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

  “If you please,” said Matthew plaintively, “let’s have no more talk of food. I am so hungry I could roast Cornelius.”

  “Bread and cheese,” said Meg, mischievously, offering Matthew some of the young hawthorn leaves. “That’s what the scholars call it on their way to lessons.”

  Matthew groaned and Cornelius whined. “I’m in agreement with Brother Nose-all,” said Matthew. “Very poor fare for man and dog. As soon as it’s safe, let us find somewhere to start a fire.”

  “It’s safe enough now. Fetch the packs and … ” Meg paused for so long that Matthew looked over at her enquiringly.

  “What is it?”

  “I was thinking - speculating … ” Meg looked back at Matthew. “D’you think - is it possible - the rogue was following us?”

  * * * * *

  A little hard trotting nag was making its way from west to east over the hilly stretch of the Marcaster Road. The man was tall and his nag so small that the man’s legs dangled to its knees as he rode. They were making fast progress. The man had straight, light hair and shifting, dancing eyes. He was wearing a battered leather jerkin and good boots that looked like hand-me-downs from a wealthy patron. The Jingler, as the man was known to his acquaintances on the road, was a horse courser by trade, although that was applying the term very loosely indeed. And if some of the horses he dealt in were, so to speak, not entirely his own; well, a man had to find his way in the world somehow. As he rode he laughed to himself about the dealings he had recently done. Firstly, he’d found a buyer for the post horse he’d - acquired; no qualms there, they had plenty more horses at the inn. Then he had made his way to Preston and bought himself a saddle, one small enough to carry in a pack on his back. That was where the others had caught him up. And that was where Frater John had told him that the woman who, the Jingler was certain, had thwarted him in a recent piece of business, had taken to the road that led, eventually, to Marcaster. The Jingler, having more business to settle - business of the cards and dice type - set the Frater to follow Mistress Meg, her servant, whom they knew as Moses, and their dog.

  As the Jingler rode, his thoughts turned to what opportunities Marcaster might offer. The Jingler was a great believer in opportunity and knew that the best opportunities came to those who looked for them. Those who took their chances. He thought that he had found himself a chance, no, created a chance for himself just a short time ago. It had offered him the means to finally make the sort of wealth that would free him from life on the road and set him up in the way that he deserved. At night the golden angels that had so nearly come his way in the most perfect cozenage he had ever dreamed up, melted mockingly in front of him as he tried to grasp them. It was so close - so close. Somehow, though, the Jingler had been thwarted; and it had been due to that interfering woman - bitch - and her smirking servant.

  The Jingler’s world was driven by few imperatives but desire for revenge when thwarted was one of the most powerful. Tit for tat; an eye for an eye; balancing the scales; even the Bible agreed. Whilst the Jingler thought religion and the Bible were nothing more than children’s tales and tools for manipulating fools, he knew that one way or another the opportunity would come to balance those scales.

  “Giddap!” He urged on the little brown nag with the coarse black mane and it flew along the road. He’d picked it off a hill at the start of the Marcaster Road. Just a little nondescript nag with a hard mouth and good feet. It probably wouldn’t be missed, at least not for a while. When he approached Marcaster, he would slip it into some farmer’s field along with the rest of his stock. That would be his good deed.

  The Jingler laughed soundlessly. Aye. That would be his good deed!

  * * * * *

  The Frater panted on at his fastest pace for some time before it occurred to him that he might have somehow lost his quarry. The sun was climbing in the sky and it was getting warm. He stopped and caught his breath. Then he looked around, his eyes narrowed. Overhanging boughs made it difficult to see too far down the road, which was little more than a lane. He examined its dusty surface. Impossible - it was so rutted and dry and the dust must have been blowing about readily in days past. One set of feet could not be distinguished from another. Feet had certainly passed this way, and horses, and perhaps a cart or two. Both Meg and Matthew had been right; he was following them, but that was not what had driven him to take to the road so early in the morning. It was hunger.

  The Frater considered. He might have had a try at catching a rabbit or two, but his hunting skills were not the best and he had nothing for snares. Encountering the warrener had set him on his guard as well. His stomach rumbled loudly and he decided to sit down and eat the few crumbs that he had left. His hunger was only slightly appeased. The highway could not be far away now - and Marcaster itself. Visions of food, drink and all the comforts that a town could offer were beckoning to him. He licked his lips. What did the others expect of an old man like him? How was he expected to keep an eye on that woman, Mistress Meg, aye, and her uncanny associates? If not a witch, then she was the nearest thing to it; and somehow she must have cast a spell on that poor Moorish boy, Moses, who now accompanied her. He, Frater John, knew that Moses was a good lad, not a turncoat. After that business with the prancer, it had seemed certain to the Jingler and the others that Moses had something to do with tricking them of the prize from which they had hoped to gain so much. Or rather, the Jingler had hoped to gain so much. He, Frater John, had never liked that plan anyway. The horse was too valuable.

  Well, there was nothing for it. Either they were on the road to Marcaster or they were not. If they were, he would be sure to find them out. There’d be good pickings in Marcaster and the woman might stay a while to practise her trade in fortunes. And then he would have a word with the Moorish lad and he’d soon know what was what. Good lad, that boy had been - good at lifting and curbing, as well. A smile spread over the Frater’s face as he remembered the pies, drink and sausages that Moses had acquired for them all. Sausages. The Frater’s nose twitched as though the memory of the sausages wafted a spectral smell temptingly in his direction. Then he set off at his fastest trot, almost a run, down the lane. As he went along, there was only one thing on his mind - his belly. He and his complaining stomach carried out a dialogue all the way until the lane joined the main highway, where the discussion became querulous, then quarrelsome. And finally it was held out loud.

  “What d’they expect of an old man? What d’they think I am? A belly needs food, that’s what! Can’t do what’s needed wi’out it. Quiet, quiet, you old nuisance!” (This from the Frater to his belly.) “Aren’t I going as fast as I can?” And so on, with the Frater sometimes talking to his recalcitrant stomach as though it were a child or an invalid, and sometimes as though it were a stubborn animal.

  Marcaster beckoned to him. The Norman keep, visible from a distance, seemed to draw no closer for a while but then gradually the remnants of the town walls came into view. Before arriving at the main gate in the wall, the Frater met the usual scatter of hamlets and cottages that drew closer together as he approached the town. He paused. Turning away from the road that led to the gate, he made his way into Marcaster by one of the drove roads. The road led through back lanes and clusters of poor dwellings that seemed to have seeped out of the tumbled walls, before finally arriving in the market and butchers’ district. At one point he found himself in a street of good properties, timbered, gilded and fine, with overhanging upper stories that almost met in the middle; and there was even a row of paving along each side. And the smell. Of course there was the usual midden stink from the dung in the streets and the ordure from the backs of some of the houses, potent enough to waft out even into the street at the front. But the Frater scarcely noticed that, because, his nose finely tuned by hunger, what he could smell was food. The blissful cooking smells of meat larded with fat, a waft of ale from the open door of a tavern, oh, and just a hint of onions and cheese. It made the mouth water.

  The Fra
ter considered. He had enough coin for a drink, and a bite, if he could find a suitable hostelry. Nothing too dear of course. He had put the half groat piece he had been given by the warrener into the bladder he used as a purse. It chinked against the few coins given him by the Jingler for his journey. With unerring instinct he took to one of the back lanes and soon found what he was looking for. It was an alehouse; not one of the most disreputable ones, but certainly not the best either. Entering cautiously, he found himself in a room with a low ceiling. The floor was half-flagged and there was a scattering of lady’s bedstraw and rosemary on the part that was unflagged. The benches were shining and smelled of polish. No, not a bad establishment at all. He looked round, conscious of his dusty feet and clothing. The drinkers mostly looked cleaner than he did, but shabby. He would pass here; and was not his money as good as the next man’s? Of course it was. Just - he could do with some more of it.

  The alewife glanced at him indifferently. The Frater smiled ingratiatingly at her.

  “Ale’s a ha’penny,” she said sceptically.

  The Frater found the half groat piece and held it out. “Enough there for a blackjack or two, I think?” he said loftily.

  She took it from him and examined it.

  “Bah, this is a copperneb!” she said. “I’ll gi’ ye a farthing’s worth for it.” She handed it back to him. The Frater looked at it closely. The image of Henry VIII was worn and the copper showed through on his nose, giving him a boozy, leering look. Frater John was deeply offended. These coins were a jest, containing so little silver that they were almost worthless. They’d given King Henry the nickname “Coppernose” as a consequence! Why, the old King would never have stood for it if he’d realised they would make him a laughing-stock, but he was already in his grave when the nasty things were issued. And now that rat of a coney catcher had got one over on him, on Frater John. It made him want to weep. Why, he wished he had taken some of his coneys. If he could, he would take half the town up there and positively encourage ‘em to help themselves to Sir Richard’s coneys and …

  “Penny?” said Frater John. He looked winningly at the alewife. She sniffed.

  “Ha’penny.”

  “Three farthen?”

  “Ha’penny.”

  “Ha’penny then,” sighed the Frater.

  Looking round for a place to settle himself, he saw a group sitting at cards at one of the tables. Whether or not there was a licence to play in this establishment was not his concern. Cards. Now there was a way to make some silver. But - would they accept him? The Frater prepared a suitable expression to approach the group and dusted off his robe as well as he could, almost tutting to himself. These disreputable duds would do for the road or the countryside, but he needed a gown or a cloak for town. Perhaps he could ‘acquire’ some new togs whilst he was in Marcaster. Whilst attempting to tidy himself unobtrusively, he glanced as keenly as he dared at the group of card players, to see if he could gauge their worth.

  There was one player, sitting with his back to the room, who drew his attention. The fellow had a smooth head with short black, almost tonsured hair. The Frater especially noticed the parallel with his own wiry white hair, which had developed into a natural tonsure as he aged. This helpedto give him, he thought, a saintly air in his (usually criminal) activities. The smooth headed man was holding his cards in such a way that the Frater couldn’t read them; they were tipped forward towards his chest so that no-one standing behind him would be able to make them out. His body was held very still and upright, but there was no tension in him. Far from it. He was one of the most relaxed card players the Frater had ever seen and he had a stack of coins in front of him. The long dark gown he wore, along with the tonsured effect of his hair, gave him a clerical appearance. A lawyer’s clerk perhaps, thought the Frater.

  As though he had spoken, the card player shifted slightly, feeling someone’s eyes on him. He turned slowly round, revealing a long oval face with sleepy, heavy-lidded brown eyes. His cheeks were little rosy mounds with a little round chin to balance them. Below that, the jaw was starting to become jowly. In time, with the application of plenty more ale and wine, it might become a dewlap. The sleepy brown eyes suddenly looked wide awake, but quickly became composed again. The hands remained firmly fixed in place with the cards hidden. He looked the Frater up and down.

  “You’ve been long on the road, by the look of you.” The voice was rich and oily, full-bodied and persuasive.

  “I have,” said the Frater, licking his dry lips. His belly gave a rumble. The seated man glanced quickly at the other players and, as though he read agreement there, back at the Frater.

  “Care to play, brother?”

  The Frater looked a little embarrassed. “Aye - but …”

  “I understand,” said the sleepy-eyed man. “Sit in with us. We - ” he glanced at the others again, ” - I - can lend you the testors. Y’have a lucky face.” He put his own cards down on the table and picked up a deck.

  “Well …” began the Frater uncertainly, rubbing his chin, “I don’t know. I’m not much of a card player …”

  “Ah?” said one of the men, in a questioning tone, glancing quickly round the table. “Tha might be talking of us.” The ‘us’ sounded almost like ‘uz’. “Simple fellows, we are; and we play simple games.”

  The sleepy-eyed man continued to look at the Frater, whilst shuffling the cards between his hands. “Take a draught of ale with us, at the least,” he said.

  “Well now,” said the Frater cheerfully, “that’s a rare kind invitation. I will. And - I’ll think on your offer of a stake in the game, mebbe. Though I have a few coins by me. I can risk a little for the sake of friendship, gentlemen.” And he smiled fatuously like the greatest innocent abroad.

  The sleepy-eyed man scarcely concealed his own smile as he turned back to the card players. As he seated himself, the Frater stumbled clumsily against him and apologised.

  “Pay better attention, in future, brother,” said the man. His mild irritation passed quickly as the rules of the game were explained to the Frater.

  In a short time, the Frater found himself sweating nervously as the little money in front of him slowly, but steadily, disappeared. He glanced at his fellow players. Nothing showed in their faces. The sleepy-eyed man whistled occasionally, a dry, irritating whistle that seemed to catch on his teeth as his breath came out. The largest stack of coins on the table now lay in front of him.

  “Not doing so well, brother. Never fear; there’s plenty where that came from. We - I - can lend you some.” His voice still sounded persuasive but now there was just an edge of menace in it.

  “Aye, aye,” muttered the Frater, sounding a little ruffled, “but lend, there’s the thing.” He almost convinced himself that the few paltry pieces of silver on the table in front of him were all he had. However, it was not easy to ignore the bulging purse that now lay in his lap; the one just acquired secretly from the sleepy-eyed man when he had stumbled against him.

  “A loan must be repaid, brother,” said the man, his somnolent eyes opening wide in surprise as though the Frater had tried to trick him in some way. The other players nodded.

  The Frater, growing more nervous, played his next card and lost. Then lost again.

  “Not much remaining, brother,” said Sleepy-eyes and there was definitely menace in his tone now. He shuffled and dealt, looking at the Frater all the time. He, along with the others, staked high this time.

  The Frater looked at his card, sighed and fumbled about as though searching for a few last coins in his own purse, whilst keeping the other one carefully hidden as he drew more money from it. He put it down, making it appear that was all he had. The friendly game of cards had turned serious; and now, with a substantial pot at stake, it was every man for himself.

  “All of it?” said one of the other players, sniggering slightly. “Well, tha’s a sporting man.”

  The Frater smiled guilelessly and laid his card, clicking the edge down in a prof
essional manner as he did so. An ace; the Ace of Diamonds, which took all in this game. As he reached forward to take the pot, the other men threw down their cards. One of them glared at the Frater.

  “Seems to me, brother,” he said, imitating the sleepy-eyed man, “tha weren’t so wet behind t’ears as tha first appeared.”

  “Pisht, Lammery, he won fair and square.” said Sleepy-eyes, shrugging. There was some mumbling but the sleepy-eyed man appeared to have some authority over the players. He rose to his feet and the others followed his lead. Waiting until they were nearly at the door, he turned to the Frater and said, loudly, “You were lucky - then. Y’might not be so fortunate - when we next meet.”

  The Frater smiled in a friendly fashion at his departing back. Once the other players had left the alehouse, he blew out his breath like a sweating horse that has just pulled up after a gallop. Then he grinned and ran his fingers through the money in front of him. He drew it to him and began to stack it into neat piles. Catching the eye of the alewife, he beckoned her over with a coin between his first and middle fingers.