A Play of Dux Moraud Read Online Free Page A

smiles far different from what she had shared with her father.
    Joliffe, putting on his own tabard, held in his own smile at sight of them. The affection between them was too often an uneasy thing and it was good to see them being simply glad of each other, brief though it lasted before Rose had to untangle Piers’ head from his tabard, saying to Gil while she did, “I’m afraid there’s none for you yet.”
    Lifting his chin, the boy said cheerfully enough, “That’s no matter. After all, I’m not a player yet.”
    Joliffe began to have hope of him.

Chapter 2
    The day’s rain held off until the players were a mile or more from Minster Lovell. Their tabards were safely stowed in one of the hampers by then and they had their cloaks on and their hoods up against the soft drizzle that would likely last all day but was better than a downpour. Drizzle took longer to soak through thick-woven wool.
    According to Gil, who had been there with his father a few times—“When he still thought he might make a bailiff of me,” the boy said simply, with neither triumph that his father had failed nor bitterness that he had tried—the manor of Deneby was north and east from Minster Lovell, a day and a half ’s travel at the cart’s pace. “We’ll be there early tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “All going well.”
    The boy might be addled enough to want to be a player, Joliffe thought, but he was at least sensible enough to add that “all going well.” And he made no word of complaint about the rain or the walking either, and that was to the good, since walking and rain were both inevitable in a player’s life. Unless, Joliffe amended, a player prospered to the point of affording a riding horse—which was so rare a thing as to be a laughable thought—or else fell so ill he had to ride in the cart—which God forbid. A player could no more afford to be ill than he could afford a riding horse.
    At least this Gil looked healthy enough, striding steadily beside Basset. With Minster Lovell behind them, they had all taken their usual places around the cart: Basset on one side, Ellis on the other, Joliffe at Tisbe’s head, Rose and Piers behind. Sometimes it went other ways; sometimes they walked together or in various pairs, and in good weather Piers often roamed forward to Ellis’ side or his grandfather’s or Joliffe’s, but today he kept beside his mother, slogging with the rest of them, and Basset had called Gil to his side to talk with him while they walked.
    Joliffe remembered his first walk and talk with Basset, when Basset had skillfully drawn him out with questions and at the same time given him to understand what his place in the company would be and, for good measure, gave him his first lesson in playing. “Your voice and your body do your work,” he had said. “Your voice and body. They’re the tools of your trade. However sharp your mind is, boy—and I suspect yours is sharp enough you’ve cut yourself more than once—it’s no good to us if you can’t work your voice and body into whoever you need to be in a play, and you’re going to have to be everyone there ever was if you’re going to be in this company—from sweet maiden to old man, from angel to devil, to everyone and everything between. We’ve no use for someone who can only be himself.”
    Remembering, Joliffe smiled to himself. He had learned, and he was good, and he took pleasure in both the work and in being good at it. He smiled, too, because his years of almost always playing the woman or girl in any play they did were maybe done. He was become somewhat old for playing maidens. If Gil proved any good at all, he was more than welcome to become every maiden there was in all their plays.
    Their plays. Despite his boots were in mud and rain was dripping off his hood’s edge past his eyes, Joliffe smiled wider at the thought of what he could do with their plays if Gil proved good. When their company had broken up and shrunk, he had