A Play of Treachery by Margaret Frazer Read Free Book Online Page A

will be governor.”
    “York?” Joliffe echoed in plain surprise. Since the duke of Bedford’s death almost four months ago, the governing of Normandy and whatever of France the English held had been in the hands of the Normandy council in Rouen while the royal council in England had stayed undecided on his successor among the various possible lords. The last Joliffe had heard—admittedly two months and more ago—the duke of York had been thought too young and too inexperienced to be seriously considered. “When did York get into the running?”
    “When no one was willing to anger either my lord bishop of Winchester or my lord the duke of Gloucester by choosing one or the other of the lords they preferred.”
    “Ah,” said Joliffe. In the autumn, when he had last been in London, the open talk had been over who among the lords might be chosen, and why, and which way loyalties most strongly lay in the on-going struggle between Winchester and Gloucester, uncle and nephew, for highest power in England’s government. If Cauvet had it right, compromise must have finally twisted around to settle on York as after all the only lord acceptable to both sides. Or should that be “all sides,” Joliffe wondered, knowing something of how many sides were rivaling against each other in the matter.
    Was the duke of York their final choice because he was indeed too young and inexperienced, and everyone had hope of swaying him their particular way?
    And how much of all that did York himself understand?
    On the raised rear of the ship someone shouted a string of words that seemed to be English but made no sense to Joliffe. They made sense to others, though, because sailors all over the ship burst into movement.
    “What is it?” Cauvet shouted in English to no one and anyone. “Have we been seen?”
    “No,” a sailor shouted back, hurrying to do something with a nearby rope. “Squall coming.”
    “ Merde ,” Cauvet muttered. “I’d better pass word along to my lord to keep below deck and be ready.”
    Not asking Joliffe to go with him, he disappeared through a doorway the other side of the stairs.
    Since Joliffe had not been alone in sleeping on deck last night, he had supposed there was not space inside or below for everyone, and now that looked true enough as the men left on deck crowded out of the hurrying sailors’ way and into what shelter they could. Deciding everyone knew more about squalls at sea than he did, Joliffe joined two other men in crowding under the open-stepped stairway near him. He had to crouch down on his heels to fit and doubted the open stairs would give much shelter, but they were better than no shelter at all, and he was glad to be able to brace himself against the ship’s heave and tilt as first the wind hit and then the rain pelted down.
    From walking England’s roads, he was used enough to being wet, and he had been growing used to the ship’s lift and dip and sway, but now, suddenly, it was tilting and plunging and heaving, and for the first moments he was starkly afraid. But fear was of no use, would make no difference nor do him any good, and he let it go; instead gave himself up to the ship and the storm and found delight in the wildness of it.
    But being only a squall, it soon passed, and a squat, covered brazier was brought out on deck and a coal fire made in it, for passengers and sailors to gather around to warm and dry themselves a little. That gave Joliffe chance to strike up talk with others of the bishop’s household beside Cauvet. Some were more ready to talk with him than others but no one was particularly unfriendly, and shortly showed willing not only to laugh at Joliffe’s French but help him to better it, not simply then but on through the day.
    With the good ear and practiced memory that came with being a player, and much of the French he had once known beginning to come back to him, Joliffe was soon doing better than he let show. As Master Fowler had said, a seeming of