A Play of Lords Read online

  Ellis gave all their opinion of that with a scornful, “Ha!” They all knew Basset would be no more idle than the rest of them. His was the burden of turning words from flat things on paper, living only in the mind of whoever read them, into something alive to the eyes and ears, for people to take pleasure in as a breathing, speaking, moving whole; and where other craftsmen worked with materials that left everything to the craftsman’s skill to determine whether he wrought well or ill with them, Basset had to use living men, so that his work of making words become life hung finally on their skills of voice and body. At the same time, their use of their own skills needed Basset’s skill to guide them to their best use, and so they were a company, bound by their understanding and need of each other.

  Which did not mean that everything was always easy among them, only that their understanding went a long way to bridging the irks that sometimes came. So while Basset settled himself with every outward sign of being pleased with himself, and Ellis and Joliffe and Gil made rude noises at him, there was good-humoured fellowship about it.

  Rose and Piers returned with a pot of ale and slices of freshly roasted beef on thick rounds of bread. Talk fell away in the pleasure of the food until Ellis said with a pleased sigh, “I love London.” He was answered by nods and mouth-filled mumbles of agreement all around. This was not the kind of fare that readily came one’s way in the countryside, even at wayside inns, which until of late they had not often been able to afford anyway. That they could afford it now—and at London prices—added to the pleasure. But afterwards came work again. Gil set to copying out Joliffe’s morning words. Rose had Piers’ garb enough along that she needed Piers to fit it to, while Ellis had the mask nearly ready for painting, along with muttered complaints that he could have done better if he had had more time. Basset shifted from the joint stool to settle himself on the piled mattresses with his back against the wall, his eyes closed, his hands folded on his stomach, alleging he was going to think. Joliffe returned to wording, inwardly echoing Ellis’ complaint. If only he had more time . . .

  But he did not. He and Basset had told Bishop Beaufort they needed six days only because they had doubted they could get away with asking for more. Yet here they were with hardly three—and half of that time gone—and Joliffe not doubting who was behind Lord Lovell’s desire they play at the earl of Mortain’s tomorrow. What he did not know was whether Bishop Beaufort had agreed to their six days meaning all along to shorten the time when chance of appeal was past, or whether something happened that brought him to change his need for them to play sooner.

  Of course from where the players stood, it did not matter why the change had come. Their need was to make a play that would satisfy Bishop Beaufort with a sufficiently sharp-edged thrust at the Dauphin, and Joliffe was doing that as fast as he could, and despite that he was dissatisfied at the cobbling and haste, he was confident enough of his own and the company’s skills to think it would play well enough when the time came, despite that time was coming so quickly.

  The only deep trouble he was having was the one he always had: a nagging need to think about what happened around him as well as to him, mixed with a need to understand the why of things.

  That he presently could do neither made a small, uncomfortable nibbling at the back of his thoughts that he suspected would turn into a raw gnawing if ever he gave it chance to do so, but that chance would not come until they had all survived doing this play, and that would not happen until he had finished writing it. So he wrote, and at the table Gil continued to scratch pen across paper, twice giving a choked laugh at whatever he was copying, which was encouraging, Joliffe thought. Rose, done with making certain Piers’ garb would fit, put it aside for now and, with Piers’ help, began to get out of the hampers what would be needed for tonight. Gil finished Ellis’ copy of his part as far as Joliffe had written it. Ellis left off working on the mask and took the pages away to a corner to see what he had to say and begin learning it. Once Mak put his head in at the door but must have seen that no one had need of him and went away. Sounds of people coming and going through the gateway went on, with all the bustle of London for background and sometimes the ringing out of bells from one or another of London’s many churches. The afternoon passed, and with the coal fire and all of them in the room, the place was warm to almost the point of drowsy. Despite that, Basset never slipped into the even breathing or soft snore of sleep, and when finally he opened his eyes and clapped his hands on his knees, there was satisfaction enough on his face for Joliffe to guess he was as pleased with his afternoon’s work as Joliffe was with his own. Certainly Basset beamed on them all as he looked around and said, “Everything’s well in hand, then? What about our supper, and does everyone remember their lines for tonight?”

  As if called, Mak was at the door again, looking merry as ever and tipping a wink at Basset while saying, “I saw you all hard at work, not looking like you needed me, so I’ve been out and about. You missed some good sport. A servant made the mistake of showing his face outside the Burgundian ambassadors’ door and was chased for three streets before he was caught.”

  “How badly was he hurt?” Joliffe asked.

  “Not much. The sheriffs’ men got to him almost soon enough. Might have got there sooner, but sometimes a man just isn’t as quick at his duty as he might be.”

  Meaning that the sheriffs’ men had let the Burgundian take some pounding before they rescued him.

  “Anything else toward?” Basset asked.

  Mak shrugged. “Some more lords are come in. Norfolk and Lord Grey, I’ve heard. Two days until parliament starts, so likely a few will come straggling in tomorrow. Odd, innit, that those are as nearest are always last, while such as the earl of Westmorland and the bishop of Durham get themselves here well before time.”

  “Want to get out of the North and away from the Scots while they’ve good excuse to,” said Joliffe cheerfully.

  “That would be it,” agreed Mak, the fervent Londoner.

  “Closer to home, who are guests here tonight?” Basset asked.

  “Ah.” Mak sounded pleased. He came all the way in, put his back to the wall beside the door, and slid down onto his heels, making himself comfortable before counting off on his fingers, “Philip Malpas. An up-and-comer among the drapers. Word is that if you want to know which way the money’s going to flow, you follow him. He’ll be there, ready to catch it when it comes out the spigot. Robert Large is coming, too, another draper, and if Malpas is up-and-coming, Large is already up-and-come. Then there’ll be Jacopo Ricci.”

  He made the most of the name’s strange sound.

  “Foreign, is he?” Ellis asked.

  “From Italy, aye. Or in better truth, from Genoa. There’s rarely one of them that’ll say he’s from Italy, like. They’re all from some city or other. All of them bleeding rich, though, every single one I’ve seen. And proud as Pilate,” he added broodingly.

  “Are there many of them about? Italians?” Basset asked.

  “When their galleys come, they’re thick as fleas here in London that time of year, but there’s always some.”

  “I suppose having no king to tax them, just their own city, helps them to be rich,” Joliffe said.

  Mak grinned. “There’s a thought you don’t want to start going round London.”

  “But don’t they do a lot of cutting of each other’s throats there in their cities?” Ellis asked. “That’s what I’ve heard.”

  “Men being as they are, they probably don’t like being taxed by each other any more than they’d like being taxed by a king,” said Joliffe. “Or,” he added as after-thought, “everybody wants to be the one doing the taxing. Although I’d think killing off the people you want to tax somewhat defeats the point of it all.”

  “Anyone else to be here tonight?” asked Basset, back to the point.

  “The abbot of Cirencester,” Mak answered. “Don’t know about him, but he’s been here before.”

  “He’s a friend o
f Lord Lovell,” said Gil. “He deals much in Cotswold wool, just as Lord Lovell does.”

  “Oh, and likely Malpas’ wife,” said Mak. “So Lady Lovell isn’t left on her own among them all. And maybe Master Large’s, but she’s sickly, not much out and about.”

  “A goodly assembly,” said Basset. “Piers, see you give your devil’s spear point an extra polish for tonight.”

  Chapter 7

  By the end of their playing of The Steward and the Devil that evening, people all over the hall were wiping away tears of mirth, even ones who had seen it before, it being one for which Lord Lovell often asked. Joliffe, making a mocking bow as the Devil at the end before swaggering out, saw that the Italian, too, was red-faced and dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, meaning he must have followed enough of the words to understand what had been going on or else that he simply enjoyed watching devils chasing and prodding spears at a man leaping and howling and trying to escape them on his way to Hell.

  Across the yard Rose was waiting in their room’s lamplit doorway and exclaimed as they reached her, “I heard the laughter from here!” as pleased as they were at it.

  Ellis took her in his arms and soundly kissed her, while Piers exclaimed, “Even the Italian was laughing!”

  “It was Malpas I watched,” said Basset, pulling off the wimple and veil he had worn as the Old Woman at the play’s end, uncovering his sweat-matted hair. “I’ll lay odds to evens he has us to play for him. If he does, it will open up London to us. The bishop of Winchester, the earl of Mortain, and rich Philip Malpas. After those, if we’re not made, my fellows, it’s no one’s fault but our own!”

  Rose pried herself loose from Ellis’ arms and began to see to their garb as they took it off, saying while she did, “There’s a bucket of water warming by the fire for you to wipe yourselves down before bed. Mind you dry well. Where’s the rest of the garb?”

  “In the hamper in the room where we changed,” Basset said from the depths of the Old Woman’s gown he was pulling off over his head. “Mak said he’d see to it being fetched while the hall was being cleared after the feast and that no one would fuss at it meanwhile.”

  “Good for Mak,” she said. “Piers, you know how to fold that tunic. Do it.”

  No matter how successful a playing was, there were always the practicalities that came afterwards, and they were finishing them, still in high good humour, when a kick at the now-closed door broke in on their glad talk. Gil was nearest and opened it to let in Mak carrying two-handed a large cloth-covered tray and followed by two of the hall servants with the hamper swung between them. While Mak set the tray on the table, Basset hurriedly found some farthings in his belt-pouch to give the servants in thanks. Grinning and saying that had been right good sport tonight in the hall, they took the coins and went, leaving Mak, who uncovered the tray with a flourish, revealing an array of roasted meats, slices of vegetable pie, and a large piece of what looked to be spice cake, all undoubtedly come from the feast.

  Piers and Gil gasped and reached as Mak said, proud as if he had cooked it, “Took it from the kitchen myself. No one grudged it, that’s sure, you’d given ’em such a laugh all around. Would’ve brought wine, too, but the butler wasn’t to hand to give me any.”

  The players assured him they could hardly be more pleased, and Basset gave him a coin, too, to prove it. Well-pleased with himself and them, Mak left, and they all gathered to the table and were eating gladly when a firm knock came at their door. Basset quickly wiped his hands on the towel Rose kept ready for Piers’ often-smeared mouth and went to answer. There being no guess at who this might be, the other players paused their eating, too, Joliffe surprised at how readily wariness came back to them all, even here where they were as safe as they were ever likely to be.

  But rather than trouble at the door, it was someone’s servingman who gave a quick, curious look past Basset at them and the room while saying, “I’m to speak to Lord Lovell’s players.”

  With a lift of his head and a deepening of his voice that somehow made nothing of the fact that he was rumple-haired and only in shirt and hosen, Basset said, “I’m this company’s master. You may speak to me.”

  The servingman blinked. “Ah. Aye,” he said uncertainly. “It’s you then.”

  Had he expected to find them still in the seeming they had had in the hall? Joliffe wondered. Or was it Basset’s bearing of authority that unsettled the man? Over the years the players had had to forgo respect often enough, but they all knew—and none better than Basset—that in this world if you did not claim your place and hold it, you were likely to sink quickly toward the bottom under the weight of other folks’ ambitions. So Basset by voice and bearing was laying claim to being a master and not a servant, and the fellow in front of him straightened and said in a changed voice that gave something of respect while at the same time claiming his own place in the way of things as servant to a wealthy man of whom surely the players must have heard, “My master Philip Malpas asks for you to play at his house two nights from now, between removes at a feast he’s giving.”

  Basset paused, as if considering the request, then slightly bowed his head, and answered, all seriously, “We will be honored to do so. Someone will come that day to let us know the time and all?”

  “Surely,” the man said. He backed off a step and slightly bowed. “I’ll tell him. He will be pleased.”

  “As we are,” Basset said and stood watching the fellow go away toward the hall, before shutting the door and turning back to the rest of them with a smile so wide across his face it should have split it. “Done!” he said triumphantly. “We’re made.” He came the few steps back to the table, seized Piers by the waist, and swung him up and around in the air, exclaiming, “We’re made!”

  With cheers, Gil and Joliffe linked arms at the elbow and jigged in a circle while Ellis grabbed Rose and danced her around the room, and Basset hugged Piers and set him down to join the dance, all of them laughing, giddy-witted with delight.

  With the excitement of it all, bed and sleep came later than they should have that night, but morning came as early as always, and Joliffe set to work to finish the Burgundy play with a high heart. The day was going to be desperate with hard work for all of them, but they were carried on the wave of last night’s triumphs and today’s hopes, and no one complained as they all set to it until Piers tried on the mask Ellis had made and said, “The buckram is scratching my face, and the whole thing is going to slide when I move.”

  “Suffer it,” Ellis said. “It’s the best I could do in the time.”

  Joliffe understood easily enough why Ellis was not pleased with either the mask or Piers’ complaint. Ellis was the one most skilled among them at making things with his hands, but he had not had chance to do his best work this time, had had to settle for what was possible in the while he had, and rather than a proper mask shaped into some gargoyle of a face, what he had made was no more than a flat piece of the stiff buckram so long so it went from below Piers’ chin to a double handspan above the top of his head and bent around the whole front of Piers’ head, covering his face from ear to ear. To that Ellis had fixed flaring bat-like ears on either side and a pointed snout thrusting out from the front, then painted it all black. It was big and clumsy and, “I can’t even see out of it,” Piers whined. “The eyeholes are the size of my little finger’s end. Look.”

  Holding the mask to his face with one hand again because it had no straps yet to hold it on, he blundered around the room to prove how blind it made him, bumping first into the stool and then into the table. Gil put out a hand to steady his inkwell, and Ellis said, scowling, “You see well enough to walk into those.”

  Whipping the mask away from his face, Piers protested, “I didn’t mean to!”

  Joliffe doubted that, and surely Piers got no sympathy from anyone else, except Basset took the mask from him and ordered, “Piers, stand still a minute and look at the thing.” He held it up, facing Piers, and took two steps back from
him. “Just look it right in the face.”

  Piers did, and Joliffe had his own first long look at the thing. The monster-sized face was not merely black. While the eyeholes were indeed so small they would be nigh to invisible on a moving player, Ellis had painted eyes that were huge, red, and starkly staring, outlined in white to make them glare. The red mouth—huge, too—was twisted into a brutal leer fringed with pointed teeth, and Ellis had somehow used the red and white paints to make the flat buckram look almost carved. Even the ears seemed to be shaped, with a small white worm crawling out of one of them. The mask’s shape was simple, but its effect was nasty, and when Basset slightly turned it from side to side and tilted it a little forward and a little back, the thing even seemed to change its look.