Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon Read online

  The crowd trailed after the king and his cohorts as they turned up Pudding Lane toward the joust arena, but one member of the procession lingered. Alone, unsung, armed with a wheelbarrow, a shovel, and a large sack of sawdust, Edmond Deland moved silently through the noisy throng, clearing Broad Street of the messes left behind by the ponies.

  As I watched him bend to his task, I felt a sudden rush of sympathy for him. How could a young man who scooped pony poop for a living hope to compete with a king? I didn’t forgive or condone his violent tactics, but I thought I understood his desperation. I wanted to reach out to him, to offer words of consolation that might calm the fire of jealousy that was burning in his breast, but before I’d taken more than a half step toward him, a hand on my elbow stopped me.

  “Lori?” said a voice.

  Lilian Bunting had caught up with me. I stared at her abstractedly for a moment, then realized with a sinking heart and a flaming face that I’d done it again. I’d thrown myself, body and soul, into a drama that didn’t exist outside of my own head. With almost no effort at all, I’d turned a few glances and a blown kiss into a love triangle and a murder plot. If Lilian hadn’t happened by, I would have accosted a total stranger and accused him of a heinous crime. When I thought of the embarrassing scene my impulsiveness might have provoked, I wanted to take a scrub brush to my brain.

  “You look as if you’re a million miles away,” said Lilian.

  “I was,” I admitted. “But I’m back now. How was Merlot the Magnificent?”

  “Magnificent.” Lilian slipped her hand through my arm. “Come along. I’ll tell you all about him on the way to the arena. We don’t want to miss the joust! Did you see Emma in the procession? I thought she looked wonderful, didn’t you? Will and Rob were simply charming, of course. Did you stop at Jasper Taxman’s stall? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw him in a velvet doublet and hose. He told me that Peggy stayed behind at the Emporium because she didn’t care for the costume she’d ordered from London, but I heard a different story from Sally Pyne. According to Sally, the bodice was so small that Peggy popped out of it in a most immodest manner. Naturally, Peggy asked Sally to alter the bodice, but Sally told me that she’d have to add so much material to the old bodice that she might as well make a new one from scratch. . . .”

  My friend’s gossip washed over me like a soothing balm, anchoring me in a world I knew and helping me to regain a firm foothold on the slippery shores of reality. I promised myself that, as soon as the joust was over, I would look for Jasper’s stall and seek out Sally Pyne. I wanted to get the lowdown on Peggy’s costume malfunction, of course, but I also needed all the anchoring I could get.

  Lilian and I bought spinach pies, fizzy lemonade, and honey cakes as we strolled up Pudding Lane. By the time we reached the picnic area overlooking the joust arena, all of the tables were taken, so we sat on the ground with many other spectators and spread our al fresco lunch between us.

  While most participants in the king’s procession had dispersed to other parts of the fair, the king and a few select members of his entourage had seated themselves in chairs on a sturdy raised platform on the far side of the arena. The platform was hung with festive banners and shaded by a striped canopy whose four stout wooden posts were wreathed in bright ribbons and fresh flowers.

  The king sat in a high-backed, gilded throne close to the platform’s front railing, where he could see and be seen by his subjects. The throne on the platform was less ornate than the one I’d seen sitting on the Great Hall stage, but it was still pretty stately. Gray-bearded Lord Belvedere stood beside the throne. He appeared to be fiddling with a pair of speakers mounted on the canopy’s foremost posts.

  “Anachronism alert,” I said, nudging Lilian. “The stage is wired for sound.”

  “I suppose we must make some concessions to modern times,” she commented. “I, for one, was relieved to see that chemical loos had been provided for our convenience, rather than their medieval equivalents. And it isn’t a stage, Lori. It’s the royal gallery. I’ve been reading up on jousting, which, I discovered, is also known as tilting. The joust arena can also be called the tiltyard, the lists, or the list field.”

  “Fascinating,” I said. “Speak on, O learned one. It’ll give me a chance to finish my spinach pie.”

  “Mock if you will,” said Lilian. “I will not be daunted.”

  She was stating the simple truth. Lilian Bunting had a scholarly turn of mind. If she was determined to dispense knowledge, it would take more than gentle teasing to divert her from her course.

  “The earliest tournaments sprang from rather bloody affairs called melees,” she began. “A melee was a mock battle in which foot soldiers and mounted knights clashed violently with opponents. Melees usually continued until one side beat the other into submission.”

  “Why did they go to such extremes if it was only a mock battle?” I asked.

  “Practice,” said Lilian. “The knights wanted to maintain their fighting skills between real wars, but so many of them were killed or injured in the process that tournaments were eventually banned. They were later revived as a form of royal entertainment as well as a source of income for the knights. Prize money was awarded and a new set of rules was generally followed, with a points system that discouraged outright slaughter.”

  “How civilized,” I said.

  “Jousting is much safer nowadays,” Lilian said confidently. “Modern knights use breakaway lances and carefully choreograph any hand-to-hand combat that might take place. I’m sure Calvin’s hired competent performers. King Wilfred wouldn’t want his fair spoiled by bloodshed.”

  “I should think not.” Thoughts of sabotage flickered in my mind, but I doused them by asking a question that had been puzzling me for some time. “Do you happen to know the difference between a page and a squire?”

  “Age,” Lilian replied, unwittingly confirming Aunt Dimity’s guess. “The young sons of noble families became pages in neighboring households, where they learned gentlemanly skills such as deportment and riding. When a page reached the age of fourteen or thereabouts, he could become a squire and serve a particular knight. Squires in turn could become knights, if they could afford the expense, which was considerable. If they couldn’t afford it, they might remain squires for the rest of their days. Oh, look!” She pointed to the white marquee. “Squires!”

  Two teenaged boys in matching tunics, tights, and feathered caps rolled back the flaps of the huge tent and tied them in place with ropes. At the same time, Lord Belvedere’s voice crackled unintelligibly through the speakers.

  “Ah,” I said, nodding wisely. “It’s a medieval sound system.”

  “It sounds quite modern to me,” said Lilian. “These honey cakes are delicious, by the way,” she added. “Did you, by any chance, acquire the recipe?”

  I smiled wryly. “I have to ask the king for it. Apparently he’s in charge of the fair’s recipe box.”

  “I’ll have a word with Horace Malvern after church tomorrow,” said Lilian. “The king’s uncle should be able to procure a recipe for us.”

  Our conversation was cut short by a sudden burst of applause.

  “Hooray,” said Lilian, her face brightening. “Here come the twins!”

  She remained seated and silent, as befitted a vicar’s wife, but I jumped to my feet and cheered boisterously as a mounted procession emerged from the marquee and circled the arena at a snappy trot. Rob and Will led Sir Peregrine the Pure onto the field of battle, bearing pennants emblazoned with rearing unicorns, while Alison and Billy, carrying flags with black dragon motifs, escorted Sir Jacques de Poitiers.

  I was enthralled by the spectacle. The knights’ breastplates gleamed, their long hair streamed behind them splendidly, and they rode with swaggering assurance, their striped lances pointed skyward. The four children grinned proudly when they spotted me, but they couldn’t wave because their hands were fully occupied.

  Although the crowd made it abundantly cle
ar that it favored Sir Peregrine over Sir Jacques, I was fairly certain that the children had been assigned to their respective knights for decorative rather than moral reasons. The twins’ gray ponies complemented Sir Peregrine’s snowy charger, while their teammates’ darker ponies looked better with the Dragon Knight’s black steed.

  Egged on by wenches planted strategically in their midst, the spectators called out, “Ride on, noble knight!” whenever Sir Peregrine flashed a toothy smile, and jeered each time Sir Jacques sneered. The knights mugged shamelessly, the wenches reacted rambunctiously, and the audience was perfectly happy to play along.

  The procession made one complete circuit of the arena before the children lowered their pennants and reentered the marquee. After they’d gone, the knights rode side by side to face the royal gallery, dipped their lances in a salute to the king, then raced to opposite ends of the arena. While the two men acknowledged their liege lord, a bevy of bearded foot soldiers emerged from the marquee and fanned out to the arena’s boundaries, to stand to attention before wooden racks that held a variety of weapons.

  “For His Majesty’s pleasure . . .”

  Lilian and I flinched as Lord Belvedere’s voice boomed from the speakers, which had evidently been fixed.

  “. . . and the pleasure of all assembled here today, Sir Peregrine and Sir Jacques will now demonstrate their skill at arms.”

  “Oh, good,” said Lilian. “They’re going to give us a full show.”

  “A full show?” I queried.

  “They’re not going straight to the joust,” she explained. “They’ll compete in a few smaller contests first.”

  The knights exchanged their long, thick lances for skinnier ones plucked from the wooden racks and handed up to them by bearded soldiers. At the same time, the two young squires took up positions in the center of the arena. Each held a small red hoop at arm’s length.

  “It’s called ring jousting,” Lilian narrated excitedly. “The knights will try to spear the rings with their lances.”

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head. “The kids holding the rings will lose their arms.”

  “They’re professionals,” said Lilian. “I’m sure they’ve practiced sufficiently to avoid injury.”

  I tried to share her optimism, but when Sir Peregrine lowered his skinny lance and spurred his steed into a smooth canter, I sucked in a nervous breath. I didn’t release it until the knight had successfully speared a ring without detaching the squire’s arm from his body.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” said Lilian.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, but as I moistened my dry mouth with a sip of lemonade, I vowed silently that my noble sons would never become squires.

  Both knights proceeded to make three successive passes at increasingly smaller rings. Amazingly, they never missed. The knights taunted each other mercilessly after each successful snatch. The taunts were echoed by the wenches who cunningly brought a portion of the crowd over to Sir Jacques’ side by teaching them the novel chant: “Cheat to win!” When I heard a white-haired grand-mother join in, I laughed so hard that I nearly missed the Dragon Knight’s final pass. By then I was enjoying myself thoroughly. As Lilian had pointed out, the men involved were professionals. Their well-honed skills laid my fears to rest.

  The knights gallantly presented their rings to the dainty damsels who sat on either side of the king, then exchanged their skinny lances for six-foot-long wooden spears topped with lethal-looking steel spearheads.

  “Those are throwing spears,” Lilian explained. “Sir Peregrine and Sir Jacques will hurl them at the hay bales at the end of the arena.”

  “While galloping, I presume,” I said.

  “They’ll probably canter,” said Lilian, “but I wouldn’t put it past Sir Jacques to gallop. He’s a fine horseman.”

  Since there was nothing behind the bales but empty pasture, and since the knights seemed to aim remarkably well, I ignored the dangerous spearheads and focused solely on the contest. In three attempts, each knight hit his hay bale as easily as he’d speared the rings.

  The crowd went wild, but instead of shouting with one voice, it seesawed back and forth between Sir Peregrine’s “Ride on, noble knight!” and Sir Jacques’ “Cheat to win!” Under the wenches’ direction, each faction tried to outshout the other, but they fell into a rapt silence when their heroes took up full-sized lances and prepared to demonstrate yet another skill at arms.

  “The knights are still tied,” said Lilian. “But a true test of their prowess is coming up. I do believe the quintain will be next.”

  “The what?” I said.

  “The quintain.” She pointed to a strange device that stood to one side of the arena, a few yards away from the royal gallery. “It’s a post with a revolving crosspiece. As you can see, the crosspiece has a wooden dummy attached to one end and a sandbag dangling from the other. The knight has to hit the dummy with his lance, then gallop off as fast as he possibly can, to avoid being hit by the sandbag as it swings round behind him. The quintain is a test of speed as well as accuracy.”

  “Piece of cake,” I said, and as Sir Jacques rode into position, I added my voice to those cheering lustily for Sir Peregrine.

  Sir Jacques hefted his lance, took aim, and jabbed his spurs into his steed. The crowd held its breath and the ground seemed to vibrate as the horse raced toward the quintain. The Dragon Knight’s lance struck the dummy, the crosspiece spun, the rope holding the sandbag snapped, and the sandbag flew directly at King Wilfred.

  Nine

  If King Wilfred hadn’t ducked, his skull would have been crushed like a grape. If his throne hadn’t been built so sturdily, the courtier seated behind him would have suffered grievous bodily harm. As it was, the errant sandbag smacked into the throne instead of the king, the throne withstood the impact, and the sandbag slid harmlessly onto King Wilfred’s back.

  A hush fell over the arena. The tension among the spectators was palpable. Those who weren’t already standing got to their feet and peered fearfully at the gallery. Sir Peregrine stared in confusion at the spinning quintain while Sir Jacques brought his horse up short, tossed his lance to a gaping foot soldier, and sped back to the gallery, presumably to ascertain the state of his sovereign’s health.

  Lord Belvedere seized the sandbag and flung it into the arena, then knelt before the king and peered at him anxiously. The courtiers and the damsels left their chairs and clustered around the gray-haired steward, wringing their hands. The soldiers remained at their posts, exchanging worried glances.

  King Wilfred slowly straightened, replaced the crown that had fallen from his head, waved Lord Belvedere aside, and rose to address his subjects. Spreading his arms wide, he grinned merrily and shouted, “Missed!”

  A few people chuckled hesitantly, but when several more joined in, the hillside erupted with laughter and heartfelt applause. The audience clearly appreciated the king’s courage under fire.

  King Wilfred accepted the tribute graciously, then resumed his throne and signaled for his attendants to return to their chairs. When they’d done so, he nodded regally to Lord Belvedere, whose amplified voice burst once again from the speakers.

  “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” he said. “Our valiant monarch calls for the joust to commence. What say you?”

  A chorus of enthusiastic shouts affirmed the king’s decision to overlook the sandbag incident and proceed with the entertainment. The spectators who’d stood sat down again and an expectant murmur rippled across the hillside as the knights prepared themselves for battle.

  I stared at the scrap of rope dangling from the quintain and sank onto the ground beside Lilian, feeling slightly queasy.

  “Did you see that?” I asked.

  “I certainly did,” she replied. “The fair seems to be having a few teething problems.”

  “Teething problems?” I turned to stare at her. “King Wilfred nearly dies twice in one day and you call it teething problems?”

  “Of course I do,�
�� she said. “What else could it be? A coup d’état?” She chuckled lightheartedly, as if her suggestion were arrant nonsense. “What you must remember, Lori, is that King Wilfred’s Faire is a form of theater. Mishaps are commonplace in the theater. Actors nick one another with swords, props break, scenery collapses. There were bound to be a few wrinkles on opening day. I’m sure they’ll iron them out by tomorrow.”

  “But Calvin was nearly killed,” I pointed out. “Twice.”

  “He dealt with it beautifully both times, don’t you think?” said Lilian. “He displayed the dignity and good humor one would expect from a merry monarch. I’m quite impressed by his aplomb. Hush, now. The joust is about to begin.”

  I clamped my mouth shut and turned resolutely to face the arena. There was no point in arguing with Lilian because I couldn’t prove that she was wrong. Accidents did happen in the theater. Actors were injured from time to time. I might suspect Edmond Deland of sabotaging the quintain’s rope and the gatehouse’s parapet, but I hadn’t seen him do it. I’d merely imagined it, and I knew better than to trust my imagination.

  While Lilian and I had been chatting, the knights had donned their plumed helmets, taken up their shields, and retrieved their heavy lances from the foot soldiers. Now armed and armored, they faced each other across the length of the arena. A fair-haired damsel in the gallery rose from her chair to dangle a long, silken kerchief over the front railing. Sir Jacques’ horse pawed the ground and Sir Peregrine’s tossed its head impatiently. The knights adjusted their shields and lifted their lances. The damsel dropped the kerchief.

  The knights sprang into action, spurring their steeds forward on thundering hooves. They drew closer, they met, and Sir Peregrine’s lance crashed into the dragon shield. The lance shattered, bits of wood whirled into the air, and Sir Jacques flew from his saddle to land, hard, on his back. The Dragon Knight staggered to his feet, looking dazed and winded, but when Sir Peregrine rode back to accept his surrender, he jumped up, seized the unicorn shield with one hand, and pulled Sir Peregrine to the ground.