The Servant’s Tale (30 page)

The hall was utterly hushed now, everyone rapt beyond movement, held by the angelic vision. For just the length of a short-drawn breath when the song had ended, the Angel gazed out upon his audience in the shimmering silence, and then said in a clear, carrying voice, “Wise Magi, know that He is born. God is made Man on this holy morn. He wills that at Bethlehem you go see the holy Child that sets Man free. Come this way, go see Him now. It is God’s will you should to Him bow.”

Around one end of the curtain Thomas Bassett appeared in his guise as the First King, looking as splendid as if his gown were truly blue silk embroidered in every color and lined with ermine instead of painted linen lined with rabbit, and the gems in his painted crown were not glass. He carried a golden box in his hands, and in his rich, rolling voice declared to the audience, “Now blessed be God of His sweet Son! For yonder a fair, bright star I see. Now is He come to us among, as the prophet said that it should be. He said there should a Babe be born to save mankind that was forlorn. He grant me grace, by yonder star, that I may come unto that place, to worship before His holy face.”

He struck a pose as if searching for something in the far distance, and Ellis strode from around the curtain, gowned in somber gray, black, and silver, bearing a box painted blood red and penitential purple. He looked around, unhappy and nervous, and declared, “Out of my way I fear I am, for signs of my country can I none see. Now, God, that on earth made Man, send me some knowledge of where I be!” He turned and saw the star still held aloft in Piers’s steady hand and exclaimed happily, “There it shines! A fair, bright star above I see, sure sign God’s Son shall set Man free. To worship that Child is my intent. Surely for such was God’s sign sent.” Turning to go, he saw the First King and added, “What is this I see this blessed day? Another King upon his way. Hark, comely King! I you pray, whither do you journey this fair day?”

“To seek a Child is my intent. The time is come, now is He sent, by yonder star here may you see.”

“Then, pray you, let us ride together through this fair and frosty weather.”

As Ellis went to stand by Bassett, Joliffe as the Third King came from behind the curtain. He wore a short cotehardie of a rich purple that showed off his fair coloring to perfection, and hose of deep green close fitted to his long legs. He carried a purse that clinked suggestively and his head seemed to carry the crown on it as naturally as if he had been born to it. His voice, higher and clearer than either Bassett’s or Ellis’s, seemed as golden as the candlelight. “I ride wandering in ways wide. Now, King of all Kings, send me such guide that I may go where I would be, to kneel at Your throne and Your glory see.”

In his turn he saw the star, exclaimed at it and, turning to go, saw the other Kings and joined them. In unison, to the audience, they then said, “To almighty God now pray we that His precious person we may see.”

They separated, Bassett and Ellis to one side, Joliffe to the other, and faced around toward the curtains that parted on cue, drawn by a hidden cord—not by Piers; he and his star still shone over all.

And not Rose, for there, on a chest covered with a richly brocaded cloth of gold and silver—or painted canvas, more likely—she sat, the swaddled form of a baby in her arms.

Such was the magic of that moment, that it was not an acrobat in a cheap blue gown holding a pillow tightly wrapped, but the Virgin herself, and her Babe. Her long hair spread around her shoulders, haloed by candles set behind her and the infant cradled lovingly to her breast, Rose was a very worshipful icon.

An enthralled sigh passed through the watchers. The three Kings knelt and in effective speeches offered their gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and gold. Mary held out her hand to them in acceptance and each came forward to gaze at the Child. While they held the tableau, the Angel sang the Gloria again. Then the curtains swung down across the scene, and Angel and star slipped down from view and it was over.

For a breath-held moment there was no movement or sound in the hall. Then Montfort said firmly, “Well done. Well done.” Domina Edith began a clapping that was immediately joined by every pair of hands in the room. Voices added complimentary remarks as the applause died, a small child began to cry, and the three Kings and the Angel appeared from behind the curtains to take their bows, setting the applause off again.

With a fine sense of what was suitable, Mary did not appear, partly to allow the vision of her to remain untouched, and partly because, as a woman, she ought not to have been in the play to start with.

When everything had sorted itself out to a kind of order and the actors had disappeared again behind their curtains, Domina Edith rose to her feet. The priory servants and Montfort’s men eased back to the walls again as the prioress began her slow way toward the door and her nuns moved into place behind her. Frevisse, glancing around the hall, saw Roger Naylor with one of his daughters in his arms, both of them smiling at each other. Annie Lauder stood with a clot of women all exclaiming over the wonderfulness of what they had just seen. Meg’s Hewe stuck his head out around the edge of the players’ curtains, and ducked back as soon as he saw himself observed. He was grinning like a boy who has just gotten away with a whole tray of sweets.

Beside her Dame Alys was muttering about the warm spiced cider waiting for them by Domina Edith’s orders when they had finished Compline. “There’ll be none left for Shrovetide, mark my words, and then you’ll hear complaining.”

Frevisse forbore to point out that since she was hearing complaints anyway, she might as well have the spiced cider to go with them, and shut out Dame Alys’s voice, wanting to keep some of the gladness the play had made in her. Players were good, they gave harmless pleasure and even holy inspiration with mere words and posings. She would not believe they were damned for their trumpery, even if every bishop in England declared it to be so.

Chapter
22

Dawn came late and reluctantly, graying the walls. A cluster of bells near the dormitory door was jangled by a servant, the wake-up call to Prime. The air was damply chill and immediately sank through flesh into bone the moment the covers were thrown back. The nuns dressed in shivering, snuffling, coughing haste, and huddled themselves into a brief double line mat hurried to the warming room where no fire had yet been built and so was even colder than the dormitory. Their shivering did not ease until they were in the refectory, which, being next door to the kitchen, was warm and fragrant from the ovens’ discharge of fresh-baked bread, though that treat would not come until dinner. Frevisse wrapped both hands around this morning’s sole nourishment, a hot, sweet, sharp-flavored drink made of honey and rose hips, that soothed both face and inside with drinking it.

Afterwards, she crowded with the rest near to the new-built fire in the warming room until chapter, and eased her stool back toward the heat after it began. She did not in the least object, even mentally, to the meeting’s length today, because she was storing up heat. She likely would not have another chance to get near a fire until long after midday when she must spend three frozen hours in the church keeping watch by Sister Fiacre’s coffin.

Chapter over, going out was inevitable, and decided she would do the more pleasurable of her duties first and crossed the yard to the old guesthall. Inside, all of last night’s trappings were gone, packed away into the chests and baskets set against the wall. The players were again in their plain clothes, gathered near to the fire, with Piers lying on a stack of blankets beside his mother, his head in her lap, and Ellis sitting nearby, stabbing his dagger into a hapless log, jerking it out, and stabbing it in again, while Bassett and Joliffe were in close talk with Hewe. She wanted to speak to him presently. From Bassett’s gesturing, Frevisse thought he was telling the boy a story; and thought, too, it would be a long time after the players were gone before their glamour would fade for the boy.

Joliffe saw her first, raised a hand in greeting, and started to speak, but Ellis jumped to his feet and demanded, “Any word from the crowner? We thought he’d let us out of here today and all the word we’ve had is that he’s not done with us, we have to stay.”

Frevisse shook her head. “He’s still asking questions.”

“It’s not right.” Ellis flung back onto the floor and assaulted the log again.

Hewe, with a stubborn set to his face, did not try to fade into the background, though neither did he look toward Frevisse, but continued talking softly with Bassett.

Piers raised a languid hand to scratch his nose and Frevisse said to him, “You sang very beautifully last night. You’re not ill again, I hope?”

Piers shook his head as his mother lifted an edge of a blanket to tuck it across his knees. “No. I’m well. Only she”—he rolled his eyes toward his mother—“says it’s too cold to risk me going outdoors to play.” His disgust was plain.

“We’ve not cosseted you all these days so you can go and sicken again,” Rose said. “The cold is bitter today. We can only hope there’ll be snow to soften it.”

“Oh, yes. Snow so we can’t go anywhere even if that visiting idiot gives us leave,” Ellis grumbled.

Meanwhile, Hewe was heard to exclaim suddenly, “But I could do that part! I could be Herod! I’d tear a passion like you’ve never seen before. Let me show you!”

He sprang to his feet and began to assume a pose of amazing ferocity. But Bassett laughed and took him by one lifted arm to say, friendly-wise, “No you don’t, cockerel. Herod’s part is for a full-grown man, such as me, when our company has grown enough to do it. You’re still an unfleshed stripling.”

“He could be a servant to my Wise Man,” Joliffe said. “We’ve got a gown that might fit him, if the hem were raised.” Hewe turned to him, bright with eagerness. With a stir of unease Frevisse saw that Bassett and Joliffe weren’t altogether teasing. And Hewe was not jesting at all.

“I think,” she said carefully, “you may be forgetting he’s Lord Lovel’s villein and not free to take to the high road, with or without you. Let alone what his mother would say to the matter.”

Hewe swung around to her, his face darkening again with stubbornness. “Lord Lovel has villeins in plenty,” he declared. “His steward won’t miss me, he won’t even look for me. And Mam will marry old Gilbey, so she’ll be taken care of, too.”

“She means you to be a priest,” Frevisse said, aware that she should take offense at his too-presuming speech. “Have you been going into the priory church lately?”

Hewe kicked sullenly at the rushes. “I stay away from churches so my mother won’t think I’m weakening. She may mean for me to be a priest, but I don’t.” He looked up eagerly at Bassett. “I want to be a player!”

“Hewe,” said Meg from the doorway. “You don’t.”

They all turned toward her standing there, her bare hands tucked up into her armpits, her shoulders hunched down to conserve her meager body’s warmth. She had no cloak or hood, only her rough dress and her kitchen-spotted apron. Her face was raw red with cold and her voice hoarse, but her gaze was rigid on her son as she said, “I told you and told you to stay with your brother. There’s villagers coming to take him home soon; for shame if they find him all alone.”

“But the crowner—” began Hewe.

“The crowner’s given leave for us to take him home. There’s to be the wake today and you are to stay with him until they come, so you can tell me they are here.”

Hewe scuffed at the rushes and would not meet her gaze. “Ah, Mam, it’s so cold there—”

“And you could find nowhere to be warm but here with this sort?”

“They’re
not
bad—” Hewe flashed.

“They are.” Meg did not sound angry, only tired. “You come along. You’ve praying to do, and penance, too, for not caring for Sym like you ought, and for not doing what your mother tells you.”

Hewe flared again. “He never cared for me! Anyhow, I’m sick of praying! How can you say I’m to be a priest? I’ve no mewling, mincing priest in me!”

“You hush your words. Don’t say one more word.” Meg’s voice came out flat, but still not angry. “You come with me,” she repeated. “Now.”

Slow footed, he went. When he came close enough, Meg’s hand whipped out to grasp his arm, hard enough that he flinched and cringed from her. Meg, still not acknowledging anyone else was there, left, taking him with her.

Ellis let out a heavy breath. “There’s a woman who knows her own mind. Who would have thought it? Too bad the lad won’t be back.”

“Yes, that’s a pity,” said Bassett. “He had possibilities.”

“Did he?” Frevisse asked, surprised.

“Indeed. He has a better voice than most, and all the priest teaching she’s forced on him has given him a quick memory. He was the one working the curtain yestereve, and he did it as well as any of us would. He’s aflame to join us, and I would he could, for he might do us proud.”

“Well, no use crying over spilt milk,” Ellis said. “There will be others down the road, and I pray it’s not a long journey, for with more players we can do more plays.”

Piers said, “Shall I talk to him later?”

“No,” Joliffe said. Still looking toward the closed door beyond which Hewe and Meg had disappeared, he added, “He’s frightened of her.”

“And well he should be,” said Ellis. “Did you see that clout she fetched him yesterday? I warrant his ear is still ringing.”

“You don’t understand,” Rose said. Like Joliffe, she was looking where they had gone, with a strange expression on her face. Her tone echoed his. “He’s frightened of more than that.”