Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers Page 6

  Lukas agreed fervently.

  They stood talking quietly, casting the occasional glance at the horse as he ran, snorting, flung himself skywards, or snaked his neck and shook his head, performing quite naturally all the movements that courtiers sought to create in their horses. After a while curiosity overcame the stallion and he came over to the barricade. After he had stood there gently, and let his forehead be rubbed, George gave him a piece of apple. A few minutes more and George entered the manege. The horse snorted and drew back, kicked a couple of times, which George ignored as he walked across to the centre. Then Bayard trotted after him, finally walking alongside with his head lowered, but his ears flicking occasionally. They walked for a minute or so, then George broke into a run, and the horse moved beside him at a trot, and then a run. A sudden stop; and Bayard stopped too; on again at a walk, a trot, a turn, a run, another change of direction ... George flicked his hand towards Bayard and the stallion began to move sideways, gracefully, legs moving across one another with lightness and elevation. They moved around the barn in harmony, the stallion swinging in a circle or increasing or decreasing speed when asked. Finally George asked him to move in an elevated walk, the muscles of the legs trembling slightly as the hoofs hovered momentarily in each step, high above the surface of the floor.

  "Good," said George. "That's all for today, I think." He rewarded and praised the horse, which held its head close against him briefly.

  "So beautiful," said Lukas when George returned. "So intelligent."

  "And so gentle. That is one of the supreme qualities of his breed. It is in his own nature too. Those three qualities combined mean near perfection."

  "You take much time with him."

  "Who would want to spoil such a horse by being overhasty?" replied George. And now, he was going to ride out in this rare early spring sunshine. This was a day to savour.

  Soon he and Flavia were setting off over the hills with the hounds, his terrier and two yard terriers running alongside. He cut down into a steep and narrow valley with a stream running through it where the hounds drank. Flavia splashed up water over them all. By going this way he would avoid the hillside where his sheep were grazing, and some already lambing, watched over by two shepherds. The income provided from the flocks was steady and reliable.

  The valley opened up onto a wide river plain and the opportunity for a run. Flavia flew. The speed, the joyous hounds, the high irritated yapping of the terriers as they tried to keep up, the game birds flying up from time to time as they galloped past, all were part of the pleasure of the day. A few times one of the hounds picked up the scent of a March hare; George was secretly pleased that they lost it quickly. Hunting was part of life; and meat that had taken some labour to catch was always tastier. However, he didn't hunt for sport, as some did and he did not keep a huntsman.

  The landscape, a plain was still mostly open tillage, with some woodland and common grazing. There wasn't much sign of the enclosures that had caused such unrest in other parts of the land. On his own estate, sheep grazed upland pasture that probably looked the same as it had several hundred years earlier. He had made few changes to the land since his father died. There were islands of forest in the lowland grass and plough land that could have stood there since time began. Of course, the arguments about enclosure occupied the minds of people of all estates and classes here, as elsewhere. There were some, such as Sim Cantle, who saw a certain amount of enclosure as necessary and progressive, particularly if England was to feed itself and perhaps feed other nations too; there were others who saw changes as dangerous and ungodly, resulting in the rise of vagrancy throughout the land. But since the fall of the large monastic estates, this vagrancy had been widespread, despite attempts to overcome it, and so the enclosure of land could not be blamed for all ills. Sim had expressed surprise that he, George, a philosopher who looked to the future with regard to horses, should not see any virtue in enclosure.

  "I fail to see, cousin," he would say, with that slight pomposity that had been in evidence occasionally since he was nine and George only six, and both conscious of the age difference, "how you cannot understand that some inclosed land will be as natural for our grandsons as the old ways were for our grandsires. Certainly, though, the deserving poor must not be neglected ..." And so on. However, it took little for Sim to be tilted from his high horse. All George had to do was nod sagely, with a look of inane agreement on his face, and say "True, cousin, true," for Sim to collapse into giggles much as he had done when he was nine. When they sat on the bench together as brother Justices, it was a matter of satisfaction for George whenever he saw his cousin sufficiently overcome to need to press a handkerchief to his mouth and cough.

  As George rode into the courtyard he admired, as he always had done, the mellowness of Sim's family home, Whitrishes, in which he lived with his parents, whom George called uncle and aunt. Sim's father had been a young soldier under the old king, and on into the early reign of Queen Elizabeth. Old age and old wounds now meant that he could not ride and found walking difficult and so most of the duties of an esquire had fallen to Sim.

  And there was Sim, coming out to greet him with a shout of greeting, a glass in his hand.

  "S'blood, cousin, I swear you must have heard me uncork the bottle, else your nose is better than that mangy pack you always bring a-visiting! Down, dogs!" He put down the glass on a bench and the cousins gripped each other by the forearm, laughing, and then embraced. They were as close as brothers but they did not resemble each other in the slightest. Sim was small, blond, slightly rotund and dynamic, capable of tetchiness, but with a keen brain that constantly sought knowledge. George, seven inches taller (the increasing difference in height being a topic of much discussion and argument when the cousins were younger), was broad-shouldered and easy-going with curly mid-brown hair. He rated learning only in as much as it assisted him in his interests. He had learned Greek so that he might study Xenophon; he had studied Latin that he might read the Georgics, appropriately; herbalism, so that he could physic his horses and hounds (and household, if needs be); mathematics so that he could keep meticulous accounts and measure up plans for stables and manege. He was pragmatic whilst Sim was mercurial - when not focussing on legal matters.

  Sim led his cousin into the library. George had inherited a substantial library but it could not compare with that of Sim and his father. Now that Sim's father was a virtual invalid, he read voraciously and constantly added to it. That was inevitably his first question to George after greeting him.

  "So, nephew, have you anything of note? Have you brought aught new to read?"

  George had to confess that he had not, but that he had a new treatise on growing fruit trees, an account of a journey made around England and Scotland by a Dutchman and that he would have them sent over ... and ... here he paused. He wondered whether to tell Sim and Old Simon about the other book that his bookseller in St Paul's had enclosed, with a note to say that it might be of interest to Justices of the Peace. He knew that whatever he sent, Old Simon would read it, as he did all George sent to him, for that was his greatest pleasure now, reading and eating and drinking, which he did moderately. Those three, and listening to tales from the Quarter Sessions and Assizes brought back by his son and nephew. George decided to tell them what had been included.

  "I have a copy of a recent book by one George Gifford, of Essex," he began. They looked at him expectantly. "Sent on hazard by my bookseller. 'A discourse of the Subtill Practises of Devilles by Witches and Sorcerers.'" Old Simon looked surprised. Sim raised an eyebrow.

  "S'blood George, since reading Scot's 'Discoverie' I somewhat miss the point of your purchase ... and certainly, we've never seen the like in our time on the bench." Sim was referring to a much-discussed text, Reginald Scot's 'The Discoverie of Witchcraft' which was commended both for its humane view of aged women condemned as witches although they had no power to harm, and for its scathing appraisal of cheating practises. Scot was hot against the coze
ners who pretended that they could tell the future, heal illnesses, find lost belongings or perform apparent miracles. They should certainly face justice, said Scot; but as "cooseners" who practised deception, not as witches!

  George shrugged. "I haven't paid for it, yet. It may be that he sent it for the sake of completion, that he had found other Justices had made use of it."

  "You need not tell me ... this Gifford is a true believer." Sim meant this in two senses and George nodded.

  They drank and talked, looked over books and fed the library fire. George knew his horse and hounds would be well cared for. In fact Sim's mother, who had been a huntress in her youth, would be out in the stable feeding them, and Flavia, leftovers. Since he hadn't dined, he was hungry; and they all ate together later in the afternoon. Catherine, his aunt, said she would look forward to reading the book on fruit trees and wanted to know about Bayard.

  "But Bayard, George! Why Bayard? You might as well call a cat 'Puss' or a dog 'Towler'!"

  George laughed. "Aunt Cat, My first dog, you'll recall, was called Towler. But what would you have called Bayard?"

  Aunt Cat thought. "Sol Invictus, for his gold colour." They applauded her. "Will you be riding him soon, George? I'm sure that you would be looked on very oddly by some for riding a mare."

  "Flavia is undoubtedly the best horse in my stable ... well, apart from Bayard, and so let us say the best mare. But why should mares not be ridden? By men and women, if they ride?"

  Aunt Cat said, "From a practical point of view, I agree, why should a mare not be proven the same as a stallion, that her paces are good and she is healthy and worthy of breeding?"

  "That is well argued, Aunt, but it simply confirms my perspective on this, which is different," said George.

  "That is?"

  "That in many - perhaps most - things, there is less difference between the sexes than some think. In your case, you have given us a fine example ... that you reason as well as any philosopher. Any of my acquaintance, perhaps I should say."

  That pleased his aunt.

  Sim said, "And Pommely - you're still giving that little brute a home. I can't remember the number of times I've bruised my rear on parting company with him. How old is he now, George?"

  "Twenty-six by my reckoning. And we both have to take some responsibility for his character. Little tyrants we were, always riding him both together until he'd had enough and his heels went up."

  "This book by Gifford of which you spoke, George," said his Aunt, pulling the ears of a hound that had sneaked into the house with her, "surely cannot be as bawdy as that book on witches by Reginald Scot. It seemed to me that discoursing about witchcraft in such a sceptical way was simply the cover for those tales ... I had rather read his book on hops, there might be some practical use in that, for those of us that brew ..."

  "As justices - I'm sure Sim will support me here - we've reason to know that beer and bawdiness are often found in the same place"

  There was laughter, talk and warmth.

  Then he set off for home, inviting Aunt Cat to ride over to see Bayard when she could. The evening was cool and he rode at a steady pace, thinking about the forthcoming sessions. There was nothing unusual that he knew about and they expected the usual presentations related to employment, the economy of the town, drunkenness and non attendance at church, along with a vagrant or two - that was always the headache.

  When he arrived at Oakenhall, having been rejoined by the terrier, with a rabbit, on the way home, one of the grooms came out to take Flavia but George went into the stable with him. He gave his servants responsibility since he felt that was the way to get the best from them, but occasionally he wanted to see to his own horse, particularly this mare. Lukas wanted a word with him. George tried to read his expression. There was a slightly confused, troubled look about him.

  “Sir George,” he began, “There is a man asks for you.”

  "What does he want?" asked George.

  "I ..." Lukas shook his head, uncertain. "I do not understand him."

  "Where is he?" Lukas nodded towards the harness room.

  "I say him, wait there."

  George walked into the room. There was a fire burning low in the grate, to keep off the damp which destroyed leather. The man was rubbing his hand along one of the bridles and he jumped to attention when George came in.

  "Your pardon, Sir," he said, and, removing his hat, he bowed. It was smart, and correct, but the individual looked less appealing. George took him in, noting the boots especially.

  "My stable master tells me you are looking for me?"

  "I am, Sir George. I apologise for touching this bridle but it is of such quality. It has been some time since I saw its like."

  "You are a groom?"

  "A groom, and more, Sir. I am in a temporary place at the Goat in Chains Inn, but seeking a more permanent post, like."

  "I know the Goat in Chains."

  George thought quickly. He had intended to take on more servants, and there would be a need as his mares produced more foals. Moreover, if his pupils increased in number he would certainly have less time to spend working in the stable alongside his grooms. He enjoyed this and he was conscious of the old adage: "The eye of the master maketh the horse grow fat." There was nothing that substituted for the constant care of the proprietor. Another groom would help. George was cautious though. Then he had an idea.

  "I've just returned from riding and my mare needs attendance. You can do that and I'll judge."

  The man followed him to Flavia's stall and set to work. First, he offered the mare water, then began to dry and clean her coat. He was quick and gentle, making sure the sweat and mud were gone before he groomed her, then finally twisting some straw into a wisp to use on her muscles. George watched this carefully. He was not of the school that liked to bang the wisp down hard on the horse. Nor, apparently, was this man. Finally, Flavia's blanket was replaced and she was given an armful of fodder. Flavia accepted him.

  "Do you wish me to prepare her corn, Sir?"

  George shook his head. "No, we will deal with that. Thanks - I've seen enough. Do you have papers?"

  "Yes, but not with me, Sir George. I can provide those."

  "It's well then. Show me your commendations, if you have them, and I'll consider you for a trial here."

  The man bowed again.

  "Oh," said George. "By the way, what do they call you?"

  "Jostler, sir. James Jostler."

  Chapter 4: Davey

  The March wind had relented. The early morning air was sweet and crisp with a coolness that was delicious and invigorating. Matthew and Cornelius were returning from a walk, enjoying the freedom of pure air and solitude that belongs to early risers. As they walked, Matthew held up one hand and said "Up!" and the little dog rose on his hind legs and walked along beside him. A turn of the hand and he danced this way and that, before finally breaking into a series of upright jumps alongside Matthew as he walked.

  "Good," said Matthew, throwing Cornelius a piece of cheese. The dog barked his thanks. Before they entered the Goat in Chains, Matthew took a last lungful of the sharp air and glanced up and down the street. All was quiet; not even a dairymaid was in sight. Then he entered the quiet dim interior by the main door. The inn smelled, as Peter Siskin would have known it should, of wood, scented beeswax polish, clean linen, cooking and alcohol. It was interesting though, how different the atmosphere could be between evening and morning. Matthew walked towards the back room. Somewhere above, a board creaked.

  Jacob was already preparing for the day's work and he poured Matthew a small beer, the normal drink through the day. Matthew drank it. "Very good!" he said, nodded his thanks and headed towards the kitchen in search of some scraps for Cornelius, who followed him closely, knowing exactly where he was going - and why. Bess was already there, and not in the best of moods, as was usually the case this early in the morning. However, she had a soft spot for Matthew and she gave him some meat for Cornelius.

/>   "There y'go my dear. Such a clever little beast."

  The sunshine tempted Matthew out into the yard. There were some old barrels there that Cornelius could jump onto and perform a little dance. As he went out of the door, he nearly bumped into Davey, the kitchen boy. Matthew smiled at him apologetically but Davey hardly seemed to notice. Then Matthew realised that his face was tear stained and red, with a darker mark across it. Matthew looked at him questioningly. Davey had obviously just finished snivelling, and he dragged an arm across his nose in the universal gesture of the injured child.

  Matthew knelt down and looked at him. Davey avoided his eyes. Matthew lifted Davey's chin to look at him and gestured with his head back towards the kitchen. Davey nodded.

  "Not good," said Matthew, looking around for inspiration. He stood up and walked over to the barrels. "Come here." Davey followed him, still sniffing, but curious.

  "Up," said Matthew, and Cornelius leapt onto the top of a barrel. He stood on his hind legs and turned a circle, then still on his hind legs, circled back the other way. Then, at another word and gesture from Matthew, the dog dropped down onto all fours again, lifted his hind legs up and walked around the top of the barrel on his forelegs. There was something so skilful, so self-conscious and so comical about the way Cornelius did this that Davey smiled.

  Matthew said something and stretched out his arms and the dog, dropping back onto all fours, leaped into them.

  "Here. You try," said Matthew, putting the dog onto the ground. "Hold your arms like this ... yes, just so ... and ..." Cornelius jumped up into Davey's arms and licked his face. Davey mumbled something.

  "Wish ... wish I had a dog like this ..." Matthew didn't say anything, but from somewhere, somehow, he produced a silver sixpence.

  "Watch. If you can choose the hand that is holding the sixpence, you may have it."

  Davey watched carefully and was sure he saw Matthew close his grip on the coin in his right hand. The left hand was closed into a fist as well.