A Play of Dux Moraud (27 page)

“Ah, but that’s because you are perfection itself,” her father said. “Whatever you do is beyond the bounds of others’ hopes and no more could be desired than what you give.”

Rose rolled her eyes, and Ellis lightly slapped the back of Piers’ head before Piers had more than opened his mouth to make some bright comment back at his grandfather.

“You do but speak the truth, good sir,” Joliffe said, standing up and brushing bread crumbs from the skirt of his doublet. “Shall we make ready?”

Rose helped Joliffe into Marian’s gown and with the long wig, then held the small mirror while he colored his face. Basset and Ellis saw to Gil, and Piers took care of himself. By the time they were ready to head for the hall, Gil was looking as if he was working not to be ill, and Basset said bracingly as if to them all, “We know what we’re doing. We’ve done the play here. We can do it there. Simple as that. Onward!”

At the hall, at the play’s beginning, Joliffe and Ellis entered the hall first, leaving the others waiting in the screens passage. Gil still looked ill and was standing stiffly, as if waiting for the worst to happen, but when he came in behind Basset, he came with firm stride and hand on sword hilt, just as Basset had been teaching him; and he took up his stance with enough swagger but not too much, said his line out loud and clear when he was supposed to, made his move on Marian on the sixth blow of the swords, and died without excess from Robin’s perfectly placed sword thrust. He could not have done better if they had rehearsed him for a week, Joliffe thought, nor their audience been more approving, with even a few cries of “down-with-the-sheriff ” among the clapping and thumping on tables afterward, so that the whole company returned across the yard in high and merry humour, Rose with them because she had slipped into the passage to watch with the servants, wanting to see how it went.

Too over-pleased to contain himself, Gil strode ahead with Piers, talking and talking about how it had gone. The rest of them followed more slowly, as pleased but too tired for much more than wide smiling, except Basset said thoughtfully as they went, “I maybe better take up Lord Lovell’s offer of an apprentice’s contract for him. Otherwise, the first greater company that sees him will hire him away from us before I can say, ‘Wait!’”

At the cartshed, they found Rose had been to the kitchen before coming to the hall and had brought back a pitcher of ale and plate of small seedcakes. “Because you’d either be in need of comforting if all went wrong,” she said, “or else we would want to feast your triumph.”

“Feast it is!” said Basset, and for good measure they built up the fire, too.

Tiredness wasn’t far behind them, though, and they were beginning to ready for bed when Joliffe said, “Someone is coming.”

They all turned and looked into the darkness, waiting, half-wary, until the maidservant Avice came out of the shadows into the little lantern-light. Not cloaked for the chill night, she had her arms wrapped around herself and was not looking happy to be there as she pulled one hand free, pointed at Joliffe, and said, “You. My lady has a headache. She wants you to play your lute for her until she sleeps.”

“Lady Benedicta?” Joliffe said, with a sinking feeling in his belly already telling him otherwise.

“Mariena.” Avice shifted from foot to foot. “She’s gone to her bedchamber. She’ll have wanted you there five minutes ago. Make haste, won’t you?”

Chapter 18

With his lute slung behind his shoulder by its strap, Joliffe followed Avice not back to the hall or even to the tower but farther along the yard to the wooden stairs leading up to the open gallery that ran outside the wing of rooms there. It being evening’s end, most of the lanterns around the yard were out, only the ones at the hall door, the top of the stairs to the tower, and the outer gateway still burning. Glints and hints of light showed at window shutters’ chinks and cracks here and there along the wing, but he and Avice were in shadow where she stopped at the stairfoot, and he only faintly saw her pause at rubbing her arms to point upward as she said, “You want that door there at the near end, where the light’s showing around the shutter’s edge, and if she has a headache, I’m a lark on the wing. Good luck to you.”

She started to leave but when, startled, Joliffe said, “What?” she turned back, came close to him, and hissed, “She has an itch like a she-cat on the prowl, does our Mariena. The sooner she’s married and somebody satisfies her, the better for everyone.” She moved closer, her breath warm on his cheek as she said even lower, “Look you, no matter how willing she gives out to be, don’t you think you’ll get more than some kisses and an ache in your loins from her, that’s all. Meanwhile”—her own hands found him in the dark—“give us a kiss, there’s a sweetheart.”

Thinking, Why not? Joliffe pulled her to him; and when he had done and let her go, she went on leaning against him a long moment before finally giving a deep sigh of contentment and stepping back.

“That,” she murmured, “will warm me to my bed.” She laid a hand on his chest. “Just you be careful up there. Don’t give her any kisses like that or you’ll find yourself in trouble you won’t get out of easy.”

With that, she was gone away into the shadows before Joliffe could promise he meant very much to stay out of that kind of trouble.

More worried than he wanted to be, he went up the stairs and along the open-sided gallery, instinctively quiet-footed in the settled-for-the-night quiet of the manor. Because of his quiet, he surely was not heard as he neared Mariena’s door—instead heard a man’s voice from inside that stopped him where he was. If Mariena had a man with her, then . . .

Angrily, loudly, in answer to something Mariena said, “I’m to marry him in three days! You said—”

The man’s voice interrupted hers, and Joliffe moved quickly to the window, getting his ear near to the shutter in time to hear, “. . . not give you up. What does married have to do with it? Because you’re married doesn’t mean you’ll stay married.”

Silence answered that for a long moment before Mariena said slowly, “Oh.” And after another pause, sounding as if she were smiling, “You mean that I’m to have him for a pretty while and then—”

“And then we pray,” Sir Edmund said, his voice cold and quelling, “that your wedded bliss goes on for a long, long while. Yes?”

Again there was a pause from Mariena before she said again, as if just catching up to his thought, “Oh.” And then with sudden false brightness, “Yes.” And on a note of laughter, “Oh, yes!”

A silence followed that Joliffe tried not to fill with any thought of what the two of them might be doing together. To count on it lasting long, though, was hardly safe. Sir Edmund must have come to her unexpectedly. He was not likely to linger long, and this not being a place to be caught overhearing, Joliffe had one foot raised toward retreat when Sir Edmund said in a suddenly harsher voice, “One thing, though. Leave off on Will.”

Mariena began what sounded like a protest but broke off on a yelp of pain as Sir Edmund went on, “Let one more thing happen to him and you’ll have bruises to explain to Amyas on your wedding night, along with your missing maidenhead.”

“You swore he wouldn’t know,” Mariena said, sounding half-way to angry and at the same time afraid.

“He won’t know,” Sir Edmund said coldly. “I’ll have him so fumble-brained with drink, he won’t know more than that he’s had you, if he even knows that much. But bruises he won’t miss. If not that night, then the next. So you leave Will alone.”

Mariena started, “I haven’t done . . .” but broke off with a squeak of surprise or pain.

“Leave him alone now and ever after,” Sir Edmund said, his voice flat with threat. “He’s my son. He’s my heir. You leave him alone. If ever he’s hurt and I think it’s your doing . . .”

He left the threat for her to imagine for herself. Or maybe he showed her again the pain he had in mind if she disobeyed him, but Joliffe was in full retreat by then, having heard enough. His thought was to go back to the stairs and down, to wait in shadows until Sir Edmund was gone, but the door’s latch rattled, telling someone was coming out, and he vaulted the gallery’s railing, hung by his hands for the hairsbreadth of an instant before he let loose and dropped soft-footed to the ground just as the opening door spilled light in a narrow band across the gallery walk. Out of sight in the darkness below it, he moved swiftly into the deeper darkness under the gallery and pressed himself to the wall there, holding his breath. His thought was that Sir Edmund would go along the gallery to the tower and his own chamber. If he did not . . . if he came down the stairs to the yard and was carrying any kind of a light . . .

Joliffe began to breathe again as Sir Edmund’s footfall went away toward the tower; but he stayed where he was until he heard the tower’s thick door shut and even then he moved only to the edge of the deeper darkness under the gallery, keeping from sight while he looked to be sure there was no one to be seen anywhere. Unseen watchers he could do nothing about. If they were there, they had already seen him and worry about them was useless, and taking a deep, steadying breath, he left hiding and—this time not quiet at all about his going—bounded up the stairs. For good measure, he whistled an uneven, seemingly absent-minded tune as he neared the door, meaning to sound like a simple man with nothing to hide. In the same quick, easy way he started to rap at the door, but before his second knock fell, it was snatched open and a frightened-faced woman looked out at him.

For a moment he stared at her, startled. As a knight’s daughter, Mariena was of course companioned almost everywhere, certainly in her bedchamber. The woman would be her waiting-maid. But with what he had just heard, he had thought to find Mariena alone. That she was not unsettled him in a new way. If this woman was not a complete fool, she had to know what was between Mariena and her father, just as the man who had held their horses in the woods this afternoon had to know. How wide did the corruption spread in this place?

On the instant, though, he turned his own startlement into a wide smile and a small, flourished bow; and the woman said over her shoulder, “It’s the player, my lady. You sent for him, remember.”

“Of course I remember,” Mariena snapped. “Let him in and close that door. It’s cold out there.”

The woman was already stepping aside, opening the door wider for him to come in. He did, more outwardly bold than he inwardly felt.

Mariena’s room was far smaller than her parents’ in the tower but as comfortable in its way. The shutters and door and roof-beams were painted a forest-green. The bedhangings were a strong blue. A woven mat of golden rushes covered some of the floor, and on one wall a painted tapestry of flowers and trees showed dimly in the shadows beyond the light of the small oil lamp burning on a square table between the bed and a small fireplace in the farther wall.

Mariena was standing there, her back to the low fire, already in her bedrobe of some dark, green fabric that fell in heavy, loose folds from her shoulders to the floor. Her hair was loose, too, a dark, soft frame to her white face; but she was cradling one arm against her as if it hurt and Joliffe hoped it did. What had Amyas Breche ever done that she should so look forward to being his widow?

The pity was Sir Edmund was probably in no pain at all, despite he surely deserved to be, probably even more than Mariena did.

But presently Joliffe was more worried about his own plight than Amyas’. Even without Avice’s warning, he would not have been happy to be there, as good as alone with Mariena. Nor did the way Mariena was presently staring at him make him any happier.

For one thing, he could not tell whether she was looking at him with lust or anger. For another, he did not know what he would do, whichever it was. Anger, he decided as he made a low and sweeping bow to her, would be the better. With anger she might be satisfied simply to send him away. If it was lust, he would have to forestall her, whatever the after-cost of her displeasure might be.

Without taking her eyes from him or smiling, Mariena ordered, “Wine, Lesya. For both of us.” And at him, “Come here.”

Joliffe went, stopped before he was very near, and bowed again. “My lady.”

She let go of her arm, put one hand to her throat at the closed front of her bedgown, and with the other shifted the bedgown’s long folds away from her feet as she moved toward him. Even under the bedgown’s loose flow, the graceful, deliberate sway of her hips showed. She was, beyond denying, beautiful. She was also not for him even to touch except at his peril, and he was judging at what point he could step back from her without giving offense, when she stopped far enough from him for propriety’s sake but too near for his comfort. Her smile at him was bright and young with innocence, but he no longer believed in her innocence in any sense of the word, and keeping his own face as bland as might be, he slipped his lute from behind his shoulders to in front of him and said, drawing his fingers across the strings in a gentle, low strum, “I grieve to hear you’re troubled with a headache, my lady, but pleased you thought my lute and I might do you service.”

Mariena took another step toward him, too near now. She put out a hand and stroked it down the neck and along the body of the lute, stopping just short of his fingers. Softly she said, “I hope you may. Do me service.” She looked up at him from under her lashes. “You played the damsel in your play tonight very well, but I think from what else I’ve seen of you, there’s nothing of the damsel truly about you.”

To weave words with a woman toward a mutually desired end could be a pleasant pastime, but just now words were his only protection against Mariena, and with no pleasure at all, he said carefully, “I’m pleased the play pleased you, my lady.”

“The play pleased everyone,” she said. “But
you
pleased
me
.”

Her eyes, raised to his face, were inviting him to kiss her, and though he had pleasured women before now because his playing had pleased them—had pleasured himself, too, or he’d not have done it—everything about Mariena was too dangerous for even so slight a matter as a kiss. Besides the plain peril of making sport with a knight’s unmarried daughter at all, he was become frightened of Mariena herself. Women driven by lust could, in their need, be either dangerous or tedious, depending on who they were and how many or few wits they brought to the business. At worst they could be both dangerous
and
tedious, and he had begun to think Mariena was one of that kind. But he had no wish to find out further and for certain, nor did he want to give her any claim on him in any way.