Nancy Atherton (15 page)

Have they tried soaking the padded shirts in bleach?”

“I doubt it,” said Bill. “Our noble warriors have a fairly medieval

view of personal hygiene.”

“A bar of soap is the devil’s plaything?” I suggested.

Bill nodded. “Something like that.”

“Why don’t they leave the flaps open, to air the place out?” I

asked.

“I don’t think they realize that the place needs to be aired out,”

Bill explained patiently. “Besides, they wouldn’t want the equipment to get wet or blown about if a storm came through.”

“I can’t believe they ate lunch in there,” I said, fanning the noxious fumes away from my face. “Is there a way to see Will and Rob

without going inside?”

“Of course there is,” said Bill. “We can go around the marquee

instead of through it. I’ll find a knife for you later and bring it home

with me after we’ve finished up here.”

“Hold on,” I said hastily. I’d forgotten about the knife. “Maybe

I’m being too prissy. This is a medieval fair, after all. It’s supposed

to be . . . atmospheric.” I squared my shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” Bill asked.

“If you can get used to it, so can I,” I said, and marched determinedly into the marquee.

It would take more than a smelly tent to keep me from catching

the king’s foe.

Ten

M y first glimpse of the tent’s cavernous interior made me

feel as if I weren’t simply stepping backstage, but back

in time. There was no power hookup and therefore no

background hum to spoil the peace and quiet. The only light was

that which filtered through the tent’s white fabric, and the only

sound was the gentle creak of the impressive supporting timbers.

The hard-packed dirt floor had been strewn with rushes, and the

wide central aisle was six inches deep in authentically soiled straw.

The floor space was divided into sections by ropes strung between barley-twist iron stanchions that looked as though they’d

been forged by a burly blacksmith back in the fourteenth century.

The weapons and armor had been arranged in an orderly fashion on

freestanding wooden shelves and racks that stood along the left-hand

wall. The soldiers’ padded shirts and leather jerkins lay in neat piles

to the right, beneath a wooden rack supporting the furled pennons

and banners the children had carried into the arena.

The

horses’ brightly colored caparisons and plumed bridles

hung from ropes strung above a row of saddletrees that held the

ponies’ simple saddles as well as the knights’ larger and more elaborate ones. The back wall, Bill pointed out, could be rolled up to

the ceiling, to admit the horses for their grand pro cession through

the marquee and into the arena.

The dressing area near the front of the marquee was furnished

with wooden benches, a handful of three-legged stools, an ancient,

speckled,

full-length mirror, and a covered water butt with a

wooden dipper. A pewter platter piled high with oyster shells sat

on one of the benches, but the men who’d devoured the oysters

were nowhere to be seen.

96 Nancy Atherton

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“The Anscombe Manor contingent is out back with the ponies,”

Bill replied. “The squires are there, too, looking after Angelus and

Lucifer, but the rest of the jousting crew has gone back to camp.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Angelus is the white horse and Lucifer

is the black one?”

“Predictable, but true,” Bill said, nodding. “Angelus belongs to

Perry, of course, and Lucifer is Jack’s.”

“Who are Perry and Jack?” I asked, feeling a bit lost.

“Sir Peregrine the Pure and Sir Jacques de Poitiers,” he answered. “When they’re off duty, they call themselves Perry and

Jack. The soldiers call them Pretty Perry and Randy Jack, but not to

their faces.” Bill glanced furtively toward the back wall, then leaned

forward to add in a confidential murmur, “Apparently, Perry spends

more time than he should primping in front of the mirror, and

Jack thinks he has a way with the ladies, although the soldiers tell

me that the ladies would debate the point.”

The curious change in Bill’s posture and tone of voice suggested

strongly that he’d finally succumbed to an illness endemic to Finch.

I’d caught it shortly after we’d moved into the cottage, but Bill had

somehow managed to avoid it—until now.

“You’re gossiping!” I said triumphantly.

“Guilty as charged,” Bill acknowledged sheepishly. “It’s easy to

get caught up in it. Everyone’s always talking about everyone else.”

“Are they?” I tried not to show it, but Bill’s words filled me

with hope. While I’d spent the day observing the fair’s public face,

he’d seen its private side. He’d had ample opportunities to learn

all sorts of useful things about King Wilfred, Edmond Deland,

and little Mirabel. “Have you heard anyone badmouth King Wilfred?”

“No,” he replied. “Everyone seems to like Calvin.”

“Is he popular with the ladies?” I asked.

“Not a clue,” said Bill. “Why? Are you going to volunteer to play

his queen?”

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97

“I already have my king,” I said, smiling up at him. “Have many

women volunteered to play the queen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if the position exists. Calvin’s

bud get may not include a queen.” Bill swept his arm in a wide arc to

indicate the whole of our surroundings. “Would you like a tour?”

“As long as we keep our distance from the padded shirts,” I said

warily.

As we moved through the marquee, I told myself to be patient.

Bill’s apparent lack of interest in King Wilfred’s love life was disappointing, but not surprising. My husband was new to the gossip

game. He’d need a lot more practice before he could live up to my

high standards.

Bill showed me Sir Peregrine’s shattered lance, explained the heraldic symbols painted on Lucifer’s saddle, and pointed out the fine

workmanship that had gone into creating the chain mail. We were

examining Sir Jacques’ dented shield when the bottom edge of the

tent’s back wall rolled upward a few feet and a young, red-haired

squire entered the marquee, carrying a bucket filled with curry

combs, hoof picks, and other grooming tools.

“Harold,” Bill called. “Come and meet my lady wife. Harold le

Rouge is Sir Peregrine’s squire,” he explained to me, adding in an

undertone, “His real name is Tommy Grout.”

“No wonder he changed it,” I murmured back.

Harold stowed his bucket carefully beneath Sir Peregrine’s saddletree, then strode over to meet me. After we’d been properly

introduced, and after he’d finished doffing his cap and bowing, Bill

asked him if I might borrow a knife from the king’s armory.

“Your good lady is welcome to mine,” Harold said instantly.

“I can’t take your knife,” I exclaimed, embarrassed.

“I have many others, my lady,” said Harold. “You would do me a

great honor if you would accept a small trifle from me.” He removed the sheathed knife from his belt and presented both knife

and sheath to me on bended knee.

I accepted them gratefully and saw at once that they were no

98 Nancy Atherton

mere trifles. The leather sheath had been hand-sewn with fine backstitching, and the knife’s black horn handle was bound in brass.

More importantly, the gleaming blade was nearly six inches long and

honed to a razor-sharp edge. It would serve my immediate purpose

perfectly.

“Thank you, Harold,” I said. “You have the makings of a most

chivalrous knight.”

“I hope one day to be worthy of the honor,” he said, rising. “I fear

I must beg leave of you, friends. My master awaits me at the encampment.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Bill. “Our sons await us.”

“I’m glad I didn’t ask him for a pair of tights,” I whispered to Bill

as I dropped the knife into my shoulder bag.

“So is Harold,” he said softly.

We stifled our snickers and followed the young squire under

the back wall and into a small stabling area equipped with a row of

hitching posts, two watering tanks, and an assortment of buckets,

ropes, rakes, and shovels. The Anscombe Manor horse trailers were

parked ten yards away, near the end of a rough track that led, presumably, to the Oxford Road, and the horses had been turned out

to graze in a nearby pasture.

Harold took his leave of us—after more bowing and capdoffing—and headed toward a row of poplar trees beyond the horse

trailers. Will, Rob, Alison, and Billy sat atop the fence surrounding

the pasture, watching their ponies, while Lawrence McLaughlin,

Emma, and the stable hands stood at the fence, chatting. They were

all dressed in period attire, though Emma had covered her leaf-green

gown with a voluminous apron. She spotted me and spoke to the

boys, who hopped down from the fence and came running.

“Mummy, did you see us?” Will asked.

“Did you see us in the pro cession?” asked Rob.

“You know I did,” I said, hugging both of them, “because
you

saw
me
.”

“We heard you, too,” Rob informed me.

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99

“You were
loud,
” Will said.

“I must have been,” I said, “if you could hear me above the crowd.”

“We could,” Bill asserted, with feeling.

“Perry says we ride better than Jack,” Rob announced.

“And Jack says we ride better than Perry,” Will declared.

“What does Emma say?” I asked.

“She says we need more practice,” said Rob.

“She
always
says that,” Will explained.

“And she’s always right,” said Emma, coming up behind them.

“You both did well, for a first try, but we’re going to run drills with

the pennons next week. We need to keep our hands steadier and

our trot smoother.”

“We’ll skewer the varlets!” Rob cried.

“A pox upon the knaves!” Will added.

The boys galloped off to conduct a mock joust on foot while I

cast a wondering look at Bill.

“They’ve been hanging around soldiers all day,” he said. “They

were bound to pick up some new phrases. It’s making history come

alive for them.”

“ ‘A pox upon the knaves’? Their teachers are going to love

hearing
that
on the playground.” I shook my head, then turned to

give Emma a measuring look. “I never thought I’d live to see the

day when you’d doll yourself up like Maid Marian. I nearly fell over

when I saw you in the pro cession.”

“I know,” she said, with a self-satisfied smile. “It’s fun to surprise

people once in a while. The expression on your face was priceless.”

“Compared to you and Bill, I feel woefully underdressed,” I said.

“But I’ll make up for it tomorrow.” I nodded toward the pasture.

“Why haven’t you loaded the ponies?”

“They’re going to spend the night here,” she said. “We’ll bring

them back to the manor tomorrow, after the show. Less stress for

all concerned.”

“Emma,” Rob said, returning from his joust. “Did you tell

Mummy and Daddy about the feast?”

100 Nancy Atherton

“King Wilfred’s feast,” Will clarifi ed, pulling up beside Rob.

“Thanks for the reminder, my lords.” Emma ruffl

ed Rob’s hair,

then turned to me and Bill. “King Wilfred has invited all of us to

stay on for the eve ning feast. I’ve accepted, and so has the rest of

our party, but I didn’t want to speak for you.”

Bill looked at me. “Shall we?”

“You and the boys shall,” I said.

Will and Rob whooped joyfully and galloped off to share the

good news with Alison and Billy. I contented myself with an inner

whoop and silently blessed King Wilfred for giving me the excuse

I’d needed to return to the arena alone.

“Aren’t you going to join us, Lori?” Bill asked. “I’m sure our

noble monarch will make room for one more at his banquet table.”

“Maybe next time,” I said, and went on to tell him the truth

without equivocation. “I shouldn’t have worn sandals today. My

feet are killing me. I can’t wait to soak them in a hot bath.”

“You just want to wash away the manly scent of the marquee,”

Bill teased.

“That, too,” I agreed. “I don’t think you and the boys will have

any trouble enjoying yourselves without me. Where will the evening feast be held?”

“In the encampment.” Bill pointed to the row of poplars. “Beyond those trees. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m told it’s quite impressive.”

“You can tell me about it tonight,” I said. “In the meantime, I’d

like to say hello to everyone.”

Bill, Emma, and I strolled over to the fence to join the others. I

praised the children, visited with the adults, and bade them all bon

appetit when it was time for them to leave. As they moved in the

direction of the poplar trees, I turned on my heel and, with extremely bated breath, scurried back inside the marquee. I raced

down the central aisle, peeked through the gap in the tent flaps to

make sure the coast was clear, and saw to my dismay that the broken rope was no longer dangling from the quintain.

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101

A surge of apprehension propelled me forward, but by the time

I reached the gallery’s lengthening shadow I was angry enough to