The Bastard's Tale by Margaret Frazer Read Free Book Online

hand out for money.
     
    Arteys and the other men perforce all elbowed each other while digging coins from their belt pouches, but before Arteys could lay his on the table, a fair-haired, lean-made man squeezed past the woman, said cheerfully, “Here you are, then,” laid coins on the tray, and took two tankards, handing one to Arteys while asking “Been waiting long?,” adding to the small-eyed man, “You don’t mind taking off, do you, since that’s my place?”
     
    The man rose, not as if he were happy about it, muttering what might have been “Sorry” or might not as he moved away. The newcomer sat, somehow crowding Dorset’s men even more against each other without making an insult of it, and said with a smile at the woman and a nod at Arteys, “See to it he pays for the next ones, right?”
     
    She laughed and moved on, leaving Arteys trying to remember if he knew him. He was well-spoken but wore no lord’s badge and his plain clothing—dark green surcoat over dark blue doublet and black hosen—gave nothing away except that he was no churchman. Arteys was puzzling out what was familiar about him as the man, frowning thoughtfully past him, said, “Why do they almost always look like that?”
     
    ‘Who? Like what?“ Arteys turned his head in time to see the small-eyed man going out the door.
     
    ‘Like rats. Pointy faces and noses that almost twitch. Spies.“
     
    ‘Spies?“ Arteys, startled, looked back to him.
     
    ‘The bad ones, at least. I suppose there must be good ones.“
     
    ‘But we don’t know them because they don’t look like rats?“ Arteys suggested, amused.
     
    ‘You have it.“ The man drank from his mug and nodded appreciatively. ”Good ale. You’d think Suffolk could afford better.“
     
    ‘Ale?“
     
    ‘Spies. Or maybe the fellow was Dorset’s.“ He twitched his head slightly toward the men to whom he now mostly had his back. With his voice pitched under the alehouse’s general noise, he was safe from being heard by them. ”Dorset is the cheap-souled sort of bastard who’d hire a rat-faced spy instead of better. It was with that kind of idiot-wittedness he and his brother, God stomp his soul a bit before saving it, made fools of themselves all over France. You don’t remember me, do you?“
     
    Until that moment Arteys had not but said suddenly, “Joliffe. You were in my father’s household awhile.” About the time of Lady Eleanor’s disgrace, and like much else from then, had disappeared soon afterward. “I don’t remember your last name but you’re a minstrel.”
     
    ‘Only when I can’t survive as a player. That’s why I’m here now. I’m one of the players doing Abbot Babington’s play for the king.“
     
    Arteys, having given up hope of hearing anything more from Dorset’s men, took a long drink, then asked, “That man just now, why do you say he’s a spy?”
     
    Joliffe leaned slightly toward him and half-whispered, as if giving away a deep secret, “Because he is.”
     
    That was so overplayed that Arteys laughed and remembered another thing about him—he had always been able to make Lady Eleanor laugh. But, “How do you know that?”
     
    ‘Because he’s a very poor spy. He’s been hanging at people’s elbows ever since the lords started gathering into Bury St. Edmunds, listening to talk or else saying things he hopes will lead someone into saying something he can go tale-telling back to his master, whoever that is. Someone in the little clot around the king who wants to be sure no one is a step ahead of them. It doesn’t matter who. They’re almost all against your father.“
     
    Arteys hadn’t known ale could curdle in the belly. “My father. What about my father?”
     
    ‘Hold your voice down,“ Joliffe said evenly, his voice still smiling but his eyes not. ”Hold steady. Take a drink. And if you’re wearing a badge, go on keeping your cloak over it.“
     
    Arteys drank without tasting the ale before he asked