“Good,” said his grandfather. “You can take me there right now. Ellis, do whatever you need to about the mask. Mak can help you get whatever you need.”
Mak straightened from where he had been leaning against the wall beside the door, apparently on his way to becoming as much at place there as their hampers of properties and garb, and nodded his willingness.
Basset looked to Rose. “The black garb for Piers?”
“I already have the cloth. Maud took me shopping for it. Whenever you’re all out of my way, I’ll lay it out and get to cutting.”
Basset gave a sharp nod of satisfaction but asked, “How costly?”
“Not so much as it could have been. It’s good enough but not too good, and I’m expecting the dye will come out with washing, but he’ll likely have outgrown it before it’s too far to the bad.”
“He being such a weed,” Ellis agreed, giving Piers a friendly push on the shoulder.
Piers pushed him back. “Better than being a block.”
With Piers eleven years old, his spurts of growth were an on-going problem with his player’s garb, but paying neither Ellis nor Piers any heed, Basset said, thinking aloud, “So all’s as in hand as may be there. At least The Steward and the Devil will be no trouble to do.”
“Since we can do it forward and backward and in our sleep,” Ellis muttered. “Saints’ teeth, we could probably do it sideways if we had to.”
“Don’t give him any thoughts that way!” Gil exclaimed.
“Hm,” Basset said thoughtfully. “Sideways.”
“No!” Ellis protested.
Basset laughed at him and asked Joliffe, “One thing. Where and for whom are we to do this miracle three nights from now? You didn’t say.”
“At the earl of Mortain’s, I presume for the earl of Mortain,” Joliffe answered.
He was about to add, “Whoever he is,” but Mak gave a long, low whistle, so that everyone looked at him, and Ellis demanded, “Who’s the earl of Mortain, then?”
“Cardinal Bishop Beaufort’s nephew, that’s who he is,” Mak said. “He’s not so much in himself, maybe, being on the young and untried side of things, but he has the same royal bastard blood as his uncle, so he’s some sort of cousin to the king, and there’s talk he’s in the running to be made governor of France in place of the duke of Bedford.”
“If he’s young and untried, who would make him governor of France, bishop’s nephew and king’s cousin or not?” Joliffe asked. The more especially just now, when the war and all were near to falling apart into disaster, he did not add.
“Ah, well, there’s who else is in the running that makes him worth the looking at,” Mak said cheersomely. “That, and who’s backing them, and who’s with who and who’s against who around the king, and why they’d have their man instead of someone else’s for lord in Normandy. That’s where Mortain’s chance comes in.”
“Interesting, maybe,” said Basset. “But of no great matter to us. We—”
“Will Bishop Beaufort be there to see us play, do you think?” Piers asked eagerly. “It being his play and his nephew and all?”
Mak shrugged as if indifferent. “Who’s to say?” But there was a glint of mischief in his eyes and he added, “I’d guess not, though. This side of the river we still favor the duke of Gloucester over old Winchester when heave comes to ho. Just now London needs no more stirring up than there is, so I’d lay my bet that Winchester won’t show himself for folk to yell at.” He tipped Piers a wink. “There’ll surely be other lords there, though. Thick as a dog’s fleas are lords in London just now, and they’re always getting together to scratch each other.”
Joliffe was turning around in his mind the picture of fleas scratching each other while Ellis said, “Does Lord Lovell know what he’s pitched us into?”
“Must,” said Mak.
There was enough of uncertainty in that one word that Joliffe demanded, “What else are you thinking?”
Mak shrugged, looking as if he were discomfited and trying not to show it as he answered, “It’s just that that’s stronger company than my lord usually keeps. The earl of Mortain, he keeps company with the earl of Suffolk and all that young lot of lords and such that are circling around the royal council, looking for their chance up. Lord Lovell’s always taken care to stay clear of suchlike matters and all.”
“He’s not stayed clear of the bishop of Winchester,” Basset said, just a little tersely.
Mak gave a short, truly merry laugh. “Nobody stays clear of Bishop Beaufort! Nobody that wants to prosper. The royal council pays back all the loans he makes the government by giving him rights to profits in the ports. A fat share of customs fees and suchlike and all are his, collected by his men for him. So anyone whose fortune is built on wool wants to hold friends with him, because he can make a merchant’s life hard. Or else profitable.”
And although Lord Lovell’s fortune did not come all from wool, very much of it did, Joliffe knew. Hence his willingness to be of use to Bishop Beaufort, Joliffe supposed.
“But the earl of Mortain, the earl of Suffolk, and all that lot,” Mak went on, “they’re playing for power beyond the wool trade, and Lord Lovell’s never mixed himself in with that sort. Not more than any man could help.”
So maybe he couldn’t help it this time, Joliffe thought, while Basset said briskly, “Well, what lords are doing among themselves, and why, is not our concern, thank Saint Genesius.” He smacked his hands together in a single loud clap to close the matter. “What matters for us is that we put on this play and make it as good as any they’ve ever seen.”
“In three days?” Ellis said cuttingly. “Or less than two and half now?”
“Since we need to, yes,” Basset answered firmly. “Therefore Piers and I will go this very moment for Joliffe’s paper. Ellis, tell Mak what you need for this mask, so he can help you to it. Gil, you come with Piers and me. That should leave Rose with room enough for what she wants to do. Joliffe, you just keep writing.”
“Bring back strong drink when you come,” Joliffe said. “I’m going to need it.”
“What you need is to stay stone-sober to do this,” Basset returned. Already on his way out the door, he added in his best great-lord’s voice, “Rose, see to it,” and was gone, Piers and Gil in his wake, laughing.
Mak and Ellis went out together, and Joliffe gave a put-upon sigh that matched Piers’ best and made Rose laugh at him, as he meant it to, then settled himself with his writing-box in a corner, out of the way of Rose beginning to lay out her black cloth.
Chapter 5
By candle-lighting time Joliffe was “writ right out” as he said while firmly closing away pen and ink and paper in his writing-box. He was well along with the work by then and neither pleased nor displeased with it. Most of what he had so far written was, perforce, trot-worded doggerel, but he judged it would suffice to rouse the desired quantities of laughter and scorn, so he refused to mind that it was less than great.
Gil, having long since made the mistake (as he said) of admitting he wrote a clear hand and could read Joliffe’s handwriting, was at the table writing out fair copies of what Joliffe had so far written. There would be only one full script, and that would be for Basset because he had to direct them all. Each of the rest of them would have a copy of only their own words given to them in writing. In larger companies that was to keep anyone but the master from having a full copy of a play that could be sold to another company against his wishes. With Basset’s company, the writing out of only each player’s part was more for the saving of ink and paper than anything, and just now it was for the saving of time, too. Basset was even reading over Gil’s shoulder while he wrote, both to learn what changes Joliffe had made in the speeches used from their other play and to begin shaping in his mind how he was going to direct them all in this one.
Ellis had lately joined him over Gil’s other shoulder but now took the chance, while Gil resharpened his pen, to turn over the few uncopied pages at Gil�
��s elbow, then ask, “Who’s going to be Lady Honor?”
“Still Gil, all seemly and lovely,” Joliffe said. Setting his writing-box aside, he stood up and stretched his spine by bending at the waist to set his hands flat on the floor while answering Ellis’ true question with, “You’ll be the Devil disguised as Fair Seeming, but I haven’t written you yet.”
Because usually Joliffe was the Devil in their plays, Ellis asked suspiciously, “Who are you going to be?”
Joliffe straightened and struck a regal pose. “The King of France.” He lost the regal pose, slumped, and whined, “Or the Dauphin, as we say this side of the sea,” and wiped the back of a hand across his nose.
“If that’s the way he’s to be played, you’re welcome to him,” said Ellis.
“It’s better than that,” said Joliffe. “He’s going to be mostly a puppet that the Devil works.”
Ellis brightened. “I like that.”
“I thought you would,” Joliffe said dryly.
“What do I get to do?” Piers demanded.
“You’re Dishonor, a lovely lady that the Duke of Burgundy will woo.”
Piers looked doubtfully at the black garb his mother was making. “Lovely lady?”
“Only to the Duke of Burgundy, because he’s let the Devil and the Dauphin deceive him. Everyone else sees you as a small, nasty black devil,” Joliffe assured him.
Immediately understanding the possibilities there were in that, Piers brightened, just as Ellis had.
Rose set down her sewing. “That’s all I can do on black cloth in this light. I’ll be able to finish it easily tomorrow, though, so that’s all right.”
Her father accepted that with a smile and nod but then asked Ellis, who had done nothing yet about the mask except come back with buckram, glue, and two pots of paint, “And the mask?”
“I want daylight for working at it. Tonight I’m thinking about it.”
“Just make it Piers’ face, only bigger, with maybe the nose and ears a little more pointed,” Joliffe said. “That will be frightful enough.”
“If he makes it your face,” Piers shot back, “that would truly fright everybody.”
There was a rap at the doorframe, and Mak put his head in and asked, “Anyone for going to a tavern for a time?”
“I’m for it,” Ellis said readily. He held out a hand to Rose. “Come, love. You, too.”
She looked from Ellis to Piers and back again, and Joliffe knew that she was momentarily caught between wish and duty, but he too much wanted to go out himself to offer to be Piers’ keeper and was spared any guilt at that by Basset saying, “I can do with no more walking today. The rest of you go on, and I’ll see Piers to bed and all. You go with them, Gil. You’ll write the faster and better by daylight, especially if you don’t tire your eyes tonight.”
“Supper!” Piers complained.
“There’s bread and cheese,” Rose answered.
“We can toast it at the fire,” Basset said. “And we’ll eat their share. They can have something wherever they’re going.”
Piers was momentarily silenced, distracted from the pleasure of complaining by the promise of more food than usual. His mother took the chance to kiss him on his forehead, told Basset, “Be sure to wash his face for him,” and went happily to take Ellis’ outstretched hand on their way out the door.
Joliffe, following them, said helpfully, “Just stick his whole head in the bucket and leave it there a while. That’s your best way, Basset.”
“He’d never!” Piers protested at his departing back, then said to Basset, less sure, “Would you?”
Joliffe did not wait to hear Basset’s answer, going out into the yard’s blue dusk where a torch already burned beside the doorway to the hall and John Hyche was just lighting another beside the gateway. “Going out?” he asked cheerfully. “Don’t let old Mak lead you too far astray.”
“Oh, aye,” Mak returned as cheerfully.“‘Old Mak’ indeed, and you old enough to be my father.”
“Old in deeds. That’s what you are. Old in deeds,” Hyche answered, tapping the side of his nose. “Where you bound for then?”
“The Crow’s Toes in Addle Lane, I’m thinking,” Mak answered.
The gatekeeper nodded approval. “There’s not much mischief goes on there that Nan doesn’t allow.”
“Hah!” said Mak. “There’s no mischief goes on there Nan don’t allow. Not if a body knows what’s good for it.”
Hyche laughed, agreeing, then added to Ellis, “Just don’t let him tell you curfew doesn’t matter. One of these nights he won’t be able to talk his way past the watch. We’ll see him in the stocks yet, I tell him.”
“Just leave the gate ajar for us,” Mak said. They were out the gateway by then, and he was walking backward to keep his chat at Hyche going. “That’s all I ask.”
“You know when I go to bed, nor I’m not rolling out of it for you, my fellow,” Hyche called after him. “Come back late, and you can sleep in a doorway for all I care.”
Mak waved to him in friendly farewell and turned around to the way they were going. With Joliffe now beside him, and Rose and Ellis and Gil coming after, they went on along the street. Somewhere the other side of St. Paul’s churchyard a bell rang, and Mak said, “Compline. The good monks will be going to bed soon.”
“And the bad monks?” Joliffe asked lightly.
“We’ll see them at the Crow’s Toes,” Mak returned in kind.
Their way was east along Cheapside but not far before they turned left at the Eleanor Cross into a long, lesser street that Mak told them would take them out of London by way of Cripplegate if they went far enough. “Not that we’re going that far,” he said, and in a while they turned again, right this time, into a narrow street. “Addle Lane, this is,” he said.
Like other London houses Joliffe had seen, the ones here were tall, narrow, built of timbers and plaster, and wall to wall, some of them thrusting out over the street, with sometimes a narrow, roofed-over passageway disappearing into darkness between them. This not being a main way, only a few of them looked to have shops facing the street, and those were shuttered for the night. Most of the others stood with their front step to the street, but several were raised on stone cellars, with their front doors a good few stone steps above the street. On warm, dry evenings there would likely have been people sitting on those steps, taking their ease after the day’s work, talking to neighbors and watching the world go by, but the year was too far along into chill for that, and at most of the houses yellow lamp-or candlelight showed narrowly between or around closed shutters at upper windows. At only one house did light swathe broadly into the gathering darkness, probably proclaiming the proud possession of a glassed window and so no need yet to shut out the evening damp with shutters.
What every house did have was a lantern hung and lighted beside its front door. Just as every householder was charged by law with repair of the street in front of his house and to keep the household’s waste piled by the doorstep, ready for the ward’s scavagers to carry away every few days, night-time lanterns by householders’ doors were part of London law, as Joliffe knew from his long-passed days in Oxford, when there had been talk in the town of making the same night-lighting law and much protest against it on the grounds that nearly no one was abroad at night but students who shouldn’t have been, and why should honest folk have to pay to light their drunken trouble-making?
Among the pools of light and shadows along the street the Crow’s Toes was easily found. Most of the stone cellars along the street were likely used as warehouses, with stairs leading steeply down to tight-shut, shadowed cellar doors. At one, though, the wide door was set full open, letting yellow light and a burst of laughter flood out and up its half-dozen steps to the street, so that Joliffe didn’t need to see the sign hanging from an outthrust pole above it, showing a large crow looking hard at one of his own feet held up in front of himself, to know they had reached the tavern.
A Play of Lords Page 6
