That brought the rest of the players bursting and hurrying out in a fuss and flurry of words and movements and properties, because, besides Christ, the play had to have the money-changers for him to attack, their table to overset, a scale and some bags of coins to be thrown down, a whip to use against them, at least the Jews’ High Priest Cayphas to be offended, and if not all the Apostles, at least Judas to be horrified. With Ellis playing Christ, Joliffe as Judas, Basset as Cayphas, and Gil, Piers, and Rose as everyone else, they covered their lack of numbers by all of them keeping in constant motion, giving their speeches in a rush of accusations, angers, and outrage.
Joliffe knew their audience was with them when Christ declared at the money-changers, “You knaves! You thieves and rascals! Defaming the Lord God’s honor as you do! Making his house into a den of thieves and taking what is not yours to take, like shepherds never shearing but butchering every sheep!” and among the lookers-on heads turned and some people pointed at Father Hewgo standing at his church door, glaring, his arms tightly folded across his chest, well apart from it all but making sure his disapproval lowered over everything. Joliffe had not written the lines at him but might as well have because his parishioners surely saw a match; there was even scattered laughter that would do nothing to soften him toward the players.
With no help for that, they swept on without faltering their lines or business, finished the play, and swept away behind the curtains, taking with them the money-changers’ table—a hamper with a yellow cloth laid over it—the bags of pebbles that served for coins, and the battered hanging scales, clearing the playing place for the simpler business of Judas betraying Christ to two Jewish priests.
While Joliffe, Basset, and Gil played that, the rest of the players readied for the Last Supper behind the curtains, throwing a white cloth over two hampers set end to end to make a table and hurriedly putting a goblet and a plate with bread on it. Joliffe, Basset, and Gil finished their scheming and went not behind the fore-curtain but away to either side and around and out of sight at the back, while Piers slowly drew aside the fore-curtain to show Christ standing (to save the trouble of stools the players did not have) alone behind the table, head bowed in deep thought over the bread and goblet. Still very slowly, Piers fastened the curtain out of the way, then went reverently to stand at one end of the table, a very short apostle.
Meanwhile, behind the rear curtain, Basset and Gil had stripped off their priestly garb with Rose and Joliffe’s help, to become apostles. There being nothing the players could do about being too few to be the twelve apostles, they ignored the problem. By the time Piers was going to his place beside the table, they were ready, and the four of them, with Rose still in her wig and beard, went out with stately slowness to stand to either side of Ellis as Christ, who raised his hands to bless the bread and wine.
As he did, Joliffe skulked away from the table, going to loosen the curtain and then draw it closed, shutting the other players from sight before he turned to the audience and began to complain again of the trouble Christ was bringing down on them, carrying on the way he was. Judas’ whining this time was meant to ease the taut quiet the Last Supper had brought over the audience and Joliffe succeeded, getting the laughter he wanted, everyone knowing how wrong Judas was about almost everything he was saying. But when Cayphas and the other Jewish priest, carrying a lantern to show it was now night, came out to him, a sharp quiet came over the lookers-on. And when the High Priest handed over the bag with its thirty pieces of silver as payment for betraying Christ, and Judas bowed and cringed to them in thanks, there were outright cries of anger and hissing from the audience.
Basset and Gil left, and Joliffe turned on the crowd, telling them scornfully that they were fools not to know money in the hand was worth more than a madman’s promises of Heaven. That was met with catcallings and more hissing, and he shook his fist at them all, then skulked out of sight around one side of the curtain, clutching the bag of pebbles to his chest.
Immediately Piers drew the curtain aside again, this time keeping out of sight as best he could. The “table” was gone, and one of hampers with one of the players’ gray ground cloths heaped over it was become the Garden of Gethsemane, with Ellis kneeling there. His prayer and pleading and final acceptance of his fate had the audience silent, tautly listening, so that when Gil—now the Apostle Peter—burst in on him, crying warning that, “Soldiers are come! My lord, now flee!” and Basset, Rose, and Piers—as soldiers now, in different garb—rushed in behind him, the startlement was complete.
Peter cut off a soldier’s ear and Christ healed it, was bound and shoved and dragged from sight afterward, and Judas, at the back through all of that and finally left alone, came forward to say worriedly, “I fear, I fear I have done ill beyond all that I did mean. What doom shall come my heart mistells. I fear what the morrow shall bring. My death perhaps, as mankind’s bane.” He then went miserably away, followed by more hisses.
Now Gil went out alone again, this time to tell of Christ’s torments and death, of Judas hanging himself, and of the Crucifixion, with all the ugliness Joliffe had been able to put into it, and ending with Piers drawing the curtain aside again, this time to show Rose now gowned in blue as the Virgin Mary and seated on a cloth-covered hamper with dead Christ in her arms, the crown of thorns on his head, blood streaked down his face, and his nearly naked body showing the bleeding wounds in his side and hands and feet. Among the audience, that brought gasps and signings of the cross and some women to tears before Gil drew the curtain closed again and—to the slow, unseen beating of the tabor by Piers at the back—told of Christ’s burial and the Harrowing of Hell.
That gave time for everyone else to ready for the Resurrection, so that when Gil pulled the curtain back again, there were Joliffe—with a long, loose gown thrown on over his other garb and Judas’ red wig replaced by a woman’s headkerchief—and Basset and Rose, likewise gowned and headkerchiefed as the Three Marys coming to the Tomb where Piers, with strapped-on wings, was the Angel standing on the gray cloth-covered hamper, now the tomb chest, to tell them in his clear, young voice that Christ was risen. With exclaims and tears, the Marys turned away, coming forward so they were in front of the curtain as Gil closed it. Joliffe and Basset spoke wondering words to each other and embraced Rose, the unspeaking Virgin. Then Gil opened the curtain one last time and there was Ellis standing where Piers had been, again in Christ’s white robe, holding his hands out in blessing to the Marys and the audience while, out of sight, Gil and Piers sang a “Gloria.” The Three Marys and not a few of the crowd fell to their knees. Then the Marys rose and moved forward so Gil could close the curtain behind them while he and Piers sang the end of the “Gloria.” And when the curtain was closed and they fell silent together, Basset silently counted to three with nods of his head, for Piers on the fourth nod to start a triumphant drumming on his tabor, telling the play was done.
If they hadn’t already known, the cheers, cries, and clapping that burst out then would have told them how very well their playing had gone, and Ellis dropped down to sit on the hamper with a grateful, weary oof of breath. It would be unseemly for Christ and his mother to take bows, so he and Rose did not join the others as they went out, for Gil and Piers to bow and Basset and Joliffe to curtsy acknowledgment to everyone. Only when they had retreated again behind the curtain was it all finally, fully finished for them, Basset beaming while he and Joliffe pulled off their headkerchiefs, Gil and Piers doing a small, quick-stepping dance of triumph.
Rose hurriedly took off the Virgin Mary’s gown, her own gown underneath it so that she was free to see to everyone else as they began to strip, too, listening to the dispersing crowd’s glad talk beyond the curtains around them. Most times the players would have had to be out there gathering coins, but since they were to have their share from whatever the whole ale-fest brought in, they were spared that effort just now, and Joliffe wondered if he was the only one tired enough to be grateful for that, until Ellis said weari
ly while changing Christ’s robe for his own doublet, “So now that we’ve proved we can do these plays all at once, can we never do it again?”
“I make no promises,” Basset said. That brought general groans all around him, but there was much smiling to go with it, because they had done it and the sense of triumph was more heady than a strong draught of good wine would have been just then.
In their own clothing again, they all helped Rose fold their garb and pack the hampers. At camp she would determine what would need cleaning and what would not, but for now it was enough to load it into the cart. That left the curtains and frame to be taken down, and while Ellis got out the mallet to knock loose the wooden pegs, Basset said to Rose, “We can see to this among us. Why don’t you take this chance to see what there is to see here?”
“And bring back something to eat because you’re all beginning to starve?” she said.
“That, too,” said Joliffe. He caught one of her hands and kissed it. “Because food will nourish all the better if brought to us by your fair self.”
She made a short sound between laughter and disgust and said, holding out a hand to Piers, “Come with me, out of the way here. You can help carry whatever I buy.”
Ever preferring food to work, Piers went with her readily. Ellis, Joliffe noted, had kept his back to Rose the whole time, nor had she looked at him.
They were just finished loading the wood and curtains into the cart when Rose and Piers came back with two meat pies and a leather bottle of ale. Sitting in a row along the grassy edge of the lane, their backs against the churchyard wall, they ate and drank in what Joliffe thought was comfortable quiet until Basset said, “Rose, what’s the trouble?”
She snapped at him, “Nothing.”
“Except you’re crying,” her father said gently.
Everyone’s head whipped around to look at her. Rose never cried. But large, shining tears were sliding down her cheeks, with more spilling over from her eyes even as she said, “No, I’m not,” and wiped fiercely at them.
They were all stopped eating, staring at her, not knowing what to do. Rose was sometimes angry, sometimes impatient, often tired—and well she had right to be, given the life they led and what she had to put up with from all of them—but she didn’t cry. And very gently Basset said, “What’s happened? Have we done something?”
Trying to dry her eyes with a corner of her veil, she said, “It isn’t anything,” but the words came out on a sob.
Ellis, handing his piece of pie to Gil, got up from where he was sitting as far from her as he could. Somewhat uncertainly, he came and knelt in front of her, put his hands on her shoulders, and said tenderly, “It’s no good saying it’s not anything. It’s something. Please, Rose. Tell us what.”
“He came up behind me,” she said on a sob. “Medcote. He . . .”
Covering her face with both hands, she began to sob openly. The rest of them looked at Piers, who was staring wide-eyed at his mother. To their unspoken question he shook his head, protesting, “I didn’t see it.”
With more control than Joliffe would have thought in him, Ellis said, still gently, “Please, Rose. Tell me. What did he do?”
With a broken gasp and sob, Rose dropped her hands into her lap, clutching them together to steady herself while she answered, looking down at them rather than at Ellis, “He touched me. Where he had no business touching me. And held on to my skirt when I tried to move away and whispered in my ear where he’d wait for me tonight. Because he knew I wanted him, he said. Because I was too good to waste . . . to waste on . . .”
Her hands flew to her face again, and Ellis, despite having turned dark red with anger and his mouth set into a hard line, drew her carefully forward into his arms, and she let him, burying her face against his shoulder, sobbing helplessly.
Her father stood up. “We’re away from here tomorrow,” he said grimly. “And we’ll be well rid of the place, I think.” He brushed his gown where he had been sitting on it. “It’s time we went to see about our pay from Father Hewgo. Joliffe, you’ll come with me. The rest of you start back to the camp. We’ll catch you up when we’ve finished with the priest.”
“Medcote . . .” Ellis started.
“If fortune favors us, we’ll never lay eyes on him again,” Basset said.
“If fortune favors him,” Ellis returned, “I’ll never lay eyes on him again.”
Chapter 10
On the whole, most priests and churchwardens for whom the players had worked over the years had dealt fairly with them. From those who did not, Basset had learned enough to deal with their kind when he met them, and from what Joliffe had seen of Father Hewgo, he suspected Basset’s dealing skills would be needed here, however clear the agreement had been three days ago. Their best hope was for fair-dealing churchwardens who would stand firm against whatever Father Hewgo tried to do. But he and Basset weren’t even to the church door when Basset said, “Trouble.”
It was not their trouble, though. Midway between the churchyard gate and the church door, Medcote and a man Joliffe had not seen before were confronting each other. And whoever the man was, he had had more to drink than was good for him, and was as angry as he was drunk, swaying forward and poking a forefinger into Medcote’s chest, declaring loudly, “You cheated me! You know it! Everybody knows it!”
Medcote shoved his hand away. “I know you’re a drunken fool, Jack Hammond. You can’t hold your ale any better than you hold your land. What’s done and over is over and done. Give up your whining.”
Whining was hardly what Hammond was doing. His shouting was drawing more lookers-on than only Basset and Joliffe, and he declared loudly, maybe deliberately for all of them to hear, “Nothing’s done! You’re a cheat and a liar! Nothing’s not even by half done!”
“I hope Hammond flattens him,” Basset said, low-voiced and turning away.
“And stomps on him for a while afterward,” said Joliffe, following, leaving the men to whatever their quarrel came to.
The heavy door into the church’s nave was standing open. Joliffe shut it behind him, closing the arguing voices outside. Farther up the nave Master Ashewell looked around from where he was standing with Father Hewgo and Walter Gosyn and said, “Thank you.”
Basset bowed. “Our pleasure.”
“You’ve come about your payment,” Master Ashewell said, “and are in good time. We’ll do the counting out as soon as Master Kyping and Medcote come.”
“You’re all churchwardens together?” Basset asked.
Two churchwardens was a more usual number but four was not unheard of, and that Medcote and Master Ashewell were wardens here was to the good, Joliffe thought. They knew what had been agreed between the players and priest.
“Master Kyping isn’t one of us,” Master Ashewell said. “He’s bailiff here for the abbey and merely going to watch the counting out.”
“To see we don’t come to blows about it,” Gosyn said, and he was not jesting.
Joliffe wondered whose benighted choice had made Ashewell, Medcote, and Gosyn churchwardens together?
Behind him, the outer door he had just closed was shoved open, and John Medcote stalked in, followed by Master Kyping.
“It didn’t come to a fight then?” Gosyn called.
“Hammond hasn’t the guts for a fight,” Medcote snapped.
“Not this time,” Master Kyping said smoothly over him. “A quiet word in the ear and a heavy hand on the shoulder can do wonders.”
“Especially the heavy hand,” Master Ashewell said, smiling.
“Shall we get on with it?” Father Hewgo demanded.
He was rubbing his hands together like a merchant expecting good profit, and Joliffe was braced for the unpleasantness that shortly came in the sacristy where they all went to count out the coins on a table. Master Kyping had brought the take from the ale-fest itself: the fees that folk had paid to set out their goods for sale and all the profit from the sale of the ale itself. Mostly, the coins were farthin
gs and half-pennies, but when all were counted, they made a goodly sum, even before Master Kyping said easily, “Now, Father Hewgo, where’s what you collected after the play? You put the pouch in your undergown’s pocket, I think?” The bailiff put out a hand and patted the priest’s side and said, smiling, “Yes, there it is.”
As the proverb went, if looks could kill, Master Kyping would have been a dead man from Father Hewgo’s glare just then, but he went on smiling, his hand held out for the pouch. Father Hewgo fumbled it from beneath his outer robe and tossed it ungraciously onto the table. Master Kyping, as if he did not see the priest’s ire, loosened the wide mouth of the purse and poured out a very pleasant amount of coins.
Withdrawn into disdainful dignity, Father Hewgo said down his nose, “I supposed the players were giving their share as their gift to the church.”
“Were you?” Master Kyping asked Basset.
“No, sir. We were not,” Basset answered smoothly. “I believe it’s written that the workman is worthy of his hire. Besides that,” he added, “our tenth was from the full profits of the day, not simply from our playing.”
Father Hewgo turned his glare from the bailiff to Basset while Joliffe thought at him, You lying disgrace to your priesthood, and Gosyn said, “I say they should have their full tenth and no quarrel about it. They were that good they had me in tears.”
“You and a good many others,” Master Ashewell said. “I agree there’s no room for quarrel about it.”
Everyone looked at Medcote, whose agreement should have come readily, but it did not. To Joliffe it was almost as if he were thinking the chance to make trouble by arguing would be worth it. No, Joliffe corrected. By the glint in Medcote’s eyes, he was not almost thinking that—he was very certainly thinking it, and Joliffe’s tight hold on his anger at the man began to slip. The players had done far better work today than was asked or expected of them, and now they were threatened with being cheated by the priest’s greed and Medcote’s love of trouble.
A Play of Knaves Page 12