said anything to her,
“No.
It’s a flat lie. He’s bringing less than a hundred men. Suffolk is a liar.”
That was boldly said and Frevisse would have questioned him more, to find out what else he would say, but at that moment Master Wilde came into the hall, cap in hand, face furiously flushed, and hair ruffled into an angry crest. Behind him, almost treading on his heels, came Brother Lydgate, holding out papers toward his back and insisting, “Let me read it to you again. You’ll surely hear…”
Master Wilde spun around, took the papers, and said with what sounded like a clenched jaw and the last bit of patience in him, “I’ll read it and see what I can do. Right? Right. Now we have to get on with things. Toller will see you out.
Toller!”
Toller appeared through the doorway at Brother Lydgate’s back and, much like a shepherd’s dog with a thick-headed sheep, ushered Lydgate backward from Master Wilde and out of the hall. No one else moved or spoke until there was the solid thud of the outer door closing. Then with a massive release of breath, Master Wilde spun around, declared, “Enough. Let’s get on with this,” and stalked up the hall, stripping off his cloak as he went and tossing it toward a lidded basket, not caring that he missed, ordering, “All of you to your places. Where you’ll be when you enter at your turn. We’re doing this all the way through, remember. No stopping. No help on lines. If you don’t have them now, there’s no hope anyway.”
Ahead of him the paint and brushes were being hurriedly cleared to the side. The top and front of the stairs had sensibly been done this morning and hopefully were dry. Master Wilde started up them, turned around to give some order, Frevisse supposed, but instead roared toward the hall doorway,
“Now what?”
Everyone looked. Even Joane, who had steadfastly gone on stitching through everything else, jerked up her head to see a man standing there, stopped by Master Wilde’s roar. He was no one Frevisse knew; an older man quietly gowned in what was, although black and ankle-long, assuredly no monk’s robe. Deeply pleated from yoke to belted waist, with full sleeves gathered to the wrists and high-standing collar, it bespoke a man of some position in the world, only its color and his closely fitted, plain black hat suggesting he was a churchman of some kind.
If he was, it presently carried no weight with Master Wilde, who demanded at full voice, “What do you want here?” And louder still, “Toller!”
Toller seemed to be absent but from a near corner of the steps Joliffe said something up to Master Wilde that Frevisse did not hear. It earned him a glare from Master Wilde, who then snapped, “If you say so,” and to the man, only a little more graciously, “Come in if you will, my lord. Sit there, please you.”
He pointed toward the bench where Frevisse and Arteys already were. The man bent his head to him, and while Master Wilde returned to dealing with his players, came up the hall. Frevisse and Arteys both rose to their feet as courtesy required and the man with equal courtesy nodded to them to sit, sat himself on Arteys’ other side, and leaned forward to say past him to Frevisse, “My lady, you are… ?”
There was Oxford in his voice and something else that Frevisse could not immediately place as she answered him with the same graciousness as he had asked, “Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s priory in Oxfordshire, my lord. And you are… ?”
‘Bishop Pecock of St. Asaph’s.“
That gave her pause. If that was what Joliffe had told Master Wilde, then Master Wilde had had small choice in “allowing” the bishop to stay because bishops, even of so small a bishopric as Frevisse knew St. Asaph’s to be, were lords by virtue of their office and members of the royal council, not someone to be yelled at and ordered around by a common playmaster. But Bishop Pecock seemed to have
“No.
It’s a flat lie. He’s bringing less than a hundred men. Suffolk is a liar.”
That was boldly said and Frevisse would have questioned him more, to find out what else he would say, but at that moment Master Wilde came into the hall, cap in hand, face furiously flushed, and hair ruffled into an angry crest. Behind him, almost treading on his heels, came Brother Lydgate, holding out papers toward his back and insisting, “Let me read it to you again. You’ll surely hear…”
Master Wilde spun around, took the papers, and said with what sounded like a clenched jaw and the last bit of patience in him, “I’ll read it and see what I can do. Right? Right. Now we have to get on with things. Toller will see you out.
Toller!”
Toller appeared through the doorway at Brother Lydgate’s back and, much like a shepherd’s dog with a thick-headed sheep, ushered Lydgate backward from Master Wilde and out of the hall. No one else moved or spoke until there was the solid thud of the outer door closing. Then with a massive release of breath, Master Wilde spun around, declared, “Enough. Let’s get on with this,” and stalked up the hall, stripping off his cloak as he went and tossing it toward a lidded basket, not caring that he missed, ordering, “All of you to your places. Where you’ll be when you enter at your turn. We’re doing this all the way through, remember. No stopping. No help on lines. If you don’t have them now, there’s no hope anyway.”
Ahead of him the paint and brushes were being hurriedly cleared to the side. The top and front of the stairs had sensibly been done this morning and hopefully were dry. Master Wilde started up them, turned around to give some order, Frevisse supposed, but instead roared toward the hall doorway,
“Now what?”
Everyone looked. Even Joane, who had steadfastly gone on stitching through everything else, jerked up her head to see a man standing there, stopped by Master Wilde’s roar. He was no one Frevisse knew; an older man quietly gowned in what was, although black and ankle-long, assuredly no monk’s robe. Deeply pleated from yoke to belted waist, with full sleeves gathered to the wrists and high-standing collar, it bespoke a man of some position in the world, only its color and his closely fitted, plain black hat suggesting he was a churchman of some kind.
If he was, it presently carried no weight with Master Wilde, who demanded at full voice, “What do you want here?” And louder still, “Toller!”
Toller seemed to be absent but from a near corner of the steps Joliffe said something up to Master Wilde that Frevisse did not hear. It earned him a glare from Master Wilde, who then snapped, “If you say so,” and to the man, only a little more graciously, “Come in if you will, my lord. Sit there, please you.”
He pointed toward the bench where Frevisse and Arteys already were. The man bent his head to him, and while Master Wilde returned to dealing with his players, came up the hall. Frevisse and Arteys both rose to their feet as courtesy required and the man with equal courtesy nodded to them to sit, sat himself on Arteys’ other side, and leaned forward to say past him to Frevisse, “My lady, you are… ?”
There was Oxford in his voice and something else that Frevisse could not immediately place as she answered him with the same graciousness as he had asked, “Dame Frevisse of St. Frideswide’s priory in Oxfordshire, my lord. And you are… ?”
‘Bishop Pecock of St. Asaph’s.“
That gave her pause. If that was what Joliffe had told Master Wilde, then Master Wilde had had small choice in “allowing” the bishop to stay because bishops, even of so small a bishopric as Frevisse knew St. Asaph’s to be, were lords by virtue of their office and members of the royal council, not someone to be yelled at and ordered around by a common playmaster. But Bishop Pecock seemed to have
Similar Books
