A Play of Treachery by Margaret Frazer Read Free Book Online

taken most of Caux. Do you know what that means?” He changed the question. “Do you know where that is?”
    “No.”
    “Somewhat roughly, the Caux is the part of Normandy between Rouen and the sea and also a goodly way north toward Burgundy’s Flemish lands. It means,” he said grimly, “that for now the Armagnacs are on—”
    “Armagnacs?” Joliffe asked.
    The man paused, then said slowly, “You know there are those who claim the Dauphin is king of France, instead of King Henry, yes? That the war these thirteen years and more has been for that? Those are the Armagnacs.”
    “Ah!” said Joliffe. “Dauphinists.”
    “That I have not heard them called, but yes. So now they are swarming where they should not be, because the duke of Burgundy is letting them, and meanwhile that same Philippe, duke of Burgundy is complaining of how the English have wronged him.”
    Joliffe choked on a last bite of bread, swallowed, and said, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, “How the English have wronged him ?”
    The man shrugged again. “Well, it could not be that his most Christian grace and mighty lord the duke of Burgundy did anything amiss. Nor his shining new friend, the Dauphin Charles against whom he had sworn eternal vengeance.”
    “Having now chosen,” said Joliffe, “to measure eternity in a hands-count of years, rather than as ‘forever.’ ”
    The man tched his tongue and said mockingly, “A hands-count of years? But no. It has been at least fifteen years, even sixteen, since the Dauphin saw to the murder of Burgundy’s father. Surely that suffices for eternity?”
    Matching the man’s mockery, Joliffe granted, “It must. At least with Burgundy. I’m John Ripon by the way.”
    “I am Guillaume Cauvet. ”
    “You’re French, then,” Joliffe said as if taken by surprise. He was not, but he supposed it was time “John Ripon” came into being, and he had decided that “John Ripon” was not deep-witted. He did not think he could sustain playing stupid for the weeks—for the months?—this might last. Nor would a stupid man be of sufficient worth that Bishop Beaufort would have taken this much trouble to give him chance to redeem himself. So John Ripon would be sharp-witted and competent but not deep: one of those men who have not yet learned they are not as forceful of wit as they think they are, and—being John Ripon—Joliffe went on, “Your English is very good. Better than my French, that’s certain.”
    “I am my lord bishop’s English secretary,” Cauvet said. Meaning that any correspondence or other matters in English that came to or went from the bishop were in his charge.
    Now leaning on his elbows beside Cauvet, watching the white-capped waves stretching into the gray distance, Joliffe feigned hesitancy. “Well . . . my French is none so good.” Which was true enough. “Could we talk in French, to help mine along? It will help to know French in Rouen?”
    “ Oui. Bien sûr ,” Cauvet assured him, and went on, still in French, “You will find there are a great many French in Rouen.”
    Joliffe pretended not to hear the mockery in that but merely said earnestly, “I suppose there are. Yes.” He paused, then tried, slowly, “ Je pense .”
    “ Bon ,” Cauvet said, and went on in French, slowly enough for Joliffe to keep up, “What is taking you to Rouen?”
    Joliffe allowed himself to grimace. A John Ripon grimace at the world that was not behaving toward him as it should. “I, um, fell out of favor with the bishop of Winchester. I was a clerk in his household.” Trying to say it in French became too much. He went back to English. “Instead of casting me off entirely, he’s given me over to your bishop, to be a clerk in his household. I gather that if I can keep from disgracing myself, maybe I’ll be moved on to the lord governor’s household. If ever a lord governor is decided on.”
    “Oh!” Cauvet said with surprise and certainty. “It is the duke of York who