just before it would have begun to burn at the bottom.
He told himself that was reminder not to lose heed of the immediate moment in brooding about what had not, might not come to pass. Why should he worry overmuch just yet? Basset might altogether better and then the worry would be all a waste. If Basset did not altogether better, then would be the time to set to worrying.
The trick there, Joliffe knew too well, was to follow his own wise advice. And knew himself too well to believe he was likely to. But why shouldn’t he? Let things be as they were for a while. For the time being, Basset was bettering, Rose was content, the others were earning money. Beginning tomorrow he had easy work for himself, and if he had read her smiles at him a-right, Amice of the laundry had possibilities. What was there to be discontented about?
He was saved from following through on that thought by hearing voices calling good-nights and other things from the far side of the orchard where another field track must run. That would be folk coming home from the fields. Since there was never any saying when the weather would turn, harvest work began as soon as might be in the mornings and went on until it had to stop for darkness, everyone kept at it by the constant spur of knowing that what was not harvested now would not be there to feed them in the winter. Ellis, Gil, and Piers were going to be tired—ready for their supper and more than ready to sit down, Joliffe thought.
He found he had forgotten to stop stirring the pottage once he had started. He stopped now, took a taste from the spoon, and found it good. As always, Rose had made a plain pottage into something savory by whatever herbs she had added.
Rose sat up and said, “Take it from the fire, if you would, please.”
While Joliffe used a cloth she kept for pot-handling to shift the heavy pot from the tripod onto the trampled grass beside the firepit, she stretched and got slowly to her feet. “It’s done, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Done and delicious.”
“Lid it, please.” Rather than covering her hair, braided and coiled at the back of her head, again, she went to the cart to put her headkerchief safely away in her own small box of belongings such as they all had for what little was possible to carry with them in their life as players.
Several familiar voices were coming along the cart-path, accompanied by a soft thud of hooves. Joliffe, having put the spoon aside and the lid on the pot, went to meet them, glad to see as they turned from the track into the orchard that Tisbe had been rid of her harness somewhere, had only her halter and rope still on her. Ellis, Gil, and Piers were all stripped down to their shirts and short braies, with their hosen rolled down below their knees. They were sweat-marked by the day’s heat and probably twice as tired as they looked but had plainly paused along the way to wash something of the day’s sweat and dust from them—their heads had been lately ducked deep into water or had buckets poured over them—but they were all of them walking with the heavy tread of one-foot-in-front-of-another tiredness, and Joliffe was pleased all over again that he would not join them in the fields tomorrow.
Gil saw him first and called out, “Hai! Look who has come wandering back!”
“Look who’s been doing honest work for a change!” Joliffe returned.
“Not you, that’s sure,” Ellis growled.
“Here,” Piers said, thrusting Tisbe’s lead-rope at him. “Your turn.”
It was all so familiar that Joliffe wanted to laugh aloud, but instead scowled at him while taking the rope and demanded, “Have you been growing?”
“Like the proverbial weed, and just as useful,” Ellis said.
That Piers made no fast answer to that showed just how very tired he must be. Nor did he run ahead to see what his mother had ready for supper but continued to trudge on Tisbe’s other side. She rubbed her head against Joliffe’s shoulder to show she was
He told himself that was reminder not to lose heed of the immediate moment in brooding about what had not, might not come to pass. Why should he worry overmuch just yet? Basset might altogether better and then the worry would be all a waste. If Basset did not altogether better, then would be the time to set to worrying.
The trick there, Joliffe knew too well, was to follow his own wise advice. And knew himself too well to believe he was likely to. But why shouldn’t he? Let things be as they were for a while. For the time being, Basset was bettering, Rose was content, the others were earning money. Beginning tomorrow he had easy work for himself, and if he had read her smiles at him a-right, Amice of the laundry had possibilities. What was there to be discontented about?
He was saved from following through on that thought by hearing voices calling good-nights and other things from the far side of the orchard where another field track must run. That would be folk coming home from the fields. Since there was never any saying when the weather would turn, harvest work began as soon as might be in the mornings and went on until it had to stop for darkness, everyone kept at it by the constant spur of knowing that what was not harvested now would not be there to feed them in the winter. Ellis, Gil, and Piers were going to be tired—ready for their supper and more than ready to sit down, Joliffe thought.
He found he had forgotten to stop stirring the pottage once he had started. He stopped now, took a taste from the spoon, and found it good. As always, Rose had made a plain pottage into something savory by whatever herbs she had added.
Rose sat up and said, “Take it from the fire, if you would, please.”
While Joliffe used a cloth she kept for pot-handling to shift the heavy pot from the tripod onto the trampled grass beside the firepit, she stretched and got slowly to her feet. “It’s done, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Done and delicious.”
“Lid it, please.” Rather than covering her hair, braided and coiled at the back of her head, again, she went to the cart to put her headkerchief safely away in her own small box of belongings such as they all had for what little was possible to carry with them in their life as players.
Several familiar voices were coming along the cart-path, accompanied by a soft thud of hooves. Joliffe, having put the spoon aside and the lid on the pot, went to meet them, glad to see as they turned from the track into the orchard that Tisbe had been rid of her harness somewhere, had only her halter and rope still on her. Ellis, Gil, and Piers were all stripped down to their shirts and short braies, with their hosen rolled down below their knees. They were sweat-marked by the day’s heat and probably twice as tired as they looked but had plainly paused along the way to wash something of the day’s sweat and dust from them—their heads had been lately ducked deep into water or had buckets poured over them—but they were all of them walking with the heavy tread of one-foot-in-front-of-another tiredness, and Joliffe was pleased all over again that he would not join them in the fields tomorrow.
Gil saw him first and called out, “Hai! Look who has come wandering back!”
“Look who’s been doing honest work for a change!” Joliffe returned.
“Not you, that’s sure,” Ellis growled.
“Here,” Piers said, thrusting Tisbe’s lead-rope at him. “Your turn.”
It was all so familiar that Joliffe wanted to laugh aloud, but instead scowled at him while taking the rope and demanded, “Have you been growing?”
“Like the proverbial weed, and just as useful,” Ellis said.
That Piers made no fast answer to that showed just how very tired he must be. Nor did he run ahead to see what his mother had ready for supper but continued to trudge on Tisbe’s other side. She rubbed her head against Joliffe’s shoulder to show she was
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