A Play of Knaves Read Online Free PDF Page A

could have made that into a jesting jibe with their authority’s weight behind it nonetheless. Father Hewgo made it simply a threat, surveyed the crowd as if to be sure they understood it, then gave a curt nod of farewell more or less at Master Ashewell and Medcote and stalked away toward the church.
    To no one in particular, Medcote said, “We’ve somewhat rumpled his tonsure, I think. I suppose I’d better go smooth it. By your leave, Master Ashewell.”
    There was something lightly mocking in the words and the way he bent his head to the other man in a courtesy that Master Ashewell answered with a curt nod.
    “Master Nicholas,” Medcote added to the boy behind Master Ashewell and seemed not to see the glare the boy gave him along with a barely jerked nod.
    Medcote and the Ashewells might be united against the priest, but they were not friends with one another, that was clear. And as Medcote went away in the priest’s wake, the youth with him—looking as if he had found the whole business vastly laughable—gave Master Ashewell a nod and, behind his back after going past him, a look down his nose at the boy Nicholas, who flushed red and looked furious but was too young and not nearly tall enough to look down his nose in return.
    Joliffe did not know whether any of the other players saw that exchange, but he heard Basset let out his breath on a whoosh of relief that matched Joliffe’s own, because when a village’s priest kicked up hard against players, the players rarely came out the winner. Whatever was the sport among Father Hewgo, Master Ashewell, and Medcote, it had come out in the players’ favor, and at a guess, they had now seen the men who were worrying the abbey’s bailiff.
    But Master Ashewell was coming toward them, and Basset, Ellis, Joliffe, and Gil all bowed to him, Basset saying, “Master Ashewell. Our thanks for being our champion in this.”
    “It was my pleasure. Father Hewgo is overbearing beyond his office and a hypocrite. I have too few chances to thwart him and welcome every one.”
    That was surely blunt enough, Joliffe thought, as Basset asked, “The church isn’t in your gift, then? To shift the priest as you choose?”
    “Unhappily, no, or he’d be long gone. I’m only reeve here for the nuns of St. Mary’s Abbey in Winchester. The village and the gift of the church are both theirs.”
    “Oh,” Basset said. “I had thought from your name . . .”
    He trailed off the sentence, leaving an opening that Master Ashewell filled, saying easily, “No. I take my name from the village but I own what used to be the desmesne manor lands that were once part of it. Now, if you would care to come with us, I’ll show you where you’re welcome to stay.” He stopped as if on a sudden thought, then said, “Do you know, I think no one asked if you wanted to stay long enough here to perform at a church ale come Sunday. Do you? Or are you bound for somewhere else and expected there?”
    “We’re always bound for somewhere else, sir,” Basset said, “but rarely expected anywhere. We’re more than pleased to linger here through Sunday.”
    Master Ashewell smiled. “Very good. My son and I will fetch our horses while you ready your cart and then we’ll show you the way. There’s a field I think will serve you well.”
    Basset and the others again thanked him with deep bows. Far more than once, Basset had said, “There’s no such thing as showing too much respect to those who ease our way through life.”
    Especially considering how little ease there often was, Joliffe always silently added.
    As the Ashewells left, Piers came from where he had been hovering well to the side, jiggling the bag that clinked and jinked very satisfactorily as he said, pleased with himself, “I think people were paying for both the shows they got. Ours and that priest’s.”
    “And well they should,” his grandfather said, taking the bag and weighing it in his hand. “Well done, Piers.”
    Rose was