Nancy Atherton (25 page)

“Since the matter is still under investigation, I’d rather not say.”

Lord Belvedere raised an iron-gray eyebrow. “Have I appeased your

curiosity, madam?”

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163

“You have,” I said. “And you’ve done so most graciously.” I turned

to look at the encampment. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Jinks told me—”

“You know Jinks?” said Lord Belvedere.

“I’ve chatted with him a few times,” I said. “His camper-van is

parked in the pasture next to my back garden.”

“Yes, of course.” Lord Belvedere nodded, as if my words had

tweaked his memory. “He needed space in which to practice his

tumbling.”

“He certainly does,” I said, venturing a smile. “There’s not

enough room here to swing a gerbil. I don’t think I’d be able to find

my own tent in such a mishmash.”

“It’s not a mishmash,” said Lord Belvedere. “It’s a highly stratified community.” He finally lifted his hand from his sword and gestured for me to walk with him. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

Together we retraced my steps to the top of the rise, then turned

to look out over the encampment. Slowly and carefully, Lord Belvedere helped me to see patterns in the seeming chaos.

The tents were, in fact, arranged in carefully delineated clusters defi ned by the roles people played in the fair. Within the general encampment, there was the weekenders’ camp, the Rennies’

camp, the actors’ camp, the vendors’ camp, the jousters’ camp, and

a mixed area known simply as “the other camp.” The RV area was

called “electric row” because the larger RVs had their own generators.

Hygiene was evidently not a prime concern in the encampment,

because the nearest laundromat was ten miles away, in the small

market town of Upper Deeping, and the bathroom facilities were

limited to four portable showers and two dozen chemical toilets.

Lord Belvedere assured me that most of the resident cast members

brought their own washing facilities with them, but the thought of

spending an entire summer—or even an entire weekend—washing

my hair under a perforated plastic bag filled with cold water made

my scalp crawl.

164 Nancy Atherton

“I imagine you must have a few handymen on staff for emergency

repairs,” I said. “Where do they stay?”

“In the tradesmen’s camp,” he said, pointing to a small cluster

of modest tents to the left of a large multicolored pavilion.

I fastened my gaze on the tradesmen’s camp and tried to visualize the most direct route to it.

“I’m afraid I must leave you,” said Lord Belvedere. “Closing ceremonies are upon us.”

“Already?” I said, and I wasn’t feigning disappointment. I’d come

too close to turn back. “Would it be all right if I looked around the

encampment? I promise not to bother anyone.”

“You mustn’t touch anything, either,” he cautioned. “You might

injure yourself, and our insurance costs are high enough already.”

“I won’t touch a thing,” I promised. “May I look around? Please?”

Lord Belvedere stroked his beard reflectively and for the first

time allowed his hawklike gaze to slide downward from my face.

“Of course, my dear. You are a neighbor, after all. And a very pretty

one at that.” He bowed gracefully. “Until we meet again.”

“Until then,” I responded, and as I headed into the encampment, I silently blessed Sally Pyne and her uplifting needlework.

Seventeen

T he downside of wearing a fitted bodice became apparent

when I took a wrong turn and stumbled into the jousters’

camp. If the wind had been blowing in the other direction, I would have been forewarned by the unmistakable manly

stink, but with the wind at my back, I didn’t notice it until it was

too late.

Up to that point, my journey through the encampment had been

an eye-opening experience for entirely different reasons. In many

ways, the encampment was like any other campground. The spaces

between the tents were littered with usual jumble of barbecue

grills, lawn chairs, insulated coolers, picnic tables, washtubs, cricket

bats, soccer balls, laundry lines, and overflowing trash bins.

In many more ways, however, the encampment was unlike any

place I’d ever been. Pennons emblazoned with heraldic devices fluttered from the roof poles of nearly every tent, as if each were a separate country, and the laundry lines

were hung with doublets,

pantaloons, and muffin caps rather than T-shirts, hiking shorts, and

bathing suits.

Some campers had rigged up complicated cast-iron spits over

open fires. Others had casks of ale cooling in the shade of small leantos. I walked past pyramids of juggling balls, stacks of fire-eaters’ batons, scores of antique musical instruments, and enough lethal-looking

weaponry to start a second Hundred Years’ War. I didn’t see any

naked bottoms, but I figured they’d show up later, after work had

ended and playtime had begun.

I was so engrossed in the details of my surroundings that I

didn’t know I’d entered the jousters’ camp until I looked up to see

five grubby foot soldiers lounging in lawn chairs around a bonfire

166 Nancy Atherton

pit, with their backs to the entrance of a huge multicolored pavilion fl ying the black dragon standard.

It took me less than a nanosecond to conclude that the soldiers

gathered there would never be interested in my mind. As I backed

away from their much-too-admiring gazes, the bulkiest soldier,

who looked as though he hadn’t bathed or combed his hair since the

Battle of Hastings, called over his shoulder, “Jack! The eve ning’s

entertainment has arrived early! She must be eager to get started.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, planted my hands on my hips, and

said frostily, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh-ho!” said the bulky soldier, nudging the man next to him.

“A feisty one. Jack’ll like her.”

The rest of the men emitted grunts of agreement accompanied

by a low rumble of lascivious laughter. I was calculating how long it

would take me to slap the goatish grins off of their faces when Sir

Jacques de Poitiers emerged from the pavilion, adjusting his dragon-embossed black leather jerkin. His eyes met mine and a small,

puzzled smile played about his lips. He made a flicking motion with

his hand and the grinning, grunting soldiers dispersed.

“You must forgive my comrades.” He crossed to stand a few feet

away from me, as if he feared that I might make a run for it if he

came any nearer. His voice was deep, slightly hoarse, and very attractive, and his

coal-black eyes

were fringed with long, dark

lashes. “They’re barbarians. They know no better.”

“I’ll teach them,” I offered, clenching both hands.

“I’m afraid your lessons would fall on deaf ears, and your fists

on rather thick skulls,” he said with a winsome grimace. “Please

allow me to apologize on their behalf. They will not trouble you

again.”

“Apology accepted,” I said shortly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“One moment more, I beg of you,” he said. “I don’t believe

we’ve been introduced.” He pointed his toe and sank into a low

bow. “Sir Jacques de Poitiers, at your service.”

“Madame de Bergere,” I said, curtsying politely. I hadn’t planned

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167

to acquire a Rennie name, but I was glad that a suitable one had

popped into my head. “
Bergere
” was the French word for shepherdess,

which was as close as I would allow the Dragon Knight—or any of

his comrades—to come to my real last name. “Pleased to meet

you. Now I really must—”

“Why have we not met before, Mistress?” Sir Jacques interrupted.

I shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Come, now,” the knight chided gently. “You mustn’t be cross

with me because of my men’s unchivalrous behavior. Unlike them,

I know how to treat a lady.”

He took a step forward and exhaled a cloud of ale fumes potent

enough to pickle granite. I coughed, glanced at the symbol embossed on his leather jerkin, and suddenly understood the meaning

of the term “dragon breath.”

“Mistress,” he continued, “you appear to be distressed. Have

you perchance lost your way? You have only to command me and I

will escort you safely to your destination.”

The clock that had been ticking in the back of my brain ever

since the town crier had announced the time grew noticeably

louder. It struck me that it would be worth spending a few minutes

in Randy Jack’s company if he could help me to find Edmond’s tent

before nightfall. I gazed into his dark eyes and began to invent a

cover story to go along with my new name.

“I don’t need an escort,” I told him, “but I could use a good set

of directions. The problem is, a customer broke a shelf in my stall.

I’d like Edmond Deland to fix it, so I’m trying to find his tent.”

Sir Jacques frowned. “Eddie won’t return to his quarters until

long after closing ceremonies. He never does, and though I’m sorry

to say it, all work and no play has made him a very dull boy indeed.”

“That’s odd,” I said, trying to sound both troubled and perplexed. “He told me to meet him there right about now.”

“Did he?” The knight’s puzzled frown slowly morphed into a

168 Nancy Atherton

knowing grin. “Steady Eddie is skiving off work early in order to

meet you in his tent, is he? It’ll be a tight fit in that sad little cot of

his, but well worth the effort—for him, at least. Having seen you,

I can sympathize fully with his sense of urgency, though I confess

that I never expected him to act on his . . .
urges
.”

Sir Jacques’ insinuations were as alarming as they were unsubtle. I attempted to set him straight.

“I think there’s been a slight misunderstanding,” I began. “Edmond Deland and I aren’t—”

“You can have no secrets from me, Mistress,” said the knight,

waving me to silence. “Your bewitching blushes admit the truth,

even if your shapely lips will not. I’m pleased to hear that Eddie has

moved on, though I daresay some in camp will be disappointed to

learn that he isn’t as lily-white as he seems.” He took another step

toward me. “I hope, for his sake, that you aren’t, either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said impatiently. “I’m old enough to be

his—”

“What has age to do with passion?” Sir Jacques interrupted. “If

youth fails to quench your thirst, however, I hope you’ll remember

that an older, more experienced man—a
real
man—is ready and

willing to fulfill your wildest fantasies. Come, my petal, don’t be

shy. Taste the delights that await you.”

Before I could react to his preposterous speech, he lunged forward, caught me by the waist, slammed me into his body, and clamped

his mouth over mine. I couldn’t tell whether it was a good kiss or not

because I was too busy trying not to vomit. Randy Jack had clearly

never heard of toothpaste, let alone mouthwash, and he was in dire

need of both.

I jerked my head away from his and pushed with all my might

against his chest, but his workouts in the arena had given him the

strength of a gorilla. His arms tightened around me like steel bands.

“She has spirit,” he breathed. “She has fire.”

I choked on ale fumes and raised my knee until it touched the

hem of his jerkin.

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169

“If you want to sit straight in the saddle again,” I said, gasping,

“you’ll unhand me
this instant
!”

Sir Jacques lowered his gaze, took stock of his position, and released me. I backed away from him, trembling with rage.

“Don’t
ever
come near me again,” I snarled. “And for God’s sake,

buy a toothbrush
!”

I spat disgustedly into the bonfire pit, turned on my heel, and

took off. I kept walking until I’d put a couple of yurts between me

and the Dragon Knight, then ducked into the space between two

empty pup tents and stood there, spitting repeatedly and shuddering

with revulsion.

While I waited for my blood pressure to drop, it gradually

dawned on me that I’d acquired two extremely useful facts during

my unexpected encounter with Randy Jack. For one thing, I’d

learned that Edmond wouldn’t return to his tent for some time

yet, and for another, I’d remembered that the tradesmen’s camp

was a hundred yards to the left of the multicolored black dragon

pavilion.

Heartened, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my chemise

and set out for the tradesmen’s camp. I found it without further

delay and, bearing Mistress Farseeing’s description in mind, went

from tent to tent until I found the tidiest one. Apart from a metallic-blue motorbike parked next to it and a huge plastic water jug perched

on a small wooden stool near the tent’s entrance, the space around

it was completely clear and clutter-free. I wasn’t certain that I’d

reached my goal, however, until I spotted a monogram on the

leather tool kit attached to the motorbike’s handlebars.

“ED,” I whispered, tracing the letters with a fingertip. “Edmond Deland. Eureka, I’ve found it!”

Edmond’s tent wasn’t quite as small as the average peasant’s pocket,

but it wasn’t the Taj Mahal, either. With its ropes, stakes, and