‘A well-taken point that seems to have escaped a great many people,“ Joliffe allowed lightly. ”But however much we may question my lord of Suffolk’s judgment, I thought myself that Arteys here might be better somewhere else than out and about.“ As he said it, Joliffe briefly lifted an edge of the young man’s cloak, giving a glimpse of a white swan badge, and Frevisse said, ”Ah.“
‘So may he keep you company this while?“
Arteys stood so carefully blank-faced, waiting for her answer, that Frevisse slightly smiled at him as she said, “Of course. But will Master Wilde allow it?”
‘I asked him outside,“ Joliffe said. ”He agreed, having more on his mind at the time. Brother Lydgate has him in talk.“
‘Again?“ Frevisse said. Not only did Lydgate write lame verse, he had the unswerving opinion that anything not written by himself was surely in need of mending and it seemed he had been trying to mend this play ever since the players had begun to practice it.
‘He says the end needs something said between Lucifer and Lady Soul,“ Joliffe said cheerfully, ”and a longer speech from Wisdom that he’s kindly penned for us. He’s trying to persuade Master Wilde to do it today.“
‘Two days before the play goes on? Blessed St. Jude have mercy.“ The patron saint of desperate cases, because Brother Lydgate was undeniably a desperate case.
‘Better add a prayer to St. Barbara against sudden death, because that’s what Master Wilde may have for Brother Lydgate if he keeps at this.“
With a grin at Arteys and a bow of his head to Frevisse, he headed away to where Ned Wilde was explaining to his brother Giles and the other painter how he would have done the work faster and, of course, better had he been there, and Giles was explaining back at him how much he was in danger of having his kneecaps painted.
‘Don’t even think of it!“ their mother called from where she was helping John take off his pin-perilous tunic, and Joliffe added helpfully that, anyway, it would be a waste of good paint.
Frevisse gestured at Arteys still standing uncertainly beside the bench that he should sit. He did, somewhat uneasily and on its edge, looking ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Returning to her sewing, she asked, as much for curiosity as to put him at ease, “You’ve known Joliffe long?”
The youth hesitated. “Off and on for a time.” He hesitated again, then added, “Mostly off.”
‘How did he explain you to Master Wilde?“
‘He said I had need lie low for the afternoon and could I do it here? Master Wilde said he knew about lying low, and if I promised to keep my mouth shut, I could stay.“
‘Joliffe didn’t tell him you were one of the duke of Gloucester’s men?“
‘No.“ The hall was cool enough that no one would question why he still wore his cloak but Arteys pulled it closer around him as if to be sure Gloucester’s badge stayed hidden.
‘Come to that,“ Frevisse said, pretending she did not see his uneasy gesture, ”I doubt Master Wilde, lost in the play as he is, even knows there’s anything else happening.“
‘He didn’t seem to.“
‘Is Gloucester bringing an army against the king?“
Arteys looked profoundly startled and answered more forcefully than he had yet said anything to her, “No. It’s a flat lie. He’s bringing less than a hundred men. Suffolk is a liar.”
That was boldly said and Frevisse would have questioned him more, to find out what else he would say, but at that moment Master Wilde came into the hall, cap in hand, face furiously flushed, and hair ruffled into an angry crest. Behind him, almost treading on his heels, came Brother Lydgate, holding out papers toward his back and insisting, “Let me read it to you again. You’ll surely hear…”
Master Wilde spun around, took the papers, and said with what sounded like a clenched jaw and the last bit of patience in him, “I’ll read it and see what I can do. Right? Right. Now we have to get on with things. Toller will see you out. Toller!”
Toller appeared through the doorway at Brother Lydgate’s back and, much like a shepherd’s dog with a thick-headed sheep, ushered Lydgate backward from Master Wilde and out of the hall. No one else moved or spoke until there was the solid thud of the outer door closing. Then with a massive release of breath, Master Wilde spun around, declared, “Enough. Let’s get on with this,” and stalked up the hall, stripping off his cloak as he went and tossing it toward a lidded basket, not caring that he missed, ordering, “All of you to your places. Where you’ll be when you enter at your turn. We’re doing this all the way through, remember. No stopping. No help on lines. If you don’t have them now, there’s no hope anyway.”
Ahead of him the paint and brushes were being hurriedly cleared to the side. The top and front of the stairs had sensibly been done this morning and hopefully were dry. Master Wilde started up them, turned around to give some order, Frevisse supposed, but instead roared toward the hall doorway, “Now what?”
Everyone looked. Even Joane, who had steadfastly gone on stitching through everything else, jerked up her head to see a man standing there, stopped by Master Wilde’s roar. He was no one Frevisse knew; an older man quietly gowned in what was, although black and ankle-long, assuredly no monk’s robe. Deeply pleated from yoke to belted waist, with full sleeves gathered to the wrists and high-standing collar, it bespoke a man of some position in the world, only its color and his closely fitted, plain black hat suggesting he was a churchman of some kind.
If he was, it presently carried no weight with Master Wilde, who demanded at full voice, “What do you want here?” And louder still, “Toller!”
Toller seemed to be absent but from a near corner of the steps Joliffe said something up to Master Wilde that Frevisse did not hear. It earned him a glare from Master Wilde, who then snapped, “If you say so,” and to the man, only a little more graciously, “Come in if you will, my lord. Sit there, please you.”
He pointed toward the bench where Frevisse and Arteys already were. The man bent his head to him, and while Master Wilde returned to dealing with his players, came up the hall. Frevisse and Arteys both rose to their feet as courtesy required and the man with equal courtesy nodded to them to sit, sat himself on Arteys’ other side, and leaned forward to say past him to Frevisse, “My lady, you are… ?”
There was Oxford in his voice and something else that Frevisse could not immediately place as she answered him with the same graciousness as he had asked, “Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s priory in Oxfordshire, my lord. And you are… ?”
‘Bishop Pecock of St. Asaph’s.“
That gave her pause. If that was what Joliffe had told Master Wilde, then Master Wilde had had small choice in “allowing” the bishop to stay because bishops, even of so small a bishopric as Frevisse knew St. Asaph’s to be, were lords by virtue of their office and members of the royal council, not someone to be yelled at and ordered around by a common playmaster. But Bishop Pecock seemed to have taken no offense. Rather, his attention had shifted to Arteys. “And who are you, young man?”
‘Arteys, my lord.“
‘A Welsh name,“ Bishop Pecock said promptly. ”Often corrupted in English to ’Arthur,‘ a king of many legends and the subject of far more stories than can be true. A noble name nonetheless and better in the Welsh than in English. Are you Welsh?“
‘On my mother’s side.“
Bishop Pecock leaned forward for a nearer look and asked, “What is the rest of your name, young Arteys?”
After a very motionless moment, Arteys answered, “FitzGloucester, my lord.”
Bishop Pecock sat back with a single nod, as if satisfied of something, and veered his questioning back to Frevisse, asking courteously, “What do you here, Dame?”
It was a reasonable question, this being hardly a likely place for a nun, and Frevisse made brief explanation of how she came to accompany young John, leaving out everything about herself and why she was at Bury St. Edmunds at all. Then, deciding such questions could go both ways, she asked,
“And you, my lord. Why are you here?”
Bishop Pecock smiled. “I’m avoiding one duty by claiming another. One might even say ‘feigning’ another. I should be with the lords in council at this very moment but found that my wits were at peril of curdling if I listened even another quarter hour to their talk. Therefore I determined to do something else and am here, where I doubt I’ll be easily found even if someone is looking for me, which they are probably not.”
That both a bishop and Arteys were here for the sake of not being somewhere else gave Frevisse an inward smile.
But Bishop Pecock still had questions and now asked, “This play, Dame, how much of it have you seen?”
‘I don’t know.“
He raised his rather notable eyebrows, questioning her answer without need to say a word. Obligingly she added, “The few times I’ve been here, they’ve played it only in bits and pieces. Today is the first time they’re to do it from start to end all at once. That’s why Master Wilde is somewhat on edge.”
She was surprised to hear herself excusing the play-master; was equally surprised at Bishop Pecock’s easy nod accepting that. “Better honest irk than false courtesy,” he said and probably would have said more—he seemed to be a man with always more to say—but Master Wilde had finished with whatever last things he had for the players and at that moment roared out to the hall at large for silence and, when he had it, said, abruptly calm, “Now we begin.”
On the instant there was no movement or sound from anyone in the hall. Even Mistress Wilde and Joane paused their sewing, and because the curtains that would back the playing place were not hung on their long frames yet, all the players were in sight, too, grouped here and there aside from Heaven’s tower, wherever they needed to be for when they would come into the play on their turn. Even John, who was not needed until later, was in his place, waiting solemnly, silently, beside Giles. From partway up the stairs, Master Wilde looked at them all, assessing their readiness, then went up the last steps to the top, swung around, and sat down on the joint stool in a way that made it, on the instant, no longer a joint stool but Wisdom’s throne and Master Wilde by the very way he sat there no longer the harassed master of players but Wisdom himself, all divine dignity and command as he declared, as if to a vast multitude, “If you would know the meaning of my name imperial, I am called, by those that are on earth, Everlasting Wisdom…”
Chapter 6
When Wisdom had finished his first speech, Lady Soul in the person of Ned Wilde wearing an old gown over his doublet and hosen, no longer a striding youth but all sweet womanliness, declared her love for Wisdom and Frevisse returned to her sewing, listening while they talked of the need to be rid of earthly sins. Beside her, Arteys was soon leaned forward, intently listening, and on his other side Bishop Pecock was sitting straight-back with hands folded into his lap like someone accustomed to sitting for a long time listening to others, as undoubtedly he did in royal council meetings and his bishopric. As Lady Soul’s Mights—Mind, Will, and Understanding—came on, likewise men a few minutes ago but now sweet-spoken ladies, Frevisse finished the green hem but had no more than snipped the final thread than Mistress Wilde was silently taking the gown from her and handing her another, red this time, and the thread to go with it. Frevisse took them in equal silence and somewhat gratefully. Despite how little she liked sewing, neither did she like sitting idle and she was finding the sewing came more easily now she had the play to hold her mind.
It was better written than many of its kind. The verse was steady and what ribaldry there was, once the Devils came on, was never given the upper hand over the sense. King Henry, known to be adverse to ribaldry, would approve that, and yet there was enough wit that the play did not plod and for those lookers-on beyond anything else there would be splendid sights to divert them. If the players’ garments were finished in time. Frevisse sewed on steadily.
Joliffe as Lucifer swaggered on, announcing in a smoothly rich voice, “For I am he that sin began,” and set to wooing Lady Soul and her Mights to foolishness. While he spoke, Bishop Pecock leaned forward with a questioning tilt to his head, as if listening rather than looking, then he fumbled in the fine leather pouch at his belt and brought out and put on silver-rimmed spectacles, looping the black ribbons around his ears to hold them.
What had he heard to interest him that much in Joliffe? Frevisse wondered. It was perfectly possible for Joliffe to know him by sight—if, as the saying went, a cat might look at a king, a player might look at bishops—but what about Joliffe so particularly interested the bishop?
The play went on its way, sometimes unsteadily but never stopping. Partway through a long speech, Lady Soul realized it was the wrong speech and had to sort her words around. There was a brief, almost fatal confusion in the dance between the Mights and Lucifer’s Devils but with some quick-footedness they overcame it and kept on. Arteys watched steadily, chin on hand, elbow on knee. Bishop Pecock soon sat back, but from the corner of her eye Frevisse could see his interest was still held. Lucifer’s Devils sported with Mind, Will, and Understanding. When Lady Soul, seduced by Lucifer into worldly ways and corruption, came on again, her beautiful gown replaced by black tatters, Frevisse watched to see that John did not miss his time or mess his part and was pleased when he carried it through every bit as well as Giles did.
By then both the play and the red hem were nearly done and she stopped her sewing to watch while Lady Soul rejected Lucifer, reclaimed her Mind and Will and Understanding, and returned, triumphantly welcomed, to Heaven.
‘And so to end with perfection. That is the Wisdom we pursue. God grant it to those who do,“ Wisdom declaimed and it was over. Light clapping spattered from the lookers-on, and grinning with satisfaction, the players made bows to them. Atop the steps, Master Wilde ceased to be Wisdom, rose to his feet, and said, ”Don’t fool yourselves, my fellows. They’re clapping that you finished, not that you did well at it.“
This was greeted with laughter.
‘You think I’m jesting?“ He started down the steps. ”Come here then and listen.“
From other afternoons Frevisse knew how it would go then. He would spend a while detailing everything he had liked and disliked about their performing, confirming one thing and another that had worked and changing those that had not. Low-voiced, Frevisse explained this to Bishop Pecock and Arteys, then asked how they had liked it.
Arteys, his earlier stiff unease lost in momentary pleasure, actually smiled as he answered, “Very much.”
More thoughtfully, Bishop Pecock said, “Traditional though this portraying of wisdom, the soul, and so forth is, I’ve never found to be either convincing or particularly satisfying. That said, I have to add that I found this was both effective and affecting.”
From his tangle of words, Frevisse sorted out he had enjoyed it as with a small, thoughtful frown he went on, “I understand, too, the paymaster’s ire and irk before they began and his impatience afterwards. He’s seeking to make a world in small, as it were, and knows it needs to be sure in all its parts, great and small together, lest it fail in its entirety. I daresay that God himself, what with one thing and another, was perhaps a little ill-humoured toward the end of creating the world. Though, being all-knowing, he of course did not have to wonder how it would all come out in the performance.”
Frevisse quickly caught back an urge to laugh, then saw that Bishop Pecock was widely smiling and she smiled at him in return. A jest-making bishop was not someone she had encountered before this.
Joliffe strolled over to them then, Master Wilde having finished with him though not with anyone else, it seemed. Frevisse saw him look sharply at all their faces as he joined them though he said lightly enough, with a bow to Bishop Pecock, “You all look merry. How did you find it?”
Bishop Pecock, still smiling, said, “I found it far more pleasurable than I’d expected to. Familiar figures presented in a new form or fashion can surprisingly refresh them. Your play does it very well.”
>
Joliffe bowed to him again. “We hope so, my lord.”
‘But when did you become player rather than clerk, young Joliffe?“
‘When Fortune turned her wheel, which no man may escape.“
‘A come-down in the world, is it not?“
‘No more than it might be said you’re leaving off being a plain priest and master of Whittington College to become a bishop is a come-down in the world, my lord.“
Smiles were pulling at both their faces but it was Bishop Pecock who laughed outright before he said, “I’ll not argue that point, lest I lose. But about this play. Who wrote it?”
‘Someone who wants to go unknown, I’m afraid.“
‘Not you?“
‘Not me. I swear it.“
‘That’s to the good, then. To find you were as shrewd at theology as you are at worldly matters would give me pause.“
‘My lord,“ Joliffe said and bowed.
But Bishop Pecock was away on another thought. “It’s an interesting thing, though, that although all was pretense from first to last here, yet despite of that, some truths were most movingly conveyed.”
‘I’d suggest,“ Joliffe said, ”those truths were conveyed ’because‘ rather than ’despite.‘ “
‘A point to be considered,“ Bishop Pecock granted. ”That truth can be conveyed by falseness.“ He peered intently at Joliffe. ”On the other hand, my sometime clerk, I find it somewhat unsettling that you can be so convincingly Lucifer.“
‘My lord.“ Joliffe laid a hand earnestly over his heart. ”I promise you I can play at being an angel equally well, given the chance.“
‘ ’Play, being the word in question, I believe?“
‘As surely as ’holy‘ goes with ’bishop,‘ my lord,“ Joliffe answered, hand still over heart. This time they both laughed aloud.
John joined them then, released and happy, taking Joliffe by the hand and saying to him and Frevisse both, “Master Wilde says if I decide not to be a lord, I can come be a player with him.”
12 The Bastard's Tale Page 5