Nancy Atherton (31 page)

been knocked out of him. My husband stood over him, looking

slightly flushed and a bit rumpled, but otherwise fine.

“It’s not sporting to kick a man when he’s down,” Bill said

loftily, straightening his polo shirt.

Edmond pushed himself to his knees, holding his ribs and wincing, but Mirabel flung herself to the ground beside Sir Jacques,

looking horrified by the sight of so much blood. King Wilfred

walked to Bill’s side and gazed sadly at the tableau. Bill dusted his

palms together and turned to face me.

Then all hell broke loose.

The ground quaked, a sound like an oncoming freight train filled

the air, and a cloud of dust exploded in the field next to the marquee

as a stampeding herd of cattle barreled straight toward the arena.

Wizards, magicians, musicians, and wenches shrieked and ran for

their lives. Bill grabbed King Wilfred by the collar and flung him

toward the royal gallery. Sir James and a brawny courtier heaved the

king onto the platform. Sir Jacques shoved Mirabel out of his way,

scrambled to his feet, and bolted. Bill turned toward Mirabel, but as

the panicked herd burst through the fence, Edmond scooped the girl

from the ground and ran with her to the base of the gallery. The

damsels pulled her to safety and Bill gave Edmond a boost before

204 Nancy Atherton

climbing up behind him. Bill dashed to the side of the gallery, thrust

his hand over the railing, and hauled me into his arms.

Five soldiers held their ground and fanned out across the arena,

shouting and waving their axes. The challenge seemed to confuse

the herd. The cows’ forward momentum slowed, and suddenly,

miraculously, they were milling around the arena, breathing heavily and bawling in protest, but perceptibly calming down. The soldiers circled them, talking softly, as if to reassure them, and the

herd gradually came to an exhausted, shuddering standstill. The

poor creatures looked as though they wanted nothing more than to

munch on a bale of hay in the milking barn.

Mirabel, by contrast, was on the warpath. She’d left the gallery

as soon as she’d spotted Sir Jacques nursing his bloody nose near

the marquee. While the rest of us watched from beneath the canopy, she marched over to give the Dragon Knight a piece of her

very strong mind. She kept her voice down, to avoid spooking the

herd, but I could still hear every word she said—as could Edmond,

who couldn’t take his adoring eyes off of her.

“You coward,” she began. “You bully. You sniveling, milk-livered

measle
. You kicked my poor Edmond when he was down, and you

were so busy saving your own skin that you left me to die in the

arena. You’ll never be half the man my Edmond is. He was right

about you all along. I was too caught up in”—she flung out a slender

arm in a gesture that encompassed the whole fair—“all of
this
to see

it before, but I see it now, and you can be sure that I’ll tell other girls

about you. You’re a liar, a cheat, and a dastardly scoundrel, and I

hope Perry thumps you the next time you sneak up on him after the

joust.” She raised a dainty fist. “Get out of my sight, maggot, before

I blacken your other eye.”

A rousing cheer went up from every damsel, noblewoman, and

wench within earshot. Sir Jacques dabbed at his nose with a crumpled black dragon pennon and wisely retreated to the safety of the

marquee. Mirabel spun on her heel and returned to the gallery,

where Edmond was waiting for her.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

205

“I’m so sorry, Edmond,” she said, her hazel eyes filling with tears.

“I’ve been
such
a fool, and I’ve treated you
so badly
. Can you ever forgive me?”

Edmond, still clutching his ribs, cupped her face in one hand

and smiled down at her. “Do you know where the name Mirabel

comes from? It’s from ‘
mirabilis’
—wonderful, glorious. That’s what

you are to me. It’s what you’ve always been.”

A sob escaped Mirabel as she placed her head, quite gently,

against Edmond’s chest. She allowed herself to rest there for a few

brief seconds, then straightened her diminutive shoulders, dried her

eyes on her apron, and put her arm around Edmond’s slim waist.

“Let’s get you to hospital,” she said. “Someone needs to take a

look at your ribs.”

I think Edmond would have gone with her if she’d proposed a

trip to the moon, so I was glad she’d made a sensible suggestion. As

soon as he came down from cloud nine, he was going to need some

serious medication.

“Do you think I should explain about the wench in his tent?” I

whispered to Bill.

“I do not,” he replied firmly. “It’ll be good for Mirabel to believe that Edmond has a scoundrelly streak in him. It’ll be good for

Edmond, too, in the long run.”

“By the way,” I said, kissing his bruised knuckles, “I’m really

very extraordinarily immensely proud of you. You put yourself at

risk to save at least three lives, including mine, and as if that weren’t

enough, you vanquished the Dragon Knight. Where did you learn to

fight like that?”

“I was captain of the boxing team at prep school,” he said. “And

the fencing team and the archery team. I was president of the chess

club, too, so I know how to defend my queen.”

“My hero,” I murmured, snuggling against him.

“Uh-oh,” said Bill, gazing out over the arena. “Horace Malvern

has arrived and he doesn’t look happy.”

I raised my head in time to see Mr. Malvern cruise up to the

206 Nancy Atherton

arena on his red ATV. It was a sight to remember, since he was clad

in the doublet, surcoat, gold chain, velvet hat, and manly tights of

what was, presumably, his burgher costume. When he saw Bill, he

drove over to the gallery. His mouth was clamped in a thin line and

he looked furious.

“What happened?” Bill asked.

“Someone opened the gates between here and the south paddock,

then let a bloody great Alsatian loose on the herd,” Mr. Malvern replied grimly. “I don’t know where the dog came from or who brought

it here.”

“I do,” said Bill. “I know where the dog came from and I know

who opened the gate. I know who sabotaged the parapet and the

quintain rope. I know who stole the crown and poisoned your

nephew. I know just about everything, now.”

“Bill?” I squinted up at him in confusion. “What in heaven’s

name are you talking about?”

“Remember Horace Malvern’s private investigator?” he said,

gazing steadily into my eyes. “You’re looking at him.”

Twenty-two

I sat in King Wilfred’s gilded throne and watched from the

royal gallery as Horace Malvern and the five cow-savvy foot

soldiers turned the herd around and got it moving toward

the south paddock at an easy, shuffling pace. I hardly raised an eyebrow when it dawned on me that the five brave men whose quick

thinking and stalwart actions had prevented the cows from wreaking further havoc on the fairground were the same fi ve men who’d

grunted and grinned goatishly at me in front of the black dragon

pavilion. I didn’t think anything would surprise me anymore.

My husband, the PI, sat in an ordinary courtier’s chair, talking

on his cell phone. I’d given up eavesdropping on the conversation

because the only words he’d uttered so far were “Yes,” “No,” and

“Good.” It wasn’t much to work with.

Calvin, who’d been frightened out of his wits by the stampede,

had repaired to his motor home to quaff a cup of herbal tea and

settle his nerves. Sir James and the brawny courtier, whose Rennie

name was Lord Llewellyn of Llandudno, had gone with him. I had

a sneaking suspicion that they were acting as his bodyguards.

The Rennies had straggled back to the encampment, and Mirabel had taken Edmond to the hospital in Upper Deeping, so once

the cows were gone, Bill and I had the arena to ourselves. Bill had

asked Horace Malvern, Calvin, Sir James, and Lord Llewellyn to

return to the royal gallery in a half hour, at which point he would,

presumably, dazzle everyone by explaining everything. I was forced

to presume because he’d refused to explain a single thing to me.

“Why should he take me into his confidence?” I muttered

glumly. “I’m only his
wife
.”

208 Nancy Atherton

“Did you say something, Lori?” Bill asked, covering the phone

with his hand.

“Yes,” I replied. “But you don’t want to hear it.”

“Okay,” said Bill, and returned to his conversation.

I didn’t mind that Bill had concealed his activities from me—

much. I understood better than most people that it was sometimes

necessary to skate delicate circles around the absolute truth. Now

that his investigation appeared to be over, however, I would have

appreciated a personal preview of his findings. I was dying to know

if I’d gotten anything right.

My love triangle had fallen to pieces before my eyes. Mirabel

hadn’t been King Wilfred’s plaything, she’d been infatuated by the

classic bad boy, Randy Jack. If Edmond had wanted to kill anyone,

it would have been the noxious knight, not the merry monarch. I

was still fairly certain that I’d been right about the attempts on

Calvin’s life, but I had no idea who was behind them or what the

guilty party’s motivation had been. I seriously considered beating

Bill over the head with his cell phone until he gave me the answers

I craved, but decided in the end that it would be a poor way to repay him for saving my life.

Bill ended his mysterious phone call and asked me to help him

arrange the chairs in a circle. By the time we’d finished shouldering the heavy throne into place, the others had arrived. Bill waited

until the Malverns, Sir James, Lord Llewellyn, and I were seated,

then took the fl oor.

“As you know,” he began, “several unfortunate incidents have occurred recently at King Wilfred’s Faire. The parapet on the gatehouse gave way and Calvin nearly fell twenty feet to the ground.

The quintain’s rope broke and a sandbag narrowly missed Calvin’s

head. Someone tampered with the cannon, then pointed it at the

gatehouse, upon which Calvin stands during opening ceremonies.

Calvin’s favorite crown disappeared. After the royal banquet, Calvin

became so ill that he had to be rushed to the hospital. Today, a herd

of cattle was driven into the arena, where Calvin was rehearsing a

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

209

brand-new routine with the knights. Do you detect a common thread

in the aforementioned incidents, Calvin?”

“I seem to be the featured player in all of them,” Calvin admitted, shifting his pudgy body uncomfortably on the throne. “But

they could have been accidents, couldn’t they?”

“They could have been,” Bill allowed. “But they weren’t.”

“A jape, then,” Calvin suggested. “A jest. A series of merry

pranks gone awry.”

“No one’s laughing,” Bill said firmly. “Your uncle was so concerned for your safety that he tried to persuade you to take certain

precautions, but you refused. He asked you to report the incidents

to the proper authorities. Again, you refused. As a last resort, he

came to me. He asked me to use my contacts and my Internet skills

to run background checks on your employees.” Bill looked directly

at me. “He also asked me not to talk about it, because he didn’t

want word of it getting back to you.”

I gave him a small, grudging nod. I couldn’t blame Bill for following Horace Malvern’s instructions. I was well aware of my

chatterbox tendencies. If he’d confided in me, I probably would

have told Emma, who would have told her husband, who might

have mentioned it to Mr. Barlow, who would have passed it on

to . . . and so on. Since the village grapevine had sent tendrils into

the fairground in the form of Peggy Taxman and all the other villagers who attended the fair, news about Bill’s activities would have

reached Calvin’s ear faster than a fl ying sandbag.

Calvin frowned. “No offense, Bill, but I don’t think I approve of

you running background checks on my employees.”

“I’m not seeking your approval,” Bill said flatly. “I’m trying to

save your life.” He strolled to the railing at the edge of the gallery

and looked toward Pudding Lane. “In many ways King Wilfred’s

Faire is more like a village than a business. Workers come and go as

they please at all times of the day and night. They have easy access

to all parts of the fairground and the encampment. No one questions anyone’s right to be anywhere, because the fair is run on

210 Nancy Atherton

trust. If someone is working on the gate house walkway early in the

morning, it’s generally assumed that he has a good reason to be

there, whether he’s a builder or not.”

“Can’t have people punching time clocks at a Ren fest,” Calvin

protested. “That sort of thing doesn’t work with artists. But everyone pitches in to get the grounds ready, because we’re all in the

same boat. If it sinks, we all go under, so when we need to, we put

our hands to the oars and jolly well pull together.”

“I understand the philosophy,” said Bill. “Our perpetrator does,

too. He was counting on it, in fact. He was free to commit his acts