A Play of Heresy (3 page)

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Authors: Margaret Frazer

BOOK: A Play of Heresy
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Since with Sebastian it always came to Lollards, Joliffe let that go, saying instead as he gathered up his reins, “I hear horses. I’d best ride on.” Since they would do best not to be seen together.
“Right enough.” Sebastian stood up, stretching, readying to walk again. “I’ll leave Coventry to you for now since you’ll be there anyway. Learn what you can about Master Robert Kydwa and what he might have found out that got him killed. He was going to bring me more word about the damned Coventry Lollards. He knew some. Now he’s likely dead, and it will be them that did it. Take heed on that. I’ll seek you out later to hear what you learned.” He was walking away as he said that. It was over his shoulder he added, “Stay alive.”
The road to Coventry was straight ahead. Sebastian had taken the right-hand road, his tread the weary one of a solitary traveler knowing he would get eventually where he was going. Joliffe’s glare at his back was wasted and the coming horses sounded only the last bend of the road away, so he nudged his heels into his own horse’s flanks, setting it moving again as a fresh shower of rain spattered down.
Chapter 2
 
H
e was shortly overtaken by a trotting line of pack-horses, their rope-bound bundles strapped firmly to backs and sides. Their rider at lead did not give him so much as a look, but Joliffe and the rear man shared friendly nods as they passed. The tittupping of hoofs faded, the rain gave up, and for a time Joliffe was alone on the road again, except companioned now by regret at how much of ease was gone from his day. He had been looking forward to being simply a player in Coventry. Now he was supposed to find out what he could about this Master Kydwa. And Lollards.
He did not know why it was always Lollards with Sebastian. The man worried at them like a dog at a bone it hated. Maybe a special charge from Bishop Beaufort had set him on, but Joliffe suspected it was the other way around—that they were Sebastian’s own-chosen foe and Bishop Beaufort simply made use of an itch Sebastian already had. However it was, Sebastian was hell-bent on his quest to find out Lollards and their complots, and that hell-bent sat uneasily with Joliffe. True enough, a goodly number of the wilder ones among them had made trouble hereabouts—seven years ago, was it now?—with an armed uprising. For a few weeks things had been chancy, and afterward there had been some hangings, but so far as Joliffe had ever seen, most Lollards were not out to make open trouble. Yes, they were known to gripe against the Church and the government, but who did not? They claimed they wanted to understand what they were told to believe, which was fair enough on the face of it, but what was their chance of it, given that scholars had been quarreling over how and what to believe for centuries?
From what Joliffe had heard, the core of Lollard gatherings seemed to be someone among them reading aloud from the Bible done out of Latin into English. Then they would sit around telling each other what they thought it meant, sure they could do better at it than priests and scholars. Priests and scholars of course felt otherwise, but still the whole thing might have been no great matter if only there were not some Lollards who thought—convinced as they were of how right they were; after all,
their
name for themselves was “the True Men”—that they must do more than try to argue into the ground anyone who disagreed with them. More than once and not just seven years ago, hotter heads among them had wanted that “into the ground” to be literal, and they had risen in armed rebellion, meaning to put into graves those who refused to agree with them.
Joliffe granted that was a sure way to have the final word in an argument, but he objected to the arrogance that spawned such certainty of the right to kill because of beliefs that could never be proved, only be believed. Lollards called the Communion bread “Christ in a cake” and said there was no proof that the bread and wine changed to the actual body and blood of Christ in the Mass. Some of them had staked their lives and died for their right to refuse that belief. Joliffe, for his part, reckoned whether the bread and wine changed or not was a matter of faith, and without evidence weighted more heavily one way or another by more than pride-filled, quarreling men’s words, he would make no trouble over it himself, thank you. To his mind, either way to take the sacrament of the Eucharist was a blessing and honor and therefore he took it gladly the one time of each year it was allowed to folk at large.
He did wish, though, that he knew why Sebastian had such great and apparently personal quarrel at Lollards.
Church spires let Joliffe see that he was coming to Coventry well before he was in sight of the town itself. With smaller places it was their church’s tower that almost always showed first, tall above hedgerows and bends in roads. Larger, richer places often had spires atop their churches, and above Coventry two great spires thrust up against an afternoon sky no longer gray but blue and adrift with white fluffs of clouds. There was a third spire halfway built, its present stunted shape against the sky suggesting it might grow to be the tallest of them all but even now declaring with the other two that this was a town whose citizens readily used their wealth to the greater glory of God.
Undoubtedly a wise thing to declare and go on declaring after the mess and scandal of the Lollards seven years ago.
He had to wait outside the towered, stone-built gateway for a broad wain to rumble out over the cobbles, then rode through, into the wide street beyond. Tall, shoulder-to-shoulder houses lined both sides, their upper stories overhanging shops fronted along the street. Signs thrust out over the street from upper floors, well above the heads of riders passing by, telling what the shops had to offer, but Joliffe gave the shops no heed and only looked at signs until he saw the one painted with a rearing red horse that meant he had found the hire-stable where he was to leave the horse he had hired at the other end of his ride. Whatever the sign showed, his own particular mount had never showed even the slightest tendency to rearing, which assuredly suited Joliffe very well. He liked a peaceable horse and hoped, as he slung his bag over his shoulder and gave the gelding a final pat before walking away, that it had been as pleased to have a peaceful rider.
The day being well worn toward suppertime, many of the shops’ keepers were swinging up the boards that served for displaying their goods in front of their open shop fronts during the day and as a stout shutter to close them for the night. Not being in need of anything at present except finding his fellows and being done with the day, Joliffe wove his way steadily along the street among a scattering of people homeward bound or on late errands, until he came to the wide meeting between his street and another. Satisfied he was well into the town, he looked around, saw the nearest tavern had a hanging sign of a canvas-wrapped, rope-strapped woolsack crossed by a pair of shears, and guessed that would be as good a place as any to ask his way.
The choice proved sound. In this supper-while before folk would gather in for the evening’s drinking, only three men were there. Two were intent over a game of twelve-man morris, its lines and cups carved into a wooden tabletop where the light through the one window fell best. The third was behind the board at the back where piled cups and a pair of pottery pitchers waited for just such a willing customer as Joliffe. Told that one of the pitchers had red wine, the other ale, he took a cup of the wine, had a long, welcome swallow of it, told the tavern man that it was good, which it nearly was, then said, “I’m come to town to join my company of players. It’s the guild of shearmen and tailors that’s hired them. My reckoning is I’ll easiest find them where they’re practicing their play. Would you know where the guild’s pageant is kept?”
“That’d be in Mill Lane, t’ward t’other end o’ town,” the tavern man said obligingly.
“Earls Mill Lane,” grunted one of the men at the table without looking up.
“Everyone knows which one is which,” the tavern man said with the easy good will of someone who would never be lost in his own town and assumed the same for strangers. To Joliffe again he went on, “You’ll likely find your folk nearer than that, though. Master Silcok has the keeping of ’em and that’s a lot closer than Mill Lane.”
Joliffe put on all the brightness of a traveler receiving welcome news. “Master Silcok, is it? Can you tell me the way?”
“Just along Earl Street here.” The man nodded toward the tavern’s open door. “That’s Earl Street. Cross it, go rightward maybe thirty paces, and you’re there. You’ll know the place. New glass window two floors up. Big one. Proud as can be of it, Mistress Silcok is, I hear.”
One of the men at the table beside the tavern’s notably unglassed window gave a snort in comment on that. The tavern man said past Joliffe, “Sniff if you want, Tad Faber, but there’s those that work and get, and there’s those that sit about playing twelve-man morris of a good weekday afternoon.”
“Playing it badly, too,” Tad Faber’s companion said.
Tad Faber snorted again in answer to that and bent closer over the board.
Joliffe thanked the tavern man, finished the wine, picked up his bag from the rush-strewn floor—the rushes were due for a change, he thought—and went out. Earl Street was as wide and paved as the street by which he had come into town, the houses along it finer by what he could see of them in the gathering shadows under the day’s last long slant of sunlight over the rooftops. He had no trouble telling the Silcoks’ house among them, though. The new window was indeed a big one as windows went, wide across the housefront so that for much of most sunny days its many small diamond-shaped panes would glitter toward the street for the impressing of passersby and neighbors while giving equal pleasure to the owner by flooding the room beyond with light.
Now, though, with the summer sun setting so far to the north, it was in shadow, and anyway Joliffe’s greater interest was toward the gateway at one side of the house. The gate was standing partly open, not yet closed and barred for the night, letting him see into the narrow, paved yard beyond it, running the length of the house, back from the street to another, shut gateway at the far end. Better yet, he saw, crammed into one far corner of the yard, the players’ cart with its familiar red and yellow canvas tilt. Where their cart was the rest of the company must be, and with a heaved sigh of satisfaction, Joliffe went into the yard. An immediate welcoming cry of “Hai!” greeted him as Piers sprang up from a bench beside probably the kitchen door not far from where the cart stood. “Joliffe’s here!” he shouted.
On the chance his shout had not been heard, he leaned into the doorway and called again, “Joliffe’s here!” then pulled back, turned around, and said at Joliffe, “About time, too.”
“If I’d known you were waiting so hard, I’d have taken longer,” Joliffe returned, crossing the yard toward him, adding accusingly, “Are you taller than a month ago?”
“Grandda says it’s him shrinking, not me growing, but it’s not. It’s me growing. Mam says so.”
“No need to be so proud on it.” Joliffe gave the boy a friendly punch on one shoulder as they met. “It’s hardly your own doing.”
“Ellis says they’re feeding me too well and should starve me a bit.”
“I’ve been saying that for years.”
They were a company of six—or were when Joliffe was with them. Thomas Basset was their leader. Joliffe, Ellis, and Gil shared the playing with him, and his grandson Piers had up to now been useful as demon-imps and sweet-faced small angels and whatever else his size made suitable, while his mother, Basset’s daughter Rose, had the often thankless task of seeing to their playing garb and feeding them all. Over the years they had been through good times and bad times together and were now again in good times, ever since Lord Lovell had become their patron and given them the protection of his name a few years past. Not quite so much to the good, perhaps, had been his putting Joliffe into the way of Bishop Beaufort of Winchester with word of Joliffe’s skill at finding out things. The bishop was powerful and wealthy, uncle to the king and a rival for high place among other great lords around the royal court. Lord Lovell wanted no open part in those rivalries but was as aware as lowly players were of the use of having a powerful patron. Joliffe had been something like his gift to Bishop Beaufort for the sake of having the bishop’s favor in his turn.
Not that Joliffe had minded. He had been given a choice and he had taken it, and for the most part he enjoyed the new skills he had been taught and the tasks he had been set. Besides, it meant that now the players had another patron, albeit one whose favor was hidden from view. What mattered were the coins that came in return for Joliffe sometimes having to go away about the bishop’s business, as he had been gone this past month. But he was back now and glad of it as Basset came through the doorway into the yard, broadly smiling, reaching to clasp the hand Joliffe put out to him, at the same time sweeping a look down Joliffe’s length as if to be sure he was all there and well.
Basset, as master of the company, had a somewhat better knowing than the others of what Joliffe did when he was away. He therefore worried somewhat more but rarely asked questions and assuredly had no chance for any now as Gil, Rose, and Ellis joined them with a mixture of welcomings and, from Ellis, “About time you showed your face.”
“Not to mention the rest of me,” Joliffe said. “How goes it with all of you? Except someone’s been careless—there’s assuredly more of Piers than there was a few weeks ago.”
Rose looked at her son with the mingled affection and irk that Piers so often raised in those around him and said, “I’ve had to sew longer ties on his hosen.”

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