Nancy Atherton (22 page)

“What ever the case,” said Mr. Barlow, frowning skeptically at

Sally, “Horace Malvern was fit to be tied. Says he won’t have the

dratted thing used again. Wants it off his property before someone

gets hurt.”

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“Seems they dragged it off to that camp of theirs,” said Mr. Barlow, nodding vaguely in the direction of the encampment.

“Shouldn’t have brought it here in the first place,” Sally opined.

“Dangerous things, cannon.”

“They’re not dangerous if they’re handled properly,” said Mr.

Barlow.

“They are if they’re tampered with,” retorted Sally.

“If they’ve been tampered with, they haven’t been handled

properly,” Mr. Barlow explained.

I sensed a

Finch-style

tug-of-war argument coming on and

quickly excused myself.

“Sorry,” I said, handing the long-stemmed rose to Sally. “I have

to run. I told Bill and the boys I’d meet them at the petting zoo.”

“Good to see you, Lori,” said Mr. Barlow.

“Though we’re not used to seeing quite so much of you,” Sally

said archly.

Their sniggers followed me as I fled, red-faced, up the next lane.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

143

Sally’s saucy comment had reminded me that there were drawbacks

to speaking with neighbors, but my mortification was forgotten

when I lifted my gaze from the ground and saw in the distance the

glitter of a vagrant sunbeam striking a crystal ball. I hurried forward, spotted the stall filled with bronze dragons, and knew that I’d

found the quiet lane at last.

The crystal-ball vendor was holding an animated discussion with

a young woman wearing a turban, a spangled bolero, and a pair of

genie pants. I assumed that the young woman was a customer and

hung back, waiting for her to finish, but my attention was quickly

drawn to a flurry of whispers coming from the gap between two

stalls on my left.

My busybody instincts kicked into gear. Without hesitation, I

sidled over to the gap to eavesdrop on the whisperers. In less than

a second, I knew that I’d struck gold. Edmond and Mirabel were

engaged in a hushed but spirited argument, and they weren’t bothering to use medieval patois.

“I don’t care if you ever look at me again,” Edmond was saying.

“I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I’m not going to be hurt,” said Mirabel.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” said Edmond. “He has a reputation—”

“A man like him can’t help having a reputation,” Mirabel interrupted. “I simply refuse to believe most of the stories I’ve heard

about him.”

“They’re all true,” Edmond insisted. “I’ve seen him use other

girls the same way. He always picks the youngest and most inexperienced cast member.”

“I’m twenty years old, Edmond,” Mirabel said heatedly. “I’m not

a child.”

“I know,” said Edmond, “but you’re new to this sort of thing.

It’s easy to get caught up in the fantasy.”

“I think I can tell the difference between reality and fantasy,

thank you very much,” Mirabel snapped.

144 Nancy Atherton

“If you could, you’d realize that he’s toying with you,” said Edmond. “It’s a game to him. It’s not real. He’s playing a role, and

part of his role is to sweep girls off their feet.”

“I rather enjoy being swept off my feet,” Mirabel said airily.

“You won’t when you land on your face,” Edmond warned

sternly. “He’ll use you, then he’ll toss you aside.”

“You’re talking about his past,” said Mirabel. “I happen to know

that he’s changed.”

“Is that what he told you?” Edmond gave a strangled groan of

exasperation. “It’s the oldest line in the world.”

“He means it this time,” said Mirabel.

“You’re deluding yourself,” said Edmond. “Please, Janet—”

“I’m not Janet,” she scolded. “I’m Mirabel.”

“You’re Janet Watkins,” Edmond stated doggedly. “You were

born and raised in Nottingham and you’ll go back there when the

summer’s over because it’s your home, it’s where you belong. Mirabel is a role you play.”

“Do you know what your problem is, Edmond?” Mirabel said,

her voice rising. “You’re
boring
. Here we are, in the most romantic

place in the world, and you act as though it’s just another job. Look

at you, in your jeans and your boring shirt. You’re
ordinary
. You have

no imagination. You don’t have an ounce of poetry in your soul.

You’d never throw me over your shoulder and carry me off to your

castle. You’d ask me to sit in your
wheelbarrow
and trundle me off to

your
bungalow
. Now, will you please get on with your work and stop

following me around like a pathetic puppy? I can look after myself.”

I heard the swish of Mirabel’s skirts and swung around to face

the nearest stall. While I pretended to examine a display of grotesque gargoyles, Mirabel stormed past me to join the other madrigal singers, who’d assembled in front of the bronze dragons. Some

of the girls appeared to commiserate with her, but the tallest one

quickly called them to order. A moment later, the lane was filled

with their exquisite harmony.

I was about to peek between the stalls, to see if Edmond had

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

145

lingered, when he emerged from the shadows to cast a hopeless

look in Mirabel’s direction. She missed a note, glared at him, and

went on singing with a furious gusto that made the tallest girl put a

hand on her shoulder, as if to calm her down. Edmond bowed his

head and clenched his jaw as if he were in pain, then turned on his

heel and slipped silently back through the gap.

I followed him. If he’d been desperate enough to steal the king’s

crown and tamper with the cannon before his confrontation with

Mirabel, there was no telling what he’d do after it. He might retreat

to a private hideaway to lick his wounds, or he might behave like a

cornered animal and lash out. Whatever he did, I wanted to be on

hand to witness it.

Aunt Dimity had cautioned me against putting myself in harm’s

way, and I had every intention of heeding her warning. Edmond

was a strapping young man and I was handicapped by long skirts

and a bodice that might burst under stress, so I wouldn’t hurl myself in front of him if he decided to attack the king outright, nor

would I wrestle him to the ground to keep him from committing a

fresh act of sabotage. I would, however, shout a word of warning to

foil a physical assault, if necessary, and I would do my best to prevent any act of sabotage from succeeding.

Edmond seemed to be too absorbed in his own misery to notice

the strange woman flitting from stall to stall behind him. It was

hardly surprising. Mirabel hadn’t simply rejected him, she’d slammed

his good intentions to the ground and stomped on them. Her final

riposte had been crushing enough to send anyone into a tailspin. If

Edmond hadn’t already won my vote for Most Likely to Murder, my

heart would have gone out to him.

The dark-haired young handyman walked with his head down,

but he appeared to have a definite destination in mind because he

never paused to double-check his location or stand irresolute at a

crossroads. He cut between stalls several times, and though many

vendors and performers called out friendly greetings to him as he

passed, he didn’t respond to any of them.

146 Nancy Atherton

I had no idea where we were going until we reached the small

field between the archery range and the Farthing Stage. When I

saw dancers, acrobats, foot soldiers, and courtiers forming up behind the king’s heralds, I realized with a tingle of foreboding that

Edmond had marched directly from his shattering quarrel with

Mirabel to the staging area for the king’s pro cession.

My heart raced as he approached King Wilfred, and my bosom

heaved as I prepared myself to let out a bellow worthy of Peggy

Taxman, but I never issued the lifesaving shout. Instead of lunging

forward to thrust a dagger into the king’s lecherous, treacherous

heart, Edmond turned aside before he reached the king and headed

for a shed behind the stage. While the heralds sounded their trumpets and led the pro cession from the field onto Broad Street, Edmond pulled his wheelbarrow from the shed, put a shovel and a

large sack of sawdust into it, and waited.

The sense of anticlimax that swept over me was so acute that I

had to lean against a tree until it passed. Edmond hadn’t gone to

the field in order to assassinate his hated rival. He’d gone there in

order to retrieve the tools he’d need to clean up after the horses in

the pro cession. I didn’t wish King Wilfred ill, but I’d expected

such high drama that I was almost disappointed when it fizzled.

Deflated, I made my way to Broad Street to wave to Will, Rob,

Alison, Billy, and Emma as they rode by. I stuck around long enough

to make sure that Edmond was doing exactly what he was supposed

to be doing, then started the long cross-fair trek to the Shire Stage.

I didn’t want to be late for my meeting with Jinks. I planned to

grill the king’s jester about the parapet, the quintain, the cannon,

the missing crown, and much more besides, but I was also in sore

need of a laugh.

Fifteen

“

vaunt ye, thou gorbellied, milk-livered measle!”

“Callest thou me a measle, ye mammering,

boil-A brained foot-licker?”

“Yea, verily, I do. For so art thou known by all honorable men,

ye lean-witted, onion-eyed, sheep-biting maggot-pie!”

“Malt-worm!”

“Pigeon-egg!”

The audience roared with laughter as a pair of extravagantly

overdressed Elizabethan courtiers conducted an insult contest on

the Shire Stage. The courtiers’ colorful palette of expressions

brought home to me how pale the English language had become in

the past six hundred years. It would never have occurred to me to

call anyone a measle or a maggot-pie. I hoped it wouldn’t occur to

Will or Rob.

The courtiers stopped their verbal volleys long enough to call for

volunteers to join them onstage. During the lull that ensued, I heard

the faint jingle of bells. I threw my shoulders back and aff ected the

carefree flounce of an authentic wench as I skirted the jam-packed

wooden benches and slipped into the backstage area, where a ventriloquist with a skeletal dummy sat, awaiting his turn to perform.

My ruse seemed to work, because neither the ventriloquist nor

the dummy questioned my right to be there.

Jinks stood a few yards behind the stage, near the privacy fence

that enclosed the fairground, his arms wrapped around a large

cloth-covered picnic basket. He smiled when he saw me and spoke

softly, so as not to disturb the ongoing performance.

“Well met, my lady,” he said, inclining his head over the basket.

“Pray follow me.”

148 Nancy Atherton

We walked behind a row of stalls to a small, almost invisible

gate in the privacy fence. I regarded the gate doubtfully. I hadn’t

anticipated leaving the grounds.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Away from the noise of the general populace and the smell of

the goats, lambs, and calves,” he replied. “Do not mistake me, fair

one. I revel in bucolic settings. My taste buds, alas, rebel at the

thought of consuming delectable victuals so near the petting zoo.”

We could have avoided the animals’ intrusive aromas by moving

to the picnic area, but I allowed Jinks to open the gate for me and

stepped willingly into the woods beyond. I thought I understood his

need to get away from the fair. His job was so people-intensive that,

had I been in his shoes, I would have spent all of my lunch breaks in

quiet seclusion. I would also have eaten as many meals as possible in

the open air rather than in his cramped camper-van.

The woods were familiar to me, but I let Jinks take the lead.

After a dozen steps, he removed his jester’s cap, tucked it under the

basket’s handle, and dropped back to walk beside me. I didn’t miss

the incessant jingling, nor, I expect, did he. As we ambled along side

by side, we chatted about King Wilfred’s cleanup squads, Horace

Malvern’s sobriety checkpoints, and the surge in the fair’s attendance. Finally, Jinks brought the conversation around to our ill-fated

meeting the previous evening.

“I want to apologize again for standing you up last night,” he said.

“There’s no need.” I shrugged. “A jester’s gotta do what a jester’s

gotta do.”

“A jester’s gotta do what his king commands him to do,” he said,

laughing. “I don’t usually mind, but I did last night. Much as I enjoy

quaffing with the lads, I would rather have spent time with you, Lori.”

“Lori?” I said, feigning dismay. “What happened to ‘my lady’?”

“She’s here, beside me.” He gave me a brief, sidelong glance,

then continued, “I tend to give Ren-speak a rest when I’m off duty,

but I’ll go on using it if you want me to.”

“You don’t have to stay in character for me,” I assured him. “I’d

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

149

go crazy if I had to entertain people

twenty-four hours a day.

Would you like me to call you Rowan instead of Jinks?”