Nancy Atherton (8 page)

perspire
. They also stay in rather luxurious caravans while the rest

of us camp in less regal style. It is indeed good to be king.”

“Why isn’t Calvin staying in his uncle’s house?” I asked.

“He wants to be in the thick of things,” Jinks replied. “A wise king

stays in touch with his subjects.” He placed an invisible crown on his

head, straightened his spine, and raised his right hand in a stiff , formal wave.

I smiled perfunctorily, but my mind was on other things. Calvin’s

choice of accommodations puzzled me. His uncle’s farmhouse was

large and comfortable, and close enough to the performers’ camp to

allow him to be “in touch with his subjects.” Why, then, had he felt

the need to purchase a luxurious motor home? It seemed like an unnecessary extravagance, unless Calvin was much better off than his

uncle thought he was. As Jinks lowered his hand and leaned back in

his chair, I wondered if he could shed some light on the state of

Calvin’s finances.

“It seems to me that you’d have to be as rich as a king to pay for

a Ren fest,” I commented. “It must be an expensive proposition.”

“A full-blown Ren fest can be expensive,” Jinks allowed, “but

King Wilfred’s Faire isn’t going to be full-blown. We’ll feature one

joust per day as opposed to two, and the stalls and stages have been

built to last only until the end of the summer. Temporary buildings

cost much less to construct than permanent ones, and the cost will

be defrayed by the fees the food vendors and the craftspeople will pay

to use the stalls.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

47

“What about the performers’ payroll?” I asked. “It must cost a

pretty penny to employ so many people.”

“Our cast isn’t nearly as big as the ones you’ll find in the States,”

Jinks informed me. “We provide our own garb—”

“Garb?” I said.

“Costumes,” Jinks explained. “We provide our own costumes,

makeup, and props. We’re responsible for finding our own digs as

well, and I can testify to the fact that our salaries will be modest.”

He stroked a frayed spot in his jeans and heaved a martyred sigh.

“In the States, popular acts can command as much as ten grand for

each performance, but we won’t have acts like that at King Wilfred’s Faire. We’re too new.”

My eyes widened in astonishment. “Ten grand for each performance? That’s a good paycheck for a part-time job. Did Calvin earn

that much when he was in America?”

“I’ve never asked,” Jinks said.

“You must have some idea, though,” I said. “He was a town crier.

Do town criers make a lot of money?”

“I don’t know.” Jinks studied his fingernails and added delicately,

“I’m a player, not a producer. It’s not really my business to know

how much my fellow players make.”

I ducked my head, chastened. “It’s none of my business, either. I

was just curious.”

“You’re an American,” he said consolingly. “You can’t help being curious about money. To me, it’s the least interesting thing

about the fair. I’m far more fascinated by the intrigue that goes on

behind the scenes.”

“Do tell,” I said, with an encouraging smile.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Jinks, getting to his feet. “I promised Cal

that I’d meet him in Bishop’s Wood in”—he glanced at his

watch—“ten minutes. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lori Shepherd. I must bid you adieu for the moment, but I hope to continue

our conversation anon. You will join us tomorrow, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I told him.

48 Nancy Atherton

“Until then, my lady . . .” Jinks executed a comically overcomplicated bow, then sprinted for the stile, vaulted over it, and disappeared from sight.

“Anon,” I murmured bemusedly.

I was still gazing at the stile when I heard the familiar sound of

the Range Rover pulling onto our graveled drive. I gave myself a

mental shake, then went indoors to greet my husband and sons. I’d

intended to meet them at the front door, but Will and Rob rocketed

up the hallway and nearly bowled me over while I was still crossing

the kitchen.

“Whoa,” I said, catching each of them by a shoulder. “Slow

down, and tell me—
one at a time
—what all the excitement is about.

Will? You first.”

“We’re going to ride in the fair,” he said breathlessly.

“Just like the knights,” Rob continued. “King Wilfred has
cos-

tumes
for Thunder and Storm.”

“Calvin has costumes for the ponies?” I said, looking up as Bill

entered the kitchen.

“He has
caparisons,
” Bill said grandly. “They’re fancy cloth coverings for horses. Knights used them in battle to distinguish their noble steeds from the enemy’s. Calvin has extras and he’s going to cut

some down to size for the ponies to wear in the jousting arena.”

As pleased as I was to add a new word to my medieval lexicon,

I couldn’t help wondering if the world had gone mad. Will and Rob

weren’t knights. They were little boys, and little boys had no place

in the jousting arena.

“I’m not sure it’s a such good idea for you to participate in the

joust,” I began, trying to remain calm.

“We won’t be jousting,” said Will.

“We’ll be in the parade,” Rob announced.

“We’ll carry the king’s banners.” Will held up a grubby finger.

“One time a day.”

“And one time around the arena,” Rob added. “Before the joust.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

49

“What an honor,” I said, greatly relieved. “Why don’t you kick

off your boots in the front hall, then go upstairs—
nice and slowly
—

and get out of your riding gear? I’ll be up in a minute. You can tell

me all about it while you’re having your baths.”

“Okay,” they chorused.

“But
hurry
,” Will insisted.

“Five minutes,” I promised. I waited until I heard the thumps of

their stockinged feet on the stairs, then turned to Bill. “It’s not just

wishful thinking, is it?”

“Nope.” He shook his head and squatted down to stroke Stanley, who’d followed him from the front door to the kitchen. “Calvin

Malvern asked Emma if any of her students would like to participate in the king’s pro cession. Emma made some quick phone calls

to parents and ended up with Alison and Billy McLaughlin and,

after conferring with me directly, our boys.”

“That’s half the junior gymkhana team,” I said.

“Correct,” said Bill. “Emma thinks it’ll be good for them to ride

in an unfamiliar setting. They’ve been practicing all morning.”

“What about their helmets?” I said anxiously. “Medieval bannerbearers may have gone bareheaded, but our sons—”

“Medieval

banner-bearers wore soft caps,” Bill interrupted.

“But our boys won’t. Emma’s already laid down the helmet law to

Calvin, and if she hadn’t, I would have.” He gave Stanley a last rub

between the ears, then stood. “Emma may add a few ostrich feathers or a touch of gold paint to the helmets, but no one will ride

without one.”

“Will Emma go along to supervise?” I asked.

“It’ll be a team effort,” said Bill. “Emma and a couple of stable

hands will look after the ponies, while Lawrence McLaughlin and I

concentrate on the children and their costumes. King Wilfred will

provide lunch for all of us, which is just as well, because we’ll be

there for most of the day. As usual, Kit and Nell will run the stables

while Emma’s away. The boys and I have to be at Anscombe Manor

50 Nancy Atherton

by seven tomorrow morning, to load the ponies and transport them

to the fair.”

“I’ll come, too,” I offered readily.

“Sorry,” said Bill, shaking his head. “You’re not wanted.”

“Since when?” I said, stung.

“It’s the twins’ decision, not mine,” he informed me. “You’re

not allowed to see them in costume until they ride in the king’s

pro cession.”

“Aw,” I said, melting. “How sweet. Do we have the most adorable children in the world, or what?”

Our adorable children chose that moment to bellow from the

top of the stairs, “
Mummy! Where
are
you?”

“They’re certainly audible,” Bill observed, wincing.

“I’d better go up before they bring the roof down,” I said, and

started up the hallway.

“By the way,” Bill called after me, “I ran into Sally Pyne while I

was in Finch. According to her, no one from the village is going to

wear a costume tomorrow.”

I swung around to face him. “No one?”

“No one,” he repeated. “Apparently there’s been a general change

of heart. Sally told me that her sewing students have agreed to take

a look at the fair before deciding whether or not to wear their new

outfi ts.”

I blinked at him, nonplussed.

“I thought you’d want to know,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said faintly, and made my way upstairs

I felt somewhat dashed. Nearly everyone in Finch had taken one

or more of Sally’s classes. They’d worked their fi ngers to the bone

to produce elaborate garments for the fair. I couldn’t understand

why they were having second thoughts about using them.

I pondered the question while I ran the boys’ bath, and gradually began to have my own second thoughts. My neighbors weren’t

stupid, I told myself. Perhaps it would be wise to follow their lead

and attend the fair as an observer before jumping into it with my

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

51

usual abandon. The twins and their ponies could get away with

wearing costumes because they would be part of the offi

cial pageantry, but until we tested the waters, Bill and I might be better off

in civvies.

“Dimity,” I murmured, reaching a decision, “I’m going to make

you proud of me. For once, I’m going to look
before
I leap.”

As I tossed two rubber ducks into the tub, I could almost feel

the warm glow of her approval.

Six

I don’t know who was more excited the following morning—

the twins or me. I rose at the crack of dawn to get a jump

start on the day, and the twins bobbed along in my wake.

We’d already finished our porridge by the time Bill came downstairs for breakfast, and we could scarcely conceal our impatience

as we watched him eat his. To keep Will and Rob from force-feeding

their father, I hustled them out of the kitchen and into the front hall

to help me load the Rover.

I sent them out to the car with Bill’s day pack, which I’d filled with

everything I thought he and the boys might need while they were

away from home: sunblock, rain ponchos, warm sweaters, snacks,

bottled water, a change of shoes for the twins, and a few other odds

and ends. A glance at the brilliant blue sky told me that the sunblock

would probably be more useful than the sweaters, but I’d learned

through hard experience that a fine English day could turn fiendish at

the drop of a hat, so I left the sweaters where they were.

While Will and Rob dragged the bulging pack to the Rover, I

stowed their costumes in a garment bag, where they would remain

until the boys changed into them at the fair. I’d decided the night

before to pair their everyday black riding breeches and boots with

the tunics Sally Pyne had made for them. Tights and soft leather

shoes would have been more authentic, but breeches would be

more comfortable, and riding boots, safer.

Sally had done a superlative job on the tunics. Rob’s was a deep

sapphire-blue, with exquisite Celtic interlace embroidery done in

silver thread on the belt, the stand-up collar, and the wide cuffs,

while Will’s was crimson, with gold embroidery. The boys had

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

53

refused to model their costumes for me—they wouldn’t dress up

until their ponies did—but Sally had assured me that the outfits

were appropriate for the young sons of a noble family. Her words

pleased me no end. My sons had always been little princes in my eyes,

so I thought it both fitting and proper that they should dress the part.

I took one last, satisfied look at the tunics, then closed the garment bag and hurried out to join the twins, who’d managed to haul

the day pack as far as the Rover’s rear cargo door. They were on

their way back to the kitchen, intent on removing their father

bodily from the breakfast table, when the man himself emerged

from the cottage, clad in baseball cap, polo shirt, khaki shorts, and

sneakers.

“Why aren’t you in the car?” he asked the boys, feigning astonishment. “You don’t want to be late, do you?”

Will and Rob scrambled into the Rover. I buckled them into

their booster seats, kissed them good-bye, and reminded them to

mind their manners. I was about to add a brief lecture on riding

safety when I heard Bill give a low whistle. I looked up to see him

standing at the cargo door, hefting the day pack.

“I hope you remembered to put the kitchen sink in here,” he

said. “We may have to wash King Wilfred’s dishes before the day is

through.”

“I
knew
I forgot something,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Wait

here. I’ll run in and get the sink.”

“Never mind,” Bill said, laughing. “Milords and I must make

haste. We’ll see you”—he glanced at his watch—“in approximately