taken no offense. Rather, his attention had shifted to Arteys. “And who are you, young man?”
‘Arteys, my lord.“
‘A Welsh name,“ Bishop Pecock said promptly. ”Often corrupted in English to ’Arthur,‘ a king of many legends and the subject of far more stories than can be true. A noble name nonetheless and better in the Welsh than in English. Are you Welsh?“
‘On my mother’s side.“
Bishop Pecock leaned forward for a nearer look and asked, “What is the rest of your name, young Arteys?”
After a very motionless moment, Arteys answered, “FitzGloucester, my lord.”
Bishop Pecock sat back with a single nod, as if satisfied of something, and veered his questioning back to Frevisse, asking courteously, “What do you here, Dame?”
It was a reasonable question, this being hardly a likely place for a nun, and Frevisse made brief explanation of how she came to accompany young John, leaving out everything about herself and why she was at Bury St. Edmunds at all. Then, deciding such questions could go both ways, she asked, “And you, my lord. Why are you here?”
Bishop Pecock smiled. “I’m avoiding one duty by claiming another. One might even say ‘feigning’ another. I should be with the lords in council at this very moment but found that my wits were at peril of curdling if I listened even another quarter hour to their talk. Therefore I determined to do something else and am here, where I doubt I’ll be easily found even if someone is looking for me, which they are probably not.”
That both a bishop and Arteys were here for the sake of not being somewhere else gave Frevisse an inward smile.
But Bishop Pecock still had questions and now asked, “This play, Dame, how much of it have you seen?”
‘I don’t know.“
He raised his rather notable eyebrows, questioning her answer without need to say a word. Obligingly she added, “The few times I’ve been here, they’ve played it only in bits and pieces. Today is the first time they’re to do it from start to end all at once. That’s why Master Wilde is somewhat on edge.”
She was surprised to hear herself excusing the play-master; was equally surprised at Bishop Pecock’s easy nod accepting that. “Better honest irk than false courtesy,” he said and probably would have said more—he seemed to be a man with always more to say—but Master Wilde had finished with whatever last things he had for the players and at that moment roared out to the hall at large for silence and, when he had it, said, abruptly calm, “Now we begin.”
On the instant there was no movement or sound from anyone in the hall. Even Mistress Wilde and Joane paused their sewing, and because the curtains that would back the playing place were not hung on their long frames yet, all the players were in sight, too, grouped here and there aside from Heaven’s tower, wherever they needed to be for when they would come into the play on their turn. Even John, who was not needed until later, was in his place, waiting solemnly, silently, beside Giles. From partway up the stairs, Master Wilde looked at them all, assessing their readiness, then went up the last steps to the top, swung around, and sat down on the joint stool in a way that made it, on the instant, no longer a joint stool but Wisdom’s throne and Master Wilde by the very way he sat there no longer the harassed master of players but Wisdom himself, all divine dignity and command as he declared, as if to a vast multitude, “If you would know the meaning of my name imperial, I am called, by those that are on earth, Everlasting Wisdom…”
Chapter 6
When Wisdom had finished his first speech, Lady Soul in the person of Ned Wilde wearing an old gown over his doublet and hosen, no longer a striding youth but all sweet womanliness, declared her love for Wisdom and Frevisse returned to her sewing, listening while they talked of the need to be rid
‘Arteys, my lord.“
‘A Welsh name,“ Bishop Pecock said promptly. ”Often corrupted in English to ’Arthur,‘ a king of many legends and the subject of far more stories than can be true. A noble name nonetheless and better in the Welsh than in English. Are you Welsh?“
‘On my mother’s side.“
Bishop Pecock leaned forward for a nearer look and asked, “What is the rest of your name, young Arteys?”
After a very motionless moment, Arteys answered, “FitzGloucester, my lord.”
Bishop Pecock sat back with a single nod, as if satisfied of something, and veered his questioning back to Frevisse, asking courteously, “What do you here, Dame?”
It was a reasonable question, this being hardly a likely place for a nun, and Frevisse made brief explanation of how she came to accompany young John, leaving out everything about herself and why she was at Bury St. Edmunds at all. Then, deciding such questions could go both ways, she asked, “And you, my lord. Why are you here?”
Bishop Pecock smiled. “I’m avoiding one duty by claiming another. One might even say ‘feigning’ another. I should be with the lords in council at this very moment but found that my wits were at peril of curdling if I listened even another quarter hour to their talk. Therefore I determined to do something else and am here, where I doubt I’ll be easily found even if someone is looking for me, which they are probably not.”
That both a bishop and Arteys were here for the sake of not being somewhere else gave Frevisse an inward smile.
But Bishop Pecock still had questions and now asked, “This play, Dame, how much of it have you seen?”
‘I don’t know.“
He raised his rather notable eyebrows, questioning her answer without need to say a word. Obligingly she added, “The few times I’ve been here, they’ve played it only in bits and pieces. Today is the first time they’re to do it from start to end all at once. That’s why Master Wilde is somewhat on edge.”
She was surprised to hear herself excusing the play-master; was equally surprised at Bishop Pecock’s easy nod accepting that. “Better honest irk than false courtesy,” he said and probably would have said more—he seemed to be a man with always more to say—but Master Wilde had finished with whatever last things he had for the players and at that moment roared out to the hall at large for silence and, when he had it, said, abruptly calm, “Now we begin.”
On the instant there was no movement or sound from anyone in the hall. Even Mistress Wilde and Joane paused their sewing, and because the curtains that would back the playing place were not hung on their long frames yet, all the players were in sight, too, grouped here and there aside from Heaven’s tower, wherever they needed to be for when they would come into the play on their turn. Even John, who was not needed until later, was in his place, waiting solemnly, silently, beside Giles. From partway up the stairs, Master Wilde looked at them all, assessing their readiness, then went up the last steps to the top, swung around, and sat down on the joint stool in a way that made it, on the instant, no longer a joint stool but Wisdom’s throne and Master Wilde by the very way he sat there no longer the harassed master of players but Wisdom himself, all divine dignity and command as he declared, as if to a vast multitude, “If you would know the meaning of my name imperial, I am called, by those that are on earth, Everlasting Wisdom…”
Chapter 6
When Wisdom had finished his first speech, Lady Soul in the person of Ned Wilde wearing an old gown over his doublet and hosen, no longer a striding youth but all sweet womanliness, declared her love for Wisdom and Frevisse returned to her sewing, listening while they talked of the need to be rid
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