Mistress Meg and the Prigger of Prancers Page 8
"Why was he not already in a place, then?" asked Peter.
"Oh, it seems he had to return to his family when one of them was ill."
Peter understood this. A good place with an employer of status was hard to find and once given up, almost impossible to find again. Families did need help and support from time to time. That had been the case with Peter and his uncle. Jostler's story made sense. It was plausible. It did not convince Peter, though, and although Jacob did not wish to discuss it further, Peter was left with the impression that Jacob had not been convinced either.
There was a further possibility, that Jostler had found work with Sir George and intended to serve him honestly, putting aside any idea of tricking him. That was a hopeful thought and Peter clung to it. That way, there was nothing to concern him.
"If you should be wanting a horse, Master Siskin, then I am sure that my father can assist."
"Thanks to you, I'll bear it in mind."
Peter took his leave of the inn and headed back home. It was a beautiful day with the promise of spring and he felt his spirits rise. There were some youths and girls larking about, to the irritation of some older people who were watching. Peter watched them with a curious sensation. He had been a serious youth and had never known what it was like to behave as they were, the lads pushing one another and shouting, the girls laughing and mildly flirting. He and Isabella had been so happy, though, and he felt a pang of loss again. It wasn't so very long ago and yet centuries seemed to separate him from these young people.
Well. He would just have to make the best of it. It was still a glorious morning.
The spring sunshine showed up the shabbiness of his home but it looked welcoming to him. The geese greeted him with their usual noise - perhaps slightly noisier than usual - but there was nothing else to suggest anything wrong. There was no sign of Tyger though; and for some reason he felt discomfort as he lifted the latch of the door and entered.
All seemed well, though. There were a few dust motes floating about and the room seemed untidier than usual. Then he turned to close the door and found himself looking into the grinning face of Jostler, who had been standing just behind it.
"Hello my dear," said Jostler. Peter felt suddenly sick.
"What ... how ..." he began.
"Oh, the geese?" said Jostler casually. "Nothing keeps me out if I don't wish to be kept out."
"What do you want?" said Peter. It took an effort to make his voice seem normal.
"Why, to discuss our business, Master Siskin." Jostler gave the word "Master" an ironic stress.
Peter opened his mouth, but no word came out. He continued to look at Jostler, who was watching him with that flickering light in his eyes and a smile on his face. He knew that he must keep watching Jostler's eyes. If he once looked away, Jostler would hold power over him.
Eventually he said, "I don't believe I agreed to anything ... friend Jostler."
Jostler laughed. "But we have an understanding, don't we? That's as good as anything agreed, or written ... as far as I'm concerned."
Despite awareness of the danger he was in, and the sudden thumping of his heart in his chest and head, Peter wondered briefly if Jostler could write or not. It was the type of detail he noted as a matter of course, and even now, when his senses were filling him with fear and the desire to run, he couldn't help himself.
However, he said nothing and that gave Jostler his chance.
"Come now, Peter Siskin, you were happy enough to listen to me," said Jostler. "I don't like the idea of you knowing my ... proposition. If you were to be part of it, that would be different."
"It's nothing to do with me," said Peter. "You don't need my help. I don't want to help."
"But you know about it now," said Jostler, meaningfully.
"I can forget about it just as easily," said Peter.
"... and I need help, Peter Siskin. your help. I can't do it meself. It needs your skills."
"Then you'll need to find someone else with those skills," said Peter, with a sudden rush of bravado.
"Oh, no, my dear, I don't think so," said Jostler, and his voice was low and harsh. "I think you will help me. And you know why?"
Peter said nothing. Jostler, apparently losing interest, began to look round the room.
"Not much of a place, but it's your home," he said, "ain't it? Good enough for you your geese ... and your little cat."
Tyger! Peter began to worry and tried not to let it show on his face, but Jostler was quick.
"Oh she's safe enough, your cat. I don't think she liked the look of me, though. Gone to earth in the cabbages, no doubt ..."
Peter was relieved, but watching closely, tried not to let that show, either.
Jostler continued, "No near neighbours, to speak of ... not near enough ..." He began to wander around the room, picking up bits and pieces of Peter's belongings. When he found a tinder box, he picked it up and examined it closely. He gave a brief laugh. "Whatever would you do if the thatch caught on fire ... happens all the time, don't it?"
Peter continued watching him, coldness and fear overtaking him. It was strange. He had suddenly realised something. As Jostler was talking, moving round the room, an image of Isabella had appeared in Peter's mind. It was Isabella and Tyger, just after they had first found the cat. He could see so clearly, as though it were happening in front of him now, Isabella playing with Tyger and laughing, looking up at him. He understood now why he had felt such a shock of horror and grief at the thought of anything happening to Tyger. She was the last real link he had to his wife. Strange. He could see that now with such clarity. He tried to listen to what Jostler was saying. There was malice in his voice.
"... some of my acquaintances are not folks you want to cross, Peter Siskin ... and I've found a place with Sir George; set the game up ready for the taking ..."
Peter took a deep breath. "I don't think I have much choice in this matter - do I?"
Jostler put down a little stone pestle and mortar that he had been turning over.
"No, I don't think you do." He looked at Peter, casually picked up a glass bottle and hurled it at the wall. The glass smashed, throwing splinters around the room and Peter ducked instinctively with a cry and covered his eyes.
"Now my dear," said Jostler, with all trace of humour gone, "let us go over our proposal again, just so I'm certain that you've got it straight in your mind, like."
* * * * *
Meg and Matthew returned to the Goat in Chains deep in discussion.
"The rooms are too small," said Meg.
"The largest must be twenty feet square!" disagreed Matthew.
"It's too dark inside," continued Meg.
"I've never noticed that you need light for your trade," countered Matthew.
Meg raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure there are rats in the roof."
"Get a cat, then."
"Cornelius will not like that."
"He'll recover."
"And where will you set up your staff-fighting academy?"
"You may have a point there ..." agreed Matthew.
"And how were the servant's quarters?"
"Somewhat poky and draughty, now I come to think on it ..."
"Hmmph," said Meg. "It does not smell right."
"I didn't notice a smell."
"Not a real smell. Just ... not right."
"That's what you get for viewing the house of a lawyer."
Meg smiled.
"Oh," said Matthew. "There's that boy again."
"Who - Davey?"
"Yes."
"Ask him if he knows anything of Jostler."
"I will." Matthew set off across the yard and briefly questioned the boy. Meg, carrying Cornelius, waited just at the foot of the stairs that led up to the gallery encircling the inn yard and her room.
"He said he saw Jostler talking to someone on the yard. Talking about horses, he thinks. Perhaps this person wanted to buy a horse."
"Did he know who the person was?"
"When?"
"Today."
Meg thought. "Go and talk to Jacob. See if you can discover who it was." She began to climb the stairs. The room was warm and welcoming after the dank, empty house they had recently viewed.
Matthew came in. "It appears," he said, contemplatively, "that this person might be one Peter Siskin."
"Oh," said Meg. "And who is Peter Siskin?"
"One who might see you as a rival," answered Matthew.
"Ah," said Meg. "Now, Davey ... I think can be very helpful to us."
Matthew thought. "He sees all, says naught, and ... has one other quality of great value."
"That being?"
"No one listens to a word he says."
Chapter 5: Rogues on the Road
It was very early in the morning - or possibly, very late at night. The eastern horizon was just turning red and gold. An observer might have thought Bacchus was returning home with a few of his exhausted followers under the starlight. A rotund man, dressed in a grubby white robe, was seated astride a donkey. His dirty feet dangled loosely at the donkey's sides. The man's face was round, cherubic and fringed with fluffy white hair and his nose was extremely red. As he rode, he half grumbled, half sang, a bawdy song with interminable choruses, beating time with his hand on his thigh. Often he forgot the words and just mumbled; occasionally he fell asleep, his head tipping forwards and backwards to the accompaniment of loud, snorting snores. It was quite obvious that he, the ass and his companions were well used to this. Just as he seemed about to roll off onto the grass, which was laden with dew and just a hint of a frost, his friends hoisted him back or he woke and recovered his seat. The long suffering donkey gave a grunt and lifted its shoulder as his rider tipped sideways again.
The little party was following the line of the highway that led towards Guildern. The pack way on which they were walking was narrow and intended for use by strings of rapidly trotting pack horses. It was raised a little above the muddy surface of the haulage way, that was trampled and rutted by oxen and their carts, and the going was much better. On either side of the road the ground was left treeless and bare for two hundred yards to reduce the threat of attacks on travellers.
They walked mostly in silence, save for the tuneless singing. The man on the donkey was Frater John; his two male companions were called Clink, because he had been in and out of that prison so often, and the Frog, because of his wide grin. Along with them walked two women. The elder was called the Sad Mort, or woman, because of the dark clothing she wore, and the younger was known as the Egyptian Mort, although she came from Wapping. After a while, as the sky grew lighter, they left the pack way and walked across the open ground into the forest that ran parallel to the road. Soon they had disappeared into the shadows. The last to enter the forest was the Sad Mort, who left a small heap of stones and some twigs in a particular formation before she too disappeared under a canopy of leaflets and buds.
As the light grew, Frater John's song faded away until only snoring remained. Clink began to look for a clearing to make camp. Presently he found a sheltered spot near a small stream. Left unsupported by his companions, the Frater wobbled sideways and the donkey, knowing what was coming, put his head down to graze. Frater John slid to the ground with a thud, grunted slightly, and carried on snoring. The donkey shook itself with a snort, thoroughly relieved, and continued to tear at the early shoots of grass as though they were the last it would ever see.
The camp went on silently round the heaped, snoring mound of the Frater. Wood and water were fetched, the Frog went to set rabbit snares and what food they were carrying was removed from the women's bundles. Then Clink, crouched down on his hunkers, glanced across at Frater John. Rising, he walked over, gave the old man a nudge with his foot, and receiving no response, began to search him for the bottle he knew he was carrying. As he did this, Frater John's reddened eyes suddenly opened wide and he frowned and uttered a curse, rolling over so that the bottle was safely tucked underneath him. Clink cursed too.
"Keep it then, ye old bastard!" Clink walked back to the fire that was now smoking into life and took some of the bread that the Sad Mort silently offered him.
"You leave a sign?" he said to her quietly, as though someone might be listening. It was as much a comment as a question. The woman nodded.
"The Jingler will find us come what may," said Clink, biting hard into the bread. "The others will follow," he added, only partly coherently, through the mouthful. The woman still said nothing, but her shoulders straightened slightly and her movements became more relaxed. Somewhere on the road were other members of the group, with her children. Soon they would be together again.
"We'll take a look at this town ... Guildern ... should be decent pickings there." He glanced across at the Frater. "That fat fool won't be fit to move for hours. I'm for sleep as well." He lay down beside the fire, rolled in a ragged blanket. "Wake me if there's rabbit."
The donkey wandered about, nibbling at the first tips of any spring grass that it could find. Thoughts of escape, if it had ever had any, did not trouble it. This was its herd, after all; however strange and unpredictable the humans were, they were the only companions it knew. Happiness was the freedom to roam, for a few brief hours without the burden of its rider, to drink from a stream, and to lie down and nod, eyes closed whilst the others slept around it. The donkey knew that the Sad Mort would keep guard. She would not sleep, not properly, until the Jingler or the others arrived.
As the sun rose higher, Frater John snorted, mumbled and suddenly woke, cursing at the light in his eyes. He sat up, rubbing his belly. Sixty or seventy years earlier, he would have passed for a mendicant friar. His grubby white robe bore a resemblance to that worn by Cistercians. This was not a coincidence. Frater John and others like him had come to take the place of the begging friars and pardoners that once thronged the roads selling indulgences and relics. The Frater had a begging license and had at times also been known to collect for widows burned out of their homes; or sailors held to ransom by the Turks; or soldiers who had lost limbs fighting for king - or queen - and country. This was particularly effective when accompanied by Clink or the Frog, with their faces made up with red scars, or with one leg strapped up whilst they hopped along supported by a stick. Sometimes one or the other would be an Abraham man, who had been incarcerated in Bedlam. Both of them could give very effective performances, smeared with dirt, rolling their eyes and yelling loudly. This was not surprising, because Frater John had been one of the best Abraham men on the road, in his day. Now, however, he found a cherubic face and saintly air worked very effectively indeed without pretending to be mad.
"Alms for the poor imprisoned sailors," he would cry, squeezing out a tear or two. "Spare some coins for the poor English sailors ... thank you, my brother. Thanks, my dear ..." as the coins were dropped into his palm or a small box that he carried. And, pressing the hand of the person that had given the money, he would be on his way to the next person. It was often some time before the donor realised that, shortly after making his charitable gift, his purse had been emptied or stolen by Clink or the Frog who had blended into the crowd.
The two women were skilled pickpockets as well as the men and all four had many other talents. One of these was hooking linen or other items through house windows, or taking laundry from trees and bushes where it was hung to dry. The Frater did not do this himself. He felt it was beneath his dignity. He enjoyed the aspect of his craft that involved meeting the people he would dupe face to face.
Now he was hungry, hung over and in a bad temper. It was perhaps fortunate that the Frog had just returned with a couple of rabbits and had skinned them with great efficiency. The Sad Mort had cleaned and gutted them, strung them on a piece of wood and was roasting them.
Frater John's temper improved after he had eaten - and d
runk - something. Then the men fell to discussing what they should do.
"Wait here a while," said the Frater. "The Jingler can come and find us. We're safe here for now. There ain't much to these rabbits, mind. The women should get us better pickings."
The Frog was restive. He was never happy in one place. "What d'ye expect? Fat cattle in March?" The Frater swore, but carried on gnawing the bone he held. "Why don't we move on?"
Frater John said through a mouthful, "Send the women to this town, what d'you call it? Guildern."
"For what?" said the Frog.
"They could curb some cloth," said the Frater.
"For what?" repeated the Frog again.
"For what?" aped the Frater. "For what? For money, boy, ain't you learned nothing?"
"Where we going to sell it? The next town is maybe twenty miles off. And if they curb linen and we're couching here, how long d'you think it'd be afore the constables came sniffing around?"
"Yeller," said the Frater. "You always was a yellow dog. That's what they should have called yer ... not the Frog."
The Frog swelled. There was no sign of his grin now. "What about you, yer ..."
"Stow you!" barked Clink. They quietened. All three knew that whatever was discussed, it would be Clink who made the final decision.
"Well," pursued the Frater, more quietly, to the Frog, "If they didn't angle some linen, they could curb us some pies and a bottle or two."
"Trust you to think of that, you gage of booze," said the Frog, but not without admiration. "We could at least find us a warm barn further down the road."
"No," said Clink, decisively. "Best keep a hiding place, for now. Until we know what the Jingler has in mind."
In the end it was decided that the Frater and the two women would walk to Guildern to see what kind of town it was and whether it might offer scope for begging or lifting. The Frater grumbled a bit when Clink told him to leave the donkey and go on foot but finally agreed when Clink glared at him. The Frog would go in search of better game and Clink would guard the camp.