Free Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell by Miriam Bibby

Moses and
the dog? Oh, aye, they’ve set up in the Hart and Hawthorn, they have. Nay,
Jingler, not them.”
     
    “Who,
then?”
     
    The Frater
paused for effect and then hissed, “Francis Jugg! Except he don’t call
himself Francis any more - it’s Uriel now.”
     
    “Uriel?”
said the Jingler in a tone of utter disgust. “That’d be Master Jugg.
Incense-stinking, swindling, double-faced whoreson dog …” He swore
violently. Then, “No time to talk now, Jack. I’ll meet ye later. Where are
you couched of a night?” While they were talking, the Jingler was
assessing the Frater, who was looking spruce in some new garments. The Frater
looked embarrassed.
     
    “Jugg’s
found a place for me. He’s sexton of …” began the Frater.
     
    “Sexton!
Jugg! A sexton!” The Jingler whooped with laughter.
     
    “Aye,
Jingler. He’s a house on the parish and that’s where I couch me hogshead of a
night.”
     
    “Near
the boneyard, eh? Does that not trouble your sleep?”
     
    “Nay,
Jingler; y’know me, it’s the living we have to fear, not the dead ones!”
     
    “Aye,
well. That’s true. Got work for ye, has he?”
     
    “He
has, Jingler.” The Frater did not enlighten him further, for if he knew
what he and Jugg were up to with the cards he might want to join in; and the
last time that had happened, things had turned very ugly between the Jingler
and Jugg. Very nasty indeed.
     
    The Jingler
was thinking.
     
    “Best
not be seen together too much, Jack. D’ye know of somewhere quiet, like?”
    .
    “Aye,”
said the Frater. He gave the Jingler directions.
     
    “Thought
ye would know of somewhere, ” said the Jingler, with a wink. “I’ll
make my way, you make yours. See y’there, Jack!”
     
    The Frater
was just trotting off to his meeting with the Jingler when he saw some poor
wretch being marched along with his hands tied in front of him. He felt for the
fellow - there but for the grace of God … The Frater sent up a quick prayer
for the poor lad as he was pushed along by one fellow on foot and pulled along
by another on a horse. Then he recognised the man and his heart began to race.
     
    “Mother
of God,” said the Frater, with genuine feeling. He was overcome by
faintness and stepped into the shadows where he secretly crossed himself.
“Clink.”

Chapter 3: The Rivals
     
    The mare
had struggled and sweated for hours while one of the men watched, soothed and
encouraged. As often as not, it was Sir George Paston himself who was there,
feeling wretched and helpless. About midnight, she lay on her side and her legs
scrabbled in the air, catching on the wall with a sickening sound. Then she
sighed, as though she was about to give up. Her eyes became fixed and her breathing
seemed to halt.
     
    “Don’t
die, lass,” muttered George. For a while he was convinced that she had
gone, he had lost both his mare and her foal, and then breath seemed to whoosh
into her lungs again. She rolled over and half sat up. He encouraged her to get
up with a hand on her mane, tugging, half pleading with her. She stood,
sweating and looking round at her belly again; then shook herself slightly and
pawed the ground. The wandering and struggling began once more.
     
    As dawn
came, the mare gave one last heaving, groaning push, and the foal slithered
into the churned-up straw. A big strong foal - no wonder the mare had struggled
so hard - and a filly. George waited until the foal was up on its feet and
drinking, and the mare had taken a sip of water and was acquainting herself
with her new daughter. Then he left them together. Standing outside, feeling
the fresh dawn wind on his skin, he took deep breaths of the air, watching the
light growing on the line of hills on the eastern horizon. The birds were starting
to greet the sun. This was his land and he loved it, never more so than in this
space between night and morning. It was cool now, but he knew instinctively
that it would be a glorious day, probably as