Nancy Atherton (13 page)

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.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

81

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 fi eld 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 clear 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 pro cession 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 . . .”

82 Nancy Atherton

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 grandmother join in, I laughed so hard that I nearly missed the Dragon

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

83

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.”

84 Nancy Atherton

“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 fl ew directly at King Wilfred.

Nine

I f 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

amplifi ed voice burst once again from the speakers.

86 Nancy Atherton

“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 gate house’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

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

87

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.

The crowd roared with delight as the knights threw aside their

helmets and drew their swords. As if on cue, the foot soldiers grabbed

weapons from racks and began to attack each other. The young

squires scurried forward to lead the horses to safety as a sort of combat ballet commenced.

“A melee!” Lilian shouted gleefully above the din.

The knights’ swords clanged viciously in the center of the arena,

while the soldiers wielded pikes, maces, morning stars, staffs, and

axes. There was so much jumping, dodging, ducking, weaving,

twirling, and sidestepping that I was sure the sport of ear-lopping

would soon make its debut, but the combatants seemed to know

what they were doing. As Lilian had foretold, the moves were dramatic rather than deadly and King Wilfred’s Faire was not spoiled by