Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell (3 page)

“You’ve
been long on the road, by the look of you.” The voice was rich and oily,
full-bodied and persuasive.

“I
have,” said the Frater, licking his dry lips. His belly gave a rumble. The
seated man glanced quickly at the other players and, as though he read
agreement there, back at the Frater.

“Care
to play, brother?”

The Frater
looked a little embarrassed. “Aye - but …”

“I
understand,” said the sleepy-eyed man. “Sit in with us. We - ”
he glanced at the others again, ” - I - can lend you the testors. Y’have a
lucky face.” He put his own cards down on the table and picked up a deck.

“Well
…” began the Frater uncertainly, rubbing his chin, “I don’t know.
I’m not much of a card player …”

“Ah?”
said one of the men, in a questioning tone, glancing quickly round the table.
“Tha might be talking of us.” The ‘us’ sounded almost like ‘uz’.
“Simple fellows, we are; and we play simple games.”

The
sleepy-eyed man continued to look at the Frater, whilst shuffling the cards
between his hands. “Take a draught of ale with us, at the least,” he
said.

“Well
now,” said the Frater cheerfully, “that’s a rare kind invitation. I
will. And - I’ll think on your offer of a stake in the game, mebbe. Though I
have a few coins by me. I can risk a little for the sake of friendship,
gentlemen.” And he smiled fatuously like the greatest innocent abroad.

The
sleepy-eyed man scarcely concealed his own smile as he turned back to the card
players. As he seated himself, the Frater stumbled clumsily against him and
apologised.

“Pay
better attention, in future, brother,” said the man. His mild irritation
passed quickly as the rules of the game were explained to the Frater.

In a short
time, the Frater found himself sweating nervously as the little money in front
of him slowly, but steadily, disappeared. He glanced at his fellow players.
Nothing showed in their faces. The sleepy-eyed man whistled occasionally, a
dry, irritating whistle that seemed to catch on his teeth as his breath came
out. The largest stack of coins on the table now lay in front of him.

“Not
doing so well, brother. Never fear; there’s plenty where that came from. We - I
- can lend you some.” His voice still sounded persuasive but now there was
just an edge of menace in it.

“Aye,
aye,” muttered the Frater, sounding a little ruffled, “but lend,
there’s the thing.” He almost convinced himself that the few paltry pieces
of silver on the table in front of him were all he had. However, it was not
easy to ignore the bulging purse that now lay in his lap; the one just acquired
secretly from the sleepy-eyed man when he had stumbled against him.

“A
loan must be repaid, brother,” said the man, his somnolent eyes opening
wide in surprise as though the Frater had tried to trick him in some way. The
other players nodded.

The Frater,
growing more nervous, played his next card and lost. Then lost again.

“Not
much remaining, brother,” said Sleepy-eyes and there was definitely menace
in his tone now. He shuffled and dealt, looking at the Frater all the time. He,
along with the others, staked high this time.

The Frater
looked at his card, sighed and fumbled about as though searching for a few last
coins in his own purse, whilst keeping the other one carefully hidden as he
drew more money from it. He put it down, making it appear that was all he had.
The friendly game of cards had turned serious; and now, with a substantial pot
at stake, it was every man for himself.

“All
of it?” said one of the other players, sniggering slightly. “Well,
tha’s a sporting man.”

The Frater
smiled guilelessly and laid his card, clicking the edge down in a professional
manner as he did so. An ace; the Ace of Diamonds, which took all in this game.
As he reached forward to take the pot, the other men threw down their cards.
One of them glared at the Frater.

“Seems
to me,
brother
,” he said, imitating the sleepy-eyed man, “tha
weren’t so wet behind t’ears as tha first appeared.”

“Pisht,
Lammery, he won fair and square.” said Sleepy-eyes, shrugging. There was
some mumbling but the sleepy-eyed man appeared to have some authority over the
players. He rose to his feet and the others followed his lead. Waiting until
they were nearly at the door, he turned to the Frater and said, loudly,
“You were lucky - then. Y’might not be so fortunate - when we next
meet.”

The Frater
smiled in a friendly fashion at his departing back. Once the other players had
left the alehouse, he blew out his breath like a sweating horse that has just
pulled up after a gallop. Then he grinned and ran his fingers through the money
in front of him. He drew it to him and began to stack it into neat piles.
Catching the eye of the alewife, he beckoned her over with a coin between his
first and middle fingers.

“Whatever
be cooking smells good,” he said, adopting what he firmly believed was a
winning smile. “Smells good to an old man who’s served his country and -
” here he began to cough, “suffered many hardships in the doing of
it.”

“We’re
not an ordinary. Think I can feed ye as well?” returned the alewife.
Served his country well at cards, drinking and wenching, the owd ruffler, she
thought, unimpressed. But the money was good and he’d taken it from those
idlers. Good luck to ‘im, then. Food and ale were fetched.

Some time
later, the Frater, with a full belly and a purse that was still full enough,
left the alehouse. As he set off he peered about cautiously as though he
thought someone might be lying in wait for him. Then, gaining confidence, he
set off, not at a jog, for he was too full for that, but at a fast walk with an
occasional hop. It looked purposeful but in truth he had no certainty about his
destination. Ahead of him was a churchyard, with a leaning wall and a lych
gate. He was just past the gate when a muscular arm fixed itself around his
neck and he was drawn backwards to the gate and brought under the shelter of its
roof.

“Ooof!”
said Frater John, but he did not protest. There was no point. His assailant’s
other hand reached for the purse.

“Well
now, Jack,” said Sleepy-eyes’ voice, low and sinister, “I was
wondering how long it would take you. Eaten well, have ye? And drunk?”

The Frater
said hoarsely, “If ye’d just let go of me throat, Francis. Old man now, I
am, and not in the best of health. Ye’ve got yer bung, what harm can I do
ye?” The man released him.

“It’s
Uriel, now, Jack. Not Francis. Uriel. And your health seems good enough.”

“Uriel?”
said the Frater, wonderingly, as he turned round to face the man, who was
feeling the weight of the purse with a frown on his face.

“Aye,
Uriel. Has a fine sound to it, don’t it? Uriel Jugg. Fitting name for a sexton,
I do believe.”

“Sexton,
Fra - Uriel, I mean? What, here?”

“Aye.
So keep your voice down and don’t go sticking that belly outside for any
parishioners to gawp at. Eighth wonder of the world, the Frater’s belly!”
The Frater was not abashed, proud rather. He sat down on the coffin-rest.

“You’d
not have denied me a bite to eat, F…Uriel, I mean?”

“A
bite!” said Uriel Jugg, ironically. He shook the purse at him. “The
bung has lost its belly, so that you could keep yours, that much I can see -
and the rest?”

The Frater
drew out his own purse with a sigh and handed over most of its contents to
Jugg. “Ye’ve not lost yer old skill,” said the Frater admiringly.
“Rare old skill y’have, Uriel. Set them up properly y’did. All I had to do
was play my part.”

“Which
y’did, if not to perfection, then well enough, Jack,” conceded Uriel Jugg.
“‘Twas a good enough foist of the bung, after all this time. Y’must have
kept your hand in.”

“Not
so much a foist, with you playing the barrator so well,” countered the
Frater, acidly. “Friends of your’n, were they?”

“Acquaintances.
Acquaintances that I owe a cozening turn or two …”

“Stayed
long in Marcaster?” asked the Frater.

“Long
enough to have learned a thing or two,” said Jugg. He looked the Frater up
and down in a thoughtful manner. “And - well now, I’m wondering if
whatever ill wind blew you into town might not have some providence behind
it.”

“How’d
you mean, Uriel?” The Frater’s curiosity was piqued.

Jugg did
not answer his question, but asked one of his own. “What did bring you to
Marcaster?”

“Well
now, it might be that I was keeping an eye on someone that was coming to
Marcaster and …” The Frater stopped.

“And?”

“Ye’ll
remember the Jingler, Uriel?”

“The
Jingler!” said Jugg. “Aye. I remember the Jingler, all right.”
His voice suggested that there might be one or two old scores to settle there.
“Heard about the match between Sir Richard Grasset and Sir Jack Widderis
has he? On his way for that, is he?”

“Match?”
said the Frater, confused. “Match, Uriel? Y’mean - fisticuffs?”

“No,”
said Jugg, in an exasperated tone. “Matching their horses, you
cokes!”

“Ah,”
said the Frater, quickly recovering from being caught out as a simpleton. It
suddenly dawned on him; that was the reason the woman and her servant were
coming over to Marcaster - of course - running horses! There’d be plenty of
people in town for that. Plenty of money. Plenty of business.

“It’s
thought,” continued Jugg, “that a bit of additional excitement in the
form of a few dancing rogues might add to the festivities as it’s coming up for
the assizes.”

“Ah,”
said the Frater again, but there was a note of anxiety in his voice. His flesh,
like that of all the rogues, crept at the idea of the gallows.

“There’s
a new gallows will take three at a time,” said Uriel, watching the
Frater’s reaction. “It’s already gained itself a name, hereabouts. ‘The
Trinity’ they call it. Clever, eh?”

“Keep
you in business digging graves, Uriel,” blustered the Frater, though he
knew that the bodies of the hanged would not be laid in hallowed ground. About
half a mile outside Marcaster the road passed close by a bare knoll with a cage
on it. In the cage were the stinking remains of some criminal, the eyes picked
out of the skull by crows.

“I?
Dig graves for rogues?” Jugg sounded superior. “Nay, Jack, ‘tis not
my responsibility. But for certain there’s no one of
your
acquaintance
will be hanging, is there.” He sounded almost smug.

“No,
no, Uriel,” confirmed the Frater hastily. “Of course not.”

* * * * *

Ruby, Moll,
Clink and the Frog, companions of the Frater and the Jingler, were making their
way slowly in the general direction of Marcaster. Along with them was the
Frater’s long suffering donkey. They were not in a hurry as they knew they
would all meet in Marcaster eventually and so they had chosen to travel by the
back lanes rather than the highway. There had been good pickings along the way,
up to now; but the last day or two had been harder going, with scarcely a
building in sight.

Ruby was
also known as the Egyptian Mort, although she came from Wapping in east London.
There was intense and often violent rivalry between the Egyptians, or gypsies,
and those who considered themselves to be indigenous travellers. Since the days
of great Henry, eighth of that name, several acts of parliament had attempted
to noose the Egyptians and anyone aiding and abetting them. The latest
legislation ordered that anyone found to be a gypsy - or claiming to be one -
was to be taken immediately to the nearest sea and deported: anywhere, anyhow.
The law cracked down with equal severity on anyone aiding them or helping them
into the country. That was the official view. However, many a lonely hamlet or
farm on the wildest moors welcomed the Egyptians. They brought cheerfulness and
colour into the drab regularity of the farming year and provided much needed
additional labour, if they were so inclined. And they had knowledge - everyone
knew that. They told fortunes and did magic that no-one could explain. This
could prove so lucrative an activity that there were quite a few claiming to be
gypsies when they were not. Amongst them was Ruby, the Egyptian Mort, mort
being rogue’s cant for a woman.