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Authors: Margaret Frazer

BOOK: A Play of Heresy
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Powet regarded him with narrowed eyes, silent for a long moment before saying, “Aye. That’s what I was trying for. It was there, then?”
“It was there, and it was very good. I don’t make light of my craft to anyone. If I say it was very good, it was.”
Powet held silent a moment, his eyes fixed on Joliffe’s face, then made another sound in his throat as if he were halfway to believing Joliffe’s words.
From the other end of the benches Sendell said, “That’s it for tonight, then. The light is gone anyway. You work at learning your words, and we’ll see how things go tomorrow.”
Dick stood up with great readiness, rolling his scroll closed while saying to his uncle, “If you want to go on home, Uncle Eustace, that’s well. I just mean to go around to . . .”
“You just mean to go home with me, that’s what you mean, just as your mother said, or we’ll both be in trouble.” Powet stood slowly up with a stiffness that told how far to the bad his joints were indeed gone. “I don’t mean to suffer her tongue-lashing for your sake, and you don’t want another thrashing from Herry this week, do you? Come along.” He started for the gate.
Dick, slouch-shouldered and scuffling, went with him, muttering, “I’ll warrant nobody ever threatened to thrash Christ when he was a boy.”
“
I’ll
warrant there was never a
need
to thrash Christ when he was a boy,” his uncle returned and was rumpling the boy’s hair as they went out the gate.
Sendell and Joliffe looked at one another in the now silent and deeply shadowed yard.
“It’s not hopeless, is it,” Sendell said, not quite making a question, not quite daring to hope it was true.
“It’s not hopeless by a long way,” Joliffe said. “You’ve a very good Joseph, for one thing, and I think your Mary should come along well. There’s no trouble with Simeon, the others are mostly sound enough, and of course your First Prophet and Ane are the uttermost of fine.”
“Beyond doubt,” Sendell said sourly. “Nor don’t think I don’t note you say naught about my Second Prophet or Christ.”
“Your Second Prophet you’ll have to keep a hard rein on,” Joliffe granted. “Far too pleased with himself, is Richard Eme. Your Christ—” He did not finish. He and Sendell both knew young Dick was going to take much work.
Another moment’s silence fell between them until Sendell tapped his rolled script on his knee and said, “Well, that’s all there can be tonight. I’m for bed. Tomorrow I’ll set to finding the new garb and seeing if there’s much to be done with the old.”
He sounded tired, as well he might. He had put in a good day’s work, talking the masters of the Weavers Guild into spending on their play and then rehearsing with a cast hardly of his own choosing. But he also sounded halfway to discouraged just thinking about what came next, as if hope and effort were both almost beyond him, and Joliffe heard himself saying before thinking better of it, “Want me to join you over the garb? A pair of heads and two sets of eyes being better than one, as they say.”
He felt Sendell nearly refuse him, then abruptly shift and say, “Depends on the worth of the second head and set of eyes, doesn’t it?” with something of his old, cutting impatience before adding, “That would likely be helpful, yes. I’ll come for you sometime in the morning?”
“I’ll strive to be awake,” Joliffe agreed and rose to take his leave.
“If you’re not, a toe in the ribs does wonders. Can you find your way back?”
“Out the gate. Turn right. At the corner, not falling over the paving stones, turn right again and keep going until I see the Silcoks’ gateway. Or a likely looking alehouse. Whichever first comes.”
“You have it. Mind curfew,” Sendell said and waved him on his way.
Joliffe left him still seated on the bench in the gathering twilight, maybe thinking about the play or maybe just summoning the strength—or the will—to get himself off the bench and up the stairs to his bed. It could be either, and Joliffe did not know which, only that Sendell was maybe as worn down almost as far as a man could go without finally breaking.
Chapter 7
 
T
he players were readying to bed when Joliffe came up the stairs. Someone—probably Rose—had already laid out his pallet, pillow, and blanket. When Basset asked how the practice had gone with Sendell and all, Joliffe said, “Not so bad as he feared. He has some players who will do.”
“But then there’s you,” Ellis said.
Making show of ignoring that, Joliffe went on, “If he can better the others, he won’t have a bad play on his hands. He’ll have a good one, in truth.
And
the guild has given him leave to get better garb and will be painting the pageant wagon all new.”
Basset was openly pleased at the news. So were Ellis and Gil as far as they cared at all. Rose, busy with washing Piers’ ears and neck at the table beside the door where the pitcher of water, basin, and towel were, closest matched her father’s pleasure, saying, “Oh, I’m glad for him, then.”
All Piers offered was, “Yeow. That hurts, Mam!”
“Learn how to do it rightly yourself then,” Rose returned with no noticeable mercy. “And more often.”
Joliffe asked how their own play had gone. Their rehearsing being further along, there was more to tell, most of it to the good. By the end of that, they were all of them settled under their blankets, and the last of the long-lasting almost mid-summer twilight was gone, the chamber all in deep shadow. Basset made a last murmur about horses, and after that there was only a sleeping quiet into which Joliffe willingly slipped.
 
 
He and Will Sendell had some luck on the morrow among the fripperers, sellers of secondhand clothing. Besides that, their quest gave Joliffe chance to know Coventry better, with its wide main streets and the side lanes that curved off them and around and into one another in a maze that would take learning. Joliffe meant to wander the place when he had the chance, to see what there was to see and hear if there was any talk of Sebastian’s missing merchant or of Lollards. Enough to satisfy Sebastian anyway. The merchant’s disappearance mattered, and Joliffe would do his most there, but he lacked any great desire to hunt Lollards out from among ordinary folk. If they wanted to read their Bibles in English and find grounds therein to quarrel with the churchmen about which meant what, let them. God, Christ, and all the apostles knew the churchmen seemed to have been doing the same among themselves for going on fifteen hundred years.
Joliffe’s guess was that it was not the poaching in their park the churchmen minded so much as that among the things Lollards found to challenge from their bible-reading was why they should pay either heed or—more importantly to some churchmen—tithes to men they thought unworthy of acting in God’s name. Hitting priests in their purse and their pride was always a sure way to stir them up to fury like a prodded wasps’ nest. Still, there was nothing new—or particular to Lollards—about any of that, and nothing the least fresh in their claim that the world needed reshaping, that those who were high but unworthy in both Church and worldly government should be brought low, and that the poor be exalted into their places—and likewise into the wealth rightfully forfeited by the high and unworthy along with their power. People had been feeling and saying those same things time out of mind, so near as Joliffe had ever learned. If someone was up too high, someone else wanted him down, and there were always reasons on both sides for why or why not this should happen.
Where the hotter-hearted among the Lollards earned the church and government’s ire was in purposing to reshape everything and everyone to their desires by weaponed uprising and revolt to throw down not only such churchmen as they found unworthy, but the king and nobility and judges and all the civil government, too. The several times in the past few decades that some Lollards had raised rebellion toward that end had ended only in grief for the rebels and in black suspicion and distrust of all other Lollards.
Joliffe had to grant that the suspicion and distrust were fair enough. No one cared to have armed men trying to make good on threats to rob and kill you. Maybe the hotter-hearted Lollards should have heeded Christ’s behest to “yield to the emperor those things that are the emperor’s, and to God those things that are of God.” At least then their more peaceful fellow Lollards would have been able to get on with their bible-reading and arguing without the hard eyes of spies on them, waiting to pounce at the first stirring of suspicion. And suspicion could be stirred by so very little.
For his own part, Joliffe’s only reason to be wary against Lollards was that at least some of them had hauled up the old arguments against plays and players. False portrayals, mocking God’s creation, and so on. That most folk took no heed of them about it kept it from being a great matter but still . . .
He was thinking about that as he and Sendell came out of a shop where Sendell had bought a long black robe with full hanging sleeves gathered to the wrists and trimmed with fur around the neck. The fripperer had said the fur was marten. Neither Sendell nor Joliffe nor how little Sendell had paid for it agreed with the claim, but Sendell was nonetheless pleased with it.
“It will do well for Simeon and perhaps one of the Doctors in the Temple,” he said as they started along the street.
Joliffe, following the flow of his own thoughts, said, “It will indeed,” and then, “Will, have you heard if there’s any stirring here among Lollards against the plays?”
Sendell, busy counting coins into his belt-purse, answered easily, “None that have come my way. After the pounding they took hereabouts a while back, I doubt any would dare.” He chuckled as he drew the purse closed with a tightening of the drawstring. “All the ones that were fool enough to stir trouble then met with the hangman. The ones that are left have wits enough to keep their heads down. Hai!” he added in greeting. “Master Powet.”
It was indeed Master Powet coming along the street at a stroll that said he had nowhere in particular to be. He returned Sendell’s greeting with a surprised, “Good morrow,” and veered from his way to come to them. Coventry was not so large that meeting someone known was all that unlikely, but while for Joliffe, having spent the past few hours among throngs of unfamiliar faces, a familiar one was unexpectedly welcome, it crossed his mind that maybe for Powet, all too familiar with Coventry faces, the welcome was in seeing their less familiar ones. Or maybe it was just curiosity, because eyeing the black robe folded on Joliffe’s arm and the bag slung over Joliffe’s shoulder, bulging with their other purchases, he said, “You’ve had some success at finding what you want, then.”
“We have,” Sendell said. He nodded toward the robe. “That’s our latest. Will do for Simeon, I think. There’s a large, faded place high on its front where someone tried to clean a stain and ruined the dye instead, but some wide collar and frontlet of rich stuff wide down his chest will cover it.” And a different frontlet or something when it became a doctor’s robe, he did not add.
Joliffe shifted the robe to show the faded place. Powet nodded, fingered the fine cloth, and said, “That should do well for Simeon, yes. For the rest?”
“Meaning yours?” Sendell asked with a grin.
“Aye, mine,” Powet said with an answering grin.
“You’ll have to wait and see with everyone else.”
“Ragged old Joseph,” Powet said with a sudden gloom and all jest gone from the words.
“Hardly,” Sendell said, sounding as taken by surprise as Joliffe was at his change of humour. “I see Joseph as a prosperous carpenter. Fine green doublet and—oh, no, you don’t! You’re not tricking me into telling you more. You can wait and see along with everyone else.”
Joliffe did not think it had been a trick; he thought it had simply been Powet still unhappy at being Joseph. But Powet had brightened, although perhaps not so much at Sendell’s words as at whatever he was looking at farther along the street, because, as if a new thought had come to him, he said, “I know what may serve for Simeon’s frontlet. Come with me.”
The broad street was lined by tall, lean buildings, most of them of the usual half-timber and plaster and with a shop at their front, facing onto the street below the two or three out-thrusting stories that somewhat narrowed the sunlight into the street but gave added space in the rooms above and good shelter to passersby on rainy days. Powet led them toward one of the wider-fronted ones. Its shop window was open, the sturdy board swung out and spread with varied mercery. In the shop behind the board, a young man was presently taking a box from one of the shelves there, saying to a plump goodwife waiting outside, “This is from the same dye-batch as what you bought before. I kept some back, thinking you might need more.” Taking a pipe of red embroidery thread from the box, he held it out to her. “You’ll see it matches perfectly.” Without turning his apparent heed from her or changing his level, soothing voice, he said as Powet neared, “Uncle, Mother is hoping to see you soon.”
“That she will,” Powet said. “Mistress Aylesford,” he added respectfully.
“Master Powet,” she said with matching courtesy, not looking up from comparing the thread she had brought with her to what she had been offered. The men waited until finally she granted, “Yes, this will do,” paid for it, and went satisfied on her way.

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