A Play Of Dux Moraud Part 9

Will stared at him, so openly uncertain whether Ba.s.set meant that or not that Joliffe wondered who lied to him so often he expected it. Ba.s.set must have seen Will's uncertainty, too, because he said, "I mean it. You can watch for as long as you want, or until someone comes to fetch you." Because, as he had otherwise said, there was never a bad time to encourage a love of plays in those who hada"or, in Will's case, would someday havea"the money to pay for the playing. "It may not much benefit us here and now," he had told Joliffe in his early days with the company, "but it may serve other player-folk when they come this way, and hopefully they're doing likewise for us wherever they are."

"But," Ba.s.set said now to Will, raising a warning finger, "you must keep our secrets and not give away aforetime what you see us do here."

"I won't," Will promised readily, happily. "I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Such as?" Joliffe asked.

Will opened his mouth to answer, then broke into laughter. "I'm not going to tell you!"

They laughed with him, except for Ellis, who settled for shoving Joliffe hard on the arm, rocking him to the side. Joliffe, for more laughter, turned that into a wild-armed tottering before he windmilled himself back onto the balance he had never lost. That made Piers, Gil, and Will laugh more as they all started away to breakfast, walking slowly because of Ba.s.set's stiffness.

Joliffe let himself wonder what they would do if this arthritic flare didn't ease before it was time to move on again. Ba.s.set would have to ride in the cart and that would slow Tisbe and that would slow all of them, lengthening the times between when they could play. Still, that was not so desperate a matter as it might have been, not with Lord Lovell's gold coin for comfort against lean times.

The trouble with once having that comfort was that the thought of losing it was the harder to face. They had been cast adrift as lordless players before this, when they lost their last patron's favor. It wasn't something Joliffe wanted to happen again, but what if he failed in the task Lord Lovell had set him and Ba.s.set? It was a vague enough task at besta"determine if something had or hadn't been wrong about a death, and whether there was or wasn't something to be worried over about the present marriage plans. Maybe Lord Lovell would be satisfied with a vague answer at the end of it all?

Probably. He did not seem an unfair man.

But neither did he seem a man who would take less than he paid for. If their vague answer at the end included another death, how less than satisfied was he likely to be?

In a poor attempt to lighten his own dissatisfied thoughts as he trailed behind the other players across the wide yard toward the hall, Joliffe decided that would probably depend on who was dead.

Of course, if Harcourt's death had been murder, why was the pattern changed? Last time the bridegroom-to-be had died. This time it was Mariena who had fallen so ill that the priest was called. And yet, despite of that, she had been so certain she would not die that she had refused his help.

Had that been merely from the blind refusal of mortality too many people had, or did it mean something else?

And were Will's accidents only accidents, or were they something more than they seemed, too?

Had an attempt at murder been made against Will yesterday and another against Mariena last night?

John Harcourt's death had disappointed Sir Edmund's plans of a profitable alliance. Mariena's death would make an end of any other plans forever and at all. And Will's death would disappoint Sir Edmund's hope of a male heir. But if someone was that set against Sir Edmund, why not just straight-forwardly kill him instead? Because there was more satisfaction in destroying him piecemeal? Or because someone was simply against the whole family?

The first person who came to mind that way was Harry Wyot.

What if he indeed had a deep-running resentment against Sir Edmund for his disparaging marriage to this Idonea c.o.ket? It could be he liked his wife and still resented Sir Edmund. Sia might be able to tell him if that were likely, Joliffe hoped, and on his own he'd a.s.suredly be taking more careful look at them together when he had the chance.

Chance didn't come in the hall this morning, though, either to watch the Wyots or to talk to Sia. Neither she nor Avice were to be seen and there was no sign of their betters, but from the general talk and tired faces, Joliffe easily gathered everyone's night must have been long and as fully unpleasant as Will's telling had made it seem.

When Ba.s.set reasonably asked after the family's health, the clerk Duffeld told him, "They're all having their breakfasts in their chambers this morning. With all the toing and froing last night there was hardly sleep for anyone until nearly dawn." Including him, by the look of him.

"You're likely glad, then, that Father Morice is to copy out the marriage agreement, rather than you," Joliffe said. Ellis looked at him sharply, instantly knowing what he was about.

Duffeld, probably bored with watching other people eat, huffed agreement with that. "I am, and he's welcome to it. With all the *and ifs' and *shoulds' he and Sir Edmund and Master Breche argued into it, the thing goes on forever."

"Worse than the one for the Harcourt marriage?" Joliffe asked. Ellis turned his back to him.

"That one," Duffeld said with open dislike and disgust. "That one I thought would never be finished. This one is nothing to that. With the Harcourt one, every point was looked at from fifty ways and then looked at again. And then for him to die before ever . . ." The clerk broke off, shaking of his head.

"I've heard good of him," Joliffe lied. "That he was well-liked and all."

"Have you?" Duffeld seemed surprised by that but discretion held sway; he only said, "Yes, well, my lady Mariena favored him, a.s.suredly. She was nigh ill with grief and anger after his death."

"Anger?" Joliffe prodded lightly.

"That he could be dead. Grief takes some people that way, you know."

Joliffe had to grant that it did. "Who was his heir?" he asked, making it sound like no more than shallow curiosity.

"A cousin of some sort. No one we ever saw."

The other players had moved away, but there were still folk around the table, keeping the clerk in watch on them. Seeing no reason not to make use of the chance to ask him everything possible, Joliffe asked, "Sir Edmund could have pursued a marriage for Mariena with the cousin, couldn't he? Or is the man married?"

"I'd not heard he was married, no, but Sir Edmund never seemed to think of another marriage that way. A month on, Amyas Breche began to be talked of."

"That was Master Wyot's doing, wasn't it?" Joliffe said, deliberately wrong.

"Master Wyot's?" The clerk seemed to find that both improbable and laughable. "I doubt that very much. No, a.s.suredly not. He'd never . . ." Duffeld stopped short, abruptly disapproving, maybe of himself, and said repressively, "Master Wyot is here only as Amyas Breche's friend. He has nothing to do with the marriage."

Unrepressed, Joliffe asked cheerfully, as if simply making talk and not much interested in the question or any answer, "He was supposed to marry Mariena himself, wasn't he?"

"There was brief talk of it." The clerk was beyond repressive to curt. "It was decided otherwise."

"Hard on Master Wyot," Joliffe said with a sad shake of his head.

"He didn't mind," the clerk said coldly and walked away.

Keeping unconcern all over his face, Joliffe took a long drink from the cup he held, sorting what he had learned. Besides making clear his disapproval of the whole subject, Duffeld had confirmed that it had been Master Wyot who did not want the marriage. About the proposed Harcourt marriage he had talked freely enough, though, and what he had had to say there had been as interesting, in its way, as his not wanting to talk about Harry Wyot at all.

Ellis b.u.t.ted him with an elbow in his back. "We're going. Time to work."

In truth, the play they meant to do tonighta"The Husband Becomes the Wifea"was one they did often and at most they needed no more than an easy run through it to be sure their speeches were crisp in their heads. With Will there, though, looking vastly eager, Ba.s.set made something more of the business than he might have, telling Joliffe to wear the rough rehearsing-skirt and making show, while they walked through it, of telling Gil what to note while he watched.

The story was simply the old one of the husband who complained his wife's life was too easy compared to his and all the misfortunes that came of him taking her place for a day. As the husband, Ellis got to swagger at first, and then fall about in hapless disasters. Joliffe as the wife got to shrill at him and flounce about, while Piers was the ill-mannered, whining child and Ba.s.set the husband's mother-in-law, with a fine time had all around, especially by the lookers-on.

At the end of their run-through, Ba.s.set said, "That was well. I think we need not go it again."

Ellis muttered for only Joliffe to hear that they need not have gone it this time so far as he could see: they could all do the old thing in their sleep.

Ba.s.set sat down with stiff care on the piled cushions against the cart's wheel. Rose had been brewing one of her herbal drinks to ease his pain and he took it from her with thanks, then asked, "Gil, what do you think?"

"Skirts," said Gil. "I need to learn more with skirts."

"Well noted," Ba.s.set said with approval. "Skirts and swords and how to walk across a stage . . ."

"Everybody knows how to walk," Will protested scornfully.

"Ah," said Ba.s.set. "That's what you think. Everyone but Will, come stand here by me. You, too, Rose. Now you, Will, go out to where we were playing and walk back and forth for us."

Will obeyed. Or tried to. It took him only a few steps to know he was being awkward, too conscious of all their eyes on him and nowhere else. He couldn't make his walk go easily; it wanted to be either strut or stiff shuffle, and he couldn't stop looking sideways at all of them watching him, until he suddenly bent over in laughter and shouted, "I can't!"

They laughed, too, and Ba.s.set said, "Now you do it, Gil."

Will came to sit cross-legged beside Piers while Gil went in front of them and tried to walk. He was somewhat better but still too openly aware of being watched, his stride too stiff.

"Now Joliffe," Ba.s.set bade.

Taking Gil's place, Joliffe asked, "What sort of walk?"

"Just a man's stride," Ba.s.set said.

"What sort of man?"

"A knight."

Joliffe put hand to imaginary sword hilt and strode out as if expecting a fight.

"A clerk," Ba.s.set said.

Joliffe was immediately carrying a bundle of books in his arms and walking the small way of someone who spent much of his time at a desk.

"A young girl."

Joliffe's steps turned light and his hips had a sway not there before.

"An old woman."

Joliffe's shoulders curved forward and he shuffled, helping himself along with a stick that was not there.

"Me," Ba.s.set said.

Joliffe straightened and asked, "With or without the arthritic hobble?"

Piers and Will laughed. Ba.s.set told Joliffe he was a rude boy and could have done. Ellis muttered, "He's not done; he's half-baked," and got up to do something else. So did Rose, but Gil sat looking deeply thoughtful and that was to the good, Joliffe thought. Like Will, too many people saw play-acting as only a matter of learning the words and walking around with people to look at you. To Joliffe and Ba.s.set and anyone else in earnest about the work, playing was a craft whose skills had to be learned like the skills of any craft; and as with every craft, some folk were better at it than others were. Ellis was good within his limits. Joliffe was better, able to play far more sorts of parts, though no one in the companya"including himselfa"ever said as much aloud. Ba.s.set, as befitted a company-master, was good at many parts and best at seeing a play as a whole and setting them all to what they had to do. What Gil would be able to do remained to be seen but that he sat there now, thinking, promised well.

A manservant whom Joliffe recognized from the hall came around the corner of the carpentry shed, and Will stood immediately up, saying, "I'm wanted."

"Your lady mother was asking for you, yes, Master William," the man said with a bow. "You're to ride with the company to hear the first banns read at the church."

"Now?" Will's disgust at the thought showed openly.

"Now," the man said.

With all the shine gone from him, William thanked Ba.s.set and then the others and went away, sullen-faced, with the servant. When they were beyond hearing, Ba.s.set said, "Not looking forward to losing his sister, do you think?"

"Not looking forward to riding after his fall yesterday," said Ellis. He was settling to oil some more leather. "Is Tisbe going out to graze today or not?"

"It's going to rain again," Piers protested, then added, "It is raining," as a few drops pattered down in the yard.

"We'll wait until there's no rain before we feed you," Ellis said. "See how you like that."

"I think," said Ba.s.set in a considering voice, "it looks like clearing by this afternoon. Tisbe can wait until then. Only do your duty now." He nodded toward the shovel. "Nor I doubt we'll be grudged half an armful of hay if we ask. Piers, shovel. Gil, hay. And then the both of you can go with Joliffe to the village to add some festive cheer to this bann-reading."

"Go to the village?" Piers moaned. "Walk, you mean?"

"It's how we get most places," Ba.s.set pointed out.

Piers shoveled up Tisbe's dung and went away with it while Gil went for the hay and Ba.s.set said to Joliffe, "This will be chance to see Sir Edmund and them all together other than in the hall and afterwards to hear among the village folk what they think of this marriage and all."

Aware of Rose watching them both with worry and of Ellis deliberately very busy with a piece of harness, Joliffe said easily, making little of it, "Well thought. And if I send Father Morice to give you comfort in your affliction, maybe you can have more from him, too. See if he'll tell you about this present marriage agreement, for one thing. I'd not mind knowing why it's been easier done than the Harcourt one, since it seems he was the one who made the difficulties there."

Rose turned away in a way that said she was unhappy with them both, and Ellis' head went lower over his work, but Ba.s.set nodded agreement and said, "Have him come, yes, if he will. I'll even be somewhat more afflicted than I am and"a"he slumped and his voice went feeblea""and in need of talk to distract and cheer me."

Chapter 12.

As it happened, it was Sir Edmund, Will, the Breches, and Harry Wyot who rode into the village to hear the first banns read. Whether for the raina"still pattering down in fits and startsa"or other reason, neither Lady Benedicta, Mariena, nor Idonea Wyot went with them, but a good gathering of villagers drew to the church, it being near to mid-day and folk in from the fields to their dinners. Joliffe watched with Piers and Gil from under the eaves of a house across the lane from the churchyard while Father Morice, in full priestly vestments, stood in the church doorway to read out to the riders and gathered villagers the first banns, declaring that a marriage was intended and telling between whom, his voice not trained for the strain of being heard any distance in the open air. Not that it much mattered; he was heard enough for the betrothal between Amyas and Mariena to be now publicly known, with no way to break it off or stop their marriage without expensive legalities and troubles from the church.

Or death, thought Joliffe.

Finished, Father Morice came away from the church door to Sir Edmund, who leaned from his saddle to say something to him, smiling. The other men were already turning their horses away, but Will stayed at his father's side and the villagers still lingered. With good reason, Joliffe saw, as Sir Edmund finished with Father Morice, gathered up his reins, and while turning his horse away, said something to Will. It must have been an order for something already arranged between them, because Will nodded, fumbled in the leather pouch at his belt, and brought out and threw a handful of pennies across the hard earth of the lane outside the churchyard gateway as Sir Edmund and the other men rode away. Children and a few women darted forward to s.n.a.t.c.h up the coins almost before they were on the ground. One man bent to take one that fell at his feet but otherwise the men left the scurrying to their children and wives, doing their own part by raising a brief cheer of thanks to the backs of the departing men and Will before crowding into little family groups to count their gains. Father Morice, Joliffe saw, had gone back into the church to take off his vestments.

Joliffe nudged Piers. "Now's the time." And to Gil, "Watch."

Piers, ever ready to be noticed, cried a glad, "Hah-ha!" to draw people's eyes to him and, stepping forward into the street, set five bright b.a.l.l.s immediately fountaining from his hands to a little above his head and down and up again, around and around. People turned, first to look at him, then to gather around to watch, making a horseshoe that left Joliffe and Gil standing alone with their backs still to the house where they had sheltered.

Piers made a fair show, varying how many b.a.l.l.s he had in the air at once and keeping them going, but it was simple juggling, such as could be seen from any common juggler anytime, and Joliffe began to shake his head, looking dissatisfied with what he was seeing. Then he stepped forward to Piers' side. Piers glanced aside as best he could without losing track of the b.a.l.l.s and went on juggling, turning to put his back to Joliffe. Joliffe moved to his other side, to force Piers to notice him. Piers turned away again. This time Joliffe pushed his shoulder from behind. Piers gave him a glare but kept on juggling. Joliffe gave him another shove, hard enough to stagger him forward a step. Seemingly off-balance, Piers grabbed wildly and caught all the falling b.a.l.l.s save a red one that hit the hard-trodden mud and rolled away to the nearest feet among the lookers-on. Piers scurried after it, people laughing at him as people did at others' troubles. Behind him, left alone, Joliffe reached into the breast of his doublet, brought out three juggling b.a.l.l.s of his own and strutted in a circle, holding them up for everyone to see. Then, ignoring Piers' glare at him, he set to his own juggling, throwing the b.a.l.l.s awkwardly one after another high above his head.

They came plummeting down as out of rhythm as he had thrown them. He grabbed at them frantically, caught one, missed the other two. They landed with flat plops in front of him. The lead weights inside of them and slight lack of stuffing ensured they would. To more laughter, this time at him, he s.n.a.t.c.hed them up and tried again, to no better avail. He was making his third desperate attempt when Piersa"having started his own juggling againa"came forward and grabbed first one and then another of Joliffe's ill-fated b.a.l.l.s from the air, adding them to his own. Left with only one ball, Joliffe tried to make show of tossing it straight up in the air and catching it as it came down. On his second time of that, Piers scornfully grabbed it, too, and sent all eight b.a.l.l.s in a merry fountain of color high over his head and back, around and around, while everyone laughed and Joliffe took awkward, inadequate bows that brought more laughter, until Piers collapsed his fountain, caught all the b.a.l.l.s one after the other into his arms, and made his own deep, graceful bow to thorough clapping all around. But when one woman started forward with a coin, Joliffe held up a hand and said, smiling, "For the lady Mariena's betrothal. Sir Edmund gives pennies. We give laughter. For each, the best that he can do."

That brought more clapping, to which Piers gladly bowed some more, until Joliffe collared him and hauled him away along the lane, leaving more laughter behind them. The alehouse was hardly a dozen yards along; they went in. Today there was no warmth of crowded bodies and candlelight, only wet, grey daylight through the open doorway and the gla.s.sless gap of the window, and sitting at a battered table a lone young man with a bandaged foot resting on a stool and two old men, one of whom raised an ale-filled bowl to the players and said, "Saw most of that from the doorway. Sir Edmund put on a good show, but yours was the better."

Piers started to bow again. Joliffe feigned booting his backside, steered him to a bench near the table and sat him down, gave a coin to Gil, and said, "Get small ale for all of us. I have to see Father Morice, but it won't take long. I'll be directly back."

He turned from the bench to find the alewife had come in behind him, a woman in middle years, her kerchief over her hair somewhat askew and her ap.r.o.n as clean as much scrubbing could make it. Both she and the small child she had by the hand were smiling as she told Joliffe in pa.s.sing, "The first drink is free to you fellows. For the laughter, thank you."

"Thank you," Joliffe said and gave her a bow more flourished than he would have bestowed on the queen, leaving her in a smiling blush as he went out the door, to find that his luck was ina"Father Morice was just setting off along the now-deserted street toward the manor. Stretching out his stride, Joliffe overtook him, saying as he caught him up, "Sir, a favor, please."

Joliffe had made no effort to hide his footfall, but soft-soled shoes made little sound and the priest must have been deep in thoughts of his own and heard nothing. He turned, unready, toward Joliffe, his face showing a naked, stark unhappiness in the instant before he shifted it into surprised welcome and said, "Well met! What do you here?"

Pretending he had seen nothing amiss, Joliffe said, "Some of us came to juggle a little for the villagers after the banns were said. Our own celebration for the betrothal."

He said that last deliberately to see if the priest's trouble lay that way; and if the flinching at the corners of Father Morice's eyes was sign, it did; but the priest only said, "That was good of you. The villagers need all the celebrating there can be after this year's poor harvest again."