A Play of Knaves (26 page)

He looked at Basset as he broke off. Basset somewhat bowed and assured him, “You’ll know whatever we know, sir, as soon as may be after we know it.”

The rest of the players matched Basset’s bow, and Rose made a small curtsy. Kyping nodded in reply and made to turn away toward his waiting man and horses, but Joliffe took a step forward and asked, “Have you learned anything about who gains from Medcote’s death?”

Kyping stopped. “Who gains?”

“Besides everyone by being rid of him,” Joliffe said.

“No one in particular,” Kyping replied. “His wife more than anyone except Hal. She’ll have her dower and her freedom, I suppose. Hal has the rest and looks to be taking up where his father left off and that’s surely no surprise to anyone nor any gain. If it was change the murderer wanted when he killed Medcote, he needs to be rid of Hal, too.”

So Joliffe wasn’t the only one to see that. He wondered if Hal did, too, but said, “Then likely Medcote was killed not to change things but because he knew something his murderer didn’t want him to know.”

“You’re thinking of whatever we suppose he was using to force the Ashewell marriage,” Kyping said.

“Not foremost,” Joliffe answered. “If his murderer had any sense at all, he had to suspect that whatever Medcote was using as a lever against Master Ashewell, he was all too likely to have shared with Hal and maybe his wife.”

“Which he did,” Kyping said. “With Hal anyway. Anela gives no sign of knowing anything. What you’re thinking is that there’s some other secret he was killed for. A secret we’ve not thought of.”

“A secret so new the murderer had hope Medcote had so far kept it to himself.”

Kyping’s eyes widened a little with sudden speculation as he took in that thought. Slowly he said, “Yes.” Then gave a short, bitter laugh. “But good luck to us finding it out.”

“Still, it won’t hurt to look,” Joliffe said mildly. “It would likely be something come up of late. It might pay to look twice and thrice at everyone he’s lately had dealings with, of whatever kind. Anyone he maybe had some new falling out with but not yet a full and open quarrel. Father Hewgo, say,” he added, to help Kyping along.

Staring down at the grass as if revelations were to be had there, Kyping nodded slowly. “There might be something to find out going that way, yes.” He looked up suddenly and sharply into Joliffe’s face. “So. Anything more you’ve thought on?”

Joliffe smiled, all outward easy friendliness. “Not a thing. All I can do is wish you luck with it all.”

Kyping did not bother with smiling back, just nodded, turned away to take his horse from his man, mount, and ride off with no other farewell.

Chapter 17

Until Kyping and his man were well gone, the players stayed standing where they were, no word among them. Then Piers said at Joliffe, “He doesn’t like you,” at the same moment Ellis said bitterly, “Seems one of us could still turn out the first choice for hanging for lack of anyone better.”

Ignoring Piers, Joliffe said more lightly than he felt, “Then we’d best set to finding someone better for him. I do feel a need to see what’s being said in the village among ordinary folk. Fair Rose, what would you like for us to bring from there?”

“Bread,” she said promptly. “There should be that at least, but I don’t know what else is likely. Whatever was to spare would have gone at the church ale, I’d think. You’d not rather go to Faringdon, I suppose?” That being a market town, there would be more to be bought in this lean time of the year when the winter stores were run low or out and little was to be had yet from field, flock, or herd.

“Tomorrow maybe,” Joliffe said, going toward the cart to fetch his lute. “Today we’ll have to feast on local talk.”

“Famine on it, more likely,” Ellis muttered.

“Take Gil with you,” said Basset.

“And me!” Piers cried.

“No,” said Rose, Basset, Ellis, and Joliffe all together.

Despite Piers had to have known they would say that, he glared at them anyway. Basset handed Joliffe coins from his belt pouch to pay for whatever food he might find, while Ellis got the leather bottle for ale and tossed it to Joliffe with, “Get some fresh ale, too. There should be that to be found at least.”

Joliffe tossed the bag to Gil, took up his lute and swung it around to carry on his back by the strap over his shoulder, saying, “Gil will see to the ale while I see if sweet music will bring sweet words.”

“If it’s sweet music you want, you’d best let Gil sing,” Ellis growled.

“Come on, Gil,” Joliffe said with more outward cheer than he had inwardly. “Time to sing for your supper.”

As he and Gil headed away, he waved over his shoulder at everyone without looking back and his stride was light; but outside the gate and hidden by the hedge from everyone but Gil beside him, he let his walk flatten to match his thoughts, and Gil asked, “As bad as that?”

Joliffe quirked one corner of his mouth, acknowledging the sharpness of the question. Gil did not rattle-talk as much as the rest of them did, but he saw things well enough. There was even the chance that—unlike most people in the wide world—he thought about what he saw, rather than merely jabbered about it, and so Joliffe answered him fairly with, “It’s bad enough. Not so bad as Ellis has it. I don’t think Kyping is bent and set on finding one of us guilty unless we are. He’s willing to have us not be his first choice anyway, and that’s something.”

“You think it but you’re not sure. Is that it?”

“I don’t know Kyping well enough to be sure. Maybe if no one better is found, he’ll settle for one of us being guilty. And anyway, there’s nothing sure in life, no matter what we do. How’s your ankle? No trouble with it?”

Gil admitted to twinges but nothing that mattered, he said, and after that they walked in silence that was companionable enough, leaving Joliffe to his own thoughts that were not good company at all. Even if Kyping was as fair as he seemed to be, there was still the crowner to come, with no way to say aforetime if he was someone willing to take the easiest way to closing a murder of a man who, after all, had not much mattered in the general way of things.

Of course if he did look to be that way, then Basset would send someone fast-footed to Lady Lovell, who would make plain the players were not easy prey, and then all would likely be well enough, but even a disproven charge of murder had a way of dragging after a man. Talk went from village to village to town easily enough, and scandal attached readily to players at the best of times. Would Lord Lovell want to keep a company of players that was burdened with that kind of talk about them? Maybe, since he—and now his lady wife—had found other uses for them than merely as players.

And that was another uncomfortable thing to think about, because he had an unsettled feeling that this question-asking the Lovells had sometimes asked of the players could lead to more than it had. If he let himself, he could worry over what that “more” might be. He thought Basset thought the same but they had neither of them said as much to each other, and if the others had any thought about it at all, they had all likewise kept it to themselves. After all, there was more than enough to worry about in the usual course of a day without brooding on “maybes” that might never happen.

Besides, if he wanted something to worry on, there was the more pressing worry about what anger or suspicion he and Gil might meet in the village, and despite giving no outward sign of it, he kept a wary eye around them as they arrived there. This hour of the day, most folk were gone to the fields or were busy at their work at home. The few they passed in the street gave them looks only maybe a little longer than was usual and nods that were ordinary enough. Somewhat encouraged, Joliffe said, “The alehouse first. That’s where there’ll be talk.”

“And ale,” said Gil readily.

What there was not in the alehouse were any drinkers or men loitering, which likely accounted for the warmth of the alewife’s greeting to them. But to Joliffe’s question as she urged them to a bench she assured him she had new ale ready. “Just passed by John Greene, who’s been ale-taster here for the assize since before I was old enough to walk. He knows his ale, he does, and he says it’s a good batch. So sit you down and I’ll bring you some.”

“Where are all your customers, then?” Joliffe asked as she went to fetch two clay cups and a pitcher from across the room.

“That Master Kyping,” she said, sounding somewhere between approving and irked. “He’s been at it to see to it everyone is out and at work, to get as much done in the fields as can be while the weather holds, he says.” She laughed as she handed Joliffe and Gil each a cup. “He even has the old men out. Said they could keep an eye on the children if nothing else. You should have heard old Will going on about that.”

“What’s Master Kyping’s reason for it all?” Joliffe asked, despite he could guess.

“My guess is he and the reeve—that’s Master Ashewell, you know—hope it will lessen troublemaking talk if everyone’s kept to work and be a way of being sure where everyone is, too, until things are settled about Medcote’s death.”

Joliffe held out his cup and said, “So there’s no one suspected more than anyone else yet?”

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Does your business no good though, having everybody out.”

She laughed while pouring the ale. “Won’t hurt it, likely. They’ll all be here come evening, full of talk and wanting to drink. I’ll be busy enough then if not now. Where’s the rest of your company?”

“Too slothful to walk so far, even for your fine ale,” Joliffe said. When that brought another laugh from her, he ventured, “Truth is, we’re all somewhat worried over how folk might be toward us here.”

She paused at pouring Gil’s ale. “Be toward you?”

“With the murder and us being strangers and all.”

She went back to filling Gil’s cup. “No need for any of you to worry about that. Medcote had enough people angry at him that folk are more pleased he’s dead than looking to blame strangers for it. Come to it, there’s no one looking all that hard for who did for him. Save maybe Master Kyping because it’s his duty to.”

Joliffe took a long swallow of ale and made a deep, satisfied sigh as if it were the best of ale he’d ever had. It was not, but a friendly alewife willing to talk was the quickest way that he knew to learn about a village and he held out the cup to be refilled before he asked, making a jest of it, “Everyone’s easy, then, thinking his murderer is maybe here among them?”

“It was Medcote that was murdered,” the alewife said, filling his cup. “Who’s to care or worry? Not even his own people, it seems, from what’s being said.” She rested the pitcher on her hip. “Except his wife is angry that Hal Medcote won’t let the body be moved before the crowner comes. She’d have it done, fine or no fine for it.”

“From what I saw the time we played there, I’d not think she’d care that much, one way or other,” Joliffe said.

“From what was said here last night, that’s just one more thing they’re quarreling over, her and her son. What had us in whoops was that Father Hewgo is taking her side about it when she’s not been able to stand him these three years and more since they quarreled over tithes and Medcote took his part against her. Not for any good reason, mind you. She was in the right of it, most of us think. He just liked to set against her, and besides, he and Father Hewgo were thick as thieves until just lately.”

“They had a falling out?”

“The way thieves do, yes.”

“About what?”

“Nothing certain that I’ve heard. Maybe just because they were both quarrelsome men. Now Father Hewgo’s siding with Anela Medcote over moving Medcote’s body, but I doubt he’ll have much joy of Anela in the long run. She’s never been able to bear him. But then I mind Father Hewgo’s not doing it so much for a good reason as because he and Hal Medcote are already at odds and quarreling. Over Medcote’s dead body, as it were.”

“How?” Joliffe asked with the readiness of anyone wanting to hear a good story. “Why?”

She laughed. “What I hear is that Father Hewgo asked more money for the funeral Mass and all than Hal thinks saving his father’s soul is worth.”

Joliffe laughed with her and asked lightly, “How do you hear all this? They surely don’t come in here to do their quarreling in front of you.”

She tipped him a wink. “No need they should. Their servants aren’t as quiet about things as they might be. What Medcote cheated them in wages they took out in talk against him. Are still taking out in talk. We know more about who’s mad at whom and about what in that household than Anela Medcote would like, I’d guess.”

“Did Medcote know they talked? Or does Hal?”

“Who’s to say? Even if they knew, they weren’t likely to care. If anything, Medcote went out of his way to stir up talk while he was alive, and Hal isn’t more than a hairs-breadth different from his father, the devil take him, too. Nor I doubt that Eleanor cares a penny about what anyone thinks or says. Cold as old stone, that one is. If anyone, it’s Anela who wouldn’t like it. Grew up here, she did. Was Francis Brook’s ward after her mother, that was his sister, see, died.”

“Francis Brook,” Joliffe said while Gil held out his cup for more ale. “That’s the man that Nicholas Ashewell killed by chance, yes?”

“No, that was Francis Brook the younger as was killed. His father is who I mean. Francis Brook the elder. He was a few years dead when his son was killed; that was Anela’s cousin, see. They grew up like brother and sister. That’s why young Francis put up with her husband when she married, though he and Medcote got on no better than Medcote did with anyone else.”

“They were here when Francis Brook was hurt, weren’t they?” Joliffe asked, though he knew that wasn’t what he’d heard.

“Anela was,” the alewife corrected him. “And Hal and Eleanor. Visiting, like. Getting out of Wantage for the summer when there was a bit of pestilence about, as I remember. When Medcote heard Francis Brook was hurt, he came fast enough, though. Then Francis died and there are those as have thoughts about that,” she added darkly.