‘Yes. He’d been told…“ Arteys briefly stopped, then went on more slowly, ”He was told there was finally a chance of it, he said.“ He looked from Joliffe to Bishop Pecock. ”There was never any hope of her being pardoned, was there? He was baited to come here. It’s been a trap all along, hasn’t it?“
‘I would judge so,“ Bishop Pecock said.
Joliffe looked to Frevisse. “You were supposed to be picking up what you could in Suffolk’s household. Has there been anything?” Before she could answer, he shifted to Arteys and said, “You may as well know she’s cousin to Suffolk’s wife.”
‘That’s why Bishop Beaufort was able to make use of me,“ Frevisse said to forestall whatever Arteys might say to that. ”But I care as little for Suffolk as any of you do. And to your question, Joliffe—Suffolk and Dorset seem to be riding high on glee over something and all this morning there were clerks writing madly at something in the outer chamber of his rooms but I’ve found out nothing else.“ Alice’s unease she kept to herself.
Joliffe switched to Bishop Pecock. “Among the lords? In parliament? Talk from your servants? Anything?”
‘Nothing. No. You’ve surely noted by now that Bury St. Edmunds is presently full of a large number of people who talk much but know nothing?“
‘Why were you at St. Saviour’s?“ Arteys demanded at Joliffe, his voice heavy with distrust. ”How did you come to be there then?“
Level-voiced, Joliffe answered, “I was there because I’d seen the duke of Buckingham and his gaggle of nobles and royal-liveried men going that way. I followed them because I thought they looked like trouble.”
Bishop Pecock peered at him. “Curiosity and the cat. I keep thinking of that when I’m around you, Joliffe. Presuming that his grace the duke of Buckingham was not so slack as to leave no guards at the gateways into St. Saviour’s, may one be told how you got yourself in and Arteys out?”
Joliffe inclined his head to him as if conferring a favor, the small curve of a smile at his mouth’s corners. “But of course, my lord. Scholar, priest, and bishop as you are, you’ve likely never had reason to note that servants like to keep their comings and goings to themselves if they can.”
‘Oddly enough,“ Bishop Pecock returned, matching his dryness, ”I have occasionally noted such a thing, yes.“
‘Then perhaps you’ve likewise noted that if there’s another way out of somewhere besides the usual, it will be the servants who know of it. At St. Saviour’s the way happens to be a slight gap in the wellyard’s wall at the stables’ far end where a board swings loose to the side when pushed, enough for someone of no great bulk to slip through.“
‘And how did you happen to know that?“ Frevisse asked.
Joliffe shrugged. “One sees things if one looks.”
‘And you’d been looking before today, I take it?“ she said.
‘One never knows,“ Bishop Pecock put in, ”what stray bits of knowledge may prove of use in the fullness of time. Arteys, he found you trying to leave but balked by Buckingham’s men, I take it?“
‘I’d escaped the hall but couldn’t go out any gateway and was circling the yard behind the outbuildings, trying to find another way out or a place to hide.“ Something of the hopelessness and fear from then was still in his voice. ”I met him there.“
‘And here was the best I could think of for him for the while,“ Joliffe said. ”Now, since you can’t stay here forever—“
‘Now,“ Arteys interrupted, ”I’ll see to myself.“
‘You have money and a way to leave Bury St. Edmunds?“ Bishop Pecock asked mildly. ”Or somewhere to hide while you find money and a way to leave?“
‘I don’t mean to leave!“
‘Then you know someone else here in Bury St. Edmunds you can go to for help? You have friends here? Or someone who’ll do it for the sake of your father?“
Arteys’ silence was answer enough.
‘Then by removing the impossible and unlikely, it will have to be our help,“ Bishop Pecock said.
Arteys pointed angrily at Joliffe. “Not his.”
‘Since I think we can well assume he was not in St. Saviour’s on the supposition of your escape, it can be argued that his willingness to help you then says something to his favor, don’t you think?“
‘Come to that,“ Arteys said, ignoring the question, ”why are you willing to help me?“
‘A very sound question,“ Bishop Pecock said approvingly, ”to which, unfortunately, I lack a sound answer. Will it be enough to say that I’m among those who don’t much care for what I see of Suffolk and those around him and therefore have no reason to refuse help to someone in need of it when that someone has done no wrong of which I know?“
‘Put simply,“ Joliffe said, ”he’d rather help you than Suffolk.“
‘And you?“ Arteys demanded. He gestured at Joliffe and Frevisse together. ”Why would you help me?“
Frevisse winced inwardly at being lumped so unquestioningly with Joliffe, but he answered straightly, “For the same reason.”
‘How do I even know I need help?“ Sharp with confused anger, Arteys’ voice started to rise but he caught it down again to say at Bishop Pecock, ”Maybe I didn’t even need to run. Maybe I should just go back. What good am I doing my father here?“
‘What good can you do him there?“ Bishop Pecock returned. ”Moreover—and this is a thing you’d best not forget—your father’s greatest danger comes from his royal blood. Without that, he’d not be such a desperate problem to Suffolk and the others, and it may well occur to them, while they’re about it, that you’re royal blooded, too, and may likewise be worth being rid of. It’s no secret, I believe, that you’re his son.“
‘It’s not, but I hardly matter. I’m bastard-born.“
‘So is Bishop Beaufort and so was his brother, whose son is now marquis of Dorset and likely, in due course, to be earl of Somerset,“ Bishop Pecock said serenely and, leaving Arteys to make what he would of that thought, went on, ”As for your accepting help not only from me but from Dame Frevisse and Joliffe, I have to say that, taken all in all, their reasons for giving it are creditable and that so long as things hold as they are, I believe they can be depended on.“
Joliffe silently mouthed a mocking “thank you” while Arteys, intent on Bishop Pecock, asked, “But if things change?”
‘Not ’if they change but ‘when,’ “ Bishop Pecock said. ”The world is mutable and always changing.“
‘And because it is,“ Joliffe said, ”the best you can do is play the game as it stands now.“ He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms on his chest, somewhat insultingly at ease and more as if he were watching an entertainment than something real and dangerous. ”And like it or not, as it stands now, you have no likelihood of help from anyone but the three of us, who are willing to help you because it’s against Suffolk. So what will it be? Striking out on your own with nowhere to go and no way to get there even if there was? Or our help, such as it is?“
That was blunt to the point of brutal and Arteys, standing stiffly at bay against them all, flushed a strong red before snapping back, his in-held desperation flaring to defiance, “There’s hardly choice, is there?”
‘No, there isn’t,“ Joliffe returned, ”so you’d better take what’s offered.“
Arteys turned his back as far as might be on Joliffe and asked Bishop Pecock, “How can you help me?”
‘A place to stay until we know better what’s happening. An advantage of being a lesser bishop is that I can stay in lesser places, rather than here in the abbey. I have rooms somewhat out of the way at St. Petronilla’s hospital outside Southgate. My people will say nothing about you if I tell them not to, nor is anyone likely to take particular note you’re there because no one takes particular note of me. If you’re willing to this, then by your leave I think we should go now.“
Arteys hesitated, then gave a tight-lipped nod of agreement. Bishop Pecock nodded back, bent his head to Frevisse with, “
My lady,” and to Joliffe with, “Master Joliffe,” and left. With neither word nor nod to either of them, Arteys followed and in silence Frevisse and Joliffe waited, listening while Bishop Pecock passed a few words with the monk at the door, then waited longer in the library’s quiet before Frevisse said, still remembering to keep her voice low, “You were harsh with him.”
Joliffe sighed heavily, rubbed with both hands at his face, and drew himself up in the chair. “I had to move him. Otherwise we might have stayed here arguing forever.”
‘I know. It was well done,“ Frevisse said quietly.
Joliffe looked up at her in surprise. “Thank you.”
‘On the other hand, you didn’t give his grace the bishop an actual answer when he asked if you were set to watch the duke of York as well as Gloucester.“
Maybe remembering that by rights he should not be sitting while she stood, Joliffe rose to his feet. “I serve Bishop Beaufort at present, not the bishop of St. Asaph.”
‘Which still is not a straight answer.“
‘No,“ he agreed. ”It’s not.“
He met her look long and level, with laughter in his but none in hers as she asked, “How long have you been Bishop Beaufort’s man?”
‘I’m not. I’m merely someone he sometimes hires for one reason or another.“
‘How long,“ Frevisse said, letting her forced patience show, ”has he been sometimes hiring you?“
‘For rather longer than I think I’ll admit to.“
“Joliffe.”
His laughter faded. He regarded her in silence for a moment, then said, simply serious for once, “You don’t like me much, do you?”
She was tired of word gaming and snapped, “I like you very much. It’s one of the things about you that irks me. What I don’t is trust you.”
That caught him off balance but with an inward twist that she almost did not see, he shrugged and said with a one-sided smile, “Come to that, why should you trust me? Why should anyone ever trust anyone else? Unless they’re forced to it by necessity and lack of choice. Like Arteys just now. So trust be damned. Can’t it suffice for you that Bishop Beaufort values your wits and likewise mine and will pay us for the use of them?”
‘I don’t like being used toward ends I don’t know.“
“Isn’t most of life lived toward ends we don’t know?”
“Don’t,” she warned, “go clever on me, Joliffe.” He spread his hands as if to show he had no weapons. “I offer, simply, what comforts I can, poor though they are. Praise and philosophy—”
‘Your philosophy is suspect and I’d rather be left alone than praised, so if you think either one is going to help, you’d best think again.“ Joliffe grinned. ”I always think again.“
“Another thing about you that irks me.” Behind her, hesitantly, Dame Perpetua asked, “Dame Frevisse? Is something wrong?”
Frevisse turned with alarm to find her standing beside the desk with pen still in hand and a worried frown. “Dame Perpetua,” she said quickly. “We forgot our voices. I’m sorry.”
Dame Perpetua’s doubtful look went from her to Joliffe and back again. “But something’s wrong?” she persisted.
‘My manners, my lady,“ said Joliffe. He gave her a deep bow and a far-too-winning smile. ”Bishop Pecock— you saw him leave just now?—and I were consulting over what play he might hire our company to give as his gift to where he’s staying. I fear I drew Dame Frevisse into debate with me afterwards on whether it’s better to perform John Lydgate’s plays or burn them. I say that no matter how base or badly done the work itself—and I grant that much of Lydgate’s work is badly done“— he made a half-bow to Frevisse—”yet nonetheless and so long as they please those willing to pay to hear them, they should be played. Dame Frevisse, to the contrary, holds that there can be no excuse for playing anything so poorly made. But that’s the easier for her to say since she does not need to make her living by such paltry means, if I may say so, praying your pardons, my ladies, for my boldness.“
It was an excess of words worthy of Bishop Pecock himself and done just lightly enough that Dame Perpetua was smiling by the end of it, worry forgotten. “But what—” she started to ask, only to be interrupted by the monastery bells beginning to ring to Vespers.
Joliffe bowed to them both. “Until the play tonight, then, my ladies,” he said, slipped past Dame Perpetua, and was gone.
Chapter 13
At Vespers’ end, a servant in Suffolk’s livery was waiting outside St. Nicholas’ chapel to ask that Frevisse and Dame Perpetua come to Lady Alice. “Both of us?” Dame Perpetua asked in surprise. “Both, if it please you,” the man said, certain. “Our supper?” Dame Perpetua asked of Frevisse. “That will be seen to, please you,” the man said. “If you would come, my ladies?”
They went, following him across the nave and outside into twilight and a few snowflakes swirling down from the thickened clouds. Not many people were still in the yard or along the penticed walk, but while passing the second or third clot of them, Dame Perpetua caught enough words that she asked of Frevisse, “What are they saying about the duke of Gloucester?”
Taken up with her own worries, Frevisse had forgotten how very away from everything Dame Perpetua had been in the library. “He’s been arrested,” she answered. “Not long after he arrived today. For treason, it’s said.”
‘For treason? He’s the king’s uncle. What’s he done, to be arrested for treason?“
‘I don’t know.“ Too aware of Suffolk’s servant close ahead of them, Frevisse added, ”I was with the players all afternoon. I’ve heard almost nothing.“
‘The players. Oh my! Will the play even be done, do you think?“
The man looked back. “It’s going to be, my lady. I’ve heard that’s sure.”
‘What about the duke of Gloucester?“ Dame Perpetua asked.
‘He won’t be there.“ The man took open pleasure in his own wit. ”He’s under guard in St. Saviour’s and all his men potted in with him. There’ll be no trouble.“
‘What’s Gloucester supposed to have done?“ Dame Perpetua persisted.
‘He brought a pack of Welshmen with him and was going to throw out the lords around the king and take over for himself. That’s what’s being said.“
‘Yesterday,“ Frevisse pointed out tartly, ”it was being said he was bringing thousands of men with him.“
‘It was, wasn’t it?“ the man agreed, cheerful about it. ”Good thing he wasn’t. Or bad for him, as it’s turned out. Damn Welsh.“
The man was openly untroubled that one day’s report jarred so completely against the other’s, and while Dame Perpetua tried to learn more from him, Frevisse held silent. Considering everything into which she had somehow slipped—here for Bishop Beaufort’s purposes; asked for help by Alice; now somehow part of hiding an arrested traitor’s bastard son—silent seemed the best thing she could be.
Only one clerk was left writing away in the outer room, with men and servants around him readying for the evening. The middle room was likewise busy with women but in the bedchamber beyond it there were only two women tending to Alice, who said to Frevisse over the head of the one fussing at the front folds of her crimson damask gown, “Don’t even look like you’re going to mention Gloucester to me.”
Frevisse closed her mouth with a deliberate snap.
Alice laughed. “Yes, well, all right. Go on. Everyone else is. Dame Perpetua, if you will, there’s supper laid out on that table by the window. Help yourself, I pray you. And you, too, cousin.”
Dame Perpetua went to the table but Frevisse stopped, well clear of the busyness around Alice, to ask, “Exactly what treason was Gloucester planning? Is it true his men are arrested with him?”
‘No, they’re not arrested. They’ve been told not to go anywhere until this is sorted out but they’re not arrested. As for what Gloucester meant to do…“ Alice turned away to nod acceptance of the topaz-hung necklace being held out to her by one of her ladies, the
n turned back to Frevisse, her voice light but her gaze not as it met Frevisse’s. ”… no one has made it very clear to me what he meant to do.“
And she was not happy about that.
But with too many other ears to hear there was little they could say outright to each other, and Frevisse had to be satisfied with asking, “But the play is to go on tonight anyway?”
Head bent forward for her lady to fasten the necklace, Alice said, “Everything is to go on. The king is distressed, and the thought among the lords is that the more like usual we keep things, the easier it will be for him.”
Easier to what? Grow used to the thought that the uncle who had had the keeping of him and his crown since he was a baby was now accused of treason against him?
Alice’s look, raised to meet Frevisse’s, said their thoughts were matched as she asked, “What’s being said among people? You’ve been out and about. What have you heard?”
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