12 The Bastard's Tale

by Frazer, Margaret

  With his going, the hall seemed suddenly far more empty than one man’s leaving should have made it. But then, it was not a man but Wisdom itself that had gone, the illusion powerful enough that silence held for a long-drawn breath after the playing place was empty before well-pleased clapping broke out, led by the king.

  Unwillingly released from wonder, Frevisse joined in. Clapping, too, Dame Perpetua leaned to ask in her ear, “The young man we talked with in the library this afternoon, was he Lucifer here?”

  ‘He was.“

  Puzzled, maybe a little worried about it, Dame Perpetua said, “He was more… pleasant then.”

  ‘He can be,“ Frevisse granted.

  A drum’s cheerful roll signaled the players’ return, coming in a line from either side to meet in the middle of the playing place. All the clapping doubled with the pleasure of seeing them again and they bowed or curtsied, depending on their garments, first to the king and queen and Abbot Babington, then to the hall at large. Master Wilde had not returned, a sensible choice, it being hardly seemly for Wisdom to bow to anyone, nor did the players make the error of trying to hold too long to what they had but, while the acclaim was at its height, bowed one more time and disappeared the way they had come, all except John, who ran forward to his parents. Frevisse saw Suffolk scoop him up, laughing and pleased. Servants were relighting the other candles, talk was starting up all over the hall, and the crowd beginning to mill, and when Dame Perpetua asked, “Shouldn’t we go?” Frevisse was willing, abruptly aware of how tired she was and feeling no need to take John off his parents’ hands. Let them see to him for tonight. For tonight at least she simply wanted to be done with any duties or troubles and began to lead their way along the wall toward the door.

  They had reached the screens passage and were almost out the door among other people leaving when rising voices and a stir ahead of them warned something had happened. Dame Perpetua, far less used to crowds and beginning to be frightened, gripped her arm and asked, “What? What is it?”

  The rush of excited words reached and swept past them from one person to another and into the hall and Frevisse answered Dame Perpetua’s fear quickly with, “Nothing. It’s all right for us,” urging Dame Perpetua onward to the door and out into the cold, torchlit night before adding, “It’s just that some of the duke of Gloucester’s men have been arrested now for treason, too.”

  Chapter 14

  In the hours since he had been left alone, Arteys had found that the chamber was too small for sufficient pacing to wear out his thoughts, but neither could he sit still nor hold his mind to the book he had tried to read by the gray daylight through the window. Since Bishop Pecock had left him alone, his mind would not hold still, had been squirreling up one thought, scurrying to another, going back to the first or on to others, settling nowhere because he only knew enough to worry and wasn’t likely to know more until Bishop Pecock returned.

  When bringing him here to St. Petronilla’s yesterday, Bishop Pecock had explained him in passing to the master as an old friend’s son who needed somewhere to stay until a certain trouble with his father was worked out. “Nor is that a lie,” Bishop Pecock had said when he and Arteys had reached his chamber. “A misdirection of the truth perhaps and to be regretted, but we might presently have regretted outright truth more.”

  His chamber was a large room at the top of stairs off the hospital’s cloister walk, with a small fireplace in one wall, thick-woven reed matting on the floor, a plain chair, a single joint stool, a long table untidy with books and papers, the bishop’s traveling chest along one wall, and a large bed with dark red coverlet and curtains. The room’s simplicity and one small window with a slight view of a thatched roof and a lean bit of sky told this was not Petronilla’s best chamber. Or even second best, probably. “Which comes of being so minor a bishop as St. Asaph’s,” Bishop Pecock had said, “but that is all to the better, isn’t it? No one pays much heed to what I do and therefore is unlikely to pay much heed to your being here.”

  His explanation to Master Orle, his chaplain, and Run-man, his servant, was simply that Arteys would be spending at least the night and probably tomorrow, possibly longer, and was to be fed but not talked of.

  They had both said, “Yes, my lord,” and Runman, whose accent was deeply London, had asked, “You’ll want supper for both of you here, my lord?”

  ‘If you would, Runman.“

  Runman had bowed again, said, “Of course, my lord.”

  ‘They both my-lord me overmuch,“ Bishop Pecock had said when they were gone. ”They say I tend to forget who I am if I’m not reminded. Take off your cloak. Sit.“

  Confused with hunger and the day’s bludgeoning, Arteys had obeyed and, searching for something to say, asked, “You’ve no one else waiting on you?”

  ‘Not when I can help it. Have you any thought on how tedious it is to have people following you everywhere you go?“

  Betrayed by his tiredness, Arteys said, “I know how tedious it is to follow.” And came up short, hearing himself. Was it only this morning, going to meet Gloucester, he’d been thinking that?

  ‘The same problem from a different side,“ Bishop Pecock answered, pouring wine. ”And it’s not as if I can’t find my own way to places. I was a priest in London for thirteen years and went here and there and everywhere without clerks and servants and other miscellaneous folk at my heels.“ He handed a filled goblet to Arteys. ”If I’m bishop long enough, I’ll likely grow used to it but it’s hardly fair for St. Asaph’s to bear the expense of my hauling servants with me to no good purpose, and since I prefer not to be dogged at the heels by people I don’t need there, I therefore have only Master Orle and Run-man to serve me here, who have heretofore never evidenced desire to betray me or any of my business to anyone else and are unlikely to begin now, and a groom who sleeps in the stables and is probably up to no good since he’s had nothing to do since we arrived.“

  Arteys had realized that the flow of words was deliberately meant to distract him and he let it, both then and through supper. Not until Bishop Pecock had sent Run-man out to find if the play was to go on because, “If it is, I’d best go, on the chance I’ll hear something to our purpose,” had Arteys leaned forward on the cleared table and asked, not much hiding his fear and desperation. “What am I going to do?”

  ‘Nothing for now. At present we know too little, and ignorance is never a good tool to work with. Why don’t you go to bed?“

  Exhausted by the ill-turned day and his fears, Arteys did, and had slept most of the time Bishop Pecock was gone, which was as well because after Bishop Pecock had brought back word of the arrests, he had not slept well the rest of the night. Worse, word had been all that Bishop Pecock brought back, no names or certainty of how many or anything about Gloucester at all. He had gone out this morning, taking Master Orle with him, to find out if more was being said, leaving Arteys alone except when Runman brought him a cheese-egg potage and bread for his midday dinner.

  Now it was early afternoon and Arteys shoved away from the window, paced the room’s length, paced it back again and, giving up, came back to the window and the useless book. He’d escaped St. Saviour’s but to what good? Shut up here and doing nothing, he was as worthless as if he had stayed. More worthless, because if he had stayed, maybe there would have been something he could have done there. Here, he was doing nothing at all save too much useless thinking.

  He leaned his head against the window’s glass, willing the clouds to break. He was so sick of all the grayness both outside himself and in his own thoughts.

  Men—several—were coming quickly up the stairs. The sudden sound of their footfall faced Arteys around to the door, hand to his dagger’s hilt. If these were men come to arrest him… He dropped his hand away. If they were come for him, they would have more than only daggers to use against him and what would fighting serve except to make him look guilty?

  But it was Bishop Pecock who came in and Joliffe with him and Arteys too
k a quick step toward them, asking, “Do you have anything? About Gloucester or the others?”

  ‘Tut,“ said Bishop Pecock. ”You’ve not kept the fire up- You’ll take a chill.“

  While he went to the fireplace, Joliffe said, “Nothing has happened beyond the arrests, so far as we know. Gloucester is still at St. Saviour’s, kept under guard in his own rooms, and hasn’t been seen.”

  ‘Who was arrested? How many?“

  ‘Only five. Sir Roger Chamberlain. Sir Richard Middelton. Sir John Cheyne. Sir Robert Wer. Master Richard Needham.“

  ‘Needham!“ Arteys looked sharply to Bishop Pecock, who looked around from laying kindling into the young flames he had roused from the embers to nod confirmation. ”Needham?“ Arteys insisted. ”But he’s in Parliament.“

  ‘And therefore a voice in favor of Gloucester to be taken out of the way.“ Joliffe pointed to the pitcher on the table and asked, ”May I?“ of Bishop Pecock.

  ‘By all means. For all of us, please.“

  Arteys followed him to the table, a cold hopelessness tightening in his chest. “Has there been any outcry about Gloucester? Any protest?”

  Joliffe handed him a filled goblet, though by rights Bishop Pecock should have been served first. “No outcries. No protests. It’s all come too fast. Everyone is crouched and waiting to see what’s going to happen next before they make a move of their own. Drink.”

  ‘But something…“

  Bishop Pecock rose from the fire, saying as he took the goblet Joliffe brought him, “It’s been done in the king’s name, by the king’s men, for the king’s good. That leaves little space for anyone else to do anything without whatever they do being called treason.”

  ‘Something,“ Arteys repeated, from stubbornness more than hope.

  Turning from the table with a filled goblet for himself, Joliffe said, “Not by us, that’s sure. Not yet. I have a way, though, that might give you chance to see Gloucester if you want.”

  Bishop Pecock said with surprise, “You never said as much to me.”

  ‘Why say it twice?“ Joliffe asked. His gaze on Arteys was considering. ”Or even once, if it wasn’t going to work. I wanted to see if Arteys was fallen apart yet with fear or was maybe steady enough to try it.“

  ‘I’m steady enough and I’m ready,“ Arteys said. His fear was his own business.

  ‘I’d wait to hear what young Joliffe has planned before waxing wide with eagerness,“ Bishop Pecock murmured.

  ‘I’m ready,“ Arteys insisted.

  Still considering him, Joliffe said, “Master Grene, presently warden of St. Saviour’s, enjoys plays, and when Master Wilde’s way brings him through Bury, his company always plays there. When word first went out that Parliament was to be here, Master Grene bespoke Master Wilde for some pastime for whatever lord or lords he had for guests. By the time the chance to do Wisdom for the king came up, it was known his grace of Gloucester would be at St. Saviour’s, and rather than give up one for the other, Master Wilde committed to do both. Our company is to play there tonight.”

  Bishop Pecock sat down on the chair. “I’m hard put to believe that Suffolk—or Viscount Beaumont, since he officially has Gloucester’s keeping—is going to allow a Play for Gloucester’s diversion.”

  ‘I would be, too, if I hadn’t spent part of this morning rehearsing for it,“ Joliffe answered. He hitched a hip onto a corner of the table and somewhat sat. ”Not that we need much practice for this. It’s a farce we’ve done So often we could do it in our sleep and three-quarters drunk if we had to. It might go better if we were drunk,“ he added thoughtfully. ”It’s by Lydgate.“

  ‘But it’s actually to be allowed?“ Bishop Pecock said.

  ‘It seems Master Grene has taken a great dislike to the use they’re making of his hospital, with hardly a by-his-leave along the way. I gather he’s said that he’s paid for players to perform and, St. Saviour be his witness, he’s going to have what he paid for. Apparently there was some hint of hell fire and damnation behind the words because Lord Beaumont agreed to it with more haste than grace, as the saying is.“

  ‘Tonight, you said?“ Bishop Pecock asked.

  ‘Tonight. Which isn’t so bad as it seems, at least for us. After being terribly wise one night, being a fool the next is a respite.“

  ‘You weren’t wise last night,“ Bishop Pecock pointed out. ”You were Lucifer.“

  ‘Lucifer is wise in his own way,“ Joliffe protested. ”It’s worldly wisdom but wisdom nonetheless.“

  ‘If it’s worldly,“ Bishop Pecock returned, ”it’s hardly wisdom. Wisdom is an attribute of God, to which his created creatures should aspire—note that I say ’should‘ rather than ’do‘—but of which they can attain only a shadow.“

  ‘But the Devil, though admittedly created, was created among the angels and not of the world and therefore can have some share of wisdom beyond that of lesser created creatures.“

  ‘Possibly true, though his rebellion and fall from grace argue he can have had little of heavenly wisdom and surely lost that little in his Fall. But it’s worldly wisdom you contend he has.“

  ‘I might better have said he’s wise in the ways of the world. Would that suit better? Or…“ Joliffe forestalled Bishop Pecock’s reply with a raised hand. ”… should it be ’knowledgeable‘ in the ways of the world? Would that suit better?“

  ‘Knowledgeable to a degree, as a half-blind man is knowledgeable of what he sees only to a limited degree and no more.“

  Arteys, listening from one side to the other, understanding their pleasure in their game more than he understood most of what they were saying, said finally, ‘About tonight?“

  Both men stopped and looked at him. Then Bishop Pecock, immediately contrite, said, “Your pardon, please, young Arteys. We forgot ourselves and, worse, forgot you.”

  Joliffe, more practical, took up the wine pitcher again but found Arteys’ goblet still full and ordered, “Drink. You won’t want to say afterwards that you agreed to this while you were sober.”

  Arteys set his goblet aside, not for the sake of sobriety but because he did not trust his inward trembling not to reach his hands. “Tell me how there’s a chance I can see my father.”

  ‘Gloucester is said to have taken to his bed,“ Joliffe said and forestalled Arteys’ instant question with a raised hand. ”That’s all I know. That’s all that’s being said. But for your purpose it’s to the good because when we start the farce in St. Saviour’s hall there’ll likely be more interest in what we’re doing than in guarding a sick man in his bed.“

  Arteys immediately saw the possibility there. “Leaving a chance I could slip in to see him.”

  ‘Only a chance and probably a slight one,“ Bishop Pecock warned.

  ‘But better than no chance at all. I’ll take it,“ Arteys said, because he had taken his chance to run and must needs take this chance to go back.

  * * *

  There was more waiting to be gone through first though, this time in the loft that was Joliffe’s sleeping place above an alehouse in Whityng Street off Church-gate.

  ‘It’s not much,“ Joliffe had said, ”but I can come and go without bother,“ by way of a narrow gap between the alehouse and a leatherworker’s shop next door, into a back yard that smelled pleasantly of brewing and up a ladder to a short door in the house’s gable end under a steep-slanted roof.

  Inside, standing upright was possible only in the very center of the little space there was between the door and a wooden wall that closed off the rest of the space under the roof. Joliffe had nodded at the wall and said, “The family’s bedchamber. Master Riggemen is a carrier between here and Norwich mostly and often gone, but there are still Mistress Riggemen and three children and noise enough sometimes, but no babies to cry in the night, thank goodness. There’s some bread and ale there.” He pointed to a box on the short-legged table pushed back under one steep side of the roof. “And the bed,” under the other side of the roof, where sitting suddenly
up would be perilous to the head. “Rest if you can. Eat before you leave. You’re going to need your wits and strength tonight. An hour after Vespers, remember.”

  Arteys had nodded, too stiff-jawed with cold and worry to say anything, even thanks, and Joliffe had left, bending double through the short door. They had laid their plans at Bishop Pecock’s and there was nothing else to say, only the rest of the day to be gone through; but even though the days were still short here at February’s end and the dark drawing in all the sooner with the thick overcast, the afternoon had gone on forever, without even the relief of pacing. The three cramped strides one way and three back that were all Arteys could take were of no use. That left sitting on the joint stool or the floor or else lying down. Arteys had chosen to lie down. The short-legged bed was a rough-made, rope-strung frame with straw-stuffed mattress and thick wool blankets but it was clean, no small things moving in it. Come to that, everything about the room was clean, with no sign anyone stayed there at all except for a battered box at the bedfoot, small enough to be picked up and easily carried. Arteys supposed it was Joliffe’s, with maybe all that Joliffe owned in it, and he left it alone, unlocked though it seemed to be.

  But if all that Joliffe owned was in that box, he still had more than Arteys presently did. He had never had much of his own—some clothing, a few books, a sword—all given him by his father and all of it likely to be forfeit if Gloucester was found guilty of treason, because Arteys had no provable claim on anything. All he could lay claim to was what he presently wore and what was in his belt pouch. Clothing but none to spare, a cloak, his sheathed dagger hanging from his belt, enough money to see him to somewhere else so long as it wasn’t far, and Gloucester’s white swan badge hidden in the bottom of his belt pouch.