Nancy Atherton (10 page)

said Lilian. “Isn’t it delightful? I’ve tried to convince Teddy to come

as a monk, but he won’t cooperate.”

“Bill’s the same way,” I said, and we sighed in unison.

A blare of trumpets interrupted our sighs and silenced the chattering mob, which had grown considerably since I’d arrived. The

three entertainers—four, counting the snake—promptly withdrew

through the three doors and a hundred faces turned upward as King

Wilfred’s heralds appeared atop the east tower, proving to my satisfaction that there was, indeed, a way to reach the tower’s roof.

The heralds wore the same red tabards they’d worn to the May

meeting, and they blew the same fanfare. I wondered briefly if it

was the only tune they knew, but my attention was diverted to the

top of the west tower, where Jinks stood, clad in his jester costume

and mimicking the heralds, though he played his imaginary trumpet

as if he were a crazed jazz musician. He snapped to attention as the

heralds lowered their horns.

“Attend, good people!” they shouted. “Lord Belvedere, the

king’s steward, approaches!”

A gray-bearded man in a gold-trimmed, emerald-green velvet

doublet and dark blue pantaloons emerged from the small door in

the west tower and walked to the center of the crenellated walkway, accompanied by six equally well-dressed courtiers, who arranged themselves in various poses behind him.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

61

Jinks, standing well above them and therefore out of their sight,

proceeded to imitate the movement and posture of each in a way

that was both remarkably accurate and unmistakably ridiculous.

Although they must have heard the jingling of his belled cap, they

acted as though he weren’t there, which made his mimicry even

funnier.

“I bid you good morrow, gentles,” said Lord Belvedere, raising

his voice to be heard above the crowd’s tittering. “I, Lord Belvedere, thank you on behalf of our beloved monarch, King Wilfred

the Good, for gracing us with your presence today. Within you will

find marvels and amusements such as you have never seen before, as

well as bounteous food and drink fit for a king—or a queen!”

A few women let out hoots of approval and everyone else

laughed.

“At two of the clock,” Lord Belvedere continued, “a tournament

of arms will be held in His Majesty’s joust arena. Hearken to my

words, I pray you, as I present the puissant warriors who will face the

perils of mounted combat. Pray bid a hearty well come to . . .”—he

turned to his left and fl ung an arm toward the small door in the east

tower—“Sir Peregrine the Pure!”

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a handsome, clean-shaven

face and shoulder-length white-blond hair strode onto the walkway.

He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and a breastplate, he carried a

shield on his left arm, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his

sword. His breastplate gleamed in the morning sun and his shield

bore the image of a rearing unicorn. As he struck a manly pose

beside Lord Belvedere, Jinks broke into loud hurrahs, which were

instantly reinforced by cheers from the crowd. Sir Peregrine acknowledged the acclamation with a sequence of suave nods.

Lord Belvedere waited until the cheering began to flag, then

flung his arm toward the west tower. “I give you . . . Sir Jacques de

Poitiers, the Dragon Knight!”

A short, stocky man with coal-black eyes, long, dark hair, a thin

mustache, and a pointed goatee stepped out of the tower’s shadowy

62 Nancy Atherton

doorway and onto the walkway. His breastplate was pewter-colored,

and his shield featured a fearsome black dragon. As he strode to his

place opposite Sir Peregrine, Jinks emitted a loud boo, which was

echoed with great enthusiasm by the crowd. Sir Jacques snarled,

shook his fist, and eyed the fairgoers pugnaciously, which only made

them boo louder.

“At two of the clock,” Lord Belvedere reiterated, “these gallant

knights will face each other in the joust arena. Will Sir Peregrine

prevail? Or will the Dragon Knight conquer? Come to the arena to

cheer on your champion!”

The knights bowed—Sir Peregrine with an elegant swoop, Sir

Jacques with a brusque jerk—and exited the walkway to the mingled

boos and cheers of the crowd. The heralds raised their trumpets to

blow another fanfare—which sounded very similar to the one they’d

blown already—then bawled a familiar refrain from the top of their

tower.

“Arise, gentle folk! Hence cometh our excellent and most gracious ruler, the lord of laughter and the monarch of mirth, His

Majesty, King Wilfred the Good!”

“Bow in the presence of the king, you scurvy curs,” Jinks bellowed down at us, but as soon as a few people followed his order,

he held up an admonitory finger and said fussily, “
Tsk tsk
—Simon

didn’t say!”

A rumble of laughter rolled through the crowd as Calvin Malvern,

wearing his gem-encrusted crown, his plum-colored surcoat, and

the rest of his King Wilfred regalia, strode to the center of the crenellated walkway. Lord Belvedere and his retinue bowed deferentially,

then formed a half circle behind the king, but Jinks dropped all the

way to his knees and groveled pathetically, eliciting still more laughter from his audience.

“We bid you well come, gentle folk,” said King Wilfred, beaming down at us benevolently. “And we hope you will find pleasure

in every moment you spend at our great fair.”

Jinks had risen to his feet and was now lip-synching the king’s

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63

speech while mimicking with exaggerated pomposity the king’s

facial expressions and gestures. The crowd tried to pay respectful

attention to King Wilfred, but individual giggles kept breaking

through.

“While you rove the lanes, passages, and alleyways of our fair,”

the king continued, as if unaware of his jester’s existence, “we command you to be merry. Let sorrow and toil be forgot! Eat, drink,

sing, and dance to your heart’s content. Above all, laugh, and with

laughter drive back the tides of darkness and woe. We, your sovereign monarch, declare this day to be . . .”

As King Wilfred placed his beringed hands on the parapet and

leaned forward to emphasize his words, several things happened in

quick succession. The section of parapet upon which he was leaning

broke away from the wall and fell to the ground with a crash of

splintering two-by-fours and shattering plaster. A cloud of plaster

dust billowed into the air.

And the king lost his balance.

Seven

I cried out in alarm as the king fought to keep himself upright. His arms windmilled wildly, his crown slipped sideways on his head, and for one heart-stopping moment it

seemed certain that he would fall through the ragged gap in the wall

and plummet headfirst to the ground. He was within a scant hairsbreadth of losing his battle with gravity when Lord Belvedere leaped

forward, seized him by the collar of his plum-colored surcoat, and

hauled him backward into the courtiers’ outstretched arms.

The crowd emitted a collective moan of relief, and Lilian and I

leaned limply against each other, our hands to our breasts. A few

people began to applaud, but I couldn’t tell whether they were saluting the king’s survival or showing their appreciation for what

they perceived to be a marvelous stunt. King Wilfred certainly

behaved as though the incident had been arranged for our amusement. He allowed his courtiers to set him on his feet, smooth his

rumpled garments, and straighten his crooked crown, then stepped

forward and planted his hands on his hips.

“If we weren’t a
merry
monarch,” he roared, “heads would roll!”

I chuckled along with everyone else and the tension in the air

dissipated, but I couldn’t help noticing that Lord Belvedere looked

as rattled as I felt. While Jinks led the crowd in three rousing

cheers for Good King Wilfred, Lord Belvedere muttered something to a brawny courtier. The courtier nodded and quickly exited

the walkway through the east tower.

Lord Belvedere then stepped forward and said, “If I may address

your subjects, Your Majesty?”

“But of course,” said King Wilfred, and stepped aside.

“Lord, ladies, and gentles all,” said Lord Belvedere. “Be assured

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

65

that no harm will befall you as you enter our great fair. I bid you

use the side entrances”—he gestured to the right-and left-hand

doors in the gatehouse—“until His Majesty’s minions clear away

all sign of our ill-fortuned incident. Your Majesty . . .” he concluded, and bowed the king to the center of the walkway.

“The time draws nigh, gentles.” King Wilfred looked up, as if

he were judging the hour by the position of the sun, and raised a

pudgy hand. When he let it fall, a cannon blast rent the air, making

Lilian and me jump.

“Let the revels begin!” shouted King Wilfred.

The heralds blew another fanfare as the king and his court exited

the walkway through the east tower. Tantalizing strains of lilting

music floated over the walls as the milling throng followed Lord

Belvedere’s advice and formed two more or less orderly lines. A moment later, two of the main entrance doors opened, a pair of costumed ticket takers appeared, and the lines began to move through

the gate house and into the fairground.

“Are cannon medieval?” I asked Lilian, as we took our place in

the left-hand line.

“They certainly are,” she replied. “Cannon have been used in Europe since the mid-fourteenth century. Frankly, I think we could

have done without one this morning. The plunging parapet was quite

enough drama to be going on with.” She scanned the gate house apprehensively. “Do you think the rest of the structure is sound? Perhaps we should have worn hard hats, to protect our heads from

loose bits of wall.”

“A knight’s helmet would be more suitable than a hard hat,” I

pointed out. “But I wouldn’t worry about the rest of the wall coming

apart. King Wilfred isn’t leaning on it at the moment.”

“I take your point,” Lilian conceded. “Calvin is a portly young

man. I suppose it was asking too much to expect a mere set decoration to support his weight. I do hope he won’t lean on it tomorrow.”

“I suspect that Lord Belvedere will advise him to avoid leaning

on anything from now on,” I said.

66 Nancy Atherton

The center door swung open and a lanky, dark-haired young man

emerged from the gate house. He was in his early twenties, dressed in

faded blue jeans, a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and work boots, and he

was pushing a wheelbarrow. He parked the wheelbarrow next to the

biggest pile of debris, stood back, and peered upward at the spot

where King Wilfred had so recently teetered. The young man

scowled, then bent to his work, tossing chunks of plaster and pieces

of broken wood into the barrow with such force that he reduced

most of the plaster chunks to powder.

“Someone didn’t get the memo about dressing in period garb,” I

murmured to Lilian.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured back. “Those blue jeans look

as if they could be a few hundred years old. As will his tools, if he

doesn’t take better care of them.”

I glanced over and saw the handle of a broom protruding from

the wheelbarrow, along with a crowbar, a shovel, a small sledgehammer, and a handsaw. The sight of the handsaw stirred a memory

in the back of my mind, but it wasn’t until Lilian and I had almost

reached our ticket taker that the memory clicked into place.

“A saw,” I whispered, and came to a standstill as the recollection triggered an avalanche of unsettling thoughts.

Only a few hours before Calvin Malvern’s near-fatal accident, I’d

stood in my back garden and heard the rhythmic buzz of a handsaw

drift toward me on the morning breeze. The sound had come from

the direction of Bishop’s Wood. I’d assumed at the time that someone was finishing a last-minute project at the fair, but what if I’d been

wrong? What if someone had instead been engaged in a last-minute

piece of
sabotage
?

Startled, I swung around to stare at the young man. He was still

scowling, still flinging debris into the wheelbarrow. Was he angry

because the parapet had fallen, I wondered, or because Calvin

Malvern hadn’t fallen with it?

“Lori,” Lilian called. “You’re holding up the queue.”

“What?” I blinked stupidly for a moment before I remembered

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

67

where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, then scurried

forward, handed my ticket to a full-fi gured young woman in peasant garb, and followed Lilian Bunting through the gate house.

“Are you all right, Lori?” Lilian asked, pulling me away from

the stream of fairgoers pouring through the entrance. “You seem

distracted.”

“I’m fine,” I said, glancing uneasily over my shoulder.

“Good.” Lilian consulted her program book. “I’m going to find my

way to something called the Farthing Stage. According to the schedule, Merlot the Magnificent will perform his magic show there at half

past ten. I’m exceedingly fond of magicians. Will you join me?” ’

“I’d rather explore,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other