15 The Play’s the Thi The Play’s the Thing Two women are in the fields outside of Wakefield, tying bean seedlings to stakes. It’s a clear and sunny day, with just enough of a breeze to bring to their ears the bass voice of a man, raving: Heard I never quirk so quaint that a knave so slight should come like a saint and rob me of my right! Nay without—nay without—refrain, no—remain—restraint Nay without restraint, I shall kill him downright! “Dear me!” cries one of the women. “Are they brawling at the public house again?” “Nay, not indeed,” says the other, laughing. “It’s my good husband, Will. He’s playing Herod again this holiday. Twenty-two years has he done it, and still he will drop a rhyme or two, so he gives his lungs the airing whilst feeding the pigs.” “Ah, the mysteries! Fool that I am, I had forgotten. I hear that the brave lad of the Waters will be the Christ this year. He has not the look of a priest about him.” “Not if the bailey’s daughter has anything to say about it! They are to be wed this Lammastide. But listen!”
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