smiling as he touched the coin to his forehead and backed away. “My pleasure!”

  The warrener and his lad watched the Frater’s back as he trotted off down the road and then looked at one another. The terriers had not improved the appearance of his battered garment.

  “We’d best get back to those coneys, lad,” said the warrener, picking up the bag that contained two of his ferrets. “If it was him what disturbed them then he must have had the devil at his heels to get away.”

  The lad sniggered.

  At first Matthew and Meg heard nothing, then the sound of regular, slightly laboured breathing; and then the faint sound of flattish feet slapping on the dusty road surface. Matthew twisted his head slightly and saw a pair of dirty bare legs moving up the road towards their hiding place, with dust kicking up under a pair of ancient buskins. The owner was moving at a half walk, half trot and - yes, there was something very familiar about both the legs and the pace.

  Meg’s hazel eyes glinted mischievously into Matthew’s and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing out loud. Nothing was said but as he shook with silent amusement she poked him hard in the ribs over the head of Cornelius.

  They waited until they sound of the Frater’s panting had all but disappeared and then Meg cautiously stuck her face back through the hedgerow
again.

  “Going down to the Marcaster Road,” she said. “As are we.”

  “No doubt he’ll find plenty to eat in Marcaster. That’s surely what lures him on at such a pace.”

  “‘Tis a good six miles or more.”

  “Six miles is no distance to the nose of Frater John. He’ll be smelling the cook shops already.”

  “Well,” said Meg, pointedly, “y’know the rogue better than I do. No doubt he’s missing your skill at thieving.”

  “The Frater knows how to fill his belly,” said Matthew. “He’ll sniff out food and find the means to procure it. ‘Spare a coin for the poor sailors, brother? Spare a crust for a poor man grown old and rheumaticky in the service of his country?’ That’s Frater John in a nutshell for you.”

  “I’m certain that he has rare skills of persuasion,” said Meg. “But you have the advantages of height, agility and youth. Great advantages in climbing up to high windows and reaching through for - oh, say, for argument’s sake, a pear tart at arm’s length.”