Miriam Bibby - Mistress Meg 02 - Mistress Meg and the Silver Bell by Miriam Bibby Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Miriam Bibby
sure.
It wasn’t
long before the opportunity to hold a traveller’s horse arrived and the Jingler
was given a groat for his pains. “Thank ye!” he said, smiling
gratefully and touching his forelock. “If there’s aught more that I can
do?” He made sure that he was spotted by one of the older ostlers, a
harassed little man, with a crab-like walk, weighed down by some water buckets
that he carried. Eventually the ostler gestured at him with his head.
“Thoo,
aye, thoo, man, don’t just stand there doing nowt - tak’ these pails.” The
Jingler complied. “Th’oss in stall, aye, there - ” The little man
indicated with another jerk of his head, because he had already picked up a
pitchfork and begun to lift hay into a rack for another of the stable’s
inmates. “When tha’s done, fetch more watter.”
The Jingler
gave the nondescript brown horse a drink, noting the near-dried dusty sweat on
it. “Give this’un a rub down after?” he said, keeping his speech as
clipped and economical as the ostler, who nodded, flinging some curt
instruction over his shoulder as he went after another task. The Jingler
frowned as he caught what had been said. The little man had a local accent with
some other variations - perhaps he’d travelled - and it was hard to follow.
For the
next two hours the Jingler worked as hard as, or harder than, the rest of them.
Afterwards, the little man came up to him and looked him up and down.
“Knows tha trade, does,” he said. “Be thoo looking for
place?” The Jingler nodded. “Name?”
“Will
Aitchison,” said the Jingler, without hesitation. It was not his name. The
old ostler pursed his lips and regarded him with one eye half closed. He saw a
tall thin man, with straight yellow hair and light-coloured eyes that were hard
to read as he gave the ostler his most ingenuous smile. The ostler was not
convinced, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew horses. Eventually he
nodded. This man would have to prove his reliability through his work. That was
the way of it.
“Aye,
well, ah’ll fix it wi’ maister. Had a lad run aht on uz afore year was up. Next
hiring fair’s not till Martinmas.” This explanation was obviously a lot of
words for the ostler and he turned swiftly away, muttering “Tak’ thysen up
kitchen door, man.”
As the
Jingler ate, sitting on a sack stuffed with straw, he listened. The little
ostler gave nothing away, of course, but a couple of the younger lads, full of
their own self-importance - without reason - tended to boasting and gossip.
When they strayed too far the ostler shut them up with a look or a sharp
derogatory “puh!” of breath. After quickly cramming the food down,
there was more work; more horses came in and one or two went out, although it
was growing late. When the work was finally at an end, the Jingler found
himself a space in the loft and fell asleep immediately.
He woke
very early in the morning and stretched his aching muscles. The work here was
hard, fast and unrelenting. No wonder the lad who’d been working for them had
sloped off. He listened to the other men snoring in the loft around him and
quietly eased himself out of the ragged horse blanket and straw that he was
wrapped in. The old ladder creaked a little as he descended. He found some
water and sluiced his face, slapping it on his skin to wake himself up. Then he
stepped outside to sniff the air. There was a strip of gold on the eastern
horizon, but it was still dark and warm inside the stable, with only the sound
of horses munching the few scraps of remaining forage, shifting their weight or
groaning or relieving themselves. The Jingler found a lantern and a candle stub
and set to work by its dim light. He intended to be well ahead in his chores by
the time the others woke to the day. He had an inkling that the little ostler
would be up and about early and if he found the Jingler already working it
would be noted to the
It wasn’t
long before the opportunity to hold a traveller’s horse arrived and the Jingler
was given a groat for his pains. “Thank ye!” he said, smiling
gratefully and touching his forelock. “If there’s aught more that I can
do?” He made sure that he was spotted by one of the older ostlers, a
harassed little man, with a crab-like walk, weighed down by some water buckets
that he carried. Eventually the ostler gestured at him with his head.
“Thoo,
aye, thoo, man, don’t just stand there doing nowt - tak’ these pails.” The
Jingler complied. “Th’oss in stall, aye, there - ” The little man
indicated with another jerk of his head, because he had already picked up a
pitchfork and begun to lift hay into a rack for another of the stable’s
inmates. “When tha’s done, fetch more watter.”
The Jingler
gave the nondescript brown horse a drink, noting the near-dried dusty sweat on
it. “Give this’un a rub down after?” he said, keeping his speech as
clipped and economical as the ostler, who nodded, flinging some curt
instruction over his shoulder as he went after another task. The Jingler
frowned as he caught what had been said. The little man had a local accent with
some other variations - perhaps he’d travelled - and it was hard to follow.
For the
next two hours the Jingler worked as hard as, or harder than, the rest of them.
Afterwards, the little man came up to him and looked him up and down.
“Knows tha trade, does,” he said. “Be thoo looking for
place?” The Jingler nodded. “Name?”
“Will
Aitchison,” said the Jingler, without hesitation. It was not his name. The
old ostler pursed his lips and regarded him with one eye half closed. He saw a
tall thin man, with straight yellow hair and light-coloured eyes that were hard
to read as he gave the ostler his most ingenuous smile. The ostler was not
convinced, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew horses. Eventually he
nodded. This man would have to prove his reliability through his work. That was
the way of it.
“Aye,
well, ah’ll fix it wi’ maister. Had a lad run aht on uz afore year was up. Next
hiring fair’s not till Martinmas.” This explanation was obviously a lot of
words for the ostler and he turned swiftly away, muttering “Tak’ thysen up
kitchen door, man.”
As the
Jingler ate, sitting on a sack stuffed with straw, he listened. The little
ostler gave nothing away, of course, but a couple of the younger lads, full of
their own self-importance - without reason - tended to boasting and gossip.
When they strayed too far the ostler shut them up with a look or a sharp
derogatory “puh!” of breath. After quickly cramming the food down,
there was more work; more horses came in and one or two went out, although it
was growing late. When the work was finally at an end, the Jingler found
himself a space in the loft and fell asleep immediately.
He woke
very early in the morning and stretched his aching muscles. The work here was
hard, fast and unrelenting. No wonder the lad who’d been working for them had
sloped off. He listened to the other men snoring in the loft around him and
quietly eased himself out of the ragged horse blanket and straw that he was
wrapped in. The old ladder creaked a little as he descended. He found some
water and sluiced his face, slapping it on his skin to wake himself up. Then he
stepped outside to sniff the air. There was a strip of gold on the eastern
horizon, but it was still dark and warm inside the stable, with only the sound
of horses munching the few scraps of remaining forage, shifting their weight or
groaning or relieving themselves. The Jingler found a lantern and a candle stub
and set to work by its dim light. He intended to be well ahead in his chores by
the time the others woke to the day. He had an inkling that the little ostler
would be up and about early and if he found the Jingler already working it
would be noted to the