A Play of Piety Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Author’s Note

  The Middle Ages Come to Life . . . to Bring Us Murder.

  A PLAY OF LORDS

  “Will entertain and confound you with its intricately plotted mystery and richly detailed writing . . . Ms. Frazer knows the fifteenth century and it shows . . . You’ll want to rush out and get the previous books in this wonderful series.”—The Romance Readers Connection

  “[An] amazing wealth of historical detail. While the mystery is compelling, and rooted in a fascinating historical period, it’s the details of everyday life that make the story and characters leap off the page . . . Will appeal to readers who enjoy historical mystery and historical fiction.”—CA Reviews

  A PLAY OF DUX MORAUD

  “Deftly drawn characters acting in a stage of intricate and accurate details of medieval life.”—Affaire de Coeur

  “A meticulously researched, well written historical mystery that brings to life a bygone era . . . Historical mystery fans will love this series.”—Midwest Book Review

  “Wonderful . . . As always, the author provides a treasure trove of historical detail . . . [G]ood, solid mystery.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  A PLAY OF ISAAC

  “In the course of the book, we learn a great deal about theatrical customs of the fifteenth century . . . In the hands of a lesser writer, it could seem preachy; for Frazer, it is another element in a rich tapestry.”—Contra Costa Times

  “Careful research and a profusion of details, especially those dealing with staging a fifteenth-century miracle play, bring the sights, smells, and sounds of the era directly to the reader’s senses.”—Roundtable Reviews

  “A terrific historical whodunit that will please amateur sleuth and historical mystery fans.”—Midwest Book Review

  Praise for the Dame Frevisse Medieval Mysteries

  by two-time Edgar® Award-nominee Margaret Frazer

  “An exceptionally strong series . . . full of the richness of the fifteenth century, handled with the care it deserves.”

  —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  THE SEMPSTER’S TALE

  “What Frazer, a meticulous researcher, gets absolutely right in The Sempster’s Tale are the attitudes of the characters.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  THE WIDOW’S TALE

  “Action-packed . . . A terrific protagonist.”—Midwest Book Review

  THE HUNTER’S TALE

  “Will please both Frevisse aficionados and historical mystery readers new to the series.”—Booklist

  THE BASTARD’S TALE

  “Anyone who values high historical drama will feel amply rewarded . . . Of note is the poignant and amusing relationship between Joliffe and Dame Frevisse.”—Publishers Weekly

  THE CLERK’S TALE

  “As usual, Frazer vividly re-creates the medieval world through meticulous historical detail [and] remarkable scholarship.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE SQUIRE’S TALE

  “Meticulous detail that speaks of trustworthy scholarship and a sympathetic imagination.”—The New York Times

  THE REEVE’S TALE

  “A brilliantly realized vision of a typical medieval English village.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  THE MAIDEN’S TALE

  “Great fun for all lovers of history with their mystery.”

  —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  THE PRIORESS’ TALE

  “Will delight history buffs and mystery fans alike.”—Murder Ink

  THE MURDERER’S TALE

  “The period detail is lavish, and the characters are full-blooded.” —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  THE BOY’S TALE

  “This fast-paced historical mystery comes complete with a surprise ending—one that will hopefully lead to another ‘Tale’ of mystery and intrigue.”—Affaire de Coeur

  THE BISHOP’S TALE

  “Some truly shocking scenes and psychological twists.”

  —Mystery Loves Company

  THE OUTLAW’S TALE

  “A tale well told, filled with intrigue and spiced with romance and rogues.”—School Library Journal

  THE SERVANT’S TALE

  “Very authentic . . . The essence of a truly historical story is that the people should feel and believe according to their times. Margaret Frazer has accomplished this extraordinarily well.”

  —Anne Perry

  THE NOVICE’S TALE

  “Frazer uses her extensive knowledge of the period to create an unusual plot . . . appealing characters and crisp writing.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Margaret Frazer

  Joliffe the Player Mysteries

  A PLAY OF ISAAC

  A PLAY OF DUX MORAUD

  A PLAY OF KNAVES

  A PLAY OF LORDS

  A PLAY OF TREACHERY

  A PLAY OF PIETY

  Dame Frevisse Medieval Mysteries

  THE NOVICE’S TALE

  THE SERVANT’S TALE

  THE OUTLAW’S TALE

  THE BISHOP’S TALE

  THE BOY’S TALE

  THE MURDERER’S TALE

  THE PRIORESS’ TALE

  THE MAIDEN’S TALE

  THE REEVE’S TALE

  THE SQUIRE’S TALE

  THE CLERK’S TALE

  THE BASTARD’S TALE

  THE HUNTER’S TALE

  THE WIDOW’S TALE

  THE SEMPSTER’S TALE

  THE TRAITOR’S TALE

  THE APOSTATE’S TALE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or loca
les is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2010 by Gail Frazer.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  eISBN: 9781101455180

  1. Medicine, Medieval—Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Lancaster and York, 1399-1485—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3556.R3586P555 2010

  813’.54—dc22 2010023083

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To The Four

  —Leslie H., Patty H., Carol M., and Cindy U.—

  Excellent friends who have seen me through so much of the

  Bad Times

  Author’s Foreword

  My usual way has been to leave my authorial comments for the ends of my books.

  I am adding this foreword because when I would tell people that I was writing a book set in a medieval hospital, as often as not their response was some expression of disgust that reflected the engrained, erroneous idea that medieval times were nothing but dirty, nasty, ignorant, and unremittingly brutal—a notion cheaply (and tediously) perpetuated in most novels and movies supposedly set in the Middle Ages. Therefore it seems a goodly notion to explain here at the beginning that the hospital in this story is imagined but not idealized. Its running is based on the recorded regulations of actual medieval English hospitals and reflects their expectations of cleanliness and care, as well as the charity and concern for souls with which they were founded.

  Nor is a woman acting as a medica at the time an imagined possibility. Women could and did act as physicians in medieval times.

  Chapter 1

  It was the golden time of year, the wide fields of ripened grains standing tall under the hot August sky or already turned to golden stubble where the harvesters had passed with sickle and scythe, and soon the geese and cattle would be turned to graze, to fatten for Michaelmas and winter.

  After three years of failed harvests and the dearth that followed, with hungry winters and starving springs, those golden fields under a cloudless sky would have been enough to raise Joliffe’s heart high as he long-strided along the summer-dusty road, but besides the hope of a fat winter, he was free for the first time in more than half a year from lessons, from being taught and tested and then set to learning more. He had forgotten, in the years since he had been a boy and a scholar, how good it felt to be let out from school, but he was remembering it now. He had, in truth, enjoyed much of these past months’ learning and some of the work that went with it, but this was better—to be on his way toward somewhere he had never been, with the sun warm on his back, coins in his belt pouch, and no one wanting him for anything.

  Time was that he would have added, along with all else to the good, that no one in particular knew where he was, but anymore he had to doubt that was true, and somewhere far down in his mind he knew how little he liked that thought, but there was nothing he could do about it. Last year he had said certain words to a powerful man, and eight months ago, in answer to those words, he had been summoned out of his familiar life. Now, feeling crammed to the crop with new knowledge and new skills, he was on his way to rejoin the wandering company of players that had been his life and livelihood for years. There had been good times in those years, and some very bad times, and for the past two years—since the wealthy Lord Lovell had made the company his own and under his protection—increasingly good times. Through all of them, Joliffe had never been away from the company for any time long enough to be worth counting, until he was summoned away last winter. He had been told then that when time came for him to rejoin them, someone would know where they were. That had proved true enough, which was both a comfort and a discomfort. It was good to know where to find the players again, a discomfort to know some manner of watch was being kept on them at the order of someone whose heed they might well have been better without.

  “Report is they’re at a place called Barton, about three days’ easy travel from here,” Master Smith had said. Although Joliffe doubted “Smith” was truly his name.

  “Any thought on where they’ll be by the time I reach them?” Traveling players never being long in any one place.

  But, “Likely still there. There’s a hospital there. St. Giles. One of them is in it.”

  “Who?” Joliffe had demanded.

  “The only word was ‘one of them.’ It’d not have been wise to ask too closely and maybe have someone wonder why the asking.”

  One of them, out of a company of five: Thomas Basset, the master of the company; Ellis and Gil who shared the playing with him; Rose, his daughter who saw to keeping them fed and their garb ready; Piers, her half-grown son who played parts in their plays, too, when need be.

  “What of the others?” Joliffe had asked.

  “There, too. Working.”

  “At what?”

  “That wasn’t said.”

  So as Joliffe closed what had to be the last miles between him and this hospital of St. Giles, he was carrying worry with him as well as his canvas sack of belongings and walking faster than he might have otherwise in the afternoon’s heat. Sweat was wet across his forehead and under his shirt, and he would have been glad of something to drink besides the warm water in the leather bottle hung from his belt. Still, he was better off than the men and women working at the harvest in the long open field he was presently passing. He had, one time and another, worked enough harvests to know how much the back was aching by this end of the day after the hours bent double, grasping the grain with one hand, swinging the sickle to cut it with the other, moving on. Grasping, cutting, moving on. Grasping, cutting, moving on. Binding what was cut. Moving on. Hour after hour under the hot sun, until the daylight faded. Then doing it again the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that until every field was cleared of its ripe-headed grain. Then on to the harvest of the peas and the beans rattling dry in their cods. Praying day and night that the weather would hold until everything was safely stored in the granary and barn, because a good harvest meant life for another year, where a poor harvest meant hunger for everyone and death for some. Or—if the dearth were bad enough—death for many.

  It meant poor living for the players, too, because they were often paid in kind rather than in coin, and people could not give what they did not have, and even if the players were paid in coins, there might be little or no food to buy with them. They had always got by, one way and another and usually thanks to Basset’s skill at leading them and Rose’s skill at making the best of what was to be had.

  They would be free of that trouble this year though. By everything Joliffe had seen on his way these few days on the road, this year was going to be one of plenty, making it maybe an easy year for the players, too, so far as being paid and able to eat went.

  Unless whatever awaited him at this St. Giles was bad and an end to everything.

  In the last village through which he had passed, he had asked his way, to be sure of it, and been told by the alewife, “That’s some three miles on. If it’s the hospital you’re for, you’ll come to it before you come to the church and all.” So Joliffe supposed the squat stone tower he could see ahead of him now above the hedges was where he was going, and he was ready for it to be. In his worry for the other players, he had been walking maybe somewhat too fast, hurrying to learn just how worried he should be, and he was tired and willing to admit it, glad he did not have to keep on until the last daylight faded, the way the workers in the barley field he was presently passing would do. Another quarter mile and he would have shade and a chance t
o sit and surely be offered a cup of something to drink, even if only cold well water.

  Come to it, cold well water sounded especially good, both to drink and to splash in his hot face.

  A last long curve of the road brought him into full sight of the tower he thought would be the hospital, and he found he had been wrong. The tower was that of a small, stone-built church. An old one, to judge by the round-topped doorway facing the road and, to judge by the aged gray thatch of its roof, not a well-kept one, Joliffe noted without much thought about it. He immediately shifted guess of the hospital to the stretch of freshly white-washed wooden wall nearer to him along the road. Beyond it were the bright-thatched roofs of low buildings, and a sturdy timber-and-plastered-wattle gatehouse with a single, wagon-wide gate and a porter’s room above it, making a short passageway into whose shade Joliffe went gratefully. The gate stood a little open, but Joliffe stopped there in the shade, slipped his sack from his shoulder, set it down, and gave a light pull to the bell rope hanging through a hole in the floor of the room above him. There was a muffled clank from overhead and a muffled voice saying something that might have been, “Coming.”

  Joliffe waited, hearing the uneven thud of someone limping down wooden steps, followed by a pause as whoever it was must have reached the bottom, before a stooped old man pulled the gate a little more open, looked out at him, and said in practiced greeting, “Welcome to this place. God have you in his keeping.” And then more sharply, “You look hale enough. What do you want here? There’s honest work to be had in the fields, if that’s what you’re after. If it isn’t, best you be on your way.”

  Not an old man, Joliffe revised, having a longer look at him. Middle-aged at the most, his stoop not from age but because of a badly humped back that was probably part of whatever infirmity had likewise shriveled and stiffened his right arm into a crook at his side and given him the limp Joliffe had heard on the stairs. There would be no fieldwork for him, surely, nor much in the way of any craft he could do. He might have been made gatekeeper here out of plain charity, but the sharpness of both his judgment and his demand at Joliffe said he was good at his work, and Joliffe said as plainly back, “I was told a friend was here in hospital.”