A Play of Knaves (13 page)

Some late-awake bird called sleepily in the woods. The last light was gone and all the world’s colors with it, save for the twilight’s blue and the few, small, yellow-red-orange flames flickering to their end in the firepit. Ellis tossed the bits of a stick he had been breaking and breaking again into the fire, stood up, and said, “Bed for me, I think.”

Having no quarrel with thought of his own blankets and a good night’s sleep, Joliffe was already rising as Basset said, “Bed for all of us.” Adding as he began to labor to his feet, “Tomorrow will start early and last long.”

 
Basset was surely right about the starting early. The grass was still heavily wet with dew and the eastern sky flushed with sunrise colors but no sun yet as Joliffe fetched Tisbe to the cart. The others were helping Rose pack away their cooking things and bedding. The tent they would risk leaving, but the rest went easily into accustomed places in the cart.

Tisbe went less easily. Apparently offended at having her rest and grazing interrupted, she tossed her head and jerked at the halter rope and only went unwillingly between the cart shafts. “You’ve gone spoiled,” Joliffe told her. “A week of easy living at Minster Lovell, a few soft days on the road, another rest here, and you think you should be a lady-at-ease ever after.”

Tisbe tossed her head again in seeming agreement with him.

He laughed at her. “How if I promise you a feed-bag of oats to keep you company today while we work? Will that resign your ladyship to pulling the cart as far as the village and back again today?”

She butted her head against his shoulder. He laughed at her again and set to harnessing her.

From the rear of the cart Ellis called, “Just don’t tell her we’ll be on the road again tomorrow.”

“You didn’t hear that, my lovely girl,” Joliffe told her.

If she did, she preferred to be gracious about it and accept the inevitable. Or maybe she shared Joliffe’s opinion that sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. Tomorrow’s evil could wait until tomorrow to be complained of; today there was promise of oats.

They were early enough into Ashewell village that Father Hewgo was still saying the day’s first Mass and only the very first of the stalls that would sell ale and food through the day were being set up along the outside of the churchyard wall at the cross-lanes.

“Good,” said Basset. “We won’t have to quarrel with Father Hewgo about where we put ourselves. We’ll just do it and have it done before he comes out.”

Having brought Tisbe and the cart out of everyone’s way into the narrow lane along the north side of the churchyard and close to the church’s west door, they unloaded the frame for their playing place and lifted it over the little stile that led into the yard from that side. As usual with churchyards, there were fewer graves on the north side. Basset easily chose a level space not far from the church’s west door for them to set up, and fitting the wooden frames together was too familiar a task to be a problem. The tapping into place of the wooden pegs would likely be heard inside the church, but Basset said, “Ah, well, Father Hewgo is going to be displeased with us no matter what we do. Better we’re done before he can demand we move. Strike, Ellis, and the devil take the hindmost!”

There were, after all, few pegs, and they were meant to fit loosely to make easy the taking apart of the frames, so that hardly two taps were needed to set each one, but as the first folk began to drift from the church at the Mass’ end, Father Hewgo, still in full priestly garb, came shoving out past them, red-faced with ire. Basset, who had been waiting for it, said, “Come, Joliffe. The rest of you, keep on.” And muttered as he and Joliffe went to meet the priest, “Try for angelic, right?”

“Even heavenly butter won’t melt in my mouth,” Joliffe assured him, all calm and sweetness.

Basset humphed in the back of his throat at that, but they had played this business often enough before now to know the way of it. Meeting Father Hewgo not far outside the church door, with all around them the full flood of villagers leaving the church slowing to watch, Basset and Joliffe both bowed low and Basset said with cheerful certainty of his welcome, “Thank you, Father, for this chance to serve the church and you.”

Father Hewgo pointed at Ellis driving home the last of the needed pegs with perhaps unnecessarily loud thumps. “That . . .” he began.

“We’ve come early, sir,” Joliffe said, “to be sure we’d not be late and disappoint you.”

“This unholiness,” Father Hewgo started again. “This . . .”

Seeming not to hear him, Basset continued on serenely, “We mean to do the plays we did for Lady Lovell this Easter past. From our Lord confronting the money-changers in the Temple through his resurrection and mankind’s salvation. Four plays in all, and all as Lady Lovell herself saw them.”

Joliffe, beaming with delight, nodded in fulsome assurance of that, echoing, “Four plays and Lady Lovell said she’d never seen better.”

“But making your noise in the churchyard while I did the Mass! You’re . . .”

“. . . sorry,” Basset finished for him. “Indeed we are. But we know that God sees our need and will bless you for your kindness to us.”

It was not working. Instead of being herded the way they wanted him to go, Father Hewgo was only going darker red with anger. But behind him, from among the villagers, a man bulking large enough to be the village blacksmith said roughly, “Give over, priest. We want some sport, not more of your quarreling.”

Father Hewgo turned on the man with hardly bated ire, but fool though he might be, he knew trouble brewing when it bubbled in his face. And hearing the general mutter and murmur and seeing the nodding of agreement among the villagers, he shifted like a blustering wind, changing direction without losing force to say angrily at Basset, “Have it your own way then.” And at the villagers, “It’s your souls I’m trying here to save . . .”

From well back in the crowd someone muttered anonymously, “Our purses to empty, you mean.”

“. . . and if you’ll not have it, then go to the devil by whatever path these servants of hell will lead you!”

He threw a glare at Basset and Joliffe, who both quickly bowed, but it was to his back as he pushed away from them, straight into the crowd who drew hurriedly out of his way, giving him clear passage back to the church, where he slammed the heavy wooden door hard shut behind him with a thud louder than any Ellis had made. The blacksmith gave a sharp nod at the door, as if satisfied to have him gone. Another man spat toward the church and was promptly hit in the arm by his wife, who hissed a warning at him to go with it. If no one else was quite so open in their dislike, Joliffe saw a few hands making quick, forked-fingered gestures at the door as if to ward off evil. Father Hewgo might still have his authority as a priest over his flock, but he looked to have lost their respect long before now.

The blacksmith turned back to Basset and Joliffe with a grin. “There now. That’s him seen to. If he means well, he hides it better than most men I’ve known. It’s been a while since any players came this way. We don’t want him to fright you off.”

“No fear of that,” said Basset. “But we’re thankful to be spared the fight. You have our thanks.”

“Is there any help you fellows need that we can give?”

“None at all, except you come and enjoy our play.”

There were general wide smiles and head-noddings of agreement to that from everyone. Then from across the churchyard someone called, “Ale’s out!” and people started to shift that way, with Basset declaring after them as they went, “We begin at noon!”

“Til noon, then!” came back cheerfully from more than one among the villagers.

With enough time they need make no haste, the players finished with hanging the curtains—rough-felted gray wool that packed flat and wore well—and shifting what they would need from the cart to out of sight behind the curtains. There was nothing much for lookers-on to see, almost everything being in hampers, but children of all sizes hung about to watch it all, and a few women, too, as much to keep watch on the children as anything.

Because of that, Basset quietly set Piers to stay with the cart to discourage curiosity, and Piers, always ready to sit while others worked, took to the task merrily. While the rest of the players made sure all was where they wanted it behind the curtains, they could hear him beyond the churchyard wall making bright, willing talk with anyone who came near.

To the other side of the churchyard there was growing merriment as folk got into the way of holidaying. That the price of the ale they bought was destined for the church didn’t lessen the pleasure of drinking it, and more than ale was being sold, too. The stomach-rousing smell of cooking meat came wafting along with the talk and laughter, and Joliffe began to be hungry again.

He was not alone. Ellis likewise sniffed the air with interest and asked, “Bassett, we’re done here, aren’t we?”

“We are,” Basset agreed. “But whatever is roasting won’t be ready yet.”

“No, but there’ll be something else to be had in the meantime,” Gil said hopefully.

“But no more than one—that’s
one
—cup of ale until we’ve finished our work for the day,” Basset said. “Understood?”

Knowing what unpleasantness Basset would wreak on anyone who showed up drunk and unable to perform well, they all nodded agreement.

“I’ll keep watch here, then,” said Basset; and Rose said, “I’ll take first watch with the cart. Gil, will you keep an eye on Piers?”

Being newest to the company and closest to Piers in age, Gil was too often saddled with keeping an eye on Piers, and for pity of that Joliffe said, “I’ll take Piers this time.”

Gil thanked him with a smile of ready gratitude.

“Then in an hour’s time you’ll all be here again,” Basset said, “to ready and then do our street-work. There’s a dial on the church and we’ve the sun with us today, so don’t anyone try to pretend they don’t know when to come back. Right?”

“Right,” they all chorused, and Ellis and Gil took off while Joliffe went with Rose to the cart to collect Piers, who protested he wasn’t a baby that needed keeping.

“No,” his mother said back. “When you were a baby, you’d stay where you were put, you and your yammering. Now you and your yammering move around and make altogether more bother than you’re sometimes worth.”

From Rose that was unusually harsh and, startled, Piers closed his mouth instead of saying more and went away with Joliffe in unaccustomed silence. Only when they were well away from the cart did he say angrily, “If Ellis doesn’t stop making her unhappy, I’m going to put briars in his bed every night.”

Since the practical rather than the moral was always the stronger way to take with Piers, Joliffe pointed out, “He’ll tuck them down your neck afterward if you do.” And added, because threats worked well, too, with Piers, “And I’ll help him.”

Piers growled.

“And I’d better not find anything in my bed either,” Joliffe said for good measure.

They were out of the churchyard now and into the street among the crowd and the stalls set up for selling whatever was hoped would part holidaying folk from their coins. Piers, good at knowing when to give up one cause for another, exclaimed, “Look!” and darted away to a stall selling, among other things, bright sticks of sugar candy.

Joliffe followed without haste. Sugar was costly, not something the players commonly bought. Piers would take his time over choosing among the gaudy yellow- and red- and green-colored sticks. For his part, Joliffe had more interest in watching people. Far more stalls and merchant tables were here than were likely from only Ashewell village. Judging by that and the steadily growing crowd, word of the church ale must have spread even farther than hoped, and maybe Father Hewgo would bring himself to be pleased with the whole business and forgive the players being alive, Joliffe thought.

He was just turning back to see if Piers had made up his mind yet when a sudden snarl of voices not far away along the street drew his look to where someone had made use of spring having finally come to weave head wreaths of young-leaved withies and a few flowers, now laid out in pretty array on a table. Claire Gosyn was standing there, choosing among the wreaths, while beside her her mother had a hand held out to give a coin to the wreath-seller. But Claire, her mother, and the wreath-seller, as well as a good many other people, were head-turned toward Claire’s father saying with voice-raised anger at a slung-jawed man a few yards away, “What I’m telling you is to keep away from there and anywhere else that’s mine. You’ve no rights along that stream or with those woods and I’m telling you, like I’ve told you before, to keep off!”

“We’ve had rights to that wood time out of mind,” the man snarled back at him.

“There’s those that do and those that don’t, and you’re one of those that don’t. And even if you were, you’re not careful what you take or how, and I’m telling you to keep off and away from it!”

“You’re a grip-fisted cur, Walter Gosyn, and there’s those that . . .”

Gosyn’s wife, the coin dropped on the table, moved toward both men, saying firmly, “Now you leave off that talk, Wat Offington. You know better than that, or if you don’t, your wife does anyway.”

Given the size of Wat’s anger, Joliffe expected Wat would stretch it to her, but instead he made a quick duck of his head her way and said, “I’ll be first to say you were good to my Bartrice when that rheum settled to her chest, Geretruda. She’d have my ears and all if I denied it. It’s not with you but with your husband’s grabbing ways I’ve got quarrel.”

“I’ve never taken what wasn’t mine!” Gosyn declared hotly. “There’s not a man can say otherwise except he lies!”

“You’ve had luck!” Wat flung back at him, his wrath right back where it had been. “That’s what you’ve had, and you’ve no pity for those of us who don’t!”

“I don’t have pity for those too slothful to make their ‘luck’ by hard work the way I have and then come stealing from me to make up for it!”