A Play of Dux Moraud by Margaret Frazer Page A

aware of everyone else’s evened breathing around him, anyway, as he lay watching the small firelight’s orange flickering among the shadows of the cartshed’s rafters and roof, thinking, but not much, until he slept, too.
    Morning came as damp and drizzling as last night had been, with no comfort from the burned-out fire and only Piers and Gil seeming ready to take on the day cheerfully despite of all. Joliffe had a wary eye for Ellis, who was gone from yesterday’s good humour to sullenness, while Basset groaned when he shoved aside his blanket and moved only slowly and with what looked like pain as he made to climb to his feet. Rose, turning over the fire’s ashes to find if any embers remained, looked quickly to him. “Your arthritics?” she asked.
    “Not my arthritics,” Basset said firmly. “I never invited or paid them to come and wouldn’t keep company with them if I had a choice.” Groaning, he used the near cartwheel to pull himself upright, his back and knees straightening unwillingly, before he went on, still firmly, “ Not my arthritics. Given chance to choose, I’d reject them utterly.”
    “I’ll get your medicine,” said Rose. “Ellis, see to these embers, if you will.”
    Ellis muttered something about the embers being the only warm thing around here, but Rose gave no sign she heard him as she went in at the rear of the cart to fetch her box of simples. Doctors, like so much else in their lives, cost too much to be indulged in lightly; Rose kept various herbs and other remedies to hand, treating the company’s slight hurts and ailments herself when there was need. When Basset’s joints flared into pain they were a little helped by an ointment of mallow and sheep’s tallow. It did not cure but usually at least eased the pain. This morning, though, it hardly did even that if Basset’s hobble when they set out toward the hall to break their fast was anything by which to judge. But his stiffness seemed to ease as he walked so that he was barely limping by the time they crossed the yard. Only someone who knew him, watching carefully, would see he moved in pain.
    As was usual in great houses, breakfast was laid out on a long table in the hall—warm, new bread; cheese; cold meat from last night’s supper; ale—for folk to help themselves, eat standing, and get on with the day, with the steward’s clerk Duffeld standing by to see that no one ate more than their share or lingered when they should be to work. He kept as sharp an eye on the players as on everyone else and said to Basset when he passed close to him, “You had hay for your horse yesterday. You’ll be taking it out to graze today?”
    “We will, sir,” Basset assured him heartily, as if appreciating a fine thought generously offered instead of a near-complaint curtly given, and moved on before the man could say more.
    Back at the cartshed, Rose piled everyone’s cushions on top of each other against a cartwheel, so Basset could sit higher than the ground. That left the rest of them to stand, squat on their heels, or sit on the dirt, but none objected, pretending not to see how Basset eased himself onto the stacked cushions, his mouth tight-held to keep in a groan. If he said nothing, then neither would they, but it was always a worse sign when Basset ceased to grumble about his infirmity. His silence when so obviously in pain meant the pain was gone past complaint into plain enduring.
    Once he was set, though, he looked them over and said cheerfully, “Here’s how I think today should go. Piers, you and Gil will take Tisbe to graze this morning and collect us firewood while you do. The rest of you, we need more talk over what plays we’ll be doing these next few days. Then, Joliffe, I want you to get on with your writing, while Ellis and Rose and I go through the garb and properties to be sure of everything. This afternoon we’ll continue young Gil’s training.”
    “It’s raining,” Piers complained.
    “You’ll not