Morality Play. Mit Materialien. (Lernmaterialien)

  'As Pride and Arrogancy,

  Lordship and Sway.

  But what care I for names so I keep my dominion?'

  He was using a voice not his own. It came through the cruel and bitter mouth of the mask, slow, deliberate, with a sound of metal in it: it was the voice of the Lord. I glanced at the others as they stood there motionless and stiff with no parts to play. Straw and Springer had moved closer together and they were holding hands. And now Superbia spoke again, again in that borrowed voice.

  'What care I for one dead boy, or five, or fifteen,

  so I keep my name and state?

  Pride it was that held the court,

  that buried the boy in dark of night,

  that hanged the traitor Monk in his shift...'

  It was more than the voice now. To my staggered mind and fevered eyes, as I looked from the mask of Superbia to the face of the seated man, I saw them come closer in resemblance until in that flickering light there was only one face, that of the mask, with its sneering mouth and bulging eyes and jutting brows.

  Terror grew with this confusion. Martin in his madness had set himself to flout the judge in the shadow of the judgement seat, to strut before this Lord and simulate his voice, this Lord who held us in his hand. The offence was mortal in itself. But there was more than offence in it. If the threefold arraignment were true, only one meaning could be found to bring it into a relation of logic: Sir Richard de Guise had not wanted the body of Thomas Wells to be seen, because in some way it was marked and he knew this, he knew it because it was into his hands that Simon Damian had delivered the living boy.

  How far we would have been permitted to proceed I do not know. I saw Tobias, who was framed strongest of us all and proved it now, come into movement, step forward into the play again, into Martin's view, raising his hand as he did so in the sign of reproach, which is like the sign of cuckoldry save that the hand is held with the fingers pointing forward. I think he would have tried to save us from wreck even now, by upbraiding Pride for his presumption, but before he could speak there was a disturbance at the door and a young woman came in quickly, bare-headed, wearing a dark cloak over the pale blue silk of her evening gown.

  She checked at sight of us, a strange sight no doubt in that silent room, with Pride still making his motions of a swimmer and Tobias with an arm raised stiffly towards him and the rest of us still in our frozen cluster. Then she came forward again to the side of the Lord's chair and he gestured sharply to us and the play stopped.

  'I am sorry to disturb you, father,' she said. 'I did not know where the players had been taken. Sir Roger of Yarm, that was hurt today, is worse, poor soul, he cannot last till morning and the Chaplain nowhere to be found that could administer the Sacrament.'

  The steward had stepped aside at her approach and the Lord turned towards her in his chair. We took advantage of this to stare reproach at Martin. Straw gestured to him to unmask, but he made no move to do it.

  'I am sorry to hear this,' the Lord said, in a voice less cold than he had used with us, 'but I do not know why you have come to tell me of it now, when I am occupied here.'

  'It was mother sent me,' she said. 'She has heard from a maidservant that one of the players is a priest. Perhaps that is the one, who is dressed so.'

  The eyes of father and daughter were now on me. After a moment the Lord spoke to the steward, who hooked a finger and beckoned me forward. I came to stand before the chair. I was out of the playing-space now, I was Nicholas Barber, fugitive priest, sick with fear of death. He raised his head to look at me and the falcon sensed the movement and took a delicate step to the side and it was so quiet in the room that I heard the scratch of talons on the leather.

  The Lord had raised the lids of his eyes and his gaze was on me, steady and cold, without curiosity or even hint of question in it. I met this stark gaze for a moment only, then looked down. 'Well,' he said, 'you are dressed for it. Is it true you are a priest?'

  'Yes, my Lord, it is true,' I said.

  'He could come and perform the office,' the girl said. 'Then I would have him brought back to you here. It would not be long.' She hesitated for a moment, then said, 'The Knight cannot speak.'

  The Lord hesitated briefly, raising the ungloved hand to his ear and taking the lobe of it between finger and thumb. Then he nodded. 'Perhaps I have seen enough,' he said. He looked at the steward. 'One man-at-arms goes with him. You and the other man remain with me. Afterwards our priest is to be conveyed again to the chamber where they were kept before.'

  With the lady leading and the man-at-arms clattering behind, we passed from that room, which I was very thankful to do, and went by ways I was too troubled to take much note of towards the place where they had lodged the dying Knight.

  He lay in a room without windows on a low bench padded with cushions, with a white quilt drawn up to his chin and white linen binding his head like another helm and candles set on either side. The squire knelt at his feet and he was weeping. There was a low door in the far wall with a table standing near it made with a board and trestles and on this were cloths and a ewer of water and a shallow bowl with the oil in it. A serving woman stood near this and the lady of the house was seated at the bedside. She rose as I entered and moved away without speaking and the squire shifted back to give me room.

  The binding came low over the Knight's brow and his face was as pale as the linen. The eyes were brown and long-lashed and they were fixed on something very near or very far. His mouth was a little open and the breath struggled from him. I asked him if he sincerely repented his sins and was ready to make confession, but the eyes did not change and I understood then that the blow had taken away hearing and speech. He seemed very young to me, hardly more than a boy. The skin of his face was smooth, making the scar on his cheek the more strangely incongruous. Death would come in stealth to take the Knight in his youth. And it was near; already his eyes were dwelling on Death.

  Absolution I could not give to one who could not signify repentance or speak his sins. I took the oil and blessed it and I began to speak the words for the anointing of the sick and dying and to touch with the Holy Unction his eyes and ears and mouth. He showed no sign of knowing what was done, who only some hours before had dressed in pride for the jousting in the colours of his line and donned his helm of extravagant design, masking for his role as players do. Now he was passing from the playing-space with no role left to play but this last one of dying, that comes to all. What there was besides I gave him from my poor store. I said the words he could not hear, I blessed his fading senses. It was my own repentance I gave him, my own hope of Heaven.

  The moment of his death was not exactly to be seen, since his breathing had quietened some time before and his eyes had no sight in them. From one moment to the next, with no movement or sound, as I held the Cross before him, his soul took its flight. But the squire knew it and he came forward and knelt by the body, taking my place. And the lady, seeing this, advanced on the other side. The serving woman perhaps did not know he was dead, she had turned to the table, she was wetting a cloth to wipe the sweat of agony from his face. For these few moments no one was looking at me. Outside the door by which I had entered the man-at-arms waited still. But there was this other door.

  The hardest thing, once such an impulse has come, is to move slowly. Three steps brought me close enough. I stood with my back to the door and tried it behind me: it was not locked, it gave to my touch. I hesitated no longer but backed from the room on to the narrow landing beyond, closing the door behind me softly. In the last slant of light from the room I was leaving I saw two steps immediately before me and a passage leading away, narrow but straight. There was a latch on the door with a wooden bolt and I pushed this home into the socket. There was no light, but I went forward with what speed I could. I had no plan and no real belief I could get away. It was fear that drove me, but for such as myself fear is a potent ally, sharpening the wits and giving wings to the feet.

  Fortune ai
ded me, as she had done in the manner of the Knight's death. I reached the end of the passage without hearing any attempt behind me to open the door. There was a turning, then another passage, down which I groped my way. Stairs opened at my feet and I stumbled and almost fell. It was a short stairway — only six steps. I remembered we had been led down two flights of steps when taken before the Lord and so it seemed to me that I might be coming to the ground level of the castle.

  And so it proved to be. I emerged from these stairs into the gallery of the hall, which was still dimly lit with candles and the dying embers in the fireplace, though it was quite deserted. There had been music at supper; the stands of the musicians were still in place along one side of the gallery. A hound slept before the dying fire but took no notice of me as I passed above. There were dishes still on the long table and the Lord's tall chair was pushed back as he had left it, with the benches on either side. I heard voices of serving people from the kitchens, but no one came into the hall as I descended the stairs and crossed the floor.

  The moment when I came into the open, which I had been longing to do, was the worst of all, because just as I did so there were voices and moving torches in the courtyard and at first I thought they were in pursuit of me and remained where I was in the shadow of the wall. Then I saw that some were dismounting and among them ladies, and I understood that these were late guests arriving. But I was afraid of being seen and questioned, so I moved away, keeping close to the wall. There was moonlight, enough to see by. I turned down a gravelled alley, open to the sky but walled on both sides. I was still without any notion of how to escape from the castle. The main gate was out of the question, the guard would by now be warned.

  It was now that Fortune made her boon to me and showed that saying of Terentius, that she favours the valiant, not always to be true. The alley ended in a high wall but there was a gate in it with an open portcullis above. I emerged into a field of trodden snow. Immediately across from me were the railings of the lists and the empty stands: I was in the tilt-yard.

  However long my life may be, I know that moment will remain with me. The moonlight gleamed on the ridges of the snow and made violet shadows in the hollows. There was the open space to cross, then the posts of the tall pavilion, set close beside the wall.

  I crossed the space at a run. I am a good climber as I have said, from earliest days I have been nimble and light of foot - it was this that made Martin incline to take me into the company. It took me not long to reach the roof timbers and swing from there on to the parapet of the wall. It was three times my height or more above ground, but I had some skill now in tumbling and the snow had drifted thick against the base. The landing jarred my spine and took the breath from me but no bones were broken. I waited there till I could breathe again, then began to make my way down towards the faint and scattered lights of the town.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I kept in cover as far as I could, not using the road much for fear of pursuit - the light was strong enough for a man to be seen moving against the snow. But in the event no pursuit came. Perhaps I was believed to be hiding in some corner of the castle; or perhaps they judged it useless to search in the dark, even with dogs. Whatever the reason I was thankful for it, for my own sake and that of the others, reasoning that while I was at large they were the less likely to come to harm.

  I was wet from the waist down and chilled and exhausted when I came to the inn, hardly able to keep from staggering in my walk. The yard lay deserted. There was no sound anywhere, but one of the upstairs rooms showed a crack of light between the shutters. It was the room at the end of the gallery, the Justice's. The inn-door was open still. I mounted the stairs and went softly down the passage to the end room. Light came from under the door. I stood there for some moments, listening first to my own loud heart and then to a voice from within the room that droned and paused and resumed again. I gathered what courage I had and rapped with my knuckles against the panel.

  I heard the voice break off. Then the door was opened and a man of middle years stood at the threshold, a thin man, sharp of feature, dressed in a black coat such as attorneys wear. His eyes ran over me, my shaven head, the wet and bedraggled skirts of my habit. 'What do you seek?' he said, in no very friendly manner. A larger man stood beyond him, in the middle of the room.

  'I would speak with the Justice,' I said. 'On what business?'

  'It is about the murdered boy,' I said. 'I am a priest ... I am one of the players.'

  'It is late,' he said. 'The Lord Justice is occupied. Will it not keep until the morning?'

  'Let him come in.'

  It was not said loudly, but the voice was of one accustomed to command. The man at the door moved aside and I went into the room. There was a desk with scrolls upon it and a good fire burning in the grate. Tall candles burned in a triple-headed brass sconce and they had the clear flame that only comes from good tallow. This was far beyond the means of the inn to provide, as were also the red and gold damask hangings on the walls. Facing me was a man of corpulent body and good height, dressed in a black skull-cap and a black velvet mantle held at the neck with a jewelled pin. 'So,' he said, 'a priest who is a player is not so infrequent, especially among priests who get advancement, eh, Thomas?'

  'No, sir.'

  'A player who is also a priest, I grant you, that is rarer. This is my secretary, and a very promising advocate. What is your name?'

  I told him but I do not think he took note of it, not then. He looked at me more closely as I spoke and his face changed. 'Set a chair for him,' he said. 'Here by the fire. Give him a glass of that red wine we brought with us.'

  And in truth I think he saved me from fainting in the sudden warmth and brightness of that room.

  'Such wine you will not find in a place like this,' he said, watching me drink. 'I saw the play from my window here. It was very well done - far beyond the common. Your master-player is a man greatly gifted.'

  'Better for us had he been less so,' I said.

  'Indeed?' He mused for some moments, looking towards the fire. His face was heavy and hung in folds, as if too much flesh had piled on the bone; but the brow was high and the mouth was firmly moulded. The eyes, when he looked up at me, were considering and cold - also, as it seemed to me, in some way sad, as possessing knowledge not much prized. 'What brings you here?' he said, and he signed to the secretary to replenish my glass.

  At this I told him all that had happened, trying to keep things in the order of their occurring, which was not easy in my weary state, would have not been easy whatever my state, when so much had depended on accident and surmise.

  I told him how Brendan's death had brought me into the company and then brought the company to the town. I told him of our failure with the Play of Adam and our desperate need for money so as to continue on our way to Durham. I told him of Martin's idea for making a play out of the murdering of Thomas Wells, which was something that belonged to the town.

  'We did not doubt at first, when we began, that the girl was guilty,' I said. 'There was no reason to think otherwise, she had been tried and condemned for it. But the more we discovered, the more difficult it was to go on believing this. And it was not only the things that we learned by inquiry.' I faltered now, coming to the part least likely to be believed. His eyes rested on me with the same expression, attentive and cold but not unkind. 'We learned through the play,' I said. 'We learned through the parts we were given. It is something not easy to explain. I am new to playing but it has seemed to me like dreaming. The player is himself and another. When he looks at the others in the play, he knows he is part of their dreaming just as they are part of his. From this come thoughts and words that outside the play he would not readily admit to his mind.'

  'I see, yes,' he said. 'And as you played the murder...'

  'It pointed always away from the girl, first to the Benedictine, because he had lied.'

  I was beginning to tell him of these lies but he held up a hand. 'I have read the depositi
on of the Benedictine,' he said.

  It was the first sign he gave that he had occupied himself with the matter and my heart rose at it. 'But then he was hanged,' I said. 'They dressed him in a penitent's shift and tied his hands and hanged him. And we thought it must be a punishment because he caused this one to be found. But only the powerful would punish in that way, those who hold their power from God or the King.'

  'We servants of the Crown would say it is the self-same thing, eh, Thomas?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  He had smiled a little, saying this, and again I saw some quality of sadness in his face, something that I did not think had always been there, that had come with the years of good living and the authority of his office. 'So then,' he said, 'the Monk took the body of Thomas Wells, after someone else had killed him, and laid it there on the road. Then that someone else, or another, killed the Monk. Did you not ask yourselves why he chose that particular time to bring back the boy's body? Why did he wait so long? It was a dangerous time, was it not? It must have been getting light. In fact the man Flint found the boy not much after.'

  'Perhaps he was not killed until then.'

  He shook his head. 'The boy was taken in the afternoon, as it grew dark. The one he was taken to would have been waiting, no doubt impatiently. It is not likely that Thomas Wells was strangled as an afterthought. Dawn is a common time for killing oneself, but not others. Unless it be by Royal Warrant, eh, Thomas? Give him some more wine, half a glass only - he will need to keep his wits about him yet.'

  'Then there was the haste of it,' I said. 'And the steward came and paid the priest and saw the boy buried. It began to seem -'

  I stopped short with a sudden fear, looking at the fleshy, keen-eyed face before me. The wine was loosening my tongue, but there was danger in such frankness. Had I escaped from one trap only to fall into another? 'We meant no harm, it was only to make a play,' I said. 'We were led to it, step by step.'