A Play of Knaves Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  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

  Author’s Note

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

  A Play of Isaac

  “The player Joliffe appeared occasionally in Frazer’s delightful series featuring . . . Dame Frevisse. Now he has his own story . . . 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 (CA) 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. There’s also a fine sense of history, all woven together in a medieval tapestry of rich colors. Looking over Ms. Frazer’s impressive list of novels already to her credit, I can see a lot of pleasurable reading ahead. I especially look forward to meeting Joliffe and the players again.”—Roundtable Reviews

  “The mystery, and the events surrounding it, are played out quite naturally through Joliffe’s unquenchable curiosity. For lovers of mystery and lovers of history, this is a find; a mystery backed by solid research. I hope to see much more of this likable group in future volumes.”

  —The Romance Reader’s Connection

  “A terrific historical who-done-it that will please amateur sleuth and historical mystery fans.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  A Play of Dux Moraud

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

  “Puzzling . . . The author is a much-respected authority on medieval times, in addition to a good storyteller.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub

  “A meticulously researched, well written historical mystery that brings to life a bygone era. The workings of society [are] seen through the eyes of the players . . . Historical mystery fans will love this series.”—Midwest Book Review

  “Another wonderful entry in the author’s long series of medieval mysteries . . . As always, the author provides a treasure trove of historical detail surrounding the everyday lives of the characters woven seamlessly into the narrative. In less assured hands, this detail might be intrusive; here, it simply adds to the ambiance . . . Each character is complex, possessing flaws and ambitions . . . [G]ood, solid mystery.”—The Romance Reader’s Connection

  Praise for the Dame Frevisse Medieval Mystery Series 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 Novice’s Tale

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

  The Servant’s Tale

  “A good mystery . . . excellently drawn . . . 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 Outlaw’s Tale

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

  The Bishop’s Tale

  “Some truly shocking scenes and psychological twists.”

  —Mystery Loves Company

  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 Murderer’s Tale

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

  The Prioress’ Tale

  “Will delight history buffs and mystery fans alike.”

  —Murder Ink

  The Maiden’s Tale

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

  —Minneapolis Star Tribune

  The Reeve’s Tale

  “A brilliantly realized vision of a typical medieval English village . . . Suspenseful from start to surprising conclusion . . . another gem.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  The Squire’s Tale

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

  The Clerk’s Tale

  “As usual, Frazer vividly recreates the medieval world through meticulous historical detail [and] remarkable scholarship . . . History aficionados will delight and fans will rejoice that the devout yet human Dame Frevisse is back . . . a dramatic and surprising conclusion.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  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. History fans will relish every minute they spend with the characters in this powerfully created medieval world. Prose that at times verges on the poetic.”—Publishers Weekly

  The Hunter’s Tale

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

  The Widow’s Tale

  “Action-packed . . . a terrific protagonist.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Dame Frevisse Medieval Mysteries by Margaret Frazer

  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

  Also by Margaret Frazer

  A PLAY OF ISAAC

  A PLAY OF DUX MORAUD

  A PLAY OF KNAVES

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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

  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 locales 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.

  A PLAY OF KNAVES

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2006

  Copyright © 2006 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.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN: 9781101378625

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks

  belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To the memory of George Wade, for the summers of Shakespeare and Company under the sky.

  Chapter 1

  The winter of this year of God’s grace 1435 had been cold beyond the ordinary. A false flourish of warm days in March had brought hope, but the cold and rain had come back and held on until almost the end of Lent. Only finally, in the week before Palm Sunday, had something like spring begun to happen, and now as the players, their cart, and their horse trundled at footpace along the road’s gentle lift and fall and curves, there were flowers in the wayside grass and under the hedgerows and everywhere a flirt and busyness of birds seemingly intent on making up for so many lost days of proper springtime.

  “There’s a lark,” Piers said, pointing high. “A mark to me!”

  “It’s a woodlark,” Joliffe returned. “That doesn’t count.

  We’re counting skylarks.”

  “We’re counting larks!” Piers protested with all the outrage of his much-put-upon eleven years, and added, because he had a strong belief in conducting his campaigns on as many fronts as possible, “Besides, it is a skylark.”

  Joliffe, something like twice Piers’ age and—as often pointed out by their companions—old enough to know better, returned, “Isn’t.”

  “Is.”

  “Isn’t.”

  “What I’m going to count,” said Basset, the company’s master, Piers’ grandfather, and used to their ways, “is how many knots I’m going to rap on the tops of your heads if you don’t stop it.”

  Piers, preferring diversion to defeat, darted sideways, stomped his foot on the wayside grass, and declared from the old proverb, “Five daisies underfoot means spring is here!”

  Walking on the other side of their mare, Tisbe, whose part in all of it was to pull the cart and ignore them, Joliffe said, “That was only four.”

  “Five!” Piers said, skipping back onto the road. “And you couldn’t see from there anyway.”

  “Five knots,” Ellis growled behind the cart where he walked with Rose, Piers’ mother. “On both your heads. With a big stick.”

  “I’ll cut the stick,” young Gil said helpfully.

  Of the company, he was the only one not on his own feet. Having somewhat turned an ankle coming sideways off an unseen stone two days ago, he was riding on the cart’s seat, his bandaged ankle propped up and idleness chewing at him, so he claimed. They were a company of six—seven if Tisbe the mare was counted, as Joliffe claimed she should be. Time had been it was a larger company and all too lately it had been a smaller one, with times hard and failure likely, until chance and good fortune had brought them to Lord Lovell’s notice and then into his favor. They were Lord Lovell’s players now, with the canvas tilt hooped over their cart painted in the red and yellow of his heraldic colors to proclaim it. Along with that, they could wear his badge and claim his protection should they need it.

  In return, of course, he had claim on their skills and they had spent this just-past Holy Week performing plays seemly to the time for Lady Lovell, her children, and the household at his manor of Minster Lovell. Unhappily, Lord Lovell had not been there, gone on one of his sometimes ventures to France where the war was presently stumbling over the duke of Burgundy’s unwillingness to continue as England’s ally because, as Lady Lovell had said firmly and loudly in the great hall at one mid-day dinner, “Burgundy sees better profit to be had in joining with Charles, so-called king of France, than in keeping faith with all his oaths. For profit, the duke is willing to forget his father was murdered on so-called King Charles’ order. So much for Burgundy’s honor, for all that he proclaims it to the world.”

  For the players, the duke of Burgundy’s honor was neither here nor there. More to their own point, Lady Lovell was as generous a patron as her husband, and through their stay at Minster Lovell they had been well-fed in the hall with the general household, well-housed in a clean barn in the outer manor yard, and at the end had been sent well-paid on their way with Lady Lovell’s great thanks, given publicly in the great hall after their playing on Easter. At supper she had called Basset to the high table and given him a gift of coins, saying for the household to hear, “These you’ve well-earned. I’ve rarely been so moved and ready in heart and mind for Easter as by your plays this week. Myself and my household owe you much.”

  And well they did, Joliffe still thought. When Lady Lovell had sent them word a month ago that she wanted them at Minster Lovell for all the week before Easter, Basset had determined, “We should do something beyond the ordinary. What of a run of plays right through the week? On Palm Sunday we can begin with Christ’s coming into Jerusalem and carry on to the Resurrection on Easter Day.”

  Joliffe had started shaking his head against all that before Basset had finished saying it, had said, “No!” and if he had not been sitting down, would have been backing away. They had no plays like that already fitted to their small company, and because he was the one among them most skilled with words, he had known what was coming next.

  But Basset had gone cheerfully on. “We have that rough-handed copy of the Coventry plays I bought off Jack Melton, what was it, eight years ago? It has all the plays of the Passion. You can rework them to our use, easy as anything.”

  “Rework them and have done in time for us to learn the lines once I’ve written them, let alone do all the rest of it in a month’s time?” Joliffe had returned. “You’ve gone witless.”

  He had looked to Ellis and Rose for their good sense, but while Rose would have agreed with him, Ellis had already been seeing himself as Christ, the part he would surely have; and Piers and Gil had added their voices in favor, probably thinking of how many lesser parts there would be for them to share in. They had all joined in eager talk with Basset, leaving Joliffe and Rose shaking their heads hopelessly at one another.

  And yet, against all likelihood, they had somehow succeeded. Joliffe, working madly—“And mad I must be to be trying this,” he grumbled—had trimmed and reshaped the plays, keeping barely ahead of Basset rehearsing them, everyone learning their lines as they went, while Rose sewed her fingers sore readying their garb. She had even submitted, in their necessity, to taking parts, sometimes wearing a man’s long robe and a false beard to be an Apostle and f
ill out a Crowd—with only six in their company, Crowds were difficult. And of course she was the Virgin, gowned in blue and veiled in white, weeping and wringing her hands at the Crucifixion on Good Friday and exclaiming with joy at the Resurrection on Easter Sunday.

  She did stand firm, though, on never, ever having to say anything.

  Despite the Church’s muttering at the unseemly display, women were able to be players, but surprisingly few chose to be. Or not so surprisingly, Joliffe had thought more than once and especially on those days when the going was harder than ordinary because of weather or mishap, or a village was unwelcoming, or a town outright refused to let them play at all. On days like that he thought that women must be, on the whole, simply smarter than men. Not that Rose was a fool. Far from it. Her trouble was that as Thomas Basset’s daughter, she had been born to the life, then had married herself to it, too, taking a player in her father’s company for husband.

  That husband was long gone. No one knew—nor anymore much cared—where he might be, but her father was still master of the company and here she and her son Piers still were, and Joliffe feared to think what the company would do if ever she left them. She managed their money and them with a steady hand, sewed and mended their players’ garb and properties, made meals worth eating out of whatever food came their way, and for good measure nursed any of them who fell ill. She was even able to bring Ellis out of the dark humours that sometimes came on him. But when Joliffe had pleaded to write one speech for her as the Virgin Mary—“Just one. A short one”—she had answered, “No,” in the voice with which none of the players, including her father, ever cared to argue, and he had let it go.

  Instead he had added to young Gil’s speeches, which had pleased Gil. Part of their company less than a year, he was already well able to hold his own in anything asked of him. Besides that, Minster Lovell was his home manor and it could be only to the good for him to have a chance to show well there among his own folk.