Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (11 page)

Richard had
indicated that they would probably meet with one of the servants riding
Galingale out to exercise and as they approached the meadowland alongside the
Marcaster Road where the horses were running out each day, they saw a man
approaching on a black horse with a white star on its forehead. They all
stopped and waited for the horse to come up to them, giving George plenty of
opportunity to appraise Galingale. Yes, this was quality. A broad chest
indicating strong lungs and heart, a long stride; the horse was lively and
curious, but not wild or temperamental. It seemed that the offspring of Sweet
Gale and Galliard had taken the qualities of both but had made his own unique
creation of them. One that bettered them, perhaps, with the addition of nurture
from the knowledgeable Sir Richard and his skilful staff.

The servant
rode up to them, bowed, dismounted and bowed again. Whilst Richard was
explaining to him that this gentleman wished to try the horse, George was
taking further stock of Galingale. Some further discussion followed about his
nature and the tactics to be employed whilst riding him. Ordinarily, George
would have spent more time with the horse, assessing his character beforehand;
but on this occasion, he realised that he would need to do the best he could in
the short space of time before the match. Trusting to his instincts, his
experience and his faith in Richard’s skill in raising and training horses,
George felt that Galingale was a horse that he could ride with confidence. That
was the principle of the thing. As to the match; well, there were many matters
to take into consideration; but he would not think about those now.

Galingale
did not pace or amble. His trot was comfortable but he soon wanted to move into
the Canterbury gallop, the three-beat pace that was so much smoother. George
rode him away from the spectators, getting a feel for the ground as he did so.
This part of the meadow, next to the road, was raised slightly above the land
alongside the river. It was probably drier and would only become saturated in
the highest floods, George thought. Good going for the horse’s legs. This was
not where the race would be, though. That was to be held on some common land
bordering another side of Richard’s estate.

As he
reached a point about a quarter of a mile from the Grasset party, he turned the
horse round. Galingale, like all horses, wanted to join his fellows; and George
took advantage of this to let the horse have his head and run. Leaning forward
and encouraging him, George felt sensations of speed, energy, power and
communication that told him he was dealing with a remarkable individual. As he
swept up towards Sir Richard and his family, Galingale’s hooves and his own
heartbeat drummed in his ears. Galingale had not shown his full capacity yet.

“Well,
Paston?” said Richard. George nodded, slowly. The others were exclaiming
and congratulating him. Even Lissy seemed impressed.

When his
breath came back, George said simply, “If we do not win the match for you,
Richard, it will not be for lack of heart in Galingale.”

“No.
And it might simply be that Widderis has the better horse. But - time will
tell. And you can try the horse again tomorrow and become better acquainted.
For the moment though, we shall keep the knowledge that you are to ride
Galingale within the family. Rumour and gossip have wings, George, and I’ve
learned that the less people - some people - know about my intentions, the
better.”

It seemed a
small enough matter yet important to his host, thought George. As a horseman,
he understood.

“As
you will, Richard.”

* * * * *

Sir John
Widderis - Jack to his friends and rivals - was waiting in his library at
Calness for his son Philip to arrive. Calness lay some ten miles to the north
east of Marfield Hall and it was subject to cold winds from the German Ocean
that came blasting over the plain. It was a red dressed stone building with two
thick walled round towers, in one of which Sir John had made himself a
comfortable, wainscotted study. Sir John, dressed in sober black and immaculate
silver, with freshly starched ruff and cuffs, would have passed for a portrait
of a Spanish nobleman, with his commanding stance, short white hair and well
trimmed beard. He was a Catholic who also considered himself to be a patriot.
He found qualities in his monarch that he could admire, despite her heresy; and
truly, she had served her nation better than her cousin Mary had served hers -
a heretical thought in itself and one he should confess - but he hoped one day
to see England return to the true faith. Above all, though, he was a northern
English gentleman, which meant he was a shrewd driver of a hard bargain and a
user of biting wit on occasions; and horses were in his blood.

His son
Philip came into the room and paused. The door had been open and he did not
knock. Philip’s green eyes looked directly into his father’s brown ones in a
slightly challenging fashion. There was nothing unusual in it. This was simply
the typical behaviour of two men of the Widderis family. They were sparing of
words and time. Philip was taller than his father and very lean, with light
hair with a red glint in it. His nose was long and his mouth firm. He favoured
his mother, who had died five years earlier.

“Philip.”

“Father?”
Like the Grasset daughters, Philip pronounced the word “Feyther”. He
bowed slightly and Sir John nodded to him but did not ask him to sit down.

“All’s
well with t’horse?”

“Aye,
feyther.”

“He
lacks naught in his new quarters?”

“Naught,
feyther.”

“He
needs must win, Philip lad.”

“Aye,
feyther. He’s in fine fettle and safe at the inn.”

“He
has the speed, lad, but Grasset’s horse will have the bottom,” said Sir
John, meaning the horse would have greater stamina. “Ye must try not to
let him have his head for the first heat, but mind ye dinna hold him back!
Dinna fight with him.”

“No,
feyther.”

“That’ll
be the greatest danger - t’horse will not last. So spare him early if
y’can.”

“Aye,
feyther.”

“Ye’re
a good lad, Philip.”

“Thank
ye, Feyther!” When Philip grinned, his eyes sparkled, revealing a handsome
lad that reminded Jack Widderis so much of his Lucy, Philip’s mother.

“Aye,
well, I’ll see thee at supper, Philip.” Sir John turned away so that he
would not betray the emotion in his face. He could not conceal his voice
though, and Philip looked at Sir John’s back in a slightly troubled way. There
was so much he would like to discuss with his father, but he knew he could not.
He did not know why winning was so important to Sir John, but he accepted it.
Philip could ride for his life, if needs be!

* * * * *

Amabilis
slipped through the door of her bedchamber and closed it as silently as she
could behind her. The curtains of her bed were drawn across. She didn’t
remember doing that but what concerned her at the moment was how dark it was in
the room and the fact that she didn’t have a candle. She tried to count how
many steps it was to the little casket with a drawer in it that stood on a
folding frame not far from her bed, failed, and banged her knee on the hard
point of the frame. It hurt, even through the layers of gown, kirtle, shift and
underskirts that she wore.

“Ow,”
hissed Amabilis. Grabbing hold of the bed curtains, she threw them back to
discover that the curtains on the other side, the side facing the window, were
drawn back and the moon was shining in. The light revealed Amelia sitting cross
legged in her shift and gown on the bed.

“What
are you doing here?”

“I
couldn’t sleep, Lissy. Where have you been?”

“Out
walking! Go back to bed.”

“I’m
scared. The moon’s up and the ghost might be about.”

“Which
ghost, you goose?”

“You
know. Old Sir Joshua or whatever he was called.”

“There
is no ghost. Go back to bed, Meely.” Amabilis began to remove her outer
garments and lay them on the bed.

“Lissy,
you’ve got mud all over your kirtle hem and it’s your best one! I can see it,
even by the moon. What were you doing out there?”

“It’ll
brush away when it dries. I was gathering dew. Now,
go back to bed
!”

“Can’t
I stay awhile?” said Amelia. “I’m icy.” Amabilis felt her hands,
which were cold. She was shivering. Her own felt warm. Her blood was tingling
through her body and her ears were burning.

“Why
are you sitting in the moonlight? Get into bed then. Draw those
bedcurtains.”

Amelia
huddled up to her sister. “I didn’t want to sit in the dark with all the
curtains drawn so I sat in the moonlight. There’s a draught from the door so I
drew those that face it. Why were you gathering dew? If it’s for the
complexion, you have to gather it just before sun-up, everyone knows
that.”

Amabilis
did not reply. There was silence for a while and her sister stopped shivering.

“And
why don’t you mind that your kirtle is muddy? You usually mind.”

“Go to
sleep,” said Amabilis through gritted teeth.

“And
father is always telling us not to go out unaccompanied! There are dangerous
men about, that’s what father says.”

“I
didn’t go far. Go to sleep now, Meely.”

“I
will.” Her sister sounded sleepier now she was warmer. “Say the charm
against nightmares, Lissy. The one that old Bessie taught us.”

“Th’
mon o’ micht, he rade o’ nicht, wi’ neider sword ne ferd ne licht, he socht the
Mare, he fond the Mare, he band the Mare wi’ her ain hair, an’ gared her swar
by midder-micht she wolde nae mair rid o’nicht, whar aince he rade, the mon o’
micht.”

While she
recited the rhyme Amabilis began to feel sleepy herself. Her mind filled with
visions of a giant horseman who chased a skeletal mare with a long mane across
a sky filled with stars. “… he socht the Mare, he fond the Mare, he band
the Mare wi’ her ain hair …” Amelia should never have been sitting there
in cold, full moonlight. No wonder she had been so chilled and nervous.

“Lissy
…”

“Mmmhmm?”

“Who
d’you think will win the match? D’you think Sir George will? Who will ride Sir
John’s horse?”

Amabilis
gave a sigh that was almost a groan of annoyance. “I don’t care! Now - GO
TO SLEEP!”

“‘Night,
Lissy.”

“Good
NIGHT, Amelia!”

Soon
Amelia’s breathing deepened and Amabilis felt her sister’s back relax against
her. For a while Amabilis stared upwards at the bed canopy, faintly lit by the
moon through chinks in the fabric. Then she closed her eyes and huddled down
into the warmth of the soft feather mattress and fell into dreams of a
wonderful new home of her own, where she could be mistress of all without
constantly having an irritating little sister tagging along.

* * * * *

“Visitors
for you, prisoner.” The voice of the jailer accompanied the sound of a key
in the lock as Clink started into life. Visitors? Vaguely he wondered what time
it was. It seemed it was morning. Late morning, even.

Two
pious-looking men in clerical clothing entered his cell. One with sleepy eyes
and a jowly face; the other, with a fluff of white hair - newly washed and
trimmed white hair - around his red face. The fluff of hair ringed his head
like a tonsure round the back. His eyes were bright blue and innocent. Each man
carried a Bible and an official Book of Prayer.

“Read
the Bible with us, brother,” said the sleepy-eyed man. “And pray, for
we all are sinful, and praise the glory of God’s name.”

“Aye,”
said the other, soberly. “Even though undoubtedly y’are not saved, the
more reason y’should get down on your knees and pray with us …”