Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (12 page)

The
sleepy-eyed man, with his back turned to the jailer, rolled his eyes. Don’t lay
it on too thick, said his expression.

Clink said
nothing. The sleepy-eyed man turned to the jailer.

“You
too, brother? Why not pray with us?”

The jailer
laughed and shook his head. Still laughing, he turned the key in the lock
behind them. “Just give us a shout when yer knees give up,” he said.
His footsteps disappeared towards the guard room.

“Let
us pray, brother,” said Jugg, kneeling.

“Aye,”
said Clink. Kneeling on the floor brought their heads close together.
“Been a while since we met, Francis.”

“It’s
Uriel,” hissed Jugg. Clink looked confused.

The Frater
opened the prayer book to show that the centre had been cut away and a piece of
pie placed in it. Despite his circumstances, Clink grinned.

“Have
ye seen Ruby?” he whispered.

“Oh
Lord God,” said the Frater loudly, then, dropping into a whisper, while
Jugg took up the prayer, “well. All’s well. She’s followed ye to
Marcaster. She saw ye taken. Cried for a day and a night she did. Worse than
Moll. Naught she could do. The Jingler’s here too.” He took a small bottle
out of his sleeve. Clink took a swig out of it and wiped his mouth.

“They’re
like to hang me,” he said.

“Seems
so,” said the Frater, watching him with concern. There had been fear and a
sort of pride in Clink’s voice. “Never fear, never fear, we’ll think of
summat to free ye!” He sounded more encouraging than he felt. “It’s a
felony, ain’t it? Purse cutting …”

Clink took
another swig, morosely.

“It’s
finished then. Don’t see a way out this time, Jack. Just the rope’s end.”

The Frater
patted his arm. “Nay, we’ll find a way. Never say die. Aaaaaamen!”
Their voices rose and fell. Jugg read a passage from the Bible.

“Beautiful,
beautiful,” said the Frater. “Never fear the vale of shadows; well,
not if ye be saved. But of course we can’t know who be saved …”

Jugg rolled
his eyes again. They heard the footsteps of the jailer coming to look in on
them.

“Let
us pray once more,” said Jugg. The jailer went away quickly. Under cover
of more praying the Frater passed a piece of rabbit to Clink, who gnawed it
gratefully. Like all prisoners, he was dependent on either money or friends to
supply him with real food to eat. The items were only hidden away so that they
did not draw the attention of the jailer or his men, who would likely help
themselves to the tastiest bits. The Frater and Jugg stood with their backs to
the door, blocking out Clink, just in case the jailer looked in again. Once the
meat and drink had gone, the men called to be let out.

“When’s
the trial?” asked Jugg as they walked away without a backward look.

“Don’t
know for certain,” said the jailer. “But the assizes are in town next
week.” As they walked down a gloomy corridor that led to the great room,
with its barred windows and nailed door, where the jailers sat and jingled
their keys, ate, drank, and talked of the prisoners, a party of cloaked and
masked men and women squeezed past them. The women pulled their cloaks right
across their faces.

“Visitors
for our most important guest,” smirked the jailer ironically. “It’s
always the prettiest womenfolk who like to visit the biggest villains, eh? One
Giddens, who was taken for battering an old man near to death in a highway
robbery. The old man died, but not before he’d put the finger on his assailant.
He’ll hang, for certain sure!”

“We’ll
come back again,” said the Frater as the jailer unbarred and unlocked the
small door at the side of the mighty entrance to the keep. The jailer shrugged.
It was none of his business.

“Got
ten in all,” he said, “if you want to read the Bible with them
…”

“We’ll
return,” said Jugg. “Singly or together.”

“Don’t
delay,” said the jailer in a jocular fashion. He tightened an imaginary
noose round his own neck, stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Not
if you don’t want to miss his final strut on the stage.”

* * * * *

Whilst Meg
was busy with clients, Matthew and Cornelius were entertaining the common room
of the Hart and Hawthorn. It was an appreciative audience, mostly. However,
there was one man who had definitely been in his cups to start with and who was
now becoming a belligerent nuisance. There’s always one, thought Matthew. So
did Cornelius, although he continued to do his tricks on cue.

“My
dog - I said, my - dog - well, my dog’s - arse - can do - be’er - tricks - than
tha’ dog - can,” said the drunk, eventually. It took him quite a time to
get the sentence out. Matthew listened politely, with one eyebrow raised,
whilst throwing a red kerchief at Cornelius, who threw it back to him.

“It
must have some competition in your house,” countered Matthew with a
pleasant smile. The crowd laughed whilst the drunk frowned, trying to work out
whether he had been insulted or not. Matthew picked up a wooden box containing
playing cards, displayed them expertly and quickly in a fan in front of his
audience and placed them back in the box.

“Now,
master,” he said, nodding at a man sitting near him, who had been watching
the performance with appreciation. “You saw that it was a deck of cards, a
simple deck - I am playing no tricks upon you, you agree?” The man nodded.
“Take these cards, then, and cut the deck once and pass it to your
neighbour - you sir, do the same, yes, that’s it, put that portion on top -
“

As the
trick progressed, Cornelius disappeared.

“Now
sir, cut and take the top card and pass the remainder back to the person who
gave you the cards - just so - “

The drunk
was temporarily quiet whilst he tried to follow the complicated card trick that
was going on around him. There was much laughter as the trick progressed and
Matthew, whilst appearing casual, was watching closely to see that his
instructions were followed.

“Now,
with the powers given me by my mistress Semiramis - “

“Oooohhh!”
said the crowd, genially.

” - I
will divine the cards that you chose.” Matthew frowned hard. “‘Tis
hard this evening - there is too much tobacco smoke in here - the spirit
messages are muddled - “More genial laughter. “A little help is
needed - those of you who drew red cards, hold up your hands - “

“‘S’a
trick!” bellowed the drunk. It took all the concentration Matthew could
muster to keep his mind on the sequence.

“Ah,
now I have it!” he said. “You, master, I believe, drew the knave of
diamonds?”

The man
held up his card in amazement. The room roared.

“And
you master, the seven of clubs - ” More applause.

“Well,
how’d ‘e do that?” said one to another.

“Devil
if I know!”

Matthew
bowed and smiled. It was time for Cornelius to take the little bag round the
room for a collection - but where was he? Matthew whistled. Cornelius jumped up
onto the table and dropped a purse onto it in front of him. It was quite full
and it looked as though the strings had been loosened rather than cut. Perhaps
they hadn’t been well enough fastened in the first place. Matthew quickly
covered his surprise.

“Our
thanks for your appreciation!” he said, thinking on his feet and picking
up the purse. He looked at Cornelius, who looked innocently back at him and
then, briefly, across at the drunk.

“Ah,”
said Matthew. Leaning over the table he continued, “Yours, sir, I believe?
My dog took it up for safe keeping. Y’cannot be too careful, these days, with
cutpurses and foists about.”

The drunk
clapped a hand to his side and swore. The room erupted into laughter and more
coins started to chink and roll onto the table, accompanied by foot stamping
and cheering. Matthew began to sweep them into his hand, bowing again. A good
day’s work. Now for something to eat.

In her
chamber above, vaguely aware of the applause, Meg looked long and seriously at
her image in the mirror by the light of a candle. A leatherbound book, with
ancient sigils in it, lay forgotten in her hand. The last image that she had
looked at was a stylised design of a winged figure. The black ink had turned to
brown and the page was yellow with age. But - when she closed her eyes, the
image behind the image appeared. What was dark, was light; and light became
dark. The profiles of two lovers facing one another appeared in its stead. A
trick, some would say.

Was it her
imagination; her eyes; the candlelight … had something changed? When others
said she was no older, it might be flattery. But what of her own eyes, her own
senses? She looked directly into the reflection’s eyes and a stranger looked
back. The image wavered and then disappeared. The harder she stared, the less
she saw. After a while the image in the silver mirror became the same as the
image in the polished black stone of the scrying mirror. The eyes came back
into focus in a sea of darkness. It was as though she saw the world by
moonlight, a different world; which was the real one? Everything should change
- everything must change. Only that which was noble did not change.

The earth
seemed to breathe by moonlight as though there was some soul link between the
moon and all the living things that slept. Sometimes, as she looked up from
some lonely forest under its light, Meg could see that the sighing of the earth
lifted up the souls of everything that slept, along the rays into the moon. And
in the moon, they woke to some other life, a life denied them during the day.
Knowledge that was denied them by sunlight.

Where had
she learned that? Had she been taught it? Or was it imagination that took her
to a garden under a green tree where someone, a sage, was explaining this
slowly, patiently, so that his listeners might truly understand? There was a
scent like lemons and a warm breeze and the knowledge that somewhere to the
east a caravan laden with silks and swords was swaying slowly along. She saw
the pad, pad, pad of the camels and watched the beat of the horses’ shifting
hooves patterning the dust as their riders rode back and forth shouting
anxiously to one another. There were men with bows, riding sharp little horses,
hidden in the rocks above. The caravan carried other materials, secret, rare
substances that one day would be made into perfumes to stir the heart and blood
… men would kill for those secrets and give their lives … their weight in
gold … secrets …

The vision
faded and another took its place. The hoofbeats still drummed, but there was no
caravan. Two riders, running alongside each other over a green meadow dotted
with flowers. The horses and riders were identical. She could not see the men’s
faces as they bent over the necks of their coursers. Both animals were dark
coloured and both exerted themselves to the utmost, as equally matched as
twins. Castor and Pollux. Stride for stride, breath for breath, heartbeat for
heartbeat … something was happening. The two horses drew closer and closer
together; now there were six legs and two heads; now one head; the horses
merged and there was one rider only, under the moon that now lit the meadow.
Meg waited, waited, scarcely breathing, to see what would happen next.

Someone
knocked at the door of Meg’s chamber, hesitantly, quietly. Meg turned. She had
thought there would be no more clients today. There had been something about
that knock that intrigued her.

“Come
in,” she called.

The door
opened slowly and a woman wearing a cloak, scarf and hood came in. She paused
uncertainly in the doorway.

“You
wish to consult with me? You have a question?”

The woman
took off the cloak, revealing a mask. There was a discrepancy about her
clothing. Under the cloak she wore a simple russet kirtle with an apron. It was
too big for her and looked as though she had borrowed it from a serving maid.
Her fingers were white and unblemished, her blonde hair neat and apparently
quite fancily dressed under a plain coif.