Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Page 16

  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 procession.

  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 procession 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 procession. 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

  “Avaunt ye, thou gorbellied, milk-livered measle!” “Callest thou me a measle, ye mammering, boil-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 affected 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.”

  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 go crazy if I had to entertain people twenty-four hours a day. Would you like me to call you Rowan instead of Jinks?”

  “Better not,” he said. “It brings back too many painful memories of my school days.” He winced slightly as we stepped over a log.

  “Painful memories?” I teased.

  “Painful knees,” he replied, pausing to rub his left leg. “I misjudged a landing during the procession. My joints aren’t what they used to be.”

  “Whose are?” I said as we walked on. “Lucky for you, it’s Sunday. You’ll have the rest of the week to recuperate.”

  “I seem to spend more and more time recuperating,” he said, with a wry smile.

  “In that case,” I said, “why don’t you let me set up an appointment for you with my neighbor, Miranda Morrow? She’s an excellent massage therapist and a certified homeopathic healer. She’ll have you feeling right as rain before you know it.”

  “Thank you, from the bottom of my knees,” he said. “Unfortunately, they’ll be far away from Finch during the coming week. They’re traveling with me to Cheltenham, to stay at a friend’s flat. I’ll be spending weekdays there throughout the summer.”

  “I’m glad,” I said.

  “Are you?” he asked. “Why?”

  “I saw your camper,” I told him. “It’s okay for weekend stays, but I wouldn’t want to spend an entire summer in it.”

  “Nor would I, which is why I’ve made other arrangements.” Jinks came to a sudden halt. “Well? What do you think? Will it do for our picnic?”

  We stood near the edge of a sparkling brook that ran through a sylvan glade. Sunlight streamed through leaves that hadn’t yet lost their springtime suppleness and water gurgled and splashed over smooth, mossy stones, providing a natural music that was far easier on the ears—and the nerves—than the fair’s constant din. Wild-flowers grew among the long grasses, filling the air with sweet, subtle fragrances, and small birds twittered in the trees.

  “It’s lovely,” I said. “Is this your secret place?”

  “It’s our secret, now,” he said.

  “If Bishop’s Wood were farther away from Finch,” I said, “I’d agree with you. But most of my neighbors have probably picnicked in this very spot at one time or another. I know for a fact that Miranda Morrow collects herbs in these woods.”

  “We’ll just have to pretend, then,” said Jinks. “We’ll make believe we’re the first humans to set foot here. We’ll be the Adam and Eve of Bishop’s Wood.”

  “If I see a snake, I’m leaving,” I declared.

  When Jinks placed the picnic basket on the ground, he groaned and grabbed his back, so I ordered him to sit on
a fallen tree and let me take care of the heavy work. While he dug his knuckles into his twinging muscles, I spread the cloth on the ground and set out the food and drink he’d brought from the encampment—cold chicken, ripe strawberries, dried figs, honey cakes, a round loaf of bread, a generous wedge of Cheddar, and a bottle of Riesling.

  “The wine’s from my own cellar,” he announced, lowering himself gingerly onto the cloth. “Trust me, it’s possible to grow tired of quaffing ale.” He opened the bottle with a corkscrew, filled two plastic cups with wine, and handed one to me. “A toast, my lady?”

  “To King Wilfred,” I said, raising my glass. “Long may he reign.”

  “To the king,” said Jinks. He touched his glass to mine, then set it aside and reached for a chicken breast. As he chewed his first bite, he let his green eyes travel well south of my chin. “I’ve been meaning to compliment you on your garb. It’s most becoming.”

  “Thanks,” I said, without a trace of self-consciousness. Jinks had been working at Ren fests for so long that he had to be used to seeing dresses like mine. “I wanted to be a noblewoman, but my seamstress didn’t have enough time to make a fancy dress, so I ended up as a wench.”

  “Noblewomen are tedious,” he said dismissively. “You’re much better off as a wench. Less dignity, perhaps, but more license, and I know which one I prefer. Wench roles usually go to our more buxom cast members, but not always. Wenching, you see, is a state of mind. And, as you demonstrate so admirably, one can achieve marvelous effects with a fitted bodice.”

  “It’s not bad,” I said, glancing downward. “Bill hasn’t seen my garb yet, but I think he’ll like it.”

  “If he doesn’t, he’s a bigger fool than I am.” Jinks dropped his gaze for a moment, then looked up again to continue his analysis of my appearance. “Technically, you shouldn’t wear your hair short—even nuns had long hair in medieval times—but your curls are so adorable that we’ll let it pass. Also, you’ve used the old Rennie trick of—”

  “Rennie?” I broke in.

  “A hard-core Ren fest participant,” he translated, “one who travels from fair to fair throughout the year, who sees it as a way of life rather than a hobby. You are a mundane—an outsider, a member of the public—though no one could tell by looking at you. You’ve used the classic Rennie trick of disguising your short hair with a cap, which is exactly the right thing to do.”

  “The credit should go to my seamstress,” I said. “She made the costume.”

  “But you give it its lovely shape,” he said.

  “Enough,” I said, shaking a chicken leg at him. “I’m happy to know that you approve of my costume, and I realize that flattery is part of your act, but you’ve exceeded the quota of compliments you’re allowed to give to a married woman.”

  “Is there a quota?” he asked innocently.

  “There certainly is, and you’ve sailed right over it,” I said. “Let’s move on to another subject, shall we? Is it true that someone stole Calvin’s crown?”

  Jinks choked on a sip of Riesling, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gazed at me incredulously. “You’ve heard about the crown? My word. News does travel fast at a Ren fest.”

  “Sounds like Finch,” I said. “Is it true, then? Was the crown stolen?”

  “It’s missing,” Jinks allowed. “Whether it was stolen or merely misplaced remains to be seen. No one burgled Cal’s motor home, so my money is on misplacement.”

  “How could Calvin misplace his crown?” I asked. “It’s set with his mother’s jewels.”

  “By my troth,” Jinks said, his eyes widening with delight. “You are in the know, aren’t you?”

  “I keep my ears open,” I acknowledged modestly. “And I’m still waiting to hear your answer. How could Calvin misplace something that means so much to him?”

  “After an evening of quaffing, one can easily misplace anything that isn’t actually attached to one’s body.” Jinks stretched out on his side, propped his head on his hand, and began nibbling a fig. “We searched the camp this morning, before the fair opened, but we didn’t find it.”

  “You don’t seem too worried about it,” I said.

  “I’m not,” he admitted, popping the rest of the fig into his mouth. “Pranks and practical jokes are a staple of camp life, Lori. I fully expect the crown to turn up next weekend, on one of the ponies.”

  “Do you think the quintain incident started out as a practical joke?” I asked.

  “No, I don’t,” he replied more seriously. “Our cast members may share a rather sophomoric sense of humor, but they know better than to muck about with the equipment in the arena. It’s too dangerous. A defective rope is to blame for the quintain accident.”

  “Are you sure about that?” I asked. “Did someone examine the rope after the accident?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Jinks. “Edmond brought it back to camp—”

  “Edmond brought the rope to camp?” I interrupted.

  “Of course. He’s the general dogsbody. It’s his job to straighten the arena after the show. When he’d finished, he brought the broken rope to the encampment, where we all had a look at it.” Jinks’s eyes narrowed and he peered up at me inquisitively. “Why are you taking such a great interest in the rope, Lori?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, ducking my head to avoid his penetrating gaze. “It just seems as if Calvin’s been having an unusual run of bad luck since the fair opened.”

  “And you suspect . . . what?” Jinks asked.

  I slipped Harold le Rouge’s knife from its sheath and busied myself with cutting up the generous wedge of cheese.

  “Lori,” Jinks said, his voice laden with disbelief, “you’re not suggesting that someone is trying to bump off our beloved monarch, are you?”

  I could feel the entire top half of my body blush.

  “You witnessed a series of accidents and deduced that a . . . a pretender to the throne is attempting . . . regicide?” Jinks rolled onto his back and began howling with laughter. “Ring the alarm bells! Call out the watch! Raise the hue and cry! The king’s life is imperiled by felons most foul!” After a few minutes of unrestrained chortling, he caught his breath and heaved an amused sigh. “Oh, Lori, you belong in my world. You have precisely the right sort of imagination.”

  My head snapped up.

  “I’m not imagining things,” I said through gritted teeth, and then it was off to the races. “I hear someone using a handsaw three hours before the fair opens—one person using one saw—and the next thing I know, the parapet falls apart. And it just happens to be the parapet Calvin leans on during the opening ceremony. Then he’s nearly decapitated by the sandbag and I examine the rope and it just happens to look as if someone sliced into with a knife. Then his crown disappears and someone tampers with the cannon and . . . and . . .” I thumped the ground with my fist. “I’m not making things up!”

  “No, no, of course you’re not.” Jinks sat up with a groan and held a placating hand out to me. “But who would want to harm our merry monarch? Cal is the kindest boss in the world. Everyone loves him.” His hand fell and his tone softened to a patronizing purr. “Isn’t it possible that you may be reading a little too much into things?”

  “It’s . . . possible,” I conceded stiffly.

  “The saw, for example,” he went on. “Is it really so shocking that you heard it when you did? Builders were up all night putting last-minute touches on various projects. The paint was still wet on the gatehouse when the opening ceremonies began, and the walkway was a long way from finished. All of the parapets were held in place by temporary struts. Calvin should have known better than to put his weight on any of them.”

  “All of the parapets were weak?” I said, with a doubtful frown. “You told me that the walkway was perfectly safe.”

  “I didn’t want you to spend your first day at the fair worrying about whether or not the gatehouse would collapse,” said Jinks. “The truth is, it was still a work in progres
s.”

  “But the quintain’s a different matter,” I argued. “Someone could have sabotaged it after the knights left for the opening ceremonies, when the arena was deserted.”

  “The arena is never deserted,” Jinks pointed out, smiling patiently. “There’s always a gaggle of girls hanging around the marquee, hoping for a chance to flirt with the squires or the soldiers or the knights. Deadly weapons are babe magnets, apparently.”

  “My husband didn’t mention a gaggle of girls,” I said.

  “Wise man,” Jinks muttered.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

  “Wives don’t always approve of groupies,” he said carefully, peering skyward.

  “Oh,” I said, thinking of Bill’s tights. “I see.”

  “Be that as it may,” Jinks went on hastily, “a quintain would be a highly unreliable murder weapon. It would be too difficult to predict when the rope would break, and it would have to break at exactly the right moment to send the sandbag sailing toward a specific target. I don’t see how it could be done.”

  “Maybe the saboteur was trying to scare the king,” I said.

  “No one was trying to scare the king,” Jinks countered. “When we examined the rope’s shipping crate, we discovered several nails that hadn’t been hammered into place correctly. The pointy ends were protruding inside the crate. No one cut the rope intentionally, Lori. It was damaged during shipment by the nails in a poorly made crate.”

  “And the cannon?” I said.

  Jinks pursed his crooked lips. “We think it was someone’s idea of a joke. A stupid, dangerous joke, but a joke nonetheless.”

  I frowned. “You just told me that Rennies know better than to pull dangerous stunts.”

  “We don’t think a Rennie is responsible for this one,” he said grimly. “Two teenaged boys—fairgoers, not cast members—were seen near the cannon yesterday afternoon. They were asked to leave, but they may have returned later on. We believe they’re responsible for the prank.” He reached for a honey cake. “It wasn’t aimed at the king, by the way. If anyone had been hurt, it would have been the artillery team. Fortunately, they’re too conscientious to fire a gun without inspecting it first.”