Authors: Margaret Frazer
A Play of Heresy (16 page)
“Ned’s sister,” Powet said, and farther along the passageway, when Dick had run on ahead, “Herry offered for her last year, but the Emes aren’t for marrying outside their own kind if they can help it.”
“Being Lollards,” Joliffe said, to see what more he might hear.
“Being Lollards,” Powet agreed easily. “But quiet ones, like I said before. Do just enough of what the Church wants to keep the priest happy and otherwise go their own way. Had no part in that foolery seven years ago.”
Belatedly, Joliffe wondered why Sebastian had not known about the Emes’ Lollardy. If it was so easily known, Robyn Kydwa had to have known of it, too, and surely should have told him. Or—and this thought Joliffe did not like at all—what if Kydwa had known and
not
told Sebastian? Then the question had to be why he had not. And had the telling—or the not telling—played any part in his and his servant’s deaths?
not
told Sebastian? Then the question had to be why he had not. And had the telling—or the not telling—played any part in his and his servant’s deaths?
Or—and this Joliffe could believe almost as readily as anything else—Kydwa had indeed already told Sebastian about the Emes, and Sebastian had simply chosen not to let Joliffe know how much he knew. That would be very much like Sebastian.
Joliffe followed Powet into the kitchen. Old John Kydwa was still in his chair to the far side of the hearth, looking as nowhere as the other times Joliffe had seen him. Cecily was standing at one end of the table rolling out a pastry crust while Mistress Byfeld and her daughter were seated on stools at the table’s other end, slicing strawberries into readied pastry shells. Ned Eme was straddling a bench on the near side of the table, helping himself to a whole strawberry from a basket and saying to Cecily before nipping off its stalk, “When will his funeral be? Is it determined?”
“Tomorrow,” the girl said, intent on the pastry. “In the morning. There’s to be a wedding there in the afternoon, but Father Anthony says we can have the morning.”
Ned tossed the strawberry stem into the stem-filled bowl in front of Anna Deyster. She did not look up, but it was to her he said, gentle-voiced, “Anna, I’m sorry. You know I am. If I had waited and gone with him . . .”
“You’ve said.” Her voice was flat and she did not look up from the strawberry she was deftly slicing.
“But if I had . . .”
Slamming the knife down on the cutting board, Anna sprang to her feet.
“You’ve said!”
“You’ve said!”
Ned in distress tried to catch her near hand. “Anna . . .”
She knocked over the stool behind her as she backed out of his reach. Ned started to rise, hand still out toward her. Anna turned away, crossed the kitchen in a rush, and fled up the stairs to whatever of sanctuary she might find there. As Ned moved as if to follow her, Mistress Byfeld said firmly, “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”
Ned stopped, then sank down onto the bench again, looking confused and hurt. “But if I
had
waited instead of going . . .”
had
waited instead of going . . .”
“There’s no blame to you that you didn’t,” Mistress Byfeld said. “No one knew any reason you should have waited, when need was for you to be away.
Now
is when you need to wait. It’s too soon to ask her to turn to you. We keep telling you that.”
Now
is when you need to wait. It’s too soon to ask her to turn to you. We keep telling you that.”
Ned sighed. “I know. It’s just—you know.”
Powet went to lay a consoling hand on his shoulder. “We know, lad. You’ve waited a long time and it’s hard to wait longer.”
As Ned nodded what looked like unwilling agreement to that, John Kydwa stirred in his chair. Everyone turned startled looks toward him. In a voice cracked and dry with un-use, he said toward somewhere on the floor beyond his knees, “All things have their time, and all things under the sun pass in their time. Time of birth and time of dying. Time . . . time . . .” His failing voice faltered over those words from the Bible. He bent his head upward from his stooped shoulders and seemed to look—supposing he saw anyone at all—at Ned. “Time . . . Time to slay, and time to make whole. Time . . .”
Cecily gave a gasp and started toward him, hope lighting her face, but Ned was nearer, saying as he took three strides toward Kydwa, “We don’t need your bible-talk, old man! You lost your right to God’s word. You . . .”
He was bending over to shout into Kydwa’s face as Cecily reached them both. As Kydwa’s head dropped, blank-faced again, she seized Ned by the shoulder, dragged him back a step and spun him around, then with both hands on his chest shoved him violently away from her father. She was shorter than him by half a head, but Joliffe had seen strength like that in women often enough. It came of all their carrying of full buckets of water and baskets of laundry, their shifting heavy cooking pots onto the fire and off, and their scrubbing, always scrubbing. That they rarely chose to use it against men was men’s good fortune, Joliffe had thought before now. Men’s good fortune and the Church’s teaching that women should be obedient to men. His other thought was that if women ever decided not to bow to that teaching, it would go hard with all the unprepared men.
Ned was assuredly unprepared. He backed from Cecily’s reach as she said angrily at him, “You leave him alone. You’re not someone to be talking to anybody about God’s word. You—you—”
Before she found what she wanted to call him, Mistress Byfeld said, quiet but firm, “Best you go now, Ned. As old John says, there’s time for all, but this isn’t time for you here. Later but not now. Go on.”
“Come on, lad,” Powet said, going to again put a hand on Ned’s shoulder, this time to begin drawing him away toward the passageway.
Baffled and beginning to be resentful, Ned let Powet guide him but complained as he went, “It isn’t me you should all be angry at. It’s George, isn’t it? Where is he? Run off with Robyn’s money, that’s where. Why be mad at
me
?”
me
?”
“Because you’re here, lad,” Powet said. “That’s all. It will be better later. Be patient. We’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow, yes?”
Looking back and forth between Cecily’s still-furious glare at him and Mistress Byfeld’s encouraging, comforting nod, Ned said, “Yes. Tomorrow.” And suddenly sounding the penitent boy, added, “I’m sorry, Cecily. Master Kydwa. I’m sorry.”
Master Kydwa, gone again, did not stir. Cecily made an impatient gesture that might have been forgiveness or just a wish for Ned to go away. Joliffe saw him swallow heavily, as if choking down other words, before he spun away and left, disappearing into the passageway. Everyone waited. Only when they heard the outer door shut behind him did Cecily turn away to begin a fussing at her father, and Mistress Byfeld return to slicing strawberries. To Joliffe and Dick as if there had been no break, Powet said, “We’ll to the yard now and to work, shall we?”
Chapter 12
T
he work with Dick went well enough, and Joliffe told him so. That did not keep the boy from bolting out the yard’s rear gate as soon as Joliffe released him. Powet, watching his great-nephew escape, suggested they leave the same way. “So as not to trouble my niece, you know.”
he work with Dick went well enough, and Joliffe told him so. That did not keep the boy from bolting out the yard’s rear gate as soon as Joliffe released him. Powet, watching his great-nephew escape, suggested they leave the same way. “So as not to trouble my niece, you know.”
More likely to avoid being called to account for Dick’s disappearance, Joliffe guessed, but agreed. His own motives were mixed and he regretted that. He liked Powet, understood somewhat the hurt the man was in, but beyond that he was not likely to have a better source than Powet for matters in Coventry and about Kydwa. That made of value every chance to talk with him and draw him out.
Happily, the latter was never hard to do. Beyond the back gate was not a garden, as Joliffe had expected, but a town orchard of the sort meant for the use of the citizens whose houses bounded on it. Powet led him slantwise among the trees to come to the rear door of an alehouse where they settled down at a table with cups and a pitcher of strong ale, and Powet, having worn out talk of Dick and the play on their way here, went on to the next thing that must be strongest in his mind. Without prompting from Joliffe, he said, “Poor Ned. I wish he’d put his mind all to the play and leave off with Anna for a time. No one can make him see it’s too soon. He keeps coming to the house or, yesterday, he met her in the street and would not be put off keeping her company all her way home. Anna said afterward he hovered over her and she hated it.”
“Hovered?” Joliffe echoed, diverted by the word.
Powet lifted his arms to the sides and moved them in imitation of small, rapid wing-beats. “Like a lapwing over its nest,” he said.
“Or a hawk watching for prey,” Joliffe returned.
Powet chuckled. He had already drunk deep of the ale and was becoming noticeably light of tongue and cheerful of wit. “Prey—that’s good. See? Prey. Pray. Anna was coming from church. She’d been praying for Robyn. And there was Ned. Preying.”
He chuckled some more. Joliffe chuckled, too, and then despite a twinge of shame at making use of him, asked with a slurring deliberately more than Powet’s, “Poor ol’ Ned. She’s a pretty prize. He been waiting long?”
“Long and long and long and long.” Powet stopped himself with apparent difficulty. “And long. It has to be love because even now he wants her and she’s not even a rich widow, just a poor one.”
“Not so poor, surely. Her husband maybe left her next to naught otherwise, but there’s still a property from her dower, surely. Am I remembering that rightly?”
“There’s that. Aye. A proper, prosperous, pretty p . . . p . . . p . . .” Powet fumbled, trying to find another “p” word. He settled for, “. . . place. If she and Robyn had married, they’d have moved there.”
“Well, there’s why ol’ Ned is so willing to her,” Joliffe said, feigning triumph at having the thought. “A house, a shop, an income, a wife he wants to have. Not bad for a younger son to marry into. Wants in before someone else comes to woo her.”
“Oh, ol’ Ned has wanted her since forever,” Powet said, muffled by the cup he had raised to drink deeply from again. “There’s nothing new about that.”
Joliffe made show of pausing with his cup raised halfway to his mouth and said as if totally confused, “But he was going to travel with Kydwa to Bristol. Ned was on about it. Not like they were rivals for your niece. How if he’d waited, it wouldn’t have happened and all.”
“Business and profit are business and profit,” Powet said glumly. “When it’s something probably not worth Master Eme’s or Richard’s going, it’s Ned they send. It was a minor matter in Bristol, so it was Ned they told to go. Happened Robyn was going, too. Joanna—my niece—was the one who said why didn’t they travel together. I don’t think either much liked the thought, and now we have to listen to Ned bellyaching about ‘if only.’” Powet refilled his own cup from the pitcher between them, saying while he did, “Young fool hasn’t thought yet that it might have happened to them both if they’d been together.” He took a long swallow and went on, “Nor it’s no blame to him he went on ahead. Old John Kydwa took one of his turns for the worse as he does sometimes. Robyn wouldn’t leave his sister to cope on her own. Ned said his family would have his hide if he missed his chance in Bristol and went off about two days before Robyn was able to. Got all hot with hurry and away he went. Didn’t even take a servant. Just his good fortune he wasn’t the one the thieves happened on.” “What of what he was saying about Kydwa’s servant doing it? Is that what everybody says?” Joliffe asked.
“What else is there to say? Robyn is dead. George isn’t to be found anywhere.” Powet dropped his voice and leaned closer as if to give away a large secret. “But I don’t think it. Nor does anyone who ever knew him. His body is somewhere. I don’t know why it wasn’t with Robyn’s, but it’s somewhere. He never did any harm to Robyn. Never.”
Joliffe poured the last of the ale from the pitcher into Powet’s cup and said as Powet drank deeply, “So is Ned in with a chance? Or does he have more rivals to Mistress Deyster’s heart?”
“Nay, there’s no one else of late, not once she made it clear Robyn was her choice. Between her and her mother, they frighted off the others.”
“But not ol’ Ned,” Joliffe slurred, readying to take another apparently deep draught from his cup. “Ol’ Ned hasn’t frighted.”
“Hasn’t the sense to fright off marrying. Ah, he’s a good lad, all in all. Comely and not a fool. He and Anna would do well enough together if she’d have him.”
“Will she? In the end and all?”
Powet shrugged. “Who’s to say? Women. I’ve never understood’em.”
“You never married.”
“Did. She died. Just as well. She and Joanna never got on. Huh. Come to it, she and me never got on.”
Joliffe frowned. “But you said his family and yours didn’t favor his sister marrying Herry. Why would they favor him marrying her?” Which was muddled but Powet understood and nodded sagely.
“Younger son. Get him provided for by way of a wife with wealth, then there’s more of the family’s own can be left for the elder. Daughter is well-looking enough, they mean to make the wealthiest marriage they can.” Powet leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Wealthy and a Lollard for her husband.”
Leaning forward and lowering his voice, too, Joliffe said, “Anna—” Deliberately hiccuped and corrected himself. “Mistress Deyster isn’t a Lollard.”
“Nay. Never and a day.”
“But then Ned’s family—”
“Nobody thinks he cares about God’s word one way or another so strongly he’ll get into Lollard-trouble over it. Add that to his family being likely tired to death of him wanting no one but Anna, they’d settle for it. Get him married and off their hands. That’s how it is with them.”
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