Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers Page 3

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  In the upper room, Meg was pulling back the heavy drapes that covered the windows. They were embroidered with a mixture of spring and summer flowers, celandine, primrose, iris, rose and lily. As the light came in, there was a flash of green from the ring on her left hand.

  Below her, the March wind battered at the inn sign which creaked and swayed, giving life to the capering goat that was already so life-like. The background of the sign was a dark range of hills against a dramatic sky of midnight blue. There was a faint line of paler blue along the horizon. The milky coloured goat, with a golden bejewelled collar round its neck, was standing on its hind legs in a rocky landscape. There were two chains attached to the collar of the goat, one of which was still fastened to a rock, whilst the other had broken free and trailed behind it. Above its head were seven stars in a ring. The goat's horns were traced with silver and it seemed to grin out at the observer. It was beautifully done; the creature had real magic. Meg opened the casement to the wind, which rushed enthusiastically in. The curtains blew into the room and the earthy invigorating scent of spring replaced the sweet odour that had been lingering.

  "Phew!" The fresh air blew all the mystery from the room. The box lay shut on the table. The candle was snuffed. It was now simply a good room in a comfortable and well-appointed inn. There was panelling on the walls and solid, dependable furniture and an adjoining bed chamber with a velvet hung poster bed. The floor was polished and gleaming and so was the mirror on the wall, into which Meg glanced after she removed her veil.

  She grinned as she remembered the comment about the red hair and Sarah's rival. Now it would be plain to any observer that it was red, not auburn, not red blonde, but the strong red-brown that some sycamore leaves go in the autumn. Her eyes were hazel and could switch from merriment to thoughtfulness in an instant. The solemnity of the past hour had gone and there was almost mischief in them. Meg's face was clear and unlined and it was next to impossible to tell her age. She was not young, though; simply youthful.

  At that moment the door opened and Matthew came into the room with the tray. Cornelius, who had been occupied on the floor chewing the bone, looked up hopefully.

  "Ah. That smells good!" said Meg.

  The casement was latched. The tray was set, on the table, with the mirror box moved carefully aside to do so; then both mistress and servant sat together, sharing the roast goose, pie, bread and sallet. At the Goat in Chains, even at this early time of the year, some fresh greens and herbs could be found, tangy and tonic. To drink, there was Canary from the host's personal cellar, served in the best quality Venetian glass.

  "To Bess!"

  "Queen Bess!"

  The glasses touched. It was impossible to tell whether the Bess in question was the monarch of all England or simply the queen of the inn kitchen. The expressions on the faces of Meg and Matthew made it clear it was an old jest.

  "Fingers were made before forks," quoted Meg. "And so were paws." Cornelius sat up and begged and she threw him a piece of mutton from the pie.

  The food was good, but after a few mouthfuls Matthew stopped eating. His nose wrinkled. Meg glanced at him, brows raised.

  "Lost your appetite?"

  "Venison is better."

  "Or a fish from the sea. Especially if you've caught it yourself. Well I'm tired of Lenten fish and glad that there is a variety of aquatic sheep that lives hereabouts. Otherwise how could we have this mutton pie?" Matthew smiled at her joke. "Happily, geese live in the water, along with the fish." She offered him some of the goose. Matthew wrinkled his nose again. "Well, I've no doubt Cornelius will let you chew on that bone if you'd prefer it."

  "Matthew savage, him eat bone," said Matthew. "Him moonman, him dommerer."

  "You've been in the taproom again. It could be worse. They might have called you Spaniard ... oh, they did so."

  Matthew's reply was swift and in perfect Spanish. "No soy de la raza idigena, certes!"

  Meg grinned and said, "You mean, 'Yer not from these parts, are yer, boy?' Any gossip?"

  Matthew sniffed. "A stranger ... capable with horses ..." He gazed innocently at the window.

  "There's more," said Meg knowingly.

  "A ... prigger of prancers?"

  A horse thief! Meg's eyes widened as she took that in. "Ahhhh ... you know for certain?"

  Matthew sent a look that suggested the irrelevance of the question.

  "Mmmmm. Worth watching, then."

  Matthew nodded.

  "And while I think about it, Brother Nose-all," said Meg, turning to the dog, "the riot that took place in the street some while since - worse than the London prentices - that would not have anything to do with thee, would it?" Cornelius, concentrating on his bone, ignored her remark.

  Meg rose, went to the casement and opened it again. Peering out into the street, she enjoyed the blustering wind. She could just see, beyond some ancient cottages, the celandine and coltsfoot growing round the edge of the pond. The wind ruffled the surface and the ducks bobbed up and down merrily like children's toys. The first, faint tips of green were on the trees; the passers-by on foot or on horses were mostly working men and women about their business. If she leaned out one way she could see down the road almost to the Market House on the site of the old Moot house; looking the other way and leaning out a little more perilously she could see the well, which despite the Reformation, still had a reputation for granting wishes. Years ago it was thought to have been blessed by some saint - Saint Ethelfritha, perhaps. Around it she saw the usual cluster of young people, the hair, kerchiefs and any ribbons of the girls blowing about, the young men holding their hats firmly to their heads. They all had pails but there was not much drawing of water going on. There was no sign of Sarah. Good. However, one girl was detaching herself from the group of young people. A tall, thin, red-headed girl, who began to walk gracefully down the street, holding her kerchief tightly under her chin over her coif, head down against the wind. Meg straightened into the room, closed the casement again and drew the curtains across.

  "Client?" said Matthew.

  "Almost certainly," replied Meg. "A tall, thin, red-headed bi ... ah, young woman by the name of Agnes. We'll have to finish those delicious syllabubs later."

  They laughed. Cornelius grumbled over his bone.

  Not too far away, someone else was considering clients, or rather the lack of them. Someone who certainly knew of Mistress Meg. That person was Peter Siskin, a cunning-man with a good reputation and a well-established business. Their paths would be crossing, in time.

  Chapter 2: The Cunning-man

  Guildern was growing closer to Peter Siskin's little thatched house. Once it had stood completely clear of the town in a clearing in the trees, but now a number of even smaller, humbler cottages were just visible from his garden gate. The forest, meanwhile was receding. It had been cut and carried off for firewood and timber for houses and shipbuilding; and so Peter's cottage was now neither of the town nor the country. Around the house was a rickety paling, filled in with brushwood, holly and thorn to keep out marauding animals. Inside this area Peter Siskin kept a pair of vigilant geese and grew kale, turnips and other vegetables. Inside an inner walled area was his physic garden where he grew herbs for himself and his animals and anyone who could spare a coin or two.

  Peter Siskin had inherited the house from his uncle, a notable cunning-man of Guildern. The house was well constructed but it was showing signs of needing repair. Some of the reed thatching was ancient and brown; parts of it had been repaired temporarily but in time the repairs had become permanent. The limewashed exterior was stained green and yellow with age and weather. There was a sturdy, lopsided door and small windows made from wood and animal horn. On sunny days, a topaz-eyed brindled cat sat in the recess of one of these windows. The house was like a forest creature peering out under ancient, benign eyebrows.

  The house was full of curiosities. The single room had a fireplace, narrow bed, benches and a trestle table. Several leath
er bottles and bags hung on the walls and from the beams. A circular red stone with a hole in it was suspended on a cord just inside the doorway. On the table in the centre of the room was the skull of a strange animal and a peculiar coiled rock, shaped like a snail shell, but harder and much larger. Parchment pages lay alongside it and others were pinned to beams or the back of the door. There were papers with astrological charts and drawings, symbols and commentaries. Peter's clients were becoming more knowledgeable and the science of astrology impressed them and so he wanted to master it.

  Peter was just into his thirties, serious and dark-haired. His preoccupied air, the dark robe and cap he wore, the dimness of the room and his evident knowledge of many matters, occult and otherwise, always made an impression on his visitors. He had an excellent reputation. Recently, maintaining that had become a problem. That morning, some of his regular visitors had come along for a consultation. Samuel and Janet Briggs, who had been married just over a year, wanted to know when she would have a child. This was usually straightforward for Peter. It was so easy to read. The wife would be slightly embarrassed, looking down; the husband shuffling his feet and reddening in the face, sometimes pulling at his neck. Samuel was a successful farmer and also a carter and was reasonably well-to-do. Janet was small and thin, with a pretty smile; and although she looked slight, she was strong, healthy and hard working. There was no reason she should not bear children. Nothing was showing yet, though.

  Usually, the situation was easily resolved with some reassurance, advice and a potion of some kind. However, for some reason the consultation had not gone well. Firstly there was the obvious embarrassment of the couple; Janet kept glancing from under her lids at her husband for support, but Samuel stared firmly ahead, his embarrassment showing in an occasional cough. Peter had to work hard to create an atmosphere in which he could coax out information. Secondly, he knew that he needed to keep these good people as clients, and the fear of losing them made him nervous. In the end he asked Janet her birth date, then Sam his; and quickly drew up a basic chart for each of them, using an impressive looking ephemeris.

  "Ah," said Peter. "Hmm ..." He paused, and frowned at the charts, giving himself thinking time. This pause gave Janet an opportunity to speak.

  "Tell me, Master Siskin ... do you see ... a ... child? A baby for us? Soon?" Sam went an even deeper shade of purple.

  Peter looked closely at the charts again. "Venus conjunct Mars ... hmmm ..."

  Eventually he looked directly at her. "Forgive me, but it would greatly help if I could know about ..."

  Janet guessed immediately, and blushing a little, said, "Oh yes, Master Siskin, and the latest one was last week."

  "Ah," said Peter, looking at the charts again. "Well, it seems to me that next week is an excellent time for conception. Say, fourteen days after the end of ..."

  Janet looked a little dubious. "That's not what the Widow Siddons said and she had nine children. She said ..."

  "Trust me," said Peter, with a reassuring smile.

  Janet looked at her husband, who seemed satisfied with this.

  "Good. Well now, Master Siskin," began Sam, leaning forward confidentially, "perhaps ye can help us with something more."

  "Certainly. Tell me what you wish to know."

  "What d'ye think," said Sam, looking at Peter as though he was the oracle itself, "of tobacco? I had heard that it was good for the curing of all sorts of ills. Is it true what they say, that it's one of the finest things for women who are with child?"

  Tobacco! Peter tried not to look too startled. His immediate thought was to tell Sam, in no uncertain terms, what he thought about this disgusting habit, the drinking of tobacco smoke. Yes, he too had heard of some women as well as men taking it up. He was horrified at the idea. Some inns stank of tobacco smoke now, instead of the much pleasanter aromas of beer, cooking, beeswax and lavender. As for the alehouses ... not that it was possible to find a decent glass of ale in this age; it was all bought from brewers ... Peter stopped his thoughts of ale and alehouses and returned to the situation here. He opened his mouth, but Sam spoke first.

  "And I did hear that tobacco be a great thing for those who wish to drive out the moist humour," he said, "and grow leaner; that drinking of tobacco means that a man can eat a greater amount of sustenance without gaining further in size?"

  Peter suppressed a smile. If he had been unscrupulous, he could have taken advantage of Sam's love of eating. However, this he would not do.

  "In my opinion - which is based on the extensive study of herbals, both old and new, at home and overseas and in several languages - there is nothing good in the taking of tobacco. This is just a fancy of the age. I cannot and do not recommend it."

  Sam looked slightly cross; Janet looked relieved.

  "Well, I hear what ye say," said Sam. He didn't sound convinced. "I had heard different. But we trust ye, Peter Siskin. Ye've helped us before. There was that time the cows went astray and we found them where y'said they would be; then there was the time we needed counsel about the lad who turned out to be a bad 'un ..." He put his hand into his shirt and pulled out a purse, paying Peter. "And when Janet, when Janet ... when what you say has come to pass, we'll pay another sum, gladly."

  And they were gone, without the perfectly harmless herbal treatment that Peter had planned on preparing for them. Tobacco, indeed! A terrible waste of money.

  As they walked off, Peter was sure - although perhaps it was just his imagination - that Sam said something to his wife about "Going to see the woman at the inn." It may have been imagination, for "the woman at the inn" was very much on Peter Siskin's mind.

  Someone had said to someone - who had had this from someone else - that someone had heard that someone had been to visit this mysterious woman at the Goat in Chains Inn. That someone had told Peter that the woman at the inn was of a certainty one who had the knowledge. That she could see the future and the past. That what she foretold came to be. That she had a servant who was equally mysterious and totally silent, and a strange little dog with eyes like a human that seemed to know more than it should.

  Peter sat and considered his circumstances. It did seem to him that since he had heard of the woman at the inn, his own trade had decreased; and those who did come to see him seemed a little more reluctant to pay their due. They were also less ready to accept the remedies he had to offer; a little more sceptical and critical. He counted his coins. A few pennies; a few ha'pennies. A little more silver stowed away safely, to which he added his latest payment, but that was not to be touched. Logic told him that he could not afford to go to the inn and take a drink. However, logic and instinct were no match for that part of his being that was stronger than both of them: curiosity. He must go and find out more about this woman and her strange companions.

  The cat came in when he opened the door. She was a pretty creature and he was very fond of her. Perhaps his recent visitors had made him sensitive, but as he looked at her, he was sure that her belly was larger. He gave her a questioning look and she stared guilelessly back with big, bright eyes. When he picked her up there was no mistaking it though. She was definitely heavier and rounder.

  "Kits on the way again, eh, my lass?" She rubbed her head against him. "Perhaps it's you Janet should be asking for advice." Tyger's litters were valuable because she was such a good mouser. He could exchange the kittens for money or goods. More than that, Tyger was an important part of his life and he looked now for something that she could eat. It had always been possible to catch a rabbit or two but as the town had extended, there were fewer rabbits about and more fierce dogs. None would tackle his geese though. He did worry for Tyger when she ranged further afield and he missed the old days when his house had stood clear of the town and there was plenty of firewood. He found some pieces of cheese and ham for Tyger, scattered some grain for the geese and set off.

  He went to the back of the Goat in Chains, not the front. The back room of the inn was the place for news. Rather than walk b
y the porter, he entered through the large yard gate and crossed the inn yard, with its unmistakeable smell of straw, horse sweat and dung, leather and corn mash. A chapman's riding horse, along with his packhorse were being led into the stable. They were good-looking animals - one of the signs of successful commerce. Peter Siskin noticed such things as a matter of course. They were part of his stock in trade as a cunning-man.

  The traveller was giving orders for his horses, his bags and his harness. A young man, soberly dressed. This was someone who had applied himself diligently to success and had found it, in this age of endeavour. A good horse or two, hard work and a brain for commerce could bring lasting success and wealth. On the other hand, there were some who overfaced themselves; who availed themselves of credit, or who put all their faith in a poor horse or cloth of bad quality. They could quickly end up in debt and on the wrong side of the law. Then there were the monopolies ...

  Peter Siskin was considering all this as he turned to go into the inn. He discovered that he, the observer, was also being observed, by a man just outside the stable. The man was thin with straight yellow hair. He was dressed in a leather jerkin and was holding a pail. Unmistakably, from his leather jerkin and boots, this was a man who worked around horses. As Peter glanced at him, the man smiled ingratiatingly.

  "Ye have a mind for a horse, Master?" he asked.

  Peter almost laughed. As if he could afford a horse. But perhaps that was a good sign; perhaps he looked prosperous like the chapman.

  "Nay, I have no need of a horse, thank ye for asking." He was about to turn and go into the inn, but the thin man gestured again to catch his attention.

  "But you know a good horse when you see one?"

  Peter nodded, slightly flattered against his will and instinct. Flattery was how cozening and cheating often started, he knew well enough.

  "I can see those are good horses. It wasn't difficult."

  The other man nodded. "But are y'sure you have no need of a horse? In this day, every man who aspires to rise in estate needs at least one good horse."