Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (19 page)

The old man
was nodding understandingly. “Aye, that was me as well when I were a
youth! Not in the New World o’ course, but here, in the becks and the hills. I
would leister the trout out of the watter and fetch the coneys out of their
burrows. Wild as a fox, I was.”

“Leister?”
queried Matthew. He had not encountered this word before.

“Aye,
aye, leister ‘em, lad! Spear ‘em, d’ye see?”

“Ah,
yes, I understand,” said Matthew. Then he continued, “We knew about
the big ships. They had been coming for a long time, many, many years. Long
before the English came. There were Spanish and French; and before that, the
Brezou and Vascones. Some said they had been coming since ancient, ancient
times. Forever. But that was a long way towards the cold land in the north.
Sometimes, tales about them reached us.”

“Bretons
and Basques,” nodded the old man. “Great sailors. And fishermen and
whale catchers. The English can best ‘em now; but the fishing trade’s not so
good along our coast these days. Herringmen - all foreigners o’ course. They’ve
all the trade, saving for Hull. What did they call your people, lad?”

Matthew
gave a faint smile. “There are many different names for many different
people. In our own language, we were the true men, the real people.”

He wondered
if the old man would see any irony in this, but he simply said, “Go
on.”

Matthew
continued, “So - it was one day when I was on the - shore - that I was
taken. I looked round and all the others had fled. There were two men and I
didn’t see them until it was too late. I was terrified because of what they
wore and the sounds they made. The way they looked and the noise of their
laughing and - the smell of them - I thought they were monsters. Some strange
beast from the sea … they were from a Spanish vessel.”

“What
happened then, lad?”

“I was
taken to the ship and there were others there; many died. I was sick, very
sick. I couldn’t breathe.” Matthew put an arm across his chest
involuntarily at the memory. “I don’t remember very much for a long time;
just the movement of the ship and noises. The sea and the wind …” He
fell silent and the old man said nothing, waiting. Eventually Matthew resumed,
“When I recovered, I was set to work on the ship. I learned quickly and
kept quiet. Every day I was surprised to wake in the morning. I expected to be
dead, because I thought the heart had been torn out of me and I would never see
my home and people again. But I lived …”

“Where
was this ship bound?”

“For
San Domingo, in time,” said Matthew. “We arrived in port and I -
being the only one who survived of the - Indians *** as they called us *** -
that they had taken, I was given in care of some Jesuits there. I was
fortunate. One was kind and the other I served was - not unkind.” The old
man sensed he was choosing his words with care. “They thought it was their
duty to bring me - to the light; I learned Spanish. I sailed with them on their
missions. I learned some sea craft and they taught me about the Bible. I think
I was to be a - sword for their faith amongst others like me.”

“Papists,”
said the old man, but not viciously. “How did ye come to be called
Matthew, lad? Did they name you that?”

“Ah,
no,” said Matthew, slightly more cheerfully. “That was the English.
Like you, I’ve sailed on board English vessels and learned the ropes. The first
Protestant sailors I met called me Matthew because they thought something I
said sounded like ‘Metiu, Metiu’.”

“And
how did that come about? Was it to do with Drake?”

“Aye!”
confirmed Matthew. “Y’see, when Drake sacked San Domingo - “

“Come
on now, Dad. It’s late.” A friendly-looking plump woman who had come into
the room was taking the old man by the arm. “Time for your supper.”

“But -
me drink! ” protested the man. “And this lad here is going to tell me
about Drake at San Domingo … “

“Aye,
well finish it up!” said the woman, smiling at Matthew. “And he can
tell you another time. Y’don’t want your supper to burn.” The old man was
borne off protesting.

* * * * *

Early the
next morning, Meg was standing just inside the shadowed doorway of the Hart and
Hawthorn stables, trying to catch the eye of one of the stable lads without
being too obvious about it. She needed to act the part of a woman who was
unsure of her reception in this all male domain. She stepped back and forth
hesitantly as though she was changing her mind and about to walk away again. In
the end, one of the younger lads, pushed towards her by his grinning mates,
asked her whether he could be of assistance.

“Aye,”
said Meg, lowering her eyes demurely. “My servant is away on an errand and
I wish to enquire about horses for hire.” She managed to sound flustered
and a little irritated, as though she felt this request was beneath her
dignity.

“Aye,
mam,” said the lad, and although he sounded as though he was filled with
self-importance, he was nervous himself. Custom was hard-earned and to be kept
at all costs - that was the training he and the other servants received at the
Hart and Hawthorn. This woman’s custom might be dependent on how he dealt with
her request. “We’ve nags for hire, the best in Marcaster, mam!” This
wasn’t quite true. The Blue Boar had a bigger and better selection, but the
Hart had the next best. “D’ye need to travel far, mam?”

While he
was speaking, Meg had walked right inside the stable and was moving slowly down
one of the rows of stalls, as though gauging the worth of the horses in them.

“I may
need to,” she said, over her shoulder. She stopped beside a stocky little
grey. “Is this one for hire? It looks safe enough …”

“Aye
mam,” said the stable lad. “A good choice, if I may say so, mam. A
right good nag for a lady. Safe and surefooted.” He tried to ignore the
other lads in the corner, sniggering at him.

“That’s
to the good,” said Meg, nodding. “And - I may have need of another -
for my servant. Oh - !” She stopped and indicated a black horse not far
from the grey. “That is a very fine looking animal.”

“Aye,
mam,” said the lad, “but not for hire, mam.”

“Oh?”
said Meg, moving towards the horse to examine it more closely. “That is a
pity. A very fine horse. Who owns it?”

As she
spoke, a man came towards her and bowed. “This horse is not for hire,
madam,” he said, courteously but firmly. “It is not one of the inn’s.
And it is not a suitable horse for a lady, madam - or a servant.”

“Oh,”
said Meg, again, sounding disappointed. She seemed reluctant to move away from
the horse. “What is his name?”

There was a
slight pause before the man replied. “Lucifer, madam. And - he can live up
to it.” Meg thought she detected a hint of menace in the man’s voice. The
horse, which had no white markings that she could see, turned its head and
tried to look at her, with a wisp of hay dangling from its mouth. It regarded
her with more curiosity than aggression.

“May I
recommend this’un instead?” came the anxious voice of the lad from further
down the stalls. He indicated a dark brown horse standing sleepily with one leg
cocked at rest. “This is one of our safest and most reliable.”

“Of
course,” said Meg. “Thank ye.” She nodded to the man who was now
standing close by the black horse and watching her. “A very fine horse
indeed.” The servant bowed his head slightly in appreciation.

While Meg
was talking, Cornelius had wandered off to sniff at the various stable smells
with great enjoyment. If Cornelius and the Jingler had been able to share an
opinion, they would both have agreed that stables and their inhabitants offered
lots of interesting opportunities. Obviously they would not have agreed
entirely on the nature of those opportunities, since for Cornelius, one of them
involved rolling ecstatically in muck and straw, getting up and sneezing a lot.
Then attempting, by subtle means, to avoid the inevitable bath. There had been dogs
here this morning, he decided; but not for an hour or two. Nevertheless, he
left a few messages just in case they came back. He was having a good sniff at
a sack that smelled vaguely - but only vaguely - rabbity, when something, a
large, flying something, catapulted over the top of him, thumping him in the
back as it did so.

Cornelius
jumped round, instantly on the alert. He glanced from side to side
suspiciously. A dog always needed to have his wits about him. He saw nothing
unusual and so he turned back to the sack. He was ready though; if it happened
again, there would be trouble. He decided that the rabbity sack was old and not
worth further nosework and moved across the stable to investigate a cask.

There!
There it was again! He had the impression of a thing whirling over the top of
him followed by a smack in the back. He jumped round again, then jumped quickly
back so that he could catch the thing if it had moved round behind him.
Nothing. This was frustrating. Then it dawned on Cornelius. Slowly and almost
unconcernedly, he glanced up, moving his eyes and not his head. Above him, over
the top of the cask, he saw a face glaring down. The face had narrowed green
eyes, a large projecting jaw and a fanged mouth shaped into a curious square
that was the epitome of malicious glee. Cornelius knew a cat laugh when he saw
one. As he caught sight of it, the face whisked back behind the edge of the
cask.

Ha! Did he,
Monsieur Chat, not know that Cornelius, Brother Nose-all, was one of the
greatest leapers and dancers upon a barrel that the country had ever known?
This athletic cat was about to meet his match. In an instant Cornelius had
jumped onto the barrel, ready to do combat with such a worthy foe. He was met
by the terrifying sight of a cat on its hind legs, coat fluffed out to make it
twice its normal size, mouth still open in a grimace of joy and front paws
stretched out towards Cornelius with every claw fully extended. Paf! Paf!
Cornelius had never encountered a cat that boxed in such a fashion before and
he quickly decided that in this case discretion was definitely the better part
of valour. Cornelius left the barrel in an elegant flying leap, followed
closely by the cat. The pair galloped down the stable towards the stable lad
and Meg.

“Cornelius!”
said Meg sharply as he skidded to a stop beside her. “Leave the cat
be!” The cat bounded up one of the ladders and hung over the edge of the
loft, his lashing tail just visible.

“Leave
the cat be!”? Cornelius was deeply hurt. Could she not see that it was the
other way about? That cat, the one that boxed so hard with paws and claws, was
looking down at him and still laughing. Even the stable lads were sniggering at
him.

Cornelius
gathered the rags of his dignity around him and walked off, nose in air.

* * * * *

Over at the
Blue Boar, the Jingler found that the servants in charge of Galingale became a
little more lax about allowing him around the horse as the match grew closer.
They had come to rely on the Jingler’s obvious expertise and advice. Under his
instructions - delivered to the servants without the Jingler handling the horse
- Galingale, already gleaming and healthy, had developed a coat with a sheen
like a black pearl. He looked as though he was in a fit state to run to York
and back and scarcely raise sweat. Not that the Jingler had an opportunity to
test him. He had learned that at the match the previous year between members of
the local gentry, a horse had been threatened and finally withdrawn. Sir
Richard Grasset’s horse had also received threats, but Grasset had simply put
more guards on it and offered a reward for anyone providing information leading
to an arrest. A local rogue who had subsequently committed a murder had been
blamed for the threats and he was currently awaiting his fate in Marcaster
Jail. He was almost certain to be found guilty and condemned to death.

The Jingler
did not yet know who would be riding Galingale. Sir Richard’s servants were
still quite discreet about the family, despite him asking questions as subtly
as he could. It was possible, he supposed, that Sir Richard might ride his own
horse. He seemed to have a name as a horseman but he was evidently not a young
man. The Jingler watched, worked and waited. And planned, because he had an
idea in his head and once he had an idea, it would not let him go until it had
hatched.