A Play of Dux Moraud

by Margaret Frazer

  Joliffe had tasted the present pottage by then and said, unfeignedly approving, to the woman still standing there, “London spices or not, you’ve given this savor. It’s very good.”

  She smiled at him. “There’s herbs to be had here that do well enough for those as know what to do with them.”

  “Basil?” Joliffe guessed at hazard.

  Her smile warmed. “Yes. And a touch of sage.”

  He had another spoonful, letting her see how much he enjoyed it, while one of the old men granted somewhat grudgingly, “Aye, girl, you do well. But you’ll eat as hearty of the wedding feast as any of us, come the time.”

  “I never said I wouldn’t, and I’ll remember it afterwards with as many sighs as you do. Sir Edmund does what’s right by folk, I’ll give him that.”

  Something in the way she said that, though, made Joliffe ask, “But?”

  She moved her shoulders uneasily and shifted her tray from one hip to the other. “It’s how he does things.”

  “Ah, you’ve gone on about that before,” one of the old men said. “You’ve got a flea on your brain about it.”

  But hers was the first thing near to a complaint of Sir Edmund that Joliffe had heard and he asked, “How do you mean?” The question was too open. He saw her start to close off from saying more and added quickly, “If we don’t please him well enough—the boys”—he gestured to Piers and Gil now making her son laugh as they started his juggling lessons again—“and me and the rest of the company—he might ill-speak us to Lord Lovell. Is there a way we’re likely to put a foot wrong?”

  Appealed to that way, the woman opened up again, reassuring him, “No, you’ll likely please him without much trouble. He’ll do right by you, too, but . . .”

  She paused, trying to find what she wanted to say. The hurt man grunted, brooding into his ale bowl. “All ‘buts’ and ‘ifs.’ Everything is all ‘buts’ and ‘ifs.’” Without lifting his head, he thrust the ale bowl toward her. “More.”

  She took it. “It’s that there’s no heart to him,” she said. “In Sir Edmund, I mean. No heart in what he does, no matter who he does it for.”

  “You’ve a flea on your brain,” the old man said again. “What’s heart got to do with it, so long as he gives us our rights, takes no more than his own, and leaves us alone the rest of the time?”

  “And feasts us at harvest and Christmas, remember,” his fellow added.

  The woman shook her head, impatient with them but lacking words for more answer.

  Joliffe offered, “Without his heart is in it, it’s hollow, what he does.”

  “That’s it,” the woman said, pleased. “He’s hollow.”

  “Doesn’t matter he’s hollow so long as—” the old man started.

  “It does matter,” the woman interrupted. With Joliffe to back her, she was suddenly fierce. “It’s like saying it doesn’t matter if . . . if . . .”

  She cast around for way to say what she wanted to say, and Joliffe put in, “It’s like saying it doesn’t matter if the two sides of a roof stay up if you lean them together without any rafters. It does matter, because without the rafters, you can’t be sure how long it will stay before it falls on you.”

  “Like that, yes!” she said, pleased to have it said for her. “Or those puffball mushrooms you find, all big and looking solid, but you step on them and they turn to nothing, being all hollow inside.”

  “More ale,” the hurt man said sullenly.

  “Only because your wife will thank me for keeping you quiet,” the alewife snapped and went away.

  Left to see what else he could have from the old men, Joliffe harked back to, “At least there’ll be fine feasting at the wedding.”

  “Aye,” one of the old men said and the other agreed, “That there’ll be. Fool woman.”

  “You must have thought you’d lost your chance at it for this year when . . . What was his name? The other one the girl was going to marry. The fellow who died?”

  “Harcourt. John Harcourt,” one of the men obliged.

  “That was it. How near was it to the wedding when it happened? He died here, didn’t he?”

  “He did,” one of the old men said, and the other went on, “The cart carrying his body home to bury passed right through the village, it did. All draped in black and him coffined and all.”

  “No funeral feast, though, because they took him away to bury.”

  The alewife was back with a filled bowl for the hurt man. He took it without thanks or shifting his stare from the wall in front of him; nor did she give him more heed than to be sure his grip on the bowl was firm before she rejoined the talk with, “He’d ridden through here on his way to the manor four days before, and a fine sight he was. Dressed in green and yellow and sitting his horse like the fine knight he was going to be. It was said Sir Edmund would knight him at the wedding, belike.”

  “He was come then for the wedding itself?” Joliffe asked.

  “Not then,” she said. “It was a month maybe to the wedding yet, but he couldn’t stay away from Mariena, like. He lived only a day’s ride away, so it was no great matter.”

  “Less than a day, if you hurry it, I hear,” one of the old men said.

  The other one chuckled deep in his throat. “Which Lady Benedicta did upon a time. And more than once.”

  “Half a day if they met in the middle, and half a day’s ride back,” his fellow said.

  “Don’t start in with that old story,” the alewife said. “It was all long ago, if it ever happened at all.”

  “It happened,” one of the men said.

  “Long summer days when it doesn’t get dark until late,” his fellow went on, “there’d be time to meet in the middle and do what they’d do and her be home again before dark.”

  “As if she could be gone that long without Sir Edmund wondering,” the alewife scoffed.

  “He wasn’t home that summer, was he?” one of the men said, sharp at being contradicted. “Gone off to London about some trouble needing lawyers.”

  “Westminster,” his fellow said. “He was gone to Westminster and the courts there.”

  “All the same. He was far off and not to know what his wife was doing.”

  “Do you think,” the alewife said, sharp, too, and impatient, though this was likely something they had all gone around more than once before now, “that Sir Edmund would set to marry his daughter to the man . . .”

  “Always supposing she is his daughter.” The old man nudged his fellow in the ribs. His fellow nudged him back. They were both taking ribald pleasure in sins—or supposed sins—long past. But then their own sins that way were probably long past, too, and in memory other people’s would do as well as their own.

  “She’s his daughter,” the alewife said, more impatient and at them both. “She was born a good more than nine months after he came back, wasn’t she? And if he doubted she was,” the woman added triumphantly, “do you think he’d set to marrying her to the son of the man who’d cuckolded him?”

  She had them there and they knew it, but one of them made a fighting retreat, saying, “Aye, right. But something went on that summer someways. Things was never warm between Lady Benedicta and Sir Edmund since then.”

  “Things weren’t probably warm between them before then,” the alewife shot back. “I’ve said—”

  “Aye, aye, we all know what you’ve said.”

  “And whatever happened or didn’t,” she went on, “the man is long since dead anyway.” Remembering Joliffe was a stranger and probably unknowing about all this, she added to him, “It’s all old talk and nothing to do with anything now.”

  Joliffe nodded as if she had enlightened him on some great matter and tried, to keep the talk going the interesting way it had been, “If that’s the only talk there’s ever been against Lady Benedicta, seems there can’t be much in it.”

  The alewife willingly took him up on that. “She’s as good a lady as could be asked for,” she said firmly, then poin
ted an accusing finger at one of the old men. “And you know it, Rafe. She sent that syrup for your grandson that stopped his cough last winter when it was like to have driven him into his grave. So mind your tongues, all of you, in this house anyway.”

  Probably minding more that she was the alewife who let them sit about her place not drinking much, one of the old men said, “You’re in the right, goodwife. You’re in the right about her. There’s been no other talk about her in all these years since.”

  “Learned her lesson that time,” his fellow said into his ale, low enough the alewife ignored him.

  “And Sir Edmund has never strayed?” Joliffe tried, to keep the talk going.

  “Not so it matters,” the other old man said. “Not that we know of.”

  The alewife came back at him, “Meaning it doesn’t matter what one of you men do, so long as we don’t know about it? That it isn’t wrong unless it’s found out and we jaw about it forever? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Nah, nah,” he hurriedly denied. “That’s not what I’m saying. Wrong is wrong. But—”

  “Something’s wrong somewhere here, though,” the young man said broodingly at the wall. The links between his mind and his mouth and the world around him were slurring away with drink and he said the words with the deliberate care of someone having to work at them. “Something’s wrong somewhere, that’s sure. Bad harvests two years in a row. Another hunger-winter coming. God’s against us. Something has set God against us. We—”

  “He’s against more than us, if that’s the way of it, and I doubt Father Morice will thank you for saying so,” the alewife snapped. She turned to Joliffe. “You folk get around. It’s no better anywhere else, is it? Weather and harvest and all, they’ve been bad everywhere, haven’t they?”

  “It’s no better anywhere else, that I’ve heard or seen,” Joliffe said. “Not for anyone.”

  Thought of the bad harvest and the famine-winter to come settled into a dark quiet on them all. Across the room, Piers and Gil were encouraging the alewife’s son at his juggling—he had two balls behaving well for him—and their merriment was sharp against their elders’ sudden silence. The alewife said suddenly, “Well, there’s some has work to do.” She held out her hand to Joliffe. He had the coins ready, gave her two pennies, and asked, “Enough?”

  She gave him a wide smile. “Town prices for village fare.”

  “Well worth it, it being fare better than I’ve had in many a town.”

  “You’ll be welcome here again,” she said warmly, gave the other men a look to tell them their welcome was less likely, and went away through the rear doorway, calling her son to her as she went.

  Figuring he had likely learned all he was going to here, Joliffe stood up, too, called Piers and Gil to him, made farewell to the men, and left, satisfied in belly if not in mind. He’d heard much and learned little, but at least the story against Lady Benedicta had been repeated, so he knew it wasn’t just one man making up tales. He’d like to know if the syrup she’d sent to the ill grandson had been of her own making. Was she skilled at healing with herbs? Because the skill could be set the other way—to kill. Or to make ill. The way Mariena had been suddenly ill last night.

  But why her own daughter?

  Answer to that would be hard to have. Nor did it go with Will’s fall yesterday. If that had been more than accident and Mariena’s illness more than chance, someone was against both of them, and Joliffe had trouble forcing his mind around the possibility it was their own mother.

  But if she was . . . then why? Or rather, why now?

  He’d probably do better to consider who else it might be. Who had reason? And what reason?

  But those would be answers equally hard to come by. Maybe better to consider how the attempts against Will and Mariena had been done.

  Always supposing there had truly been attempts against them and not simply mischances.

  Either way, how at least was an outward thing and more likely to be found out than the inward workings of someone’s mind. More likely—but not very likely, Joliffe regretfully admitted to himself.

  Chapter 13

  Joliffe’s thoughts had seen him a good way back to the manor, forgetful of Piers and Gil walking and talking together behind him, but as they neared the drawbridge, Piers came beside him and pushed at his elbow, saying, “Gil has a question.”

  Ready to think about something other than the Denebys, Joliffe said grandly, “Ask, and from my wisdom I shall answer.”

  “It won’t be much of an answer then,” Piers said.

  Joliffe gave him a shove that threatened to topple him into the water-flowing ditch beside the road without putting him in any danger of really doing so; Rose would skin them both if they came back muddier than need be. Joliffe looked to Gil, now walking on his other side, and asked, kindly, “What is it?”

  “Your juggling. Piers says you’re really as bad as you pretended to be there in the village.” Gil sounded doubtful that could be possible.

  Joliffe shook his head in sad, mostly false, regret. “He, alas, speaks true. Mind you, it takes some skill to juggle badly in exactly the right way, as I did then . . .” Piers snorted but was carefully beyond reach and Joliffe went on, “It’s true, though. I can’t juggle. Basset can juggle. Ellis and Piers can juggle. Rose can juggle when she chooses. I can’t juggle. But even skillessness can be put to use, and so we use mine for what it’s worth. In balance against it, I somewhat play the lute and I sing . . .”

  “Somewhat,” Piers put in crushingly.

  “. . . and Ellis can’t do either,” Joliffe continued smoothly. “And mind you,” he added thoughtfully, “for his lack of skill we’ve yet to find any use at all, while mine is good for something.”

  “If not much,” Piers said.

  He had come in reach again and Joliffe gave him a solid shove on the shoulder, saying, “If I want to be insulted, I’ll ask Ellis. He does well enough at it without you help him out.”

  “But it’s so—”

  “If you say ‘easy,’ I will shove you in the ditch and take what comes.”

  Darting ahead and out of reach, Piers cried, “. . . easy!” and set off at a run for the drawbridge.

  Joliffe gave Gil a friendly nod. “Go on with him, if you want.”

  Gil shook his head, looking as if he was gone suddenly shy, and it came to Joliffe that after all Gil was about half the way from Piers to him in age and very probably would prefer other company than a small boy’s. Piers was old for his years in many ways but still a small boy in most, and Joliffe was not so far from being Gil’s age that he couldn’t remember the urge to be even farther away from childhood. So he smiled friendliwise and asked, “How goes it with you? Still want to be a player?”

  “I do,” Gil said instantly. “The more I learn, the better it is.”

  St. Genesius help the boy, Joliffe prayed silently and said aloud, “This isn’t much the way it mostly goes. Mostly we’re from place to place one day after another, not lying about like this.”

  Gil bobbed his head in ready understanding. “I know. This has just been good chance for me, giving me time to learn more before we move on. But the moving on is part of the good part of being a player, isn’t it? The always being somewhere different?”

  “That’s part of the good, yes,” Joliffe granted—and didn’t add that sometimes that was a very small good against the weariness there could be in forever being somewhere else. Gil’s pleasure in the traveling would wax and wane like everyone’s. Or else just wane completely and he’d find something else to do with his life. For now, though, he thought he wanted to be a player, and Joliffe asked, “What are you finding hardest to learn of Basset’s lessons thus far?”

  “How to be a girl,” Gil said so quickly and from the heart that Joliffe had to hold back a laugh.

  Waiting until sure his voice would be sober enough, he agreed, “That can be hard, yes. Skirts and voice and gestures and all. You’re doing well from what I
’ve seen.”

  “Not good enough, though.”

  “It will come. You have to start feeling you’re a girl, and that takes a time.”

  “How can I feel like a girl? I’m not.”

  That was a fair question and a good one and Joliffe paused over his answer, then said, “It isn’t true just of playing a girl. It’s what you have to do when playing anyone. None of us have ever really been most of what we play, a multitude of saints be thanked for that. We’re not likely ever to be a hero or a tragic lover or a saint and certainly never the Devil or God. We play the seeming of a great many people we’ll never be, without ever becoming them. In truth—and if Basset hasn’t told you this, he will—for us to think ourselves into fully being whatever we play would be the worst thing we could do to our playing. Has Basset told you about the layers of your mind you need when playing?”

  “No.”

  “He will,” Joliffe said with deep feeling. It was one of Basset’s best lessons and he had said more than once, to set it firmly in mind. “That’s not to be you out there for the audience to see. Nobody is likely to pay coins to look at you, my fellow. Or any of us, come to that. But if you ever forget it’s you out there playing the part, I’ll whip you black and blue afterwards.” Which he would not have done; that was only to show how deeply he meant what he was saying as he went on, “When you’re playing, there should be three layers all happening together in your mind. Outwardly, for the world to see, everything you say and do are the words and gestures of whoever you’re playing. You should even be thinking as whoever you’re playing. But only with the outermost layer of your mind. Behind that outward seeming, there’s you yourself—the craftsman never losing judgment over his work, never losing heed of the play. That will be the layer of your mind that saves you if anything goes wrong, the part that makes sure the play doesn’t take over so strongly that it’s running you instead of the other way on. Behind that, there’ll be the back part of your mind that has better things to do altogether and will be wondering if the ale is good in the nearest tavern and why is that woman talking to the woman next to her among the lookers-on instead of watching you and if there’ll be roast beef for dinner or only porridge.”