Nancy Atherton (12 page)

my lady, the pro cession will pass before your very eyes.”

“Thanks.” I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t be allowed to return home if I missed Will and Rob riding in the king’s pro cession,

but I couldn’t stop myself from asking one more question. “Do you

know the name of the lead madrigal singer?”

“Mirabel,” she replied. “Little Mirabel. She has the voice of an

angel, does she not?”

“She does,” I said, and hurried to catch up with the singers.

They’d stopped at the edge of Broad Street, and I elbowed my way

through the jostling crowd to stand beside them. The taller girls

had formed a protective pocket behind Mirabel and regarded her

with tolerant amusement as she craned her neck and stood on tiptoe to watch for the oncoming pro cession.

74 Nancy Atherton

I studied her with frank curiosity. She looked like a besotted

groupie waiting for a rock star to appear. Was she anxious to see

the king’s pro cession, I wondered, or was she longing for a glimpse

of the king himself? Could it be that little Mirabel was, for reasons

beyond my understanding, infatuated with her king?

It was hard to picture Calvin Malvern as a Don Juan, but Jinks

had told me that people’s personalities changed when they took on

roles at a Ren fest. As King Wilfred, Calvin might very well enjoy a

spot of dalliance with a humble but adoring young maiden. He might

even attempt to exercise his droit du seigneur. As far as I could tell,

King Wilfred had no queen, so there was nothing to keep him from

making a royal pass at every pretty girl who crossed his path.

Or was there?

Though the sun was warm, a chill crept down my spine. Edmond’s furious scowl flashed before my mind’s eye, followed by the

stark image of a handsaw protruding from a wheelbarrow.

“Regicide,”
I whispered.

Eight

T he sun seemed to darken and the crowd seemed to recede

into the background as I recalled how easily the parapet

had given way and how close Calvin Malvern had come to

losing his balance and, perhaps, his life. There was no denying that

Edmond Deland had the tools and the skills needed to make such

an accident happen. If Mirabel had spurned his love and bestowed

hers on the king, he would also have had a motive.

“Slow down,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t get ahead of

yourself, Lori. You don’t
know
anything yet.”

An earsplitting blare of trumpets interrupted my uneasy meditations. I winced, glanced around, and saw the king’s heralds striding past me, blowing their usual fanfare and crying, “Make way!

Make way for the king!”

The few stragglers still crossing Broad Street scuttled to the

sidelines to avoid being trampled by what turned out to be a formidable pro cession. The heralds were followed by a collection of entertainers who strutted, danced, banged tambourines, twirled ribbons

on wands, and exchanged good-humored badinage with the onlookers lining the route. People cheered for their favorites as they passed

by. Some showed their appreciation by tossing coins, which were

expertly caught, though not always by those at whom they’d been

aimed.

A phalanx of bearded men dressed in studded leather jerkins

came next. Each bore a longbow, a spear, a poleax, or a halberd.

The weapons looked deadly enough to be used in battle, but the

men who carried them were too soft in the belly and smiled too

genially to be mistaken for hardened warriors.

The soldiers were followed by a gap in which Jinks performed a

76 Nancy Atherton

breathtaking sequence of acrobatic maneuvers. As he sailed by, I

remembered his offer to pop over the stile for a visit after he’d finished his day’s work. I hoped he would make good on his offer. I

had a sudden, urgent need to know everything he could tell me

about the fair’s backstage intrigue.

After Jinks came the moment I’d been waiting for. King Wilfred

and his court strode into view, led by the gray-haired Lord Belvedere, flanked by Sir Peregrine and Sir Jacques, and accompanied by

a dozen noblewomen, all of whom wore lustrous gowns and splendid wimples. My heart ached with envy when I saw the wimples,

but I thrust my feelings aside and concentrated solely on the king.

As the merry monarch approached, he raised a plump hand to

his lips and blew a kiss toward my section of the crowd. I heard

Mirabel’s delighted squeal and turned just in time to see her blush

adorably and sink into a picture-perfect curtsy. The other madrigal

singers giggled and nudged one another approvingly, then the tallest

one, who seemed more mature than the rest, spoke to Mirabel.

“ ’Tis time for us to return to our labors,” she scolded good-naturedly. “Thou hast seen him and thou shalt see him again anon.”

“And anon and anon,” another girl added mischievously.

The girls then edged their way through the crowd, towing a

reluctant Mirabel in their wake. I peered at them pensively until a

pair of piping voices reminded me of my original reason for watching the king’s pro cession.

“Mummy! MUMMY!”

The sight of Will and Rob astride their gray ponies chased all

thoughts of sabotage from my mind. Alison and Billy McLaughlin,

their gymkhana teammates, rode in the pro cession as well, but I

couldn’t take my eyes off of my sons. As Sally Pyne had promised,

they looked like little princes in their gorgeous velvet tunics, and

Thunder and Storm looked equally noble, draped in white and gold

caparisons supplied by Calvin Malvern. When the boys finished waving giddily at me, they resumed the dignifi ed demeanor they’d been

taught to display at horse shows.

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77

The four children rode their ponies at a sedate pace at the rear

of the procession. They were followed by an older rider, also in

costume but riding sidesaddle. She wore a beautiful pair of suede

gloves, an elegant leaf-green gown, and a tall wimple adorned with

the daintiest wisp of silk. I was so busy checking out her garb that I

didn’t realize who she was until she passed directly in front of me.

“Emma?” I said, my voice squeaking with disbelief.
“Emma?”

Emma Harris, my levelheaded, unromantic, unimaginative best

friend, turned her wimpled head to grin at me, then raised a gloved

hand and favored me with a regal wave as she followed my sons down

Broad Street on her mare, Pegasus. I was so shocked to see her

decked out in damsel gear that I nearly missed the pro cession’s denouement.

The crowd trailed after the king and his cohorts as they turned

up Pudding Lane toward the joust arena, but one member of the

pro cession lingered. Alone, unsung, armed with a wheelbarrow, a

shovel, and a large sack of sawdust, Edmond Deland moved silently

through the noisy throng, clearing Broad Street of the messes left

behind by the ponies.

As I watched him bend to his task, I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. How could a young man who scooped pony poop for

a living hope to compete with a king? I didn’t forgive or condone

his violent tactics, but I thought I understood his desperation. I

wanted to reach out to him, to offer words of consolation that

might calm the fire of jealousy that was burning in his breast, but

before I’d taken more than a half step toward him, a hand on my

elbow stopped me.

“Lori?” said a voice.

Lilian Bunting had caught up with me. I stared at her abstractedly for a moment, then realized with a sinking heart and a flaming

face that I’d done it again. I’d thrown myself, body and soul, into a

drama that didn’t exist outside of my own head. With almost no

effort at all, I’d turned a few glances and a blown kiss into a love

triangle and a murder plot. If Lilian hadn’t happened by, I would

78 Nancy Atherton

have accosted a total stranger and accused him of a heinous crime.

When I thought of the embarrassing scene my impulsiveness might

have provoked, I wanted to take a scrub brush to my brain.

“You look as if you’re a million miles away,” said Lilian.

“I was,” I admitted. “But I’m back now. How was Merlot the

Magnifi cent?”

“Magnificent.” Lilian slipped her hand through my arm. “Come

along. I’ll tell you all about him on the way to the arena. We don’t

want to miss the joust! Did you see Emma in the pro cession? I

thought she looked wonderful, didn’t you? Will and Rob were simply charming, of course. Did you stop at Jasper Taxman’s stall? I

couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him in a velvet doublet and

hose. He told me that Peggy stayed behind at the Emporium because she didn’t care for the costume she’d ordered from London,

but I heard a different story from Sally Pyne. According to Sally, the

bodice was so small that Peggy popped out of it in a most immodest manner. Naturally, Peggy asked Sally to alter the bodice, but

Sally told me that she’d have to add so much material to the old bodice that she might as well make a new one from scratch. . . .”

My friend’s gossip washed over me like a soothing balm, anchoring me in a world I knew and helping me to regain a firm foothold

on the slippery shores of reality. I promised myself that, as soon as

the joust was over, I would look for Jasper’s stall and seek out Sally

Pyne. I wanted to get the lowdown on Peggy’s costume malfunction, of course, but I also needed all the anchoring I could get.

Lilian and I bought spinach pies, fizzy lemonade, and honey

cakes as we strolled up Pudding Lane. By the time we reached the

picnic area overlooking the joust arena, all of the tables were taken,

so we sat on the ground with many other spectators and spread our

al fresco lunch between us.

While most participants in the king’s pro cession had dispersed

to other parts of the fair, the king and a few select members of his

entourage had seated themselves in chairs on a sturdy raised platform on the far side of the arena. The platform was hung with

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

79

festive banners and shaded by a striped canopy whose four stout

wooden posts were wreathed in bright ribbons and fresh fl owers.

The king sat in a high-backed, gilded throne close to the platform’s front railing, where he could see and be seen by his subjects.

The throne on the platform was less ornate than the one I’d seen

sitting on the Great Hall stage, but it was still pretty stately.

Gray-bearded Lord Belvedere stood beside the throne. He appeared

to be fiddling with a pair of speakers mounted on the canopy’s foremost posts.

“Anachronism alert,” I said, nudging Lilian. “The stage is wired

for sound.”

“I suppose we must make some concessions to modern times,”

she commented. “I, for one, was relieved to see that chemical loos

had been provided for our convenience, rather than their medieval

equivalents. And it isn’t a stage, Lori. It’s the royal gallery. I’ve been

reading up on jousting, which, I discovered, is also known as tilting.

The joust arena can also be called the tiltyard, the lists, or the list

fi eld.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “Speak on, O learned one. It’ll give me a

chance to finish my spinach pie.”

“Mock if you will,” said Lilian. “I will not be daunted.”

She was stating the simple truth. Lilian Bunting had a scholarly

turn of mind. If she was determined to dispense knowledge, it

would take more than gentle teasing to divert her from her course.

“The earliest tournaments sprang from rather bloody affairs

called melees,” she began. “A melee was a mock battle in which foot

soldiers and mounted knights clashed violently with opponents. Melees usually continued until one side beat the other into submission.”

“Why did they go to such extremes if it was only a mock battle?” I asked.

“Practice,” said Lilian. “The knights wanted to maintain their

fighting skills between real wars, but so many of them were killed

or injured in the pro cess that tournaments were eventually banned.

They were later revived as a form of royal entertainment as well as

80 Nancy Atherton

a source of income for the knights. Prize money was awarded and a

new set of rules was generally followed, with a points system that

discouraged outright slaughter.”

“How civilized,” I said.

“Jousting is much safer nowadays,” Lilian said confidently. “Modern knights use breakaway lances and carefully choreograph any

hand-to-hand combat that might take place. I’m sure Calvin’s hired

competent performers. King Wilfred wouldn’t want his fair spoiled

by bloodshed.”

“I should think not.” Thoughts of sabotage fl ickered in my mind,

but I doused them by asking a question that had been puzzling me for

some time. “Do you happen to know the difference between a page

and a squire?”

“Age,” Lilian replied, unwittingly confirming Aunt Dimity’s

guess. “The young sons of noble families became pages in neighboring house holds, where they learned gentlemanly skills such as deportment and riding. When a page reached the age of fourteen or

thereabouts, he could become a squire and serve a particular knight.

Squires in turn could become knights, if they could afford the expense, which was considerable. If they couldn’t afford it, they might