Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers Read online

  Ordinarily, Peter would have been sceptical about the power of "fortune", for good or ill. His natural inclination was to view a man's success or failure by his own efforts. The stars and the wandering planets simply offered a map, pointing out possible pitfalls or opportunities. They suggested caution to the unprepared risk-taker, encouragement to the cautious. But perhaps it was possible to have "bad luck". He caught and focussed on some of the stories that Jostler was telling, tales not of ... retribution exactly, but of instances where he had been aggrieved and fate had taken a hand to help him out and deliver justice. There was, for instance, the procurer for a stable - one of the highest in the land, Jostler hinted - who had insisted on purchasing a certain horse, against Jostler's better judgement.

  "Tried to get me turned out of my place he did. Bad, very bad! Ended as I expected. The nag had a bone out of place in its back. A looker, though! He insisted on a saddle and rode it away. Couldn't take more than a mile of that treatment ... the seller had physicked it, see, just enough to get it out of sight? I tried to warn him. Threw him off and he broke a leg."

  Peter began, against his will, to think on his own life and circumstances as Jostler was talking. Peter was a hard working man, and honest; he cared about his regulars. He knew them. It was hard, very hard, to go through life alone. If sweet Isabella had lived ... suddenly he became aware of something that Jostler was saying.

  "I beg pardon ... what did you say?" he asked, thinking what he had heard must be wrong.

  Jostler looked surprised. "I was just saying, this woman at the inn, this Mistress Meg, was talking about taking a house hereabouts. Well, a room in a house more like."

  Peter looked quickly at his cup to hide his shock. Well, if she was thinking of making her stay permanent ... that was different. Jostler regarded him with a serious face.

  "I'd like to help ye if I could," he said. "I know an honest man when I see one."

  Peter accepted this at face value, now. Suddenly he felt threatened and this man was sympathetic.

  "It's naught," he said, as if to himself. "I'll get by."

  "Perhaps ye will," said Jostler. "but I've always thought that it doesn't hurt to have a bit of help now and then."

  "Help?" said Peter. What kind of help could Jostler offer him? Money? No, Peter wanted to be in no man's debt. He felt badly enough about not paying his share.

  "Aye," said Jostler softly, almost gently. "help. I can be a good friend if needs be. I can help my friends. Especially those who help themselves."

  There was a pause, then Jostler continued, "I think you have talents ... y'have the knowledge ... you remind me of my old aunt. How would it be, if I could help using nothing more than your own skill?"

  Peter looked at him, wondering what was coming. "What did you have in mind?"

  Jostler responded to something in Peter's tone. "Nothing harmful, mind! Nothing like that, no, no, no." He sounded almost affronted. "I'll have nothing to do with that sort of thing, Master Siskin."

  "Nor I," said Peter calmly. "No offence intended."

  "And none taken. No, but how would it be if you could somehow put this woman aside, no unpleasantness mind, just loss of reputation in cunning? And your own reputation restored?"

  Peter thought about it. At last he said, "I confess that I'd find that a satisfactory outcome."

  "Thought so," said Jostler a little smugly. He buried his nose in his cup again.

  "But how ..." began Peter. Jostler held up his hand, drained the cup and wiped his mouth.

  "Ah, good stuff that is. Even without the bottle." He leaned across the trestle and his eyes looked directly into Peter's, guilelessly, but with a curious look dancing in them.

  "Who, hereabouts, has a stable with some quality horseflesh in it? Do you know who that might be? Not an inn, mind."

  Peter thought about it for a few long moments. Then, almost reluctantly, he said quietly, "That would be Sir George Paston."

  "Ah. Well now, listen ..."

  Peter listened.

  Chapter 3: The Riding Master

  Sir George Paston glanced up from his writing desk with irritation. It was a fine morning full of the promise of spring. The March wind had blown itself out, at least for the moment, and fine fat fleecy clouds were wandering about like pregnant sheep in the blue. He was dressed to go riding, as that was what he did most mornings. This meant an old quilted doublet with plain sleeves attached, fitter for a working man than a gentleman; a leather jerkin, well worn boots and simple breeches that were often covered with dog and horse hair. These he wore until the housekeeper, wife to his house steward, produced a clean pair and managed to steal them away for cleaning.

  This was a perfect morning to spend with his latest acquisition but he had a letter to finish first. The quill spat ink and he blotted the writing on the parchment. He paused to find a fresh quill. He had cut some ready to use and he was quickly writing again. The recipient, he was almost certain, was a distant relative of his but it would take his Aunt Julia to untangle the various threads that linked them through the dense genealogy of European minor aristocracy.

  He had been carrying on a long distance correspondence with this Neapolitan relative for about two years. The subject, the true and proper way to prepare horses for riding and for warfare. Across Europe the post and couriers galloped, carrying informative, enlightening and often argumentative exchanges between the distant cousins. References to Blundeville's "Fower Cheifest Offyces of Horsemanship" crossed with an critique of Grisone's "Gli Ordini di Cavalcare" and an annotated copy of Marcus Fugger's "Von der Gestuterey". Back and forth the letters and arguments flew, carried by the Queen's post, or the merchants', or by personal couriers.

  Sometimes George felt that he was struggling with the most superstitious forces imaginable. Could they not see that a horse was a creature with a soul, a nature, a being? Time and time again he read a discourse, or held a conversation, in which the horse was nothing more than a brute beast to be dominated into submission. Even his aristocratic relative, who was mostly intelligent, could occasionally reveal immense prejudices in his treatment of horses. Presently they were arguing about the proper use of the curb bit.

  He paused in his rapid scrawling to compose his thoughts. Whilst Sir George understood that for most riders, riding on the curb was the epitome of horsemanship, he felt that his cousin Della Redina introduced his horses to it far too young. In ungentle or unknowing hands this could cause greater harm than good. George paused to choose the right words. He wanted to approach the subject without insulting his relative.

  He and Della Redina agreed wholeheartedly on Cesare Fiaschi's dictum that the rider's hand should be "soft, gentle, correct and well-timed", wrote George. They also agreed on the use of a gentle voice for encouragement. But if the current generation of horse masters now teaching in England, usually of Italian or French origin, was anything to judge by, they did as their teachers did - rather than as they wrote or said. Too often this was not soft and gentle. Sir George was at one with his countryman, John Astley, who wrote of horse and rider that "he and you be one bodie, of one mind, and of one will." That was to be achieved only by understanding the horse and by respecting him.

  "Ma signore," wrote George at furious speed, translating as quickly as he could, "Mi faccia la gentilezza di ..." he groped again for words as he tried to emphasise the importance of time and gentleness in all dealings with the young horse. He concluded the letter with a desire that his relative would one day visit him in England where he, Sir George, would be honoured to show him how beautifully his own horses responded without the use of the curb. Did this just mark him out as a hopelessly rustic relative, living in a freezing cold country full of savages on the edge of the civilised world? On mornings like this, he didn't care.

  He rolled up the letter with a copy of another written to the Comte de la Muserolle (possibly the grandson of his grandfather's sister in law's cousin? Aunt Julia would know) who was also a participant in the debate, and
left it ready for one of the servants to deliver to the usual carrier, who would pass within the next two days. Then he leapt up from his seat, and two dogs, one an old hound, the other a young black and white terrier, leapt up as well and wagged their tails. The old hound stretched slowly; the young dog barked vigorously.

  "Come on, fellows!"

  George took a deep breath and left the room at a run, the dogs alongside him. The door creaked and banged behind him. He was just thirty and still boyish. He felt that he had the best of lives; miles from any city, far from any courtier's role. As many hours as possible were spent each day with his hounds and horses - and that was how he liked it. True, he had responsibilities relative to his status; he was a Justice of the Peace. However the duties were not always arduous - he lived far enough from London to assure that there was little interference from that quarter - and left him plenty of time for his own interests.

  George had built a modest reputation as a teacher of equitation, otherwise known as a "Gentleman Rider" in most of the stables of the peerage. It was modest not because of his low level of skill, but simply because he was less interested in equipping sons of the nobility with the ability to display themselves on horseback at court, than he was with the proper treatment and training of horses. There were aristocratic youths amongst his students, but he increasingly also taught the sons of the rising gentry to ride; also their fathers, who, through success in commerce and trade, were finding themselves moving in more aristocratic circles. In fact, they were often richer than the aristocrats who had debts to pay and crumbling estates to maintain.

  His kennel man William wished him good morning.

  "Fine morning, Will!"

  "It will give the hounds pleasure to see you, Sir George," said Will blandly. George suppressed a grin. This was William's coded way of saying that he thought it was high time he actually used the hounds for some hunting, instead of simply riding away over the chase with them running alongside. Will was a kennel master of the old kind. He had no time for curs, whilst for George, all hounds and dogs were friends and allies.

  Sometimes, Will thought, Sir George was too casual - in his dress for instance. Perhaps it was the modern way. There had been the occasion that a highly Puritan Surveyor of Highways for the Parish had happened to call on a matter of maintenance. Finding only a kennel man checking the hounds' ears for fleas, he issued a brisk order to "summon thy master, Brother." The kennel man had straightened up and confessed that he was the Master at Oakenhall. The surveyor, who hadn't recognised Sir George as the justice who had sat on the bench that appointed him, was highly embarrassed. Will, on discovering this later, was horrified. Sir George had simply laughed. Not like the old master, no, not at all!

  As George entered the kennel yard, he was surrounded immediately by waving sterns and grinning jaws. There was a low, pleased, murmur from the pack and he looked up from petting them to compliment his kennel man.

  "Fine fettle all, Will! I'll just pay my morning stable rounds and then we'll take some exercise."

  "I'll have them ready, Sir George. They've taken morning air earlier. Will you be taking Bayard, Sir?"

  George shook his head. "No. More manege is required before I ride him out. I'll take Flavia. I should be ready in an hour or so."

  "Very good, Sir George."

  Flavia was his favourite mare. She was a bright bay, with black points and black mane and tail and as intelligent as a dog. As he walked round to the stable yard he planned the morning's work. Not that it was work, in fact. He took a deep breath of satisfaction, drawing in the scents of stable. A full day to himself, without interruption. He had no pupils, although there should have been two; one had suffered a mild bout of vomiting and was bedridden briefly at home. The other had been called away on his father's business.

  George decided he would ride over to see his cousin, and fellow justice, Simon Cantle. Sim was definitely close enough to be called a cousin and they hadn't needed Aunt Julia to work that one out. Their great grandfathers had been brothers, and he and Sim had been friends since childhood. The Quarter Sessions were due so there would be business to discuss. Later he must get down to some serious accountancy work with his estate steward, for this was the start of the New Year as well. That was doubtless the reason for the absence of one of his students.

  The stable was clean swept and the harness gleaming. Lukas, the stableman, had everything in his charge. Lukas had arrived the previous year with four carriage and eight riding horses from Hungary, imported by George at some expense and vexation, and had stayed after delivering them safely. George was impressed by the way he had carried out his task and the condition of the horses when they arrived.

  It was useful too; George's old stable master was ready to retire. The horses had proved highly tractable and intelligent and with the riding horses, George had soon produced four of the best quality gambading horses in England, suitable even for the highest peers of the realm. Also, they were much faster than traditional gambading horses. Speed in a horse was more important now than size and strength, and that would be true for future courtiers, George was sure.

  Some of the riding horses had quickly found homes in aristocratic stables. There had even been rivalry amongst the nobility to purchase them. Gambading covered the whole of the bounds, the movements that were necessary for any ambitious courtier to catch the attention of his monarch in a competitive world. These horses being somewhat taller and slighter than the muscular heavy 'great horses' that the English peerage was used to riding, there had been quite a lot of discussion about them. However, what they lacked in visual impact and power they made up for in grace, gentleness and speed. George knew instinctively that swifter, lighter horses would in time take the place of the great horses. And at £100 per horse ...

  However, he was selective about who could buy them. Money was not enough on its own and he would rather let them go for less to a friend who would treat them well. He had kept the carriage horses for a while, debating whether to buy a coach. Finally he decided that a coach would be a pointless drain on resources in the country and he had no intention of making his life in London. Besides, he preferred the freedom of riding. Even if the roads had been suitable for a coach, the idea of languishing inside a vehicle like an invalid repelled him. So the coach horses had gone to aristocratic homes too.

  He delivered orders to Lukas about exercise as he did his morning stable rounds. The stalls were wide and well ventilated. The horses were fastened by a running loop on a chain so that they had plenty of movement from side to side. This wing contained six geldings, all riding horses, mainly used by pupils and grooms; they were mostly amblers, with gentle and steady paces for travelling, and one that racked, a faster speed. There was also a safe old warhorse to introduce the students to trotting, which came as a rude shock after learning how to stay on the gentle amblers. At the end of the block, small, white and irascible, was Pommely. Pommely had once been dark grey and dappled but was now the colour of snow. Riding Pommely was the first test that George set some of his younger pupils. The more arrogant ones quickly learned respect, because Pommely had seen their like before - many, many times before - and knew exactly how to treat them.

  "Good morrow, Pommely," said George, pausing to offer an apple as he did every morning.

  At right angles to this block ran two more, creating an open yard in the middle. In one block were Sir George's personal riding horses, geldings and mares, including two of the Hungarian horses, plus a room for "harness", in other words, saddles, bridles and saddle cloths. In the other were brood mares, two with early foals at foot already. This wing was basically an open barn, with access to meadow on one side so the mares and youngsters could wander in and out at will and shelter when they needed.

  He spent time with Flavia, amongst his riding horses, rubbing her forehead and admiring the sheen put on her coat by Lukas, who had three younger grooms to oversee.

  "Lukas, we'll visit Bayard. Then I'll take Flavia out with the hou
nds. Ask one of the lads to fetch her saddle."

  This was his favourite moment and he was on his way to his favourite place. Perhaps he could not compete with the great maneges of the Neapolitan masters; but he had created his own manege here, in the heart of England, from a huge old lath and timber barn. The interior had been cleared of its centuries of refuse and old fodder; new foundations had been dug and a surface of wood chips laid down. This was also where he kept Bayard, bought with some of the investment from the sale of the gambading horses.

  Bayard was listed in George's meticulously kept stable accounts amongst the great horses as: "Bayard, golden dun, ginete, stoned [in other words, a stallion] £200, branded." There then followed an itemised list of costs. This was a vague enough description that did not betray the fact that the stallion had come into his hands, via a complex series of exchanges involving Neapolitan and French contacts. The horse had in fact been bred in Spain and it was deemed impossible to obtain horses of this quality directly; George had found a way.

  The stallion could roam around the barn as he liked. In his own home, George was both horse master and gentleman rider and he was prepared to spend as many hours as were needed to develop a horse under saddle. Currently, Bayard was accepting both the saddle and bridle. To the horror of most of his contemporaries, if they had known, George had ridden him several times quite confidently without any bit at all. However, it was the manege work, both on a long rein and at liberty, on which George was concentrating. Bayard was to be the foundation both of his schooling work and his breeding programme and he would take all the time in the world, if necessary, to get it right.

  "Did you ever see such grace!"