The players were taking whatever was offered cheerfully, though Meg noticed the saint tended to find out the older women; the thief seemed mostly to go among the girls, collecting kisses when he could not have a coin; and Joliffe, still playing the lady, teased the men into giving their coins. Gilbey Dunn, boisterously laughing at “her” flirting, tossed a whole penny in his lap and clapped Joliffe on the shoulder in such high good humor it nearly knocked him down.
“Ho, Gilbey,” Thad the smith called out. “Is it her fair face or tiny feet you’re liking?”
Gilbey’s grin broadened. “Mind your tongue or your face won’t be so fair, either, my lad,” he answered.
There was general laughter for that, because Thad was years past being a lad and his face was as gnarled and knotted as an old hedge stump.
Meanwhile Ellis had made his way to pretty Tibby, the alewife’s daughter, and gave her another kiss, not on the hand, and willingly received.
Meg had not seen Sym until then; but now he was there, coming from somewhere to stand behind the girl, a little too closely, a little too possessively. The flush of red up his face at the player’s boldness was darker than Tibby’s pleased, laughing blush, and Meg with a sudden pang knew, from the way he looked more than ever like his father, what he was meaning to do next. She called out, “Don’t, Sym!” but it was already too late.
Reaching over Tibby’s shoulder, he gave Ellis a hard shove and said, “There’s enough of that. Go kiss your own ‘lady’ and leave mine alone.”
That brought laughter from the villagers around them, and someone called out for Joliffe to come kiss “yon handsome thief.” Tibby, used to village ways, stepped quickly out from between Sym and Ellis, leaving them facing each other. Ellis, without taking his gaze from Sym, held his cap out sidewise. Joliffe, suddenly there, took it and faded backwards in one easy motion, his arm linked through Tibby’s to draw her with him further out of reach.
Ellis, left in a suddenly opened space among the villagers, made no threatening move, only said in a peaceable voice, “I was only admiring a fair face, not seeking to take her away. No harm in that.”
“There’s maybe harm and maybe not,” Sym said sullenly, with a slur to his voice that told Meg he had already been to the alehouse this morning. “What about the harm to my father, thief? How much harm did you do him?”
“No harm at all except to lift him out of a frozen ditch and take him to help.”
“But who put him in that ditch, hey? What do you know about that, that you’re not telling? Who put him there in the first place? That’s what I’m asking.”
“I’d guess he got there the same way you’ve come here,” Ellis replied coolly. “By way of an alehouse and a few too many emptied cups.”
Hewe pulled against Meg’s fingers digging into shoulders. She let him go and pushed past him toward Sym. If she could get her hands on him, distract him-
She was too late. Stung and out of words, Sym lunged at Ellis. The player stepped back from him without apparent haste or fear, and abruptly Sym was sitting on the ground, looking astonished.
Meg stopped, cowed by fright, not understanding what had happened, only that it was uncanny. But the villagers were laughing, especially the men and even Hewe. It had all come too suddenly, and now before Sym could rise, the player saint had his hand on Ellis’s shoulder, drawing him away. Joliffe was already well out of it, to the side of the crowd with Tibby, whispering something in her ear that was making her smile and flirt her eyes at him, not heeding Ellis, or Sym, anymore at all. Rose had gathered up the box and chest and was going behind the curtain. It was over, except for the laughter.
But Sym gave a gutteral grunt and began to scamble to his feet, clearly intent on continuing the fight. Meg pushed her way between the useless village men and flung herself at him, meaning to shove him down again if she could. “Stop it!” she exclaimed. “You’ll not be brawling like a lout with their kind! And on the green in front of everyone. Stop it!”
Sym pushed back at her, too deep in his anger to care. “They’re thieves!” he yelled. “Thieves and murderers! Da’d be alive except for them and you’re going to let them go their ways, them and their indecent woman and their bastard brat, leaving Da dead in his grave!”
Meg clutched his arm and was dragged around as he tried to shove past her. It was Rose’s white, rigid face she saw first, standing beside the curtains beyond the crowd. And then she saw Ellis, wrenched free from Thomas Bassett, coming for Sym with murder in his furious eyes.
12
THOMAS BASSETT MOVED more quickly than seemed possible for one his age and weight. Bursting from among the villagers, he shouldered in front of Ellis, pushed him back one-handed and thundered in St. Nicholas’s rich voice, “That’s enough! Back off, the two of you! Ellis, there’s the frame to take down and Piers waiting back at the nunnery for us. Come on.”
Meg, still clinging to Sym, with Hewe now hanging on his other arm, saw the fury drain out of Ellis. His face and then his fists slacked. Keeping an eye on Sym, he drew back, then turned away, snapping at Joliffe to come help. And now some of the village men elbowed in around Sym, clapping him on the back and jibing at him friendliwise, trying to draw him off, too. Sym resisted more than Ellis had, shrugging their hands away and swearing, but Meg knew the fighting anger was gone out of him, and let him go. He was drunk enough not to be sure where his quarrel was gone, and they would have it out of his mind altogether in a minute.
But lurching against Hamon’s and Peter’s pulling on him, he blundered face to face with Gilbey Dunn who held his ground and said, grinning, “Homeward bound, Sym? Making an early day of it?”
Sym knew an old quarrel when it came his way. He jerked loose from his two friends. “You’d be knowing about early days, wouldn’t you? And late nights, sneaking out and sneaking in, looking to grab what isn’t yours and nipping to the steward every chance you find to tell him how much better our holding would be in your foul-fingered keeping. And now Da’s gone, you’re nipping after his widow, thinking that’s a warmer way to have it. Only you’ll not be getting it that way either. You’ll be dead first, Gilbey Dunn. Mark me on it! Cold in a grave like Da before you lay hands on anything of his!”
“Sym!” Meg cried in anguished warning. Everyone’s attention was swung to Sym and Gilbey, and clearly Gilbey’s temper was come up now to match Sym’s. His face was dark with it, his eyes gone small and hard, his mouth tight. But all he said was, “You’ve a bad mouth on you when it’s wet with ale. Hamon, Peter, take him home or somewhere else until his head’s clear.”