Aunt Dimity

Slays the Dragon

N A N C Y AT H E R T O N

v i k i n g

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

also by nancy atherton

Aunt Dimity’s Death

Aunt Dimity and the Duke

Aunt Dimity’s Good Deed

Aunt Dimity Digs In

Aunt Dimity’s Christmas

Aunt Dimity Beats the Devil

Aunt Dimity: Detective

Aunt Dimity Takes a Holiday

Aunt Dimity: Snowbound

Aunt Dimity and the Next of Kin

Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea

Aunt Dimity Goes West

Aunt Dimity: Vampire Hunter

Aunt Dimity

Slays the Dragon

N A N C Y AT H E R T O N

v i k i ng

VIKING

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First published in 2009 by Viking Penguin,

a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Copyright © Nancy T. Atherton, 2009

All rights reserved

Publisher’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Atherton, Nancy.

Aunt Dimity slays the dragon / Nancy Atherton.

p. c m.

ISB

N : 1-1 0 1-02 058-X

1. Dimity, Aunt (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women detectives—England—Cotswold

Hills—Fiction. 3. Cotswold Hills (England—Fiction). I. Title.

PS3551.T426A93448 2009

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2008037297

Set in Perpetua

Designed by Alissa Amell

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For Claudia and Don Staff ord,

my next-door angels

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

One

T he invasion of Finch began on a mild Monday eve ning in

late May. By the end of August, my peaceful English village would find itself at the mercy of rampaging brigands,

bullies, braggarts, and blundering louts. There would also be an

unexpected death.

None of us saw it coming. On the eve ning in question, my

neighbors and I were sitting quietly—some of us somnolently—in

the old schoolhouse that had for many years served as our village

hall. We were there to attend a village affairs committee meeting,

and nearly seventy of us had shown up because the annual May

meeting was widely regarded as the most important committee

meeting of the year.

The sole purpose of the May meeting was to finalize plans for

Finch’s many summer activities. It was, for the most part, an egregious waste of time, because everyone knew that the summer fete,

the bring-and-buy sale, the gymkhana, the art show, the flower

show, the dog show, and the tidy cottage competition would be run

exactly as they had been run for as long as anyone could remember.

Innovations might be suggested, discussed, and debated, but

they were never adopted. In the end, the same dates would be chosen and the same folding tables would be used, along with the same

frayed linen tablecloths, tarnished tea urns, and increasingly shabby

decorations. The summer fete would be held, as it had always been,

at the vicarage, the gymkhana would take place at Anscombe Manor,

and everything else—apart from the tidy cottage competition—

would be staged, as per usual, in the schoolhouse. In the eight years

since my husband and I had moved to Finch, the routine had never

varied in the slightest.

2 Nancy Atherton

The only thing that ever changed from one year to the next was

the assignment of menial tasks to volunteers. The glamorous jobs

had been snapped up as long ago as 1982 by women who would

defend to the death their right to wear big hats and flowery frocks

while opening the art show or graciously awarding ribbons at the

gymkhana. Competition was understandably less fi erce for the less

glamorous jobs. No one fought for the right to iron tablecloths,

empty rubbish bins, or pick bits of soggy crepe paper out of the

grass on the village green. Since such toil was essential to the success of any event, however, volunteers had to be found.

It was left to our esteemed chairwoman, the all-powerful Peggy

Taxman, to delegate the donkeywork, and it was for this reason,

and this reason alone, that the May meeting was so very well attended. Peggy had it within her grasp to favor us with the pleasant

chore of attending to the tea urns or to condemn us to the noxious duty of scrubbing the schoolhouse floor after the dog show.

We were agog to learn our fates.

“The meeting will come to order.” Peggy banged her gavel,

then pointed it accusingly at the room in general. “And if I catch

any of you napping, I’ll have you removed from the schoolhouse!”

Mr. Barlow, who had already dozed off, woke with a start.

“We done yet?” he asked sleepily.

“Just getting started,” Miranda Morrow murmured from the

corner of her mouth.

“Right.” Mr. Barlow yawned, rubbed his eyes, and lifted his

gaze to the fi ve committee members.

The members sat shoulder-to-shoulder on one side of the long,

linen-draped table that had been set up on the small stage at the

rear of the schoolhouse. Peggy Taxman occupied the middle chair,

a position which allowed her to loom menacingly over the assembled throng. Lesser villagers perched meekly on folding chairs on

either side of a central aisle leading to the schoolroom’s double

doors, through which Peggy would sweep magisterially after she’d

made her final pronouncement.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

3

No one would dare to stop her or attempt to dispute her decisions. An empire-builder by nature, Peggy ran two major businesses as well as the post office in Finch. She was a woman of

substance, both physically and financially, and her fierce sense of

civic duty drove her to rule the village with an iron hand, a steely

eye, and a voice like thunder. A reproving glance from behind

those pointy, rhinestone-studded glasses was usually all it took to

make the bravest among us quail. When the glance didn’t work,

she employed the voice, and although I’d never seen the iron hand

in action, I had no doubt that, if all else failed, she would use it.

The other committee members were much less daunting. Sally

Pyne, vice chair and tearoom owner, preferred gossip to governing

and was content to let Peggy rule the roost. George Wetherhead,

recording secretary and model train enthusiast, was so bashful that

he rarely raised his eyes from the laptop computer he used to

record the minutes. Mr. Wetherhead would no more think of

contradicting Peggy than he would of challenging her to a wrestling match.

Our treasurer, Jasper Taxman, had been a retired accountant

before marriage to our chairwoman had forced him to rethink his

definition of retirement. No professional career could have kept

him busier than his wife did. When he wasn’t minding the tills in

Peggy’s shops or selling stamps in Peggy’s post offi

ce, he was

keeping the books for Peggy’s myriad committees.

The last chair on the stage was assigned to the least important

member of the committee: me, Lori Shepherd—wife, mother, and

hapless draftee. I sat at the long table because, having made the

grave mistake of missing last year’s May meeting, I’d been appointed,

in absentia, to the post of sergeant-at-arms.

All things considered, I’d gotten off lightly. Although my title

was impressive, my duties were not. I was assigned to keep order

among the villagers during the meeting, and to distribute Peggy’s

work rosters after it. Since our chairwoman needed no one’s

help to keep the villagers in order, and since she wouldn’t release

4 Nancy Atherton

the rosters until she’d finished reviewing her copious notes, I spent

most of the eve ning staring absently into space.

“Item one,” Peggy began. “A few comments on fastening floral

swags to the art show tables. Safety pins are considered unsightly

and will not be used unless the following conditions apply. . . .”

As if by magic, my eyes stayed open while my mind floated out

of the schoolhouse. My first thoughts were, as always, of home.

Finch was nestled snugly in a verdant river valley set amidst the

patchwork fields and rolling hills of the Cotswolds, a rural region

in England’s West Midlands. I lived two miles south of Finch, in a

cottage made of honey-colored stone, with my husband, Bill, and

our six-year-old identical twin sons, Will and Rob.

Although Bill, the twins, and I were American, we’d lived in

England long enough to know the difference between crème fraîche

and clotted cream, and to develop an incurable addiction to the latter. Bill ran the Europe an branch of his family’s venerable Boston

law firm from a high-tech office on the village green, Will and Rob

attended school in the nearby market town of Upper Deeping, and

I divided my time between taking care of my family and serving my

community.

Until quite recently, we’d shared our home with the boys’ nanny,

the inestimable Annelise Sciaparelli, but she’d left us in mid-May to

marry her longtime fiancé, Oliver Elstyn, and her room had been

vacant ever since. With the twins attending primary school full-time, neither Bill nor I felt the need to hire another nanny, and we

agreed that Annelise was irreplaceable in any case.

“Item twenty-four . . .”

Peggy’s bellow jerked me out of my reverie.

“. . . the proper use of dust bin lids!”

I immediately sank back into a stupor shared by almost everyone in the schoolhouse. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been

excited about a committee meeting. My life was in many ways

idyllic—devoted husband, healthy sons, happy

home—but I’d

lately begun to realize that it was also just a tiny bit . . . boring. I

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

5

loved my friends and

neighbors—most of the

time—but their

faces had started to become a tad too familiar, their habits slightly

too predictable. The daily routine of village life, which I’d once

found so fulfilling, had recently begun to seem a little too . . .

routine.

As I scanned the faces assembled in the schoolroom, I acknowledged sadly that there wasn’t much I didn’t know about my fellow

villagers. Mr. Barlow, a retired mechanic, was in the midst of

cleaning the carburetor in a vintage Mustang he was restoring for a

wealthy and recently divorced client who lived in Tewkesbury. Although Miranda Morrow was a strict vegetarian, she spent hours

every day preparing the choicest cuts of meat for her cat. Lilian

Bunting, the vicar’s wife, was currently rewriting the third paragraph of her introduction to a book about stained glass. Dick Peacock, the local publican, had taken up pottery as a hobby, but the

consensus was that his handmade goblets would do little to improve the taste of his homemade wine.

And so on and so forth. I knew without asking whose dog had

fleas, whose roof had sprung a leak, whose grandchildren were

angelic and whose were not. If Finch had any surprises left for me,

it was keeping them well hidden.

“Item twenty-five: Flower show entry forms. Block letters must

be used when filling out . . .”

While Peggy continued to drone, my gaze traveled to the portrait of the queen, hung in a place of honor above the schoolroom’s

double doors. I usually felt a small, Anglophilic tingle when I beheld England’s gracious monarch decked out in royal regalia, but

I’d seen the schoolroom portrait so often that it no longer worked

its magic.

Sighing, I looked down at my idle hands. If asked, I would have

been forced to confess that I had no one but myself to blame for

my growing sense of ennui. After the fiasco with the vampire in

October, I’d sworn to keep my feet fi rmly on the ground, and on

the ground I’d kept them for seven months, successfully stifling an

6 Nancy Atherton

inborn and nearly irresistible inclination to let my vivid imagination run away with me.

When Sally Pyne’s gilded antique biscuit barrel had gone missing in January, I’d clamped down on my desire to nab the thief and

left it to Sally to remember—two days later—that she’d loaned

her precious barrel to Mr. Barlow, who’d played one of the Three

Wise Men in the Nativity play and needed a fancy container for the

frankincense.

Similarly, when a stranger spent a cold February morning taking photographs of every nook and cranny in Finch, I did not allow

myself to envision him as a predatory land developer, a fast-talking

film location scout, or a devious foreign spy, and when I learned

that he was, in fact, a real estate agent acting on behalf of clients

who were about to buy long-vacant Crabtree Cottage, I refused to

wonder whether or not those clients had sinister ties to the woman

who’d died there.

It was just as well, because the clients turned out to be Grant

Tavistock and Charles Bellingham, who were sitting just below

me, in the front row of folding chairs. The newest residents of

Crabtree Cottage were a perfectly friendly pair of middle-aged art

appraisers who’d never heard of Prunella Hooper or her tragic demise, and who were so eager to fit into their new community that

they’d actually volunteered to clean up after the bring-and-buy sale.

As I surveyed their shining faces, I thought pityingly, They’ll learn.

“. . . cacti and succulents belong to separate and distinct plant

categories and will be judged accordingly, with no exceptions. . . .”

My mind drifted lazily from cacti to flowers to the beautiful

bouquet Annelise had carried down the aisle. Annelise’s wedding

had definitely helped me to keep my treacherous imagination in

check. With her mother’s permission, I’d thrown myself into every

phase of the preparations, attending to each detail with such

single-minded devotion that I had no energy to spare for phantom

biscuit-barrel thieves or mysterious strangers.

The wedding had taken place on the third Saturday in May—a

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

7

mere nine days ago, I thought, glancing wanly at the schoolroom’s

well-thumbed wall calendar—at St. Margaret’s Catholic Church in

Upper Deeping. Thanks to my impeccable planning, it had gone off

without a hitch, but now that it was over, I couldn’t help feeling a

bit deflated.

What did I have to look forward to, I asked myself, but the

summer fete, the bring-and-buy sale, the gymkhana, the art show,

the flower show, the dog show, and the tidy cottage competition? A

sensible woman would have thanked her lucky stars to live in such

a lively community, but when Peggy asked if there was any other

business, I could scarcely keep myself from yawning. Everyone in

the schoolroom knew that Peggy’s question was meaningless because there was never “any other business” at the May meeting.

Which was why everyone—except Peggy—jerked to sudden,

rapt attention when Mr. Malvern raised a hesitant hand and lumbered slowly to his feet.

Horace Malvern lived next door to me, on a vast estate known

as Fivefold Farm. His property ran along the southern edge of

mine, and I’d never had the least cause to regret it. He was a model

neighbor—a respectable, hardworking, middle-aged farmer whose

behavior had, until the moment he’d raised his hand, been as predictable as spring rain. I couldn’t imagine what other business he

had to offer.

I stared at him incredulously for a moment, then swung around

to look at Peggy Taxman, who still had her nose buried in her

notes. It wasn’t until Mr. Malvern gave a rather pointed cough that

Peggy looked up from her clipboard, peered suspiciously around

the room, and fixed her gimlet gaze on the burly farmer.

“What is it, Horace?” she snapped waspishly. “Be quick. I can’t

abide time-wasters.”

Mr. Malvern shuffled his large feet uncomfortably, then muttered something gruffly to the fl oor.

“Speak up, Horace,” Peggy ordered. “No one can hear you.”

Mr. Malvern cleared his throat and, with a brief glance over his

8 Nancy Atherton

right shoulder, said forthrightly, “My nephew would like to make

an announcement.”

“Your nephew?” said Peggy, clearly taken aback.

“That’s right,” said Mr. Malvern, nodding. “Calvin, my brother

Martin’s boy, would like to make an announcement.” Without further ado, he turned toward the double doors and whistled shrilly,

then sat down again and ducked his head.

The double doors were flung open, and a lithe figure clad in the

belled cap and the diamond-patterned costume of a medieval court

jester catapulted down the central aisle in a lightning-fast series of

handsprings, backflips, somersaults, and cartwheels. He came to

rest on bended knee at the foot of the stage, just below Peggy Taxman, with his arms outstretched and his bells jingling.

The jester’s knee had barely touched the floor when a pair of

young men dressed in plumed caps, yellow tights, and bright red

tabards took up positions on either side of the doors, raised long,

slender trumpets to their lips, and blew an elaborate fanfare. As

the last note of the fanfare faded, they turned as one to address the

room.

“Arise, gentle folk!” they bellowed in unison. “Hence cometh

our excellent and most gracious ruler, the lord of laughter and the

monarch of mirth, His Majesty, King Wilfred the Good!”

Sixty-seven jaws dropped simultaneously as King Wilfred the

Good strode into the schoolhouse.

Two

K ing Wilfred paused just inside the doorway, planted his

hands on his hips, and beamed benevolently around the

room. He was in his late twenties, I guessed, tall and

heavyset, with twinkling blue eyes, a full beard, and a cascade of

light brown curls that tumbled to his shoulders. I wouldn’t have

looked at him twice if he’d been wearing a T-shirt and jeans, but the

clothes he had on deserved a prolonged second glance. As he stood

near the doorway, arms akimbo and head held high, I couldn’t help

wondering if he’d spent the day ransacking Henry VIII’s closet.

He wore a sleeveless, ermine-trimmed surcoat of plum velvet

over a gold-shot brocade tunic with long, puffed sleeves, a stiff lace

collar, and a belt made of braided silver cord. His stout legs were

clad in white tights, with an embroidered garter above each knee,

and his surprisingly dainty feet were shod in soft-soled suede ankle

boots. Heavy gold rings adorned his thick fingers and a chunky gold

chain hung around his neck, embellished with a ruby-encrusted

pendant. Set among his light brown curls was a shiny golden crown

whose tall points were dotted with gemstones that seemed too

sparkly to be real.

The trumpeters doffed their plumed caps and bowed deeply at his

entrance, while the jester curled into a ball and rolled to one side of

the stage, to crouch beneath an alarmed-looking Mr. Wetherhead.

The only villager to “arise” was Sally Pyne, who’d jumped to her feet

at the trumpeters’ command, then hastily resumed her seat, blushing

furiously. The rest of us sat openmouthed and staring, as if we’d been

turned to stone.

“All hail good King Wilfred!” the trumpeters chorused, rising

from their bows.

10 Nancy Atherton

“Pray silence, good heralds,” the king responded, with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “We see that our magnificence has temporarily robbed our subjects of speech and rendered their limbs

useless. We will not, therefore, stand upon ceremony.”

The jester rose from his crouch, held an imaginary telescope to

his eye, and scanned the room in a sweeping motion that ended at

Mr. Wetherhead’s startled face.

“Looks to me like no one’s standing,” the jester announced,

“upon ceremony or otherwise.”

Mr. Wetherhead twitched nervously and shrank back in his chair.

“Well said, Fool,” said King Wilfred, chuckling merrily as he

approached the stage. “And foolishly said well, for a fool may well

say wisely what a wise man cannot say, and wise man may say foolishly what a fool may—”

“Calvin Malvern!” The name exploded from Peggy Taxman as

though it had been shot from a cannon. “Is it you under all that

hair?”

King Wilfred removed his crown with a flourish and shook his

curls back from his round face. “It is I, Calvin Malvern, at your service, Auntie Peggy.”

“I’m not your aunt, you pea-witted nincompoop,” Peggy thundered.

“I think of you as my aunt,” Calvin assured her. “After the many

pleasant hours I spent in your shop when I was but a wee lad—”

“I chased you out of the Emporium more times than I can

count, you young rascal,” Peggy interrupted.

“But you were always pleased to see me when I came back,” Calvin countered, smiling angelically.

“That’s as may be,” Peggy retorted, “but I’m certainly not pleased

to see you now. How dare you disrupt my meeting?”

“Forgive me,” said Calvin. “I was under the impression that

you’d called for other business.”

“Other business does not include prancing in here like a puff edup popinjay and spouting poetical nonsense,” Peggy growled. “What

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

11

your poor father would think if he could see you strutting around

like an overdressed peacock . . .”

“He’d think I was doing something useful with my life,” said

Calvin.

“Useful?” Peggy snorted derisively. “Run along, Calvin. Take

your little friends and play dress-up somewhere else. The grownups have work to do.”

Mr. Wetherhead gave a terrified squeal as the jester vaulted

onto the stage and bent low to peer at the laptop’s screen.

“May it please the court,” the jester cried, raising a rigid index

finger. “I see nothing in the minutes that limits ‘other business’ to

that offered by boring blokes in business suits.” He pointed the finger accusingly at Peggy. “You must let the peacock squeak, er, I

mean, speak!”

Dick Peacock chuckled and Christine Peacock snickered as a

ripple of amusement ran through the schoolhouse. I was sitting too

close to Peggy to risk outright laughter, but I caught the jester’s eye

and smiled furtively.

“We may as well hear what Cal has to say, now he’s here,” called

Mr. Barlow from the back of the room.

“Hear, hear!” called Lilian Bunting from the front row.

“Let King Wilfred speak,” called Miranda Morrow, shaking her

strawberry-blond hair back from her freckled face.

Others soon chimed in. While the rest of the villagers spoke up

in Calvin’s defense, Horace Malvern stared stoically at the floor

and said nothing. It was impossible to tell whether he was upset,

embarrassed, or simply bewildered by his nephew’s antics, but his

silence seemed to imply that all was not well between them.

Peggy’s silence had a distinctly ominous edge to it, but she was a

seasoned politician and she could read a crowd’s mood accurately,

when she chose to. She waited until the groundswell of support had

reached a raucous rumble, then placed her clipboard on the table,

banged the gavel twice for order, and folded her arms across her

impressive bosom.

12 Nancy Atherton

“The chair will give you ten minutes,” she declared, nodding

curtly to Calvin.

Calvin bowed to her, murmuring, “As generous as always, Auntie Peggy.”

A titter went through the room, accompanied by a buzz of excitement rarely heard at a May meeting. Lilian Bunting and I exchanged gleefully mystified glances, then gave our full attention to

Calvin. I had no idea what he was about to say, but it had to be

more entertaining than Peggy’s guidelines on stanchion storage.

I expected Calvin to replace his crown and revert to the persona of King Wilfred while making his mysterious announcement.

Instead, he handed the crown to the jester, who won a huge roar of

laughter by pretending to put it on Peggy’s head before leaping

nimbly from the stage to sit cross-legged at Charles Bellingham’s

feet. Calvin allowed the room to settle down, then began to speak

in the artfully modulated tones of a trained actor—or a snake-oil

salesman.

“My friends,” he said. “Have you ever dreamed of traveling back

in time? Have you ever yearned to return to an age when simple

folk danced gayly on the green while lords quaffed and knights

fought and troubadours sang sweetly of chivalrous deeds? Have you

ever longed to submerge yourself in the glories of merry old

En gland?”

Mr. Barlow harrumphed disdainfully.

“Merry old England, my eye,” he grumbled. “There’s no such

thing, Cal, and there never was. The ruling class had it easy enough

back then, I’ll grant you, but the peasants worked themselves into

early graves.”

“Lots of nasty diseases in those days, too,” Sally Pyne chimed

in. “No proper sanitation and some very backwards ideas about personal hygiene.”

“Rats and lice everywhere you looked,” said Christine Peacock,

with an expressive shudder. “Not to mention fl eas.”

“Fleas brought the Black Death to Europe in 1347,” Jasper Tax-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

13

man added learnedly. “In five years, the plague killed some twenty-five

million people.”

“Nothing merry about the Black Death,” opined Mr. Barlow.

“I beg to differ,” said Jasper. “The Black Death created a labor

shortage, which significantly improved the lot of the common man.

A worker could demand a better wage because so few workers

were left to do the work.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Barlow riposted heatedly, “no one in his

right mind would call the Black Death merry.”

The debate might have gone on for hours—my neighbors loved

a good digression—but Calvin reclaimed the spotlight by using the

old actor’s trick of shouting very loudly.

“My dear people!” he bellowed. When all eyes were trained on

him again, he continued smoothly, “I’m not describing history. I’m

describing fantasy—a dream of England not as it was, but as it should

have been. And I’m inviting each and every one of you to share the

dream. On the first Saturday in July, at precisely ten a.m., the gates

of a new world will be opened to you. And the name of the world

will be . . .”

He pointed toward the back of the room and the heralds unfurled a cloth banner upon which were emblazoned the words:

KING WILFRED’S FAIRE

If Calvin expected wild applause or a chorus of awestruck gasps,

he must have been disappointed, because his thrilling words were

met with dead silence and a general air of incomprehension.

Peggy seemed to speak for the rest of us when she barked,

“What in heaven’s name are you blathering on about, Calvin?”

“I’m introducing you to an experience you’ll never forget,” he

replied, unfazed by Peggy’s bluntness or our blank looks. “For eight

consecutive weekends in July and August, King Wilfred and his

loyal subjects will recreate the atmosphere of a great Renais sance

festival, featuring musicians, acrobats, jugglers—”

14 Nancy Atherton

“Like a circus?” Sally Pyne asked hopefully.

“The fair will be far more entertaining than a circus, my lady,”

Calvin told her, “because you’ll be allowed, nay, you’ll be encour-

aged to join in the fun. At King Wilfred’s Faire, all the world will

be a stage. A hundred—”

“Excuse me,” Jasper Taxman interrupted. “Who is this King

Wilfred you keep mentioning? No British monarch was ever called

Wilfred.”

“I am King Wilfred,” Calvin said, bowing to Jasper. “My kingdom is not fettered by an oppressive adherence to historical fact,

good sir. My realm celebrates the imagination. A hundred scintillating performers will roam the fair’s winding lanes. They will

dress in period costume, speak in period speech, and amuse you in

ways too varied and marvelous to describe.” Calvin prowled up

and down the center aisle, gesturing flamboyantly as he spoke.

“Artists will ply their wares, artisans will demonstrate their crafts,

wizards will work their magic, and”—he winked broadly—“bawdy

wenches will work theirs! Our marketplace will overflow with

unique, handcrafted items: jewelry, glassware, pottery, leather

goods, and much more. You’ll find food and drink, song and dance,

pageantry and revelry, and once daily you’ll witness the breathtaking spectacle of noble knights on horse back, competing in a joust!”

“And you expect us to participate?” Dick Peacock said doubtfully.

“I’m not getting on a horse,” his wife stated categorically.

“Perish the thought, good lady,” said Calvin, eyeing Christine’s

ample figure, “but you can bestow your favor upon a gallant knight,

if you wish. You can enjoy the varied entertainment and savor the

food, and you can most certainly come in costume.” He put a finger

to his lips and studied Christine critically. “I envision you as a noblewoman of the royal court, with a length of rose-colored silk

trailing from your wimple. Or as a pirate maiden in twelve-league

boots, with a saber buckled at your waist. Or as a gypsy fortuneteller, with gold hoops in your ears and seven petticoats, each a

different shade of red.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

15

Christine herself turned a fairly shocking shade of red, but she

did not look displeased. At the same time, faraway expressions

crossed the faces of several women sitting near her, as if they were

picturing themselves in twelve-league boots with sabers buckled at

their waists. Calvin, it seemed, had struck a chord.

“You’re free to dress up or to come as you are,” he continued jovially, once again addressing the room at large. “If you decide to

dress up, don’t worry overmuch about historical accuracy. We define the term ‘Renaissance’ with great liberality. In truth, anything

vaguely medieval will do. Creativity is the key, so let your imagination take flight! Did I mention the petting zoo for the little ones?”

Jasper Taxman sniffed. “I’m not entirely certain that young

children should be exposed to, ahem, bawdy wenches.”

“It’s all in good fun,” Calvin said reassuringly. “Our performers

are trained to provide good, clean, family entertainment with just

a hint of spice, and I can tell you from personal experience that the

children will be having too much fun in the petting zoo to pay attention to the spice.”

“Where are you planning to hold this fair of yours?” Mr. Barlow

inquired.

“Not far from Finch,” Calvin replied, “which is why I’m here

tonight. We want to be on good terms with our nearest neighbors.”

He stretched an arm toward Mr. Malvern. “Uncle Horace has generously allowed us to lay claim to the northeast corner of Fivefold

Farm. King Wilfred’s Faire will take place in and around Bishop’s

Wood. During fair hours, there will be free parking in the pasture

adjacent to the wood.”

Mr. Barlow’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced at Mr. Malvern

questioningly, but Mr. Malvern kept his gaze fixed firmly on the

fl oor.

“I collect herbs in Bishop’s Wood,” Miranda Morrow commented. “I don’t recall seeing any winding lanes there.”

“There aren’t any lanes at the moment,” Calvin acknowledged,

smiling at her. “Construction will begin bright and early tomorrow

16 Nancy Atherton

morning. I assure you that we will do no permanent damage to the

wood. All structures will be temporary in nature. When the fair is

finished, they will be removed.”

“How much will it cost to attend the fair?” Jasper Taxman asked

shrewdly, tapping his calculator.

“There is an admission fee,” Calvin admitted, turning to face

the retired accountant, “but the cost is trifling compared to the

enjoyment you and your loved ones will derive from the fair—nine

pounds for adults and four pounds for children aged fi ve to twelve.

Children under the age of five will, of course, be admitted without

charge.”

A peculiar sound filled the schoolhouse, a mingling of disappointed groans with outraged grunts. The groans came exclusively

from the women, the grunts from the men.

“Nine pounds?” said Jasper, appalled. “Do you seriously expect

me to pay nine pounds to watch people strut about in fancy dress?”

“Indeed not, good sir,” Calvin said solemnly. “I expect you to

pay nine pounds, and gladly, for much more. Your hesitation is understandable, however. After all, you know not whereof I speak. I

will, therefore, make a pact with you and with everyone here tonight.” He raised his voice as he turned away from Jasper to face

the schoolroom. “If you are not completely satisfied with your day

at King Wilfred’s Faire, I will personally return your admission fee

to you in full.”

“Can’t say fairer than that,” Christine stated firmly.

The women sitting near her nodded eagerly.

Calvin’s smile held a hint of triumph as he returned to the foot

of the stage, but if he thought he was home and dry, he was mistaken. The villagers were just getting warmed up.

“This all sounds very interesting,” Dick Peacock allowed, “but

I’d like to hear more about the food and drink you mentioned. Are

you trying to put my pub out of business?”

“I could ask the same thing about my tearoom,” said Sally Pyne.

“And what about our summer calendar?” demanded Peggy Tax-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

17

man. “It’s hard enough to get people to attend village events. How

can we hope to attract a crowd if everyone’s gone to your fair?”

Calvin raised a pacifying hand. “Fear not, good people. Neither

your businesses nor your events will suffer because of the fair. To

the contrary, they’ll prosper. King Wilfred’s Faire will bring more

people to Finch than ever before.”

“Which means traffic congestion,” Mr. Barlow said gloomily.

Before Calvin could address the traffic issue, villagers began firing a barrage of questions at him. Did he have the proper building

permits? Did he have a liquor license? A food license? A sales license? Had the county planning board approved his project? Where

would the performers stay once the fair was under way? Although

Calvin tried to respond, the questions came so thick and fast that

he couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

Finally, Mr. Malvern took a deep breath, got to his feet, and

shouted, “Shut it, the lot of you!”

“Well, really, ” Peggy Taxman said indignantly.

“Listen up,” said Mr. Malvern, ignoring her. “Calvin has the planning board’s approval as well as the requisite licenses and permits.

The performers will live in caravans while they’re working the fair.

The caravans will be parked on my property, and yes, we have the

county’s permission for that, too. The main access road to the fair

will run straight from the Oxford Road to Bishop’s Wood, so the

bulk of the extra traffic will be south of town. Finch’ll see more cars

than it’s used to on weekends, but no more than it can handle.”

“Horace Malvern,” Peggy blustered, “you have no right to foist

this travesty—”

“I have every right,” Mr. Malvern broke in. “You may be the

queen bee in Finch, Peggy, but my nephew doesn’t need your permission to use my land. Bishop’s Wood is on my property and I’ll

do with it as I see fit, so you may as well stop your whingeing because it won’t do you one bit of good. And if you can’t see how the

fair will benefi t Finch, you’re blind as well as bossy.”

Peggy’s nostrils flared alarmingly. “How dare you—”

18 Nancy Atherton

“We will, of course, donate a portion of the proceeds to the

church roof fund,” Calvin interjected quickly.

“Seems very generous to me,” said Christine Peacock.

“Extremely generous,” chorused the women sitting near her.

“No, my ladies,” said Calvin, kissing his fingertips to them. “It is

the village of Finch that is generous. I thank you for welcoming me

with such warmth and aff ection, and I look forward to seeing all of

you on opening day—and on many merrymaking weekends thereafter.” He snapped his fingers and the jester presented the crown to

him. Calvin lowered the crown onto his own head, then raised a

hand in farewell. “Adieu, good people of Finch. Until we meet

again—at King Wilfred’s Faire!”

“All hail good King Wilfred!” bellowed the heralds.

The pair raised their trumpets and played another fanfare as Calvin strode up the aisle, then followed him out of the schoolroom,

with the jester tumbling in their wake. Mr. Malvern left his seat to

join them, but paused in the doorway to share a parting word.

“It’s a done deal,” he said gruffly. “Just thought you ought to

know.” He slapped his tweed cap on his head, spun on his heel, and

was gone.

A momentary silence ensued. Some people rubbed their chins,

while others peered at the ceiling. A few women fingered their

polyester blouses, frowning pensively.

“It sounds good to me,” Miranda Morrow said at last. “And it will

bring more people to the village on weekends.”

“We could do with some new customers at the pub,” said Dick

Peacock.

“I wouldn’t mind filling the chairs in my tearoom,” said Sally

Pyne.

“They might need fresh meat and produce for their food stalls,”

said Burt Hodge, a local farmer.

“Fresh eggs never go amiss,” said Annelise’s mother. Mrs. Sciaparelli’s chickens were famously productive.

“Tourists get flat tires, too,” Mr. Barlow observed. “And over-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

19

heated radiators. A mechanic can always find work, but he’d be a

fool to complain if the work comes to him.”

“It goes without saying that the vicar and I will make good use

of the fair’s donation to the church roof fund,” said Lilian Bunting.

“King Wilfred’s Fair could put Finch on the map,” Charles Bellingham ventured timidly.

“We’re already on the map,” Peggy protested. “The fair will

compete with our summer events, block our roads, and bring undesirables into our community. Nothing good will come of it.”

Jasper Taxman took his courage in his hands and turned to his

wife. “The fair might increase the Emporium’s cash flow, Peggy.

Tourists always need supplies, and you carry a bit of everything in

your shop.”

Peggy’s objections ceased abruptly.

“Do you really think so, Jasper?” she asked. “Do you honestly

believe that the Emporium could profit by this . . . this display of

childish nonsense?”

“I do,” Jasper replied firmly. “What’s more, I think that we should

have a private meeting with Calvin Malvern as soon as possible. If we

can rent a stall at his fair, we might . . .”

As Jasper leaned sideways to have a quiet word with his wife, a

torrent of talk swept through the schoolhouse. Everyone was chattering at once, so it was difficult to make out individual comments,

but a few words fl oated above the hubbub.

“. . . exciting . . .”

“. . . colorful . . .”

“. . . petticoats . . .”

“. . . boots . . .”

“. . . knights . . .”

“. . . jousting . . .”

While the clamor in the schoolhouse continued unchecked,

Peggy listened intently to Jasper. When he finished speaking,

she pursed her lips and nodded firmly. She seemed oblivious to the

uproar when she turned to face the villagers. Instead of calling the

20 Nancy Atherton

meeting back to order, she brought it to an end with three decisive

bangs of her gavel. She then thrust the summer work rosters at me,

gathered up her notes, and gestured for Jasper to accompany her as

she dashed down the center aisle and out of the schoolhouse.

I wandered among the villagers, dutifully distributing the rosters, and watched in amazement at they were stuffed unexamined

into pockets and purses. No one seemed interested in learning

whether they’d been assigned to the dog show cleanup crew or to

the tea urn polishing squad. Thoughts of present-day Finch had

evidently been pushed aside to make room for dreams of merry old

England, and the May meeting had ended not on its usual downbeat note, but on a crescendo of giddy anticipation.

We couldn’t have known it at the time, but the invasion of

Finch had begun.

Three

A fter eight pleasant but predictable summers in a row,

something unexpected was about to happen in Finch. I

couldn’t wait to share the news with Bill. If I’d driven my

reliable Range Rover to the May meeting, I would have shattered

all known speed rec ords in my haste to return to the cottage.

Unfortunately, I’d driven the rusty old Morris Mini Bill and I

used for child-free trips to the village, so I was forced to putter sedately over the humpbacked bridge and along the

hedge-lined,

winding lane that led to the cottage, while my brain fizzed with fresh

ideas involving sabers, hoop earrings, and rose-colored wimples. I

wasn’t sure what a wimple was, but I was determined to have a

rose-colored one.

It was nearing ten o’clock when I turned into our graveled

drive, a good two hours past the twins’ bedtime but not necessarily

past Bill’s. Hoping fervently that my husband had waited up for me,

I parked the Mini between my Rover and his Mercedes, and

sprinted up the flagstone path, scarcely noticing the early roses that

had appeared on the trellis framing the front door or the sweet

springtime scent of the late lilacs.

As I stepped into the front hall, I raised my copy of the summer

roster high into the air and called out, “All hail good King Wilfred!”

I held the pose, but when Bill didn’t emerge from the living

room to ask what on earth I was doing, I tossed the roster onto the

telephone table, hung my shoulder bag on the hat rack, and went

looking for him.

I found him upstairs, in bed, with Stanley, our black cat, curled

at his feet. Stanley opened one dandelion-yellow eye when I walked

into the master bedroom, but quickly closed it again. He liked me

22 Nancy Atherton

well enough, but he adored Bill, and he would have been perfectly

content to spend the rest of his life curled at my husband’s feet.

Bill was sleeping so soundly that he didn’t stir when I bent to

kiss his cheek, and when I accidentally bumped the bed a few times

with my knee, he simply rolled over and settled his head more

snugly into his pillow. I heaved a disappointed sigh, which also

failed to wake him, then tiptoed out of the master bedroom.

I went up the hall to look in on the twins, but they were as

deeply asleep as their father. I gazed down at their identical faces

and imagined how their dark brown eyes would light up when I

described jousting to them in the morning. Smiling, I tucked their

blankets in around them, kissed their tousled heads, and returned

to the first floor. My menfolk were precious to me, but I wasn’t

ready to join them in dreamland just yet. I was bursting to tell

someone about the fair.

My best friend, Emma Harris, had missed the May meeting because she was tending to a sick horse, but it was too late in the evening to telephone her. A glance at my watch told me that it was too

late to call any of my early-bird friends, so I headed for the study,

where I knew I would find someone who was always wide-awake.

The study was still and silent. Not a breath of wind stirred the

strands of ivy covering the diamond-paned window above the old

oak desk. After closing the door carefully behind me, I turned on

the mantelshelf lights, lit a fire in the fireplace, and bowed deeply

to Reginald, who gazed down at me from his special niche in the

floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Reginald was a rabbit made of powder-pink flannel. He had

black button eyes, beautifully hand-stitched whis kers, and a faded

purple stain on his snout, a memento of a day in my childhood when

I’d let him try my grape juice. Reginald had been at my side for as

long as I could remember and, as my oldest friend, deserved his

place of honor in the cottage. I didn’t usually bow to him, but it

would have been unthinkable to enter the study without greeting

him, and I was caught up in Calvin Malvern’s dream.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

23

“What ho, Sir Reginald,” I said, straightening. “How farest thee

on this marvelous May eve ning? Art thou well? Dost thou reliveth

brave deeds of yore whilst thou sitteth on thy . . . shelf?” I finished

lamely, then grinned. “I don’t have the lingo down pat, Reg, but

I’ve got a month to practice. Thou wilt be impressed!”

Reginald’s black button eyes glimmered with vague understanding, as if he thought I might be crazy but was willing to await

further developments. I tweaked his pink ears fondly, took a blue-leather-bound book from a nearby shelf, and sank into one of the

tall leather armchairs that faced the hearth. While the fire snapped

and crackled in a satisfyingly medieval way, I cradled the book in

my arms and called to mind the first time I’d opened it.

The book had once belonged to my late mother’s closest friend,

an Englishwoman named Dimity Westwood. The two women had

met in London while serving their respective countries during the

Second World War, and their friendship had continued to blossom long after the war had ended and my mother had returned to

the States.

The two friends never met again in person, but they filled the

postwar air with a steady stream of letters describing the everyday

adventures of their lives. After my father’s sudden death, the letters

became a refuge for my mother, a private place of peace and calm,

an escape from the sometimes daunting challenges of full-time work

and single parenthood. My mother told no one about her private

refuge, not even her daughter. As a child, I knew Dimity Westwood

only as Aunt Dimity, the fictional heroine of a series of bedtime stories invented by my mother.

I didn’t learn about the real Dimity Westwood until after she

and my mother had died, when Dimity bequeathed to me a comfortable fortune, a honey-colored cottage in the Cotswolds, the

extraordinary letters she and my mother had written, and a very

special book—a journal bound in dark blue leather.

Whenever I opened the blue journal, Aunt Dimity’s handwriting

would appear, an old-fashioned copperplate taught in the village

24 Nancy Atherton

school at a time when a woodstove in the parlor qualifi ed as central

heating. I nearly fainted the first time her writing streamed across

the journal’s blank pages, but her kind words steadied me and I soon

came to rely on her as a constant source of wisdom and support. I

had no idea how she managed to bridge the gap between the earthly

and the ethereal, but I knew one thing for certain: Aunt Dimity was

as good a friend to me as she’d been to my mother. I didn’t want to

think of life without her.

Warmed by the memory—and the crackling fire—I rested the

journal on my lap, opened it, and said, “Dimity? Are you there? I

have amazing news to tell you!”

The familiar lines of royal-blue ink curled instantly across the

page. As you know, my dear, I’m always eager to hear amazing news. Don’t

tell me, though. Let me guess. Did Peggy Taxman forget to assign you to the

dog show?

“I should be so lucky,” I said, rolling my eyes. “No, Dimity, it’s

a thousand times more amazing than dodging poop duty.”

My goodness. Have aliens landed on the village green?

“Close,” I said, “but it’s better than aliens.” Unable to wait any

longer, I blurted, “King Wilfred’s Faire is coming to Finch!”

How thrilling! A short pause ensued before the handwriting continued. Who, may I ask, is King Wilfred? And why is he holding a fair in Finch?

“King Wilfred is Calvin Malvern,” I explained. “And it’s King

Wilfred’s Faire with an e tacked onto the end of ‘fair,’ to make it

seem old and quaint. And the fair won’t be held in the village, but

near it, in Bishop’s Wood.”

Hold on a moment, Lori. Did you say Calvin Malvern? Are you speaking

of Horace Malvern’s nephew?

“That’s the chap,” I said.

I knew Calvin Malvern when he was a little boy. I could have sworn that he

came from a long line of farmers. How and when did he acquire royal blood?

“I don’t think there’s a drop of royal blood in him,” I replied.

“As far as I can tell, Calvin’s the self-appointed king of a make-believe

kingdom.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

25

Of course he is. Calvin always liked stories better than real life. His

uncle hoped he’d grow out of it, but apparently he hasn’t.

“Apparently not,” I agreed, laughing. “He showed up at the

meeting tonight tricked out like Henry the Eighth, with a tumbling

jester and two heralds in tow. You should have seen Peggy’s face

when the heralds blew their trumpets.”

A moment to trea sure.

“I’ll never forget it. I doubt if Peggy will ever call for ‘other business’ again.” I couldn’t stop smiling as I recounted the eve ning’s

events, adding hand flourishes where appropriate, and concluding

with, “I think the fair is going to be a kind of medieval theme park.”

I’d love to see a medieval roller coaster. I wouldn’t want to ride one,

necessarily, but I’d love to see one.

“I don’t think there will be any rides,” I told her. “Just interesting performers, interesting food, interesting things to buy . . .”

You make it all sound very . . . interesting.

“I know,” I said, nodding cheerfully. “Isn’t it wonderful? Will

and Rob will be over the moon when they hear about the jousting.

You know how horse-crazy they are, and they love everything to

do with knights. I’m going to make costumes for them, Dimity.

Did I tell you that Calvin invited everyone to come in costume?”

You did. Several times.

“I’ll make page costumes for the twins.” I gazed dreamily into

the fire for a moment, then frowned and looked inquiringly at the

journal. “Pages were the little boys who helped knights prepare for

combat, weren’t they? Or am I thinking of squires?”

I believe squires were older boys. Rob and Will will make adorable pages.

They’ll be believable, too, because they really do know how to groom and tack

up horses. Are you going to make a costume for Bill as well?

“I doubt it.” My smile faded slightly. “Bill’s not a costume sort of

guy. I can’t picture him pulling on a pair of tights, which is a pity,

because he has great legs.”

Perhaps he could be a friar.

“Like Friar Tuck?” I said, brightening.

26 Nancy Atherton

Like a tall, well-built Friar Tuck. He wouldn’t have to wear hose if he

dressed as a friar, because the long robe would conceal his legs. If Bill dressed

as a friar, you could dress as a nun.

“A nun?” I said blankly.

Nuns were all the rage in medieval England, Lori. They were often

well-bred and highly intelligent women who exercised a great deal of power.

“But they wore . . . habits . . . didn’t they?” I said, with a moue

of distaste. “Dull, plain, boring habits. I was thinking of wearing

something more colorful. Like a wimple. Do you happen to know

what a wimple is?”

Nuns wear wimples, Lori, but they’re rarely colorful. The kind of wimple

you have in mind is probably a tall, thin, cone-shaped hat with a length of

fluttery fabric attached at the point.

“That’s what I had in mind,” I confirmed. “Calvin said that noblewomen wore wimples. I can see myself as a noblewoman, can’t

you?”

Lady Lori? It has a certain ring to it.

“A pirate maiden would be pretty cool, too,” I said. “I’ve always

wanted to be a swashbuckler.”

Pirate Lori has a definite ring to it.

“Pirate Lori,” I murmured happily. “It’d be fun to brandish a

saber and shout, ‘Avast, me hearties!’ ”

I’d urge you to keep your saber safely in its sheath, unless you want to

add the sport of ear-lopping to the fair’s roster of medieval activities.

“Killjoy,” I retorted, putting my feet on the ottoman. “I’m not

sure what I want to be, Dimity, but making up my mind will be half

the fun. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be a noblewoman and a pirate and

a gypsy.” I shivered with excitement. “I can’t wait for opening day!”

It sounds as though you’re anticipating King Wilfred’s Faire with a

great deal of plea sure, my dear.

“Well,” I said reasonably, “it makes for a change, doesn’t it?”

Is a change what you need right now?

“I could do with one,” I replied, adding quickly, “but it’s not just

me, Dimity. The villagers were electrifi ed by Calvin’s announcement.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

27

The roof nearly came off of the schoolhouse after he left. If you ask

me, everyone’s a little bored with the usual summer routine.”

I sense, however, that you’re more than a little bored.

I took my lower lip between my teeth and looked up at Reginald. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the many blessings in my

life, but honesty was almost always the best policy with Aunt Dimity, so I told her the truth.

“I’m glad that something new is going to happen in Finch this

summer,” I said. “Something unfamiliar. Something that wasn’t

planned by Peggy Taxman. I haven’t had anything new and exciting

to look forward to since Annelise got married.”

Annelise got married nine days ago, Lori. You haven’t had enough time

to become bored.

“I’ve had eight years to become bored,” I countered. “Eight summers, anyway.”

You’ve had seven summers, to be precise. You spent last summer in Colo-

rado.

“So I did,” I conceded. “And I had a grand time. I didn’t miss polishing the tea urns or changing the trash bin liners one bit.”

I thought you cherished tradition.

“I do, but you can have too much of a good thing.” I groaned impatiently. “Nothing ever changes in Finch. I’ve heard the same people talk about the same things for nearly a decade. It’s like being on

a conversational treadmill.”

May I remind you that another wedding will take place in September?

You once described it as the fairy-tale wedding of the century. You can’t tell

me that you’re not looking forward to Kit and Nell’s wedding.

Kit Smith and Nell Harris were the most beautiful couple I’d

ever known. Kit was the stable master at nearby Anscombe Manor

and Nell was the stepdaughter of my friend Emma Harris, who

owned Anscombe Manor. Although I’d been instrumental in bringing Kit to the point of proposing to Nell, my matchmaking career

had gone into a serious decline after he’d popped the question.

“There’s nothing I want more than to see Kit and Nell get

28 Nancy Atherton

married,” I retorted, “but September’s a long way off, and I won’t

be involved in their wedding the way I was in Annelise’s.” I leaned

my chin on my hand and went on disconsolately. “Let’s face it,

Dimity, Kit and Nell don’t need my help. They’re so flawlessly flawless that they could get married in a telephone booth, wearing burlap sacks and fl ip-flops, and it would still be the fairy-tale wedding

of the century. Besides, I think Nell’s had the whole thing mapped

out since she was twelve years old, and there’s nothing I can do to

improve on her plans. They’ll get along flawlessly without me.”

The fair, on the other hand, requires your active participation.

“Exactly,” I said. “And the best thing about it is: It’ll be a healthy

outlet for my imagination! If I see a vampire at the fair—”

Were there vampires during the Renais sance?

“Vampires are timeless,” I replied. “And Calvin isn’t picky about

niggling historical details anyway.”

I see. Sorry to interrupt. You were saying?

“I was saying that the fair will be good for me,” I said. “If I see a

vampire, I won’t go off half-cocked and accuse him of stalking my

sons. I’ll admire his costume and have a good laugh along with everyone else and that’ll be it. In other words, I’ll behave like a normal human being.”

Is that what you want, Lori? To behave like a normal human being?

“I just want to stop making a fool of myself,” I said hopelessly. “I

want to stop seeing things that aren’t there. I want to stop concocting schemes and sneaking around and behaving like a demented

twelve-year-old. I want to be grounded and clear-headed and sensible.”

Like Emma Harris?

“Emma is my role model,” I declared. “When I grow up, I want

to be just like her.”

An odd thing for a woman in her mid-thirties to say, but I take your

meaning.

“I know I shouldn’t complain,” I said earnestly, peering down at

the journal. “I love my life, I really do, but if I don’t find a way to

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

29

shake it up a little, I’ll lose my mind. I refuse to be sucked into any

more silly mysteries or ridiculous adventures, so I’m going to make

the most of King Wilfred’s Faire while it lasts, and afterwards—”

Try not to think too far ahead, my dear. You’ll only make yourself dizzy.

As I finished reading the word “dizzy,” I realized that I was, indeed, on the verge of hyperventilating, so I rested my head against

the back of the chair and took a few measured breaths before looking down at the words Aunt Dimity had written in the journal.

I believe you’ve found a splendid solution to your dual dilemmas, Lori. A

summerlong medieval costume party will allow you to enjoy the best aspects

of your imagination and at the same time give you a much-needed break

from the tedious routine of village life. It was im mensely clever of Calvin

Malvern to bring King Wilfred’s Faire to Finch. I do hope that Bill will be

open-minded enough to participate fully in the fair.

“I’ll do what I can to persuade him,” I said.

I know you will. The mantelshelf clock is chiming midnight, Lori. It’s

time you were in bed. I look forward to hearing more amazing news whenever

you wish to share it with me. Good night, my dear.

“Good night, Dimity.”

I waited until the curving lines of royal-blue ink had faded from

the page, then closed the journal and returned it to its shelf. After

banking the fire, I turned off the mantelshelf lights, bade Sir Reginald adieu, and left the study, envisioning my pink bunny in a miniature crown and a very small ermine-trimmed robe.

“Reginald will be easy,” I murmured. “Bill’s going to be a much

tougher nut to crack.”

But as I tiptoed into the bedroom, a game plan was already taking shape in my mind.

Four

T he next four weeks were among the most enjoyable I’d

ever experienced in Finch. Eye-catching posters appeared

in shop windows, touting the fair’s many attractions, and

unfamiliar vehicles rolled through Finch, causing curtains to twitch,

heads to turn, and tongues to wag. Rumors zipped along the village

grapevine at top speed, and they weren’t the stale old standbys concerning Sally Pyne’s neon-colored tracksuits or Christine Peacock’s

latest UFO sighting, but juicy new tidbits about the construction

project going on in Bishop’s Wood and the costumes Peggy Taxman had reputedly ordered for herself and Jasper from a theatricalsupply company in London.

No one would admit it openly, but everyone had been bitten by

the costume bug. The mobile library was besieged with requests

for books depicting Renais sance attire, and there was a run on velvet and brocade at the fabric store in Upper Deeping. Sally Pyne’s

Tuesday morning sewing class became so popular that she had to

add five more to her schedule to accommodate the overflow. Villagers flocked to the tearoom to learn how to stitch leather, hem

satin, embroider silk, and, naturally, to sneak peeks at their classmates’ handiwork. Scathing murmurs regarding color sense and

fabric choices rippled outward from the tearoom and kept the rumor mill spinning merrily.

My neighbors were so busy making doublets, muffi

n caps, and

lace-up bodices that they all but ignored the art show, which took

place on the first weekend in June. As a result, only three paintings

were entered, and they were so blindingly dreadful that they wouldn’t

have garnered honorable mentions in previous shows. Since they

had no competition, however, they managed to slide neatly—and

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

31

undeservedly—into first, second, and third place. The paltry submissions made the judging relatively easy, but there was a notable

absence of suspense when Peggy announced the judge’s final decisions.

The summer fete, too, suffered from a lack of interest. The usual

crowd of villagers showed up on Midsummer’s Day to sip locally

brewed ale, play traditional games, listen to the brass band, and

watch the Morris men dance on the village green, but they did so

halfheartedly, with the glazed eyes and fixed smiles of people whose

minds were elsewhere.

Although the village’s fi rst two summer events fell flat, Finch’s

businesses saw a modest but measur able upturn in sales throughout

the month of June. Sawdust-speckled workmen made their way

from Bishop’s Wood to Peacock’s Pub twice a day, with regular

side trips to the greengrocer’s shop. They paid Mr. Barlow to repair odd pieces of machinery, and kept the register ringing at Peggy’s

Emporium.

Rumors abounded about the nature of the structures the crews

were building in Bishop’s Wood. Some villagers confirmed conclusively that the fair would feature a three-tiered, moated castle, while

others claimed that the main attraction would be a gigantic

fire-breathing dragon. Since I lived next door to Fivefold Farm, I was

perfectly situated to spy on the construction site and find out if the

tittle-tattle was true, but I resisted the temptation. I wanted the fair

to surprise me.

Finch’s entrepreneurs didn’t care what the fair looked like as

long as it kept filling their coffers. They were well pleased with Calvin Malvern for selecting a site so near the village, and they expected profits to soar when King Wilfred’s Faire finally opened its

gates to the public.

Sally Pyne benefited the most from the fair’s proximity to Finch.

Her sewing skills were in such high demand that she had to trim the

tearoom’s hours drastically. I regretted the inconvenience even

though I was, in part, to blame for it. I wasn’t sure about anyone

32 Nancy Atherton

else, but in my rush to adorn myself with medieval finery I’d forgotten one small but important detail: I didn’t know how to sew. A

short session with a sharp needle made me painfully aware of my

ineptitude and I hurriedly signed up for one-on-one sewing tutorials

with Sally, only to discover that I had no talent whatsoever as a

seamstress.

I made such a mess of the twins’ page costumes that I quietly

disposed of them and hired Sally to make replacements. She agreed

to make a dress for me as well, but since she was pressed for time,

I had to scale down my vision quite a bit. Instead of a wimple-wearing

duchess or a saber-rattling pirate, I would attend the fair as a runof-the-mill peasant woman.

Sally finished our costumes in five whirlwind days, but she

never got started on Bill’s. Although she’d off ered to make a modest, leg-concealing friar’s robe for him, he wouldn’t even allow her

to take his measurements.

My husband had evidently inherited a gene that rendered him

immune to the costume bug. He didn’t find the notion of roleplaying romantic or amusing. He thought it was just plain stupid,

and he wouldn’t have anything to do with it. I tried every persuasive tactic known to womankind, but he simply refused to countenance the idea of wearing clothes that weren’t exactly like the

clothes he already owned.

I decided to launch one last, desperate appeal the day before the

fair was due to open. After rising early to drop the boys off at

Anscombe Manor for their riding lessons, I cajoled Bill into spending the morning at home instead of in the offi

ce, and rewarded

him with a sumptuous brunch laid out on the teak table beneath

the apple tree in the back garden. The weather was glorious and

the garden was blissfully free of boy-noise. The stage was set to

mount another offensive.

Bill ate his fill of eggs Benedict, smoked salmon, and buttery

crumpets, then settled back in his chair, invited Stanley to curl up

in his lap, and opened his newspaper. As he perused the morning

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

33

headlines, I refilled his teacup and took a calming breath. I didn’t

want to appear overeager.

“Bill?” I said nonchalantly.

“No,” he replied, without looking up from his paper. “Definitely

and irrevocably no.”

“But—”

He silenced me with a look that was downright menacing. Stanley, sensing trouble, jumped down from his lap and trotted into the

cottage.

“Listen carefully, Lori,” said Bill, laying the newspaper aside.

“I’ll go to the fair with you. I’ll spend an entire weekend there with

you, if you like. But I will not dress up as a lord, a knight, a friar, an

executioner, a wizard, a pirate, a mad monk, a humble woodsman,

or anything else your fertile mind may cough up. It’s never going to

happen. Period. End of discussion. Finito.”

“So that’s a no, is it?” I inquired.

“That’s a no,” Bill confirmed, and took a sip of tea.

Defeated, I slouched back in my chair and brushed some crumbs

from the table. As I did so, I recalled a drawing Rob had made the

night before, depicting a mounted knight with an outsized lance in

one hand and a flaming sword in the other. It was, according to

Rob, a self-portrait, and the memory of it gave me a renewed sense

of determination. I would not let Bill disappoint the twins.

“Everyone we know will be wearing medieval clothes,” I said.

“What will the twins think when you show up at the fair wearing

a baseball cap, a polo shirt, khaki shorts, and sneakers?”

“Will and Rob will think that I look like their father,” Bill replied.

“But everyone else will think you’re—”

“Lori,” Bill interrupted. “I stopped caring about what everyone

else thinks midway through my first year at prep school. If our

friends and neighbors wish to wear feathered caps and pantaloons to

the fair, that’s their prerogative. I’m not going to cave in to peer

pressure at this stage of the game.”

34 Nancy Atherton

“Stick-in-the-mud,” I said, scowling. “Fuddy-duddy.”

“You’ve left out spoilsport and wet blanket,” Bill said helpfully.

“Shall I fetch a thesaurus?”

“I don’t need a thesaurus,” I retorted, but before I could demonstrate my full mastery of the English language, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll go,” Bill said brightly, and went into the cottage to answer

the front door.

He returned a moment later, with Horace Malvern padding after

him. The burly farmer was, for reasons unknown to me, shoeless.

“Mr. Malvern,” I said, trying not to stare at his red wool socks.

“How nice to see you.”

“I left my wellies in the front hall,” he explained. “Didn’t want

to track muck through the house.”

“Much obliged,” I said.

Bill offered him a chair, then resumed his own.

Mr. Malvern removed his tweed cap and hung it on the back of

the chair before joining us at the table. His weathered face was nearly

as red as his socks, as if he’d scrubbed it before stopping by, and he

accepted a cup of tea gingerly, as if he feared that his powerful hands

might inadvertently shatter the bone china teacup.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said, after a sip of tea. “I’ve been

meaning to call round ever since the May meeting, but with the hay

making and the milking and all, I’ve lost track of the days.”

“You’re always welcome here, Mr. Malvern,” Bill told him.

“Am I?” The farmer raised a grizzled eyebrow and placed his

teacup carefully on its saucer. “I thought I might not be, after Calvin

made his big announcement. You live closest to the wood, after all.

I hope the racket hasn’t kept you up at night.”

“It hasn’t,” I assured him.

“What racket?” Bill said amiably.

My husband and I weren’t merely being diplomatic. If it hadn’t

been for the distant sound of hammering and the occasional whine

of a table saw, neither Bill nor I would have been aware of the construction work taking place in Bishop’s Wood.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

35

“Well, that’s all right, then.” Mr. Malvern gave a satisfied nod.

“You won’t have to worry about the performers, either. Their camp

will be east of the wood, so they shouldn’t give you any trouble at all.

If they do, let me know and I’ll give ’em a boot up their backsides.”

“We’ll call you if we have to,” I promised, “but I’m sure it won’t

be necessary.”

“What about you?” Bill asked the farmer. “Isn’t the fair going to

disrupt your operations?”

“I’ve lots of land,” Mr. Malvern replied complacently. “Calvin’s

welcome to use a corner of it.”

“He’s lucky to have such a generous uncle,” I said. “Is Calvin

your only nephew?”

Instead of answering directly, Mr. Malvern rested his massive

forearms on the table and asked, “You don’t know much about Cal,

do you?”

“No,” I said. “Bill hasn’t even seen him yet.”

“I was at home with Will and Rob during the May meeting,”

Bill explained, “but Lori has described Calvin’s performance to me

in great detail.”

“I’ll bet she has. It was quite a performance.” Mr. Malvern pursed

his lips. “The first thing you ought to know about Cal is: His parents

were killed in a car wreck when he was but nine years old.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, and Bill clucked his tongue sympathetically.

“It’s the way of the world,” said Mr. Malvern. “Some folk die

before their time and others live long past it. No point in asking

why.” Mr. Malvern nodded solemnly, then continued, “Cal came to

live with me and Mrs. Malvern after he lost his mum and dad, but

he wasn’t much use on the farm. Always daydreaming. I’d ask him

to bring the herd in for milking and the next thing I’d know, my

cows’d be stopping traffic on the Oxford Road. He has a good

heart, does Cal, but he wasn’t cut out to be a farmer. His head was

always somewhere else.”

“Did he like school?” I asked.

36 Nancy Atherton

“He liked the school play,” Mr. Malvern answered. “He wasn’t

much of a scholar, but he took to playacting like a duck to water.

Joined a theater group in Oxford as soon as he finished school,

which is why you never got to know him. He moved to Oxford

about six months before you moved into the cottage.”

“You must have missed him,” I said.

“I did,” said Mr. Malvern, “but I was pleased that he’d found a

way of life that suited him better than farming. He worked backstage, mostly, rigging lights and painting scenery. He seemed to like

it well enough, but he quit the troupe when he turned twenty-one.”

“Had he outgrown playacting?” Bill inquired.

“You wouldn’t ask such a question if you’d been at the May

meeting,” said Mr. Malvern with a wry smile. “No, Cal quit the

theater group because he came into his inheritance. My brother left

him a tidy sum, you see, and the minute Cal got his hands on it, he

upped stakes and lit out for America.”

“Good heavens,” I said, surprised. “Why did he go to America?”

“He wanted to perform in a Renais sance festival,” Mr. Malvern

replied. “Seems he’d discovered Renais sance festivals online. They’re

called Ren fests in the States and they seem to go on all year

long—up north in the summer and down south in the winter. A lot

of them have Web sites with pictures of people wearing crowns and

making speeches and sword fi ghting and such. Cal took one look at

those pictures and decided that Ren fests were for him.”

“Well,” Bill temporized, “at least he had a clear goal in mind

when he went to America.”

“The missus and I thought he’d lost his mind,” Mr. Malvern

stated firmly. “We expected him to come running home with his

tail between his legs as soon as my brother’s money ran out.” The

farmer chuckled softly and shook his head. “But he proved us wrong,

did Cal. He did all right for himself. He spent the first year traveling

from one Ren fest to another, learning the ropes and making contacts. Sent us postcards from all over America.” Mr. Malvern smiled

reminiscently. “He spent the next five summers with a Ren fest in

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

37

Wisconsin. He started at the bottom, roasting turkey legs in a food

stall, but he worked his way up to a starring role as the town crier.”

“Did he go down south in the winter?” I asked.

“He did,” Mr. Malvern replied. “We had postcards from Texas,

California, Florida, Arizona—all of the warm states. He made a go

of it wherever he went, apparently. All I know is, by the end of his

six years in America, Cal had tucked away enough money to finance

his big idea. And his big idea was to bring a Ren fest to England.”

“En gland is stuffed to the gills with historical festivals,” I pointed

out. “Why did he feel the need to import one from America?”

“The missus and I asked Cal the same thing,” said Mr. Malvern.

“He told us that the English are . . .” He screwed up his face, as if he

were trying to recall his nephew’s exact words. “The English are

obsessed with reenactments—the accurate recreation of historic

moments or periods. Cal doesn’t give a flying cowpat—if you’ll

pardon the expression—about getting every detail precisely right.

He doesn’t mind if people show up dressed as wood sprites or Viking raiders, as long as they enjoy themselves. As he said at the

meeting, his fair is about fun, not authenticity. That’s what sets it

apart from most English festivals.”

“I think it’s a brilliant idea.” I glanced surreptitiously at Bill before asking, “Will you wear a costume to the fair, Mr. Malvern?”

“I’m going to be a burgher, whatever that is.” Mr. Malvern

shrugged philosophically. “Cal had the costume made specially for

me. I can hardly throw it back in his face.”

I smiled. “It sounds to me as if you have a hard time turning down

any of Calvin’s requests.”

“I’ve a soft spot for the lad, there’s no denying it,” Mr. Malvern

admitted. “He’s got something of my brother’s look about him. I see

it now and again. And he has a good heart.”

“He’s a breath of fresh air,” I declared. “I think King Wilfred’s

Faire is the best thing to happen to Finch since Kit Smith returned

to Anscombe Manor. And I’m not alone, Mr. Malvern. Everyone

loves the idea.”

38 Nancy Atherton

“So long as you two do, I’m content,” the farmer said. “If you’d

said a word against it, I’d’ve shut the thing down like that”—he

snapped his fingers—“but as long as you’re not bothered by it, I’ll let

it go ahead as planned.”

I gave him a startled, sidelong glance. While I appreciated his

solicitude, I was taken aback by his apparent willingness to close the

fair on the eve of its opening. It was almost as if he’d come to the

cottage looking for an excuse to call the whole thing off. As he fi nished drinking his tea, I remembered my first impression of him at

the May meeting. I’d sensed then that something was amiss between

him and his nephew. I wondered now if I’d been right.

“Forgive me for prying, Mr. Malvern,” I said, “but is everything

all right between you and Calvin? When the villagers ganged up on

him at the May meeting, you seemed to take a long time to come to

his defense.”

“Everything’s fine between me and Cal,” said Mr. Malvern. “If I

was a bit slow off the mark at the meeting, it’s because I was embarrassed by the way Cal engineered his announcement. I’m not as fond

of the spotlight as he is.” He hesitated, then went on. “But I won’t

deny that I’m a bit worried about this fair of his.”

“Why?” I asked.

Mr. Malvern rubbed the back of his neck and frowned down at

the table, then heaved a sigh and said slowly, “As I told you, Cal

never was much of a scholar. He barely scraped passing marks in

maths when he was at school. After he moved to Oxford, he was so

bad at sticking to a bud get that he had to borrow money from me

more often than not, just to make ends meet. He’s never had a head

for numbers.”

“I see your problem,” Bill said, nodding. “It’s difficult to run a

business if one doesn’t have a head for numbers.”

“If you ask me, it’s damned near impossible,” said Mr. Malvern.

“How did he manage to save enough money to bankroll the fair? A

leopard doesn’t change its spots by spending a few years overseas.”

“He has his inheritance,” I said.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

39

“Yes, but he must have burned through a good bit of it while he

was living in America,” said Mr. Malvern. “Now he’s paying for permits and work crews and building materials and performers and God

alone knows what else. Since he came home, he’s been throwing

money around like he owns a bank.” Mr. Malvern drummed his fingers on the table. “I’d like to know more about his financial situation.

I don’t understand it, and what I don’t understand worries me.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” I counseled. “I’m sure the fair

will be a huge success and Calvin will earn back every penny he’s

put into it. I can’t wait for the gates to open.”

“Nor can I,” Bill chimed in. “And Will and Rob are desperate to

see the knights on horse back. I have a feeling that the fair will attract a lot of families.”

“It’ll have to.” Mr. Malvern got to his feet, and Bill and I rose

with him. “I’d best be on my way. I’m sure you have things to do.”

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Malvern,” said Bill.

“Come again whenever you like,” I added.

“Thank you, and thanks for the tea.” Mr. Malvern donned his

cap, shook hands with Bill, and tipped his cap to me. “I’ll be off ,

then. No need to see me out. I know the way.”

“What a nice man,” I mused aloud after Mr. Malvern had departed. “Do you think he’s right to worry about Calvin’s business

dealings?”

“I have no idea,” said Bill. “But I’m not going to let it spoil my

enjoyment of the fair.”

“Me, neither. Eat, drink, and be merry, that’s my motto for the

summer.” I glanced at my watch and began stacking dishes. “But for

now, I’d better clear the table. It’s nearly time to pick up Will and

Rob.”

“Relax,” said Bill. “I have to go in to the office to take care of a

few things. I’ll pick up the boys on my way home.”

“You’re a prince,” I said.

“I’m a dad,” Bill corrected. He gave me a quick kiss and walked

swiftly into the cottage. A moment later, I heard the Range Rover

40 Nancy Atherton

back down our graveled drive. Since the Rover was equipped with

booster seats, we always used it to transport the twins.

I was no longer in a hurry to clear the table, so I sat down and

poured myself another cup of tea, to help lubricate my brain while I

mulled over everything Mr. Malvern had told us. I’d just taken a

large sip when a voice spoke to me from the stile in the tall hedgerow that grew along the garden’s southern edge.

“Hullo, neighbor! Mind if I drop in?”

Before I could swallow, a lithe young man clad in torn blue

jeans, a tie-dyed T-shirt, and black Wellington boots sailed headfirst over the stile and landed on his knees in the twins’ sandbox.

“Jinks the jester,” he announced. “At your service.”

Five

I promptly sprayed a mouthful of tepid tea across the teak

table. The young man was at my side instantly, patting my

back while I coughed and spluttered.

“Sorry,” he said. “Truly sorry. Im mensely sorry.”

“Don’t you . . . know how . . . to use a . . . d-doorbell?” I

managed, clapping a half-soaked napkin to my dripping chin.

“I’m very, very sorry,” he said. “I should have gone to the front

door, I know, but the stile was so handy that I—”

“Handy?” I cut him off without mercy, dropped the soggy napkin

on the table, and glared at him. “Handy to what? The only thing on

the far side of the stile is a cow pasture.”

“The cows have been moved to make room for me,” he explained.

“And who are you?” I demanded.

“Jinks the jester,” he repeated with a bow. “Jinks as in hijinks,

by the way, not Jinx as in hex, which, I’m sure you’ll agree, would

be an inappropriate name for a merrymaking jester. I was at the

village meeting last month. I thought you might remember me.”

I glanced toward the stile, retraced the arc the young man had

followed as he’d soared through the air, and stared at him as realization dawned. “You were with Calvin Malvern. You did handsprings

down the aisle.”

“Correct,” he said.

“I didn’t recognize you without your costume,” I said ruefully.

“But I suppose your grand entrance should have given me a clue.”

“I really am incredibly sorry.” He rocked back on his heels as he

surveyed his surroundings. “Lovely place you have here.”

“Never mind my lovely place,” I scolded. “What are you doing

42 Nancy Atherton

in the cow pasture? Horace Malvern told us that the performers’

camp would be east of Bishop’s Wood.”

“I need room to practice my tumbling passes,” he explained.

“Since the main camp will be jammed with tents and caravans when

the rest of the players arrive, Mr. Malvern very kindly allowed me

to park my caravan away from the others.”

“I hope you have a good shower in your caravan,” I grumbled.

“If you’re doing handsprings in a cow pasture, you’ll need one.”

“Mr. Malvern also provided me with a shovel and a rake,” said the

young man. “I’ve spent the past two days putting them to good use.”

He pointed his toe, to display a pristine boot, and fluttered his eyelashes at me. “I come in peace, to build a bridge between our warring

nations.”

An undignifi ed snort of laughter escaped me, but I was still annoyed with him. I nodded meaningfully at the breakfast dishes and

said, “You may as well make yourself useful, as long as you’re here.

Help me clear the table.”

He leaped into action, carrying dishes into the kitchen for me to

load into the dishwasher and scrubbing the teak table until he’d

erased all evidence of the accident his arrival had caused. Stanley

made a brief appearance in the kitchen, drawn, no doubt, by the

sound of a male voice, but when he realized that it didn’t belong to

Bill, he gave a soft hiss and vanished.

I studied Jinks in silence while we worked, and concluded that

he wasn’t quite as young as his clothing—and his behavior—suggested. To judge by the lines around his eyes and a few telltale strands

of gray in his auburn hair, he was closer to Bill’s age than Calvin

Malvern’s—in his late thirties.

He wore his hair in a curly ponytail and he had the lean, muscular build of an athlete, but he wasn’t remotely handsome. His eyes

were an odd shade of olive-green, his long nose curved slightly to

the left, his mouth was crooked, and he had a narrow, pointed chin.

He would never be a leading man, I decided as I left the kitchen

and returned to the back garden, but he possessed his own brand

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

43

of attractiveness. His green eyes were large and expressive, and his

smile held a hint of mischief that I found endearing.

He waited for me to offer him a chair before taking a seat at the

table. I sat across from him and regarded him curiously.

“What’s your real name?” I asked. “I can’t keep calling you Jinks.”

“I’d rather you did,” he said. “My parents were going through a

very silly phase when they christened me.”

“Rainbow?” I guessed, eyeing his tie-dyed T-shirt and his ripped

jeans. “Sunfl ower? Whalesong?”

“It’s not as bad as that,” he said, laughing. “My given name is Rowan.”

“What’s wrong with Rowan?” I asked.

“My surname name is Grove,” he replied.

“Rowan Grove.” I nodded. “I see. Well, it could have been worse.

They could have called you—”

“Oak, pine, beech,” he broke in. “Yes, I’ve heard it all before, especially during my formative years. Little boys can be brutal, given a

target. I have the scars to prove it. Which is why I prefer Jinks. If I must

have a silly name, I’d rather choose it myself.”

“Jinks it is, then,” I said.

“And you are . . . ?” he asked.

“Lori Shepherd,” I said. “And you can’t come up with a sheep

joke I haven’t heard, so don’t even try.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Jinks, shrinking away from me in

mock terror. “May I call you Lori?”

“Yes, of course,” I said. “It’s what everyone calls me. Why don’t

you use your real name? It’s organic, unusual, poetic—just right for

a Renais sance fair, I would have thought.”

“It may be all of those things,” he said doubtfully, “but we’re not

allowed to use our real names. We’re required to assume names that

suit our personas. It adds to the fair’s ambience and, frankly, it makes

our jobs easier. John Smith may be a shy, retiring computer programmer in his everyday life, but when he dons his garb and changes

his name to Cyrano”—Jinks raised his arms and struck a fencer’s

pose—“he becomes a dashing romantic hero.”

44 Nancy Atherton

“Like an actor in a play,” I said, intrigued.

“Like an actor in a play without a script,” Jinks clarified. “Most

of us improvise our parts. It’s great fun.”

“I imagine it would be,” I said. “Why did you choose to be a

jester?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked. “I have a face only a jester’s mother

could love.” He crossed his eyes and puckered his crooked mouth,

then smiled and went on. “I was also a star gymnast when I was at

school. And I have a ready wit. A weedy child with a silly name

learns early on to fight with words rather than with fists.”

“I think words are always better than fists,” I said.

“You’re not a ten-year-old boy.” Jinks allowed his gaze to wander freely over me for a moment, then said brightly, “Nor are you

English, if your accent’s anything to go by. Where are you from?”

“I’m from the States,” I replied. “I was born and raised in Chicago.”

“I know it well,” he said. “I met Calvin at a Renais sance festival

less than an hour’s drive from the Windy City.”

My eyebrows rose. “Did you work at the Ren fest in Wisconsin?”

He nodded. “I waited tables at a restaurant in Milwaukee during the week and worked the fair on weekends, but I drove down

to Chicago whenever I could.”

“But you’re English,” I said. “How did you end up in Wisconsin?

Did you discover the Ren fest on the Internet, like Calvin?”

Jinks wrinkled his forehead and squinted at the sky. “It happened

so long ago that I can hardly remember. I believe I was studying for

an advanced degree at the University of Wisconsin at the time. One

fine summer day some friends and I attended a fair we’d read about

in a local newspaper. They went home afterwards, like sensible boys

and girls, but I stayed on . . . and on . . . and on . . .” He threw

back his head and laughed.

I gazed at him uncertainly. “You dropped out of university to

become a . . . a jester?”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

45

“I ran away with the circus,” he acknowledged cheerfully. “And

I’ve never regretted it. Fantasy feeds my soul. A university degree

would have been wasted on me.”

“Don’t let my sons hear you say that,” I said urgently. “I want them

to stay in school.”

“My lips are sealed,” said Jinks, drawing a finger across his lips.

“How, may I ask, did a Chicago girl end up living in England?”

Since I had no desire to discuss Aunt Dimity with him or any

other stranger, I said only, “A friend left the cottage to me in her will,

and my husband and I thought it would be a good place to raise our

children.”

“How many children do you have?” he inquired politely.

“I have two six-year-old boys,” I replied. “They’re twins.”

Jinks placed his folded hands on the table and said gravely, “If

I promise not to ruin their university careers, will you promise to

bring them to the fair?”

“I couldn’t keep them away if I tried,” I said, laughing at his somber

expression. “They’ve spent the past month on horse back, spearing

little plastic rings with wooden poles. They wanted to spear other

riders, too—purely for the sake of research, you understand—but

their riding instructor wouldn’t allow it.”

“Spoilsport,” Jinks scoffed. “Every boy should be allowed to

behave like a barbarian once in a while.”

“And you have the scars to prove it,” I said dryly.

He fell back in his chair, gasping, and clasped his hands to his

breast, as if I’d stabbed him.

“Touché,” he croaked.

I chuckled appreciatively, then asked, “What brought you back

to England?”

“Cal,” he replied, straightening. “When he revealed his grand

plan to create a Ren fest on the other side of the pond, I asked if I

could tag along. Ten years of listening to Americans speak in dreadful, faux-English accents made me long to hear the real thing again.

No offense.”

46 Nancy Atherton

“None taken,” I said. “Faux-English accents set my teeth on

edge, too. Are all of the fair’s performers from America?”

“No, indeed,” he said. “Our new cast is exclusively from the

UK. Cal spent the last six months in England, Scotland, and Wales,

recruiting street performers, reenactors, artisans, artists, and food

vendors. He’s quite a good pitchman, you know.”

“I do know,” I said, nodding. “My neighbors are a tough audience,

but he won them over without working up a sweat.”

“Kings do not sweat, Lori,” Jinks intoned pompously. “Kings

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

three hours.” He closed the cargo door, climbed into the driver’s

seat, and pulled out of the driveway, bellowing, “Onward, knights of

the realm! Your steeds await!”

I ran to the mouth of the drive and waved to them, feeling like a

damsel left behind to dust the castle while her men galloped off on

a crusade. When the Rover vanished around the first curve, I returned to the kitchen to wash the breakfast dishes, then wandered

54 Nancy Atherton

into the back garden to peer longingly in the direction of Bishop’s

Wood.

The air was filled with the familiar sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves, but silence reigned on the other side of the stile. Unlike

my sons—and, to be honest, myself—Jinks recognized the virtues

of sleeping past dawn.

The builders were awake, though. As I turned toward the cottage, the faint buzz of a solitary handsaw drifted to me on the morning breeze. Someone, it seemed, was finishing a last-minute project

at the fair. I wondered if he was working on the three-tiered, moated

castle or the gigantic fi re-breathing dragon, told myself I’d fi nd out

soon, and went into the cottage, tingling with anticipation.

You must be very proud of yourself, Lori.

I smiled down at the blue journal. I’d decided to spend a few

minutes in the study before leaving for the fair, and Aunt Dimity’s

praise made me feel as though I’d made the right choice.

You’ve exercised an unprecedented amount of self-restraint over the past

month, my dear. The old Lori would have clambered to the top of Pouter’s

Hill twice a day with a pair of high-powered binoculars to monitor the

building site in Bishop’s Wood, but the new Lori has successfully quelled her

curiosity.

“Yes, she has,” I said, preening.

You’ve also resisted the urge to peer over the stile at your interesting new

neighbor.

“I’m not a Peeping Tom,” I protested.

Of course you’re not. You are, however, a trained and talented member

of the Finch Busybody Society. As such, I would have expected you to keep

abreast of Mr. Jinks’s activities. You have, however, defi ed my expectations.

“Thank you,” I said.

Finally, while the old Lori would have worn her medieval finery without

pausing to consider the consequences, the new Lori refuses to behave impul-

sively.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

55

I glanced down at my sandals and my apple-green summer

frock and felt a distinct twinge of regret for the costume I’d left

hanging in my wardrobe. I’d tried it on a dozen times, after Sally

had given me instructions on how to wear it. The long-sleeved cotton chemise came first, then the underskirt, the overskirt, and the

apron, after which I would lace myself into the tight-fitting bodice,

wrap the leather belt around my hips, and pull the f loppy muffin cap onto my head at a becoming angle. A pair of knee-high

white socks and brown suede flats completed the ensemble. I’d

practiced the routine so often that I could don my garb in less than

fifteen minutes, but I hadn’t shown the end result to Bill yet. Like

the twins, I wanted to wait until I was in the proper setting to reveal my new look.

“I’m not ecstatic about going to the fair dressed as myself,” I

admitted. “I love my peasant clothes.”

The colors Sally had chosen were fairly dull—the chemise and

the apron were off-white, the underskirt was hunter-green, the overskirt was rust-colored, and the bodice was a dusty blue—but the

costume she’d created wasn’t exactly boring. Although the full

skirts were long enough to hide my ankles, the bodice gave me a

shape I hadn’t had since the twins had started eating solid foods,

and the chemise’s neckline was so low that I’d discovered brandnew places to put sunblock. I wasn’t sure how Bill would react to

seeing so much of his wife on display, but I thought I looked rather

fetching.

I admire your determination, Lori. While I’d been daydreaming,

Aunt Dimity’s handwriting had continued to scroll across the page.

It may be vexing to postpone the pleasure of wearing your period attire until

you know more about the fair, but your decision to do so is indisputably

sensible. I can say without reservation that your cautious, levelheaded ap-

proach to the matter is one I would expect from Emma Harris.

“Really?” I said, delighted.

Really and truly.

“You’ve made my day, Dimity.” I looked at the mantelshelf clock

56 Nancy Atherton

and smiled. “I’d better be going. I don’t want to miss the grand

opening.”

Have a wonderful time, my dear.

“I intend to,” I said.

I closed the journal, returned it to its shelf, and curtsyed to

Reginald. Then I scurried into the hallway, called a hasty good-bye

to Stanley, and grabbed my shoulder bag as I dashed past the hat

rack. I climbed into the Mini at precisely nine-fi fteen. Although it

would take me no more than ten minutes to drive to Bishop’s

Wood, I didn’t think it would hurt to get there early. Apart from

that, I was fed up to the back teeth with waiting.

Unfortunately, I had to wait a little longer than usual to back

out of the driveway, because I was held up by a string of cars cruising along my lane. Most were driven by neighbors, who waved as

they drove past, but at least a dozen were driven by sunburned

strangers with screaming children in the backseats and loud music

on the radios. Since my lane wasn’t even included on most road

maps, I was surprised to see so many unfamiliar drivers using it.

Perhaps Mr. Barlow had been right, I told myself. Perhaps the fair

would cause traffic problems in the village. I experienced a moment’s concern, then began to laugh.

“You’ve lived in the country for too long, Lori Shepherd,” I said

to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Six cars do not constitute

a traffic jam.”

I shook my head at my own foolishness, backed cautiously into

the lane, and gave the Mini a little extra gas. I didn’t want to be the

last one to arrive at the fair.

My cheerfulness increased tenfold when I saw the sign on the Oxford Road marking the turnoff to the fair. The billboard was ten

feet tall and at least twelve feet wide, and its bright red Gothic lettering was bracketed by delightfully lurid paintings of a fearsome

black dragon and a rearing unicorn.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

57

KING WILFRED’S FAIRE

Open: Sat & Sun

July & August

10 am–5 pm

www.kingwilfredsfaire.com

I smiled at the Web site address, knowing that Calvin Malvern

would take particular pride in adding his Ren fest to the list of

those that had inspired his dream, but the lurid paintings turned

my smile into a broad grin. I felt as if I were being rewarded for my

patience, as if the ferocious dragon and the noble unicorn were

mere hints of still more splendid surprises to come.

I followed the arrow directing me onto a newly graded dirt

road to my left and drove along it until a spiky-haired young woman

in disappointingly modern blue jeans and a boring white T-shirt

waved me into the pasture that had become a parking lot. When I

saw the number of cars that were already parked there, I wished I’d

left the cottage earlier.

I was in such a hurry to catch up with the rest of the fairgoers

that I almost forgot to lock the Mini. I never locked it when I was at

home or in Finch, but the sight of unfamiliar cars on my lane served

as a salutary reminder that I was no longer surrounded by people I

knew and trusted.

I could see from the car park that Bishop’s Wood had been enclosed by a ten-foot-tall wooden security fence intended, no doubt,

to keep freeloaders at bay. The most dramatic piece of construction

wasn’t apparent until I’d joined the hundred or so onlookers who

were waiting for the fair to begin. Calvin Malvern’s builders hadn’t

created a moated castle or a fire-breathing dragon, but they’d done

a marvelous job of recreating a grand, medieval gate house.

58 Nancy Atherton

The imposing structure was hung with colorful banners, surmounted by a crenellated walkway, and flanked by two square,

battlemented towers that were at least thirty feet tall. A small door

halfway up each tower gave access to the walkway, and fl ags flying

from the tops of the towers suggested that their roofs were accessible through trapdoors. The gate house was pierced at ground level

by three wide, round-headed wooden doors placed side by side

beneath a large gilded wooden sign whose red and blue Gothic lettering spelled out the words: mayne entrance.

I suspected that the gate house had been constructed out of plywood

and plaster, but the surfaces had been skillfully shaped and painted to

resemble rough-hewn stone, and each door looked as if it were made of

solid oak. The smell of fresh paint and sawdust lingered in the air, testifying to how recently the building work had been completed.

Although the three “Mayne Entrance” doors were still firmly

shut, the entertainment had already begun. A juggler, a lute player,

and a woman with a large snake draped across her shoulders stood

on the gravel apron before the gate house. Each was suitably attired

in period clothing and each kept up a steady patter of witty repartee

that caused the onlookers to erupt in repeated explosions of laughter.

I was gazing at the snake and thinking of how much Rob and Will

would enjoy petting it when Lilian Bunting appeared at my elbow.

“Isn’t it exciting?” she asked, her gray eyes shining.

“So far, so good,” I replied. “Calvin must have mounted a strong

publicity campaign. I didn’t expect to see so many people here on

opening day.”

“Did you notice the extra motorcars on your lane this morning?” said Lilian.

“It was hard not to,” I said. “I’m not used to looking both ways

before I back out of my driveway.”

“You’ll have to get used to it,” said Lilian. “I’ve no doubt that

day-trippers will use your lane as a shortcut. Apart from that,

several performers are staying in the village, so they’ll be passing

your cottage on their way to work on weekends.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

59

“When did performers move into the village?” I asked, surprised.

“Yesterday,” said Lilian. “Sally has a wizard in her spare room, the

Peacocks have a magician and two jugglers in the rooms over the pub,

and the new people in Crabtree Cottage are playing host to a mime.”

“If you ask me, Grant and Charles made the best choice,” I said.

“A mime would be an ideal houseguest. You’d hardly know he was

there.”

“True.” Lilian paused to watch the juggler take bites out of the

apples he was juggling, then added wistfully, “There are times

when I wish I’d married a milkman instead of a vicar. I don’t know

how I’ll be able to concentrate on Teddy’s sermons tomorrow,

knowing what I’ll be missing here. I’m afraid we may see a decline

in church attendance this summer, which will mean a corresponding decline in the offerings on the collection plate.”

“Maybe King Wilfred’s donation to the church roof fund will

make up for it,” I said.

“One can only hope. Have you bought your ticket yet?” she asked,

and when I shook my head, she pointed to a counter built into a windowlike opening in the security fence to the left of the gate house.

“The ticket booth,” she explained.

I thanked her and hastened over to pay my entry fee to a buxom

girl wearing a costume not unlike the one I’d left at the cottage.

“Well come, my lady,” she said. “Have you traveled far this fine

morning?”

“I live just around the corner,” I told her.

“May all of your journeys be short and free from care.” She

handed over my change and what appeared to be an advertising

leaflet. She nodded at the leaflet and explained, “A program book

with a map of the grounds, my lady, for those who wish to know

where they are and where they have been and where they may be

going. If you’d rather not know, you may tuck it into your pouch”—

she indicated my shoulder bag—“and banish it from your thoughts.”

“Thanks,” I said, and as I turned away from the ticket booth, I

slipped the program book into my bag along with my change.

60 Nancy Atherton

By the time I rejoined Lilian Bunting, a knot of neighbors had gathered around her. As Bill had forewarned, they were wearing ordinary,

everyday clothing, but the looks on their faces suggested that the next

time they attended the fair, they’d be dressed less conservatively.

“Do you have a costume in mind?” I asked Lilian.

“I have one hanging in my wardrobe,” she replied. “I’m to be an

abbess. I want to pay tribute to the intelligent, powerful women of

the Middle Ages. And you?”

“A peasant,” I said. “I’m paying tribute to Sally Pyne for fitting

me into her overbooked sewing schedule.”

“I believe peasant women are known as wenches at the fair,”

said Lilian. “Isn’t it delightful? I’ve tried to convince Teddy to come

as a monk, but he won’t cooperate.”

“Bill’s the same way,” I said, and we sighed in unison.

A blare of trumpets interrupted our sighs and silenced the chattering mob, which had grown considerably since I’d arrived. The

three entertainers—four, counting the snake—promptly withdrew

through the three doors and a hundred faces turned upward as King

Wilfred’s heralds appeared atop the east tower, proving to my satisfaction that there was, indeed, a way to reach the tower’s roof.

The heralds wore the same red tabards they’d worn to the May

meeting, and they blew the same fanfare. I wondered briefly if it

was the only tune they knew, but my attention was diverted to the

top of the west tower, where Jinks stood, clad in his jester costume

and mimicking the heralds, though he played his imaginary trumpet

as if he were a crazed jazz musician. He snapped to attention as the

heralds lowered their horns.

“Attend, good people!” they shouted. “Lord Belvedere, the

king’s steward, approaches!”

A gray-bearded man in a gold-trimmed, emerald-green velvet

doublet and dark blue pantaloons emerged from the small door in

the west tower and walked to the center of the crenellated walkway, accompanied by six equally well-dressed courtiers, who arranged themselves in various poses behind him.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

61

Jinks, standing well above them and therefore out of their sight,

proceeded to imitate the movement and posture of each in a way

that was both remarkably accurate and unmistakably ridiculous.

Although they must have heard the jingling of his belled cap, they

acted as though he weren’t there, which made his mimicry even

funnier.

“I bid you good morrow, gentles,” said Lord Belvedere, raising

his voice to be heard above the crowd’s tittering. “I, Lord Belvedere, thank you on behalf of our beloved monarch, King Wilfred

the Good, for gracing us with your presence today. Within you will

find marvels and amusements such as you have never seen before, as

well as bounteous food and drink fit for a king—or a queen!”

A few women let out hoots of approval and everyone else

laughed.

“At two of the clock,” Lord Belvedere continued, “a tournament

of arms will be held in His Majesty’s joust arena. Hearken to my

words, I pray you, as I present the puissant warriors who will face the

perils of mounted combat. Pray bid a hearty well come to . . .”—he

turned to his left and fl ung an arm toward the small door in the east

tower—“Sir Peregrine the Pure!”

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a handsome, clean-shaven

face and shoulder-length white-blond hair strode onto the walkway.

He was clad in a chain-mail shirt and a breastplate, he carried a

shield on his left arm, and his right hand rested on the hilt of his

sword. His breastplate gleamed in the morning sun and his shield

bore the image of a rearing unicorn. As he struck a manly pose

beside Lord Belvedere, Jinks broke into loud hurrahs, which were

instantly reinforced by cheers from the crowd. Sir Peregrine acknowledged the acclamation with a sequence of suave nods.

Lord Belvedere waited until the cheering began to flag, then

flung his arm toward the west tower. “I give you . . . Sir Jacques de

Poitiers, the Dragon Knight!”

A short, stocky man with coal-black eyes, long, dark hair, a thin

mustache, and a pointed goatee stepped out of the tower’s shadowy

62 Nancy Atherton

doorway and onto the walkway. His breastplate was pewter-colored,

and his shield featured a fearsome black dragon. As he strode to his

place opposite Sir Peregrine, Jinks emitted a loud boo, which was

echoed with great enthusiasm by the crowd. Sir Jacques snarled,

shook his fist, and eyed the fairgoers pugnaciously, which only made

them boo louder.

“At two of the clock,” Lord Belvedere reiterated, “these gallant

knights will face each other in the joust arena. Will Sir Peregrine

prevail? Or will the Dragon Knight conquer? Come to the arena to

cheer on your champion!”

The knights bowed—Sir Peregrine with an elegant swoop, Sir

Jacques with a brusque jerk—and exited the walkway to the mingled

boos and cheers of the crowd. The heralds raised their trumpets to

blow another fanfare—which sounded very similar to the one they’d

blown already—then bawled a familiar refrain from the top of their

tower.

“Arise, gentle folk! Hence cometh our excellent and most gracious ruler, the lord of laughter and the monarch of mirth, His

Majesty, King Wilfred the Good!”

“Bow in the presence of the king, you scurvy curs,” Jinks bellowed down at us, but as soon as a few people followed his order,

he held up an admonitory finger and said fussily, “Tsk tsk—Simon

didn’t say!”

A rumble of laughter rolled through the crowd as Calvin Malvern,

wearing his gem-encrusted crown, his plum-colored surcoat, and

the rest of his King Wilfred regalia, strode to the center of the crenellated walkway. Lord Belvedere and his retinue bowed deferentially,

then formed a half circle behind the king, but Jinks dropped all the

way to his knees and groveled pathetically, eliciting still more laughter from his audience.

“We bid you well come, gentle folk,” said King Wilfred, beaming down at us benevolently. “And we hope you will find pleasure

in every moment you spend at our great fair.”

Jinks had risen to his feet and was now lip-synching the king’s

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

63

speech while mimicking with exaggerated pomposity the king’s

facial expressions and gestures. The crowd tried to pay respectful

attention to King Wilfred, but individual giggles kept breaking

through.

“While you rove the lanes, passages, and alleyways of our fair,”

the king continued, as if unaware of his jester’s existence, “we command you to be merry. Let sorrow and toil be forgot! Eat, drink,

sing, and dance to your heart’s content. Above all, laugh, and with

laughter drive back the tides of darkness and woe. We, your sovereign monarch, declare this day to be . . .”

As King Wilfred placed his beringed hands on the parapet and

leaned forward to emphasize his words, several things happened in

quick succession. The section of parapet upon which he was leaning

broke away from the wall and fell to the ground with a crash of

splintering two-by-fours and shattering plaster. A cloud of plaster

dust billowed into the air.

And the king lost his balance.

Seven

I cried out in alarm as the king fought to keep himself upright. His arms windmilled wildly, his crown slipped sideways on his head, and for one heart-stopping moment it

seemed certain that he would fall through the ragged gap in the wall

and plummet headfirst to the ground. He was within a scant hairsbreadth of losing his battle with gravity when Lord Belvedere leaped

forward, seized him by the collar of his plum-colored surcoat, and

hauled him backward into the courtiers’ outstretched arms.

The crowd emitted a collective moan of relief, and Lilian and I

leaned limply against each other, our hands to our breasts. A few

people began to applaud, but I couldn’t tell whether they were saluting the king’s survival or showing their appreciation for what

they perceived to be a marvelous stunt. King Wilfred certainly

behaved as though the incident had been arranged for our amusement. He allowed his courtiers to set him on his feet, smooth his

rumpled garments, and straighten his crooked crown, then stepped

forward and planted his hands on his hips.

“If we weren’t a merry monarch,” he roared, “heads would roll!”

I chuckled along with everyone else and the tension in the air

dissipated, but I couldn’t help noticing that Lord Belvedere looked

as rattled as I felt. While Jinks led the crowd in three rousing

cheers for Good King Wilfred, Lord Belvedere muttered something to a brawny courtier. The courtier nodded and quickly exited

the walkway through the east tower.

Lord Belvedere then stepped forward and said, “If I may address

your subjects, Your Majesty?”

“But of course,” said King Wilfred, and stepped aside.

“Lord, ladies, and gentles all,” said Lord Belvedere. “Be assured

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

65

that no harm will befall you as you enter our great fair. I bid you

use the side entrances”—he gestured to the right-and left-hand

doors in the gatehouse—“until His Majesty’s minions clear away

all sign of our ill-fortuned incident. Your Majesty . . .” he concluded, and bowed the king to the center of the walkway.

“The time draws nigh, gentles.” King Wilfred looked up, as if

he were judging the hour by the position of the sun, and raised a

pudgy hand. When he let it fall, a cannon blast rent the air, making

Lilian and me jump.

“Let the revels begin!” shouted King Wilfred.

The heralds blew another fanfare as the king and his court exited

the walkway through the east tower. Tantalizing strains of lilting

music floated over the walls as the milling throng followed Lord

Belvedere’s advice and formed two more or less orderly lines. A moment later, two of the main entrance doors opened, a pair of costumed ticket takers appeared, and the lines began to move through

the gate house and into the fairground.

“Are cannon medieval?” I asked Lilian, as we took our place in

the left-hand line.

“They certainly are,” she replied. “Cannon have been used in Europe since the mid-fourteenth century. Frankly, I think we could

have done without one this morning. The plunging parapet was quite

enough drama to be going on with.” She scanned the gate house apprehensively. “Do you think the rest of the structure is sound? Perhaps we should have worn hard hats, to protect our heads from

loose bits of wall.”

“A knight’s helmet would be more suitable than a hard hat,” I

pointed out. “But I wouldn’t worry about the rest of the wall coming

apart. King Wilfred isn’t leaning on it at the moment.”

“I take your point,” Lilian conceded. “Calvin is a portly young

man. I suppose it was asking too much to expect a mere set decoration to support his weight. I do hope he won’t lean on it tomorrow.”

“I suspect that Lord Belvedere will advise him to avoid leaning

on anything from now on,” I said.

66 Nancy Atherton

The center door swung open and a lanky, dark-haired young man

emerged from the gate house. He was in his early twenties, dressed in

faded blue jeans, a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and work boots, and he

was pushing a wheelbarrow. He parked the wheelbarrow next to the

biggest pile of debris, stood back, and peered upward at the spot

where King Wilfred had so recently teetered. The young man

scowled, then bent to his work, tossing chunks of plaster and pieces

of broken wood into the barrow with such force that he reduced

most of the plaster chunks to powder.

“Someone didn’t get the memo about dressing in period garb,” I

murmured to Lilian.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured back. “Those blue jeans look

as if they could be a few hundred years old. As will his tools, if he

doesn’t take better care of them.”

I glanced over and saw the handle of a broom protruding from

the wheelbarrow, along with a crowbar, a shovel, a small sledgehammer, and a handsaw. The sight of the handsaw stirred a memory

in the back of my mind, but it wasn’t until Lilian and I had almost

reached our ticket taker that the memory clicked into place.

“A saw,” I whispered, and came to a standstill as the recollection triggered an avalanche of unsettling thoughts.

Only a few hours before Calvin Malvern’s near-fatal accident, I’d

stood in my back garden and heard the rhythmic buzz of a handsaw

drift toward me on the morning breeze. The sound had come from

the direction of Bishop’s Wood. I’d assumed at the time that someone was finishing a last-minute project at the fair, but what if I’d been

wrong? What if someone had instead been engaged in a last-minute

piece of sabotage?

Startled, I swung around to stare at the young man. He was still

scowling, still flinging debris into the wheelbarrow. Was he angry

because the parapet had fallen, I wondered, or because Calvin

Malvern hadn’t fallen with it?

“Lori,” Lilian called. “You’re holding up the queue.”

“What?” I blinked stupidly for a moment before I remembered

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

67

where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, then scurried

forward, handed my ticket to a full-fi gured young woman in peasant garb, and followed Lilian Bunting through the gate house.

“Are you all right, Lori?” Lilian asked, pulling me away from

the stream of fairgoers pouring through the entrance. “You seem

distracted.”

“I’m fine,” I said, glancing uneasily over my shoulder.

“Good.” Lilian consulted her program book. “I’m going to find my

way to something called the Farthing Stage. According to the schedule, Merlot the Magnificent will perform his magic show there at half

past ten. I’m exceedingly fond of magicians. Will you join me?” ’

“I’d rather explore,” I said. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other

again before the day is through.”

“I’m sure we will,” Lilian agreed. “I’ll see you later, then.”

As soon as she left my side, I turned to examine the gate house.

When I spotted a small door at the base of the west tower, I started

toward it. I intended to climb up to the walkway and take a closer

look at the broken parapet, to see if I could detect any sign of tampering, but as I approached the door, it swung open and a familiar

figure stepped into the sunlight, his belled cap jingling merrily.

“Hullo, neighbor.” Jinks closed the door behind him, locked it,

and tossed the key to the nearest ticket taker, who tucked it into

her ample cleavage. Then he faced me, smiling broadly. “Have you

been waiting for me? I’ve been hurling abuse at unsuspecting patrons, to help them pass the time while they’re queuing up. I love

my job!”

I smiled weakly and Jinks peered at me more closely.

“You weren’t waiting for me,” he said flatly, reading my expression. “You weren’t thinking of leaving, were you? You’ve only just

arrived.”

“I’m not leaving,” I assured him. “I, uh, thought I’d go up to the

top of the tower and, um, check out the view.”

“Sorry,” he said, cocking his head toward the door. “Cast members

only, for insurance reasons. Until the damage is repaired, we won’t be

68 Nancy Atherton

allowed up there, either.” He pursed his lips and regarded me quizzically. “Why on earth would you want to see a view of your own familiar

countryside when you have Gate house Square to look at?”

“Gate house Square?” I echoed, perplexed.

“Lori,” Jinks said gently. “Turn around.”

I turned away from the gate house and felt my jaw drop as tumbling waves of sound, color, and scent slammed into me. It was as if

sensory dials in my brain had suddenly been turned to full blast. I

nearly reeled from the impact.

The gate house opened onto a large square bordered by roofed

shop stalls made of rustic wood and hung with gaily colored banners

that fluttered prettily in the breeze. A team of Morris dancers

hopped and stomped in the center of the square while a frisky

hobby horse patrolled its borders and a fiddler played a jaunty tune.

A cluster of bright-eyed children gazed in wonder at a wizard who

seemed to be making coins appear out of thin air, and chuckling

adults steered a wide path around a juggler armed with water balloons. Costumed vendors shouted out descriptions of their wares,

which ranged from ornate blown-glass ornaments to souvenir T-shirts,

and clouds of incense wafted from burners placed at the curtained

entrance to what appeared to be a fortune-teller’s booth.

“Wow,” I said faintly.

“You seem surprised,” said Jinks. “Did you somehow fail to notice that you’d entered Gate house Square?”

“My mind was on other things,” I confessed. “The accident startled me.”

Jinks’s green eyes narrowed shrewdly. “And in a rush of civicmindedness, you decided to inspect the rest of the gate house, to

make sure it’s safe.”

I confirmed his guess by blushing furiously and looking down at

my sandaled feet.

He smiled. “It’s perfectly safe, I promise you. Lord Belvedere

wouldn’t have allowed us to open the doors if he’d thought the public

was in danger. The bit that fell off was finished in a rush this morn-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

69

ing, by someone who must not have known what he was doing. Once

Edmond repairs it, it’ll be strong enough for Cal to dance on it.”

“Who’s Edmond?” I asked.

“Edmond Deland, the royal dogsbody,” Jinks replied, and when

I continued to look blank, he explained, “The surly chap with the

wheelbarrow. A minion if there ever was one.”

“Oh, him. ” I glanced at the gate house. “What’s his problem?”

“Backstage intrigue,” Jinks said, waggling his eyebrows. “Fear

not. All shall be revealed when you and I have time to talk. Perhaps

I’ll pop over the stile tonight and fi ll you in.” He touched my arm.

“I’m sorry you were frightened.”

“I overreacted,” I said sheepishly. “I’m okay now.”

“How could you be otherwise? You’re at King Wilfred’s Faire!”

Jinks executed a low bow. “Pray excuse me, my lady. I must away to

join my king. May the rest of your day be filled with boundless merriment!” He shook his cap at me and jogged off across the square,

pausing to walk on his hands as he passed the bright-eyed children.

I watched him go, then ducked my head and groaned. I couldn’t

believe that I’d slipped back into my old habits so easily. Anyone

with a particle of common sense would have blamed King Wilfred’s accident on shabby workmanship, but I’d taken my usual

detour around rational thought and driven smack-dab into an absurd assassination plot. If Jinks hadn’t intercepted me, I would have

spent half the morning crawling through plaster dust instead of savoring the sights and sounds of the fair. I was thoroughly ashamed

of myself for letting my imagination run amok yet again.

“It stops here,” I muttered determinedly, and pushed all thoughts

of sabotage from my mind.

For the next three hours I gave myself up to the fair’s enchantments, exploring the grassy lanes that ran outward from Gate house

Square. When I saw a neighbor approaching, I gave a friendly wave,

but quickly walked the other way. I wanted to be surrounded by

unfamiliar faces, for a change, and overhear gossip I didn’t already

know by heart.

70 Nancy Atherton

The lanes were lined with shop stalls, which gave the fair the

air of a vibrant village. Some of the stalls were no bigger than closets, but others were split-level affairs as large as my living room.

All of them had awnings or small roofs jutting over the lanes, presumably to shelter fairgoers from the inevitable summer showers.

The vendors wore costumes made of cotton and linen rather than

velvet and satin, and they spoke a semimedieval patois that was occasionally difficult to understand, but always entertaining.

The lanes wound through the woods and crisscrossed one another unpredictably to form a delightful maze that guaranteed surprises around every bend. I would have willingly lost myself in the

labyrinth, but the fair’s layout was more orderly than it seemed: All

of the side alleys eventually took me back to Broad Street, a wide

thoroughfare that formed the fair’s main boulevard, where larger and

more elaborate stalls could be found.

Strolling performers popped up everywhere I turned. I encountered the juggler and the lute player I’d seen outside the gate house

as well as a pair of singing pickpockets, a troupe of belly dancers, a

flock of winged fairies, miscellaneous beggars—who whined and

groveled amusingly until coins were flung at them—and a stilt walker

dressed as a tree, who’d clearly taken his inspiration from the ents,

J. R. R. Tolkien’s imaginary shepherds of the forest.

Other acts performed on small, open-air stages before audiences

seated on long wooden benches. Penny Lane ended at the Farthing

Stage, where Merlot the Magnificent performed dazzling feats of

legerdemain five times a day. Harmony Lane led to the Minstrels’

Stage, which featured singers, musicians, and dancers, and Ludlow

Lane led to the Shire Stage, where acrobats, jugglers, and comic

acts held sway. The modest petting zoo was very near the Shire

Stage, and the animals’ varied grunts, squawks, and aromas prompted

predictably earthy but nonetheless amusing improvisations from the

nimble-witted performers.

The Great Hall turned out to be yet another stage, but the entertainers who performed there didn’t sing, dance, juggle, or tell jokes.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

71

Its gilded sign proclaimed that it was used exclusively by King Wilfred during royal ceremonies, such as weddings and the conferring of knighthoods. Its main feature was a red-carpeted dais upon

which sat a magnificent gilded throne.

Pudding Lane was populated by food vendors selling savory

meat pies, sausage rolls, chips, fruit tarts, chocolates, honey cakes,

and other goodies, as well as cider, ale, herbal teas, and the usual

soft drinks. I sampled a honey cake, found it delicious, and immediately asked for the recipe, but the vendor informed me regretfully

that it was the king’s privilege to hand out recipes, not hers.

Pudding Lane petered out, appropriately, at a large picnic area

on a gently sloping hillside overlooking the oval joust arena and

the adjacent archery range. A simple two-bar fence encircled the

arena, and a giant white marquee stood at its western end, opposite Pudding Lane. I could see the twins’ ponies grazing with other

horses in the pasture beyond the marquee, but there was no sign

of activity in the arena. I assumed that the knights were taking

their ease in the big white tent while my sons and the rest of Emma’s junior gymkhana team polished armor, fluffed plumes, and

cleaned tack.

The archery range was bustling. A dozen William Tell wannabes stood on the firing line, drawing bowstrings and letting arrows fly at bull’s-eye targets mounted on hay bales. It looked like

an enjoyable challenge, but I was too excited to stay in one place

for more than a few minutes, so I strode back down Pudding Lane

and continued to explore.

At various stalls throughout the grounds, potters, spinners, weavers, wood carvers, metalsmiths, leatherworkers, and other artisans

demonstrated their crafts. After watching a potter turn a glob of

sticky clay into a graceful goblet, I decided that the fair would be a

wonderful educational opportunity for Will and Rob. I had no doubt

that my sons would be as fascinated as I was to watch raw materials

transformed by hand into useful and beautiful objects.

If I’d wanted to weigh myself down, I would have shopped till

72 Nancy Atherton

I dropped, but since I’d brought a shoulder bag instead of a day

pack, I merely ambled from one stall to the next, making mental

lists of the Christmas and birthday presents to be purchased when I

was better prepared to carry them. The choices seemed endless:

soaps, lotions, perfumes, pottery, jewelry, swords, staffs, leather

tankards, hooded capes, woven throws.

When I stumbled upon a stall filled with tiny costumes, I realized that I wasn’t alone in wanting to dress a cherished childhood

companion in a crown and an ermine-trimmed robe. A short conversation with the vendor confirmed my guess that I was surrounded by people who would smile benignly upon my relationship

with Reginald. It was a comforting thought, but I’d absorbed so

many thoughts by then that I had to retreat to a quiet alleyway, to

give my overloaded brain a chance to settle down.

The alleyway didn’t remain quiet for long. As I stood smiling

vaguely at a marvelous display of crystal balls, five young women

spilled out of a stall fi lled with bronze dragons and took up a position a few yards away from me. They appeared to be in their early

twenties, and each was dressed in what a vendor had described to

me as the standard wench uniform—laced bodice, peasant blouse,

and flowing skirts. They’d set themselves apart from the standard

wenches, however, by wearing flowered circlets on their heads, with

curled ribbons trailing down their backs.

The smallest member of the group, a pretty young woman with

hazel eyes and long brown hair, placed an empty basket on the

ground before her, then straightened. She hummed a note, the others harmonized, and the group began to sing a madrigal. I listened,

entranced, as their sweet, pure voices wove in and out of the intricate song, and when they finished, I was the first to step forward

and drop a handful of coins into their basket.

I wasn’t the only one to witness their performance. As I turned

away from the basket, I caught a fl icker of movement from the corner of my eye. Glancing toward it, I spied Edmond Deland lurking in

a narrow gap between two stalls. I pretended not to notice him, but

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

73

when I returned to my vantage point near the crystal balls, I shifted

my position slightly so that I could keep an eye on him.

The surly young handyman kept to the shadows, as if he didn’t

wish to be seen, and gazed fixedly at the tiniest madrigal singer.

When she led the group into the next madrigal with a solo introduction, his chest heaved and his expression softened, as if the

sound of her voice had pierced his heart. It took no imagination

whatsoever to see that he had feelings for her.

The distant sound of trumpets pulled Edmond from his pleasant reverie and put the scowl back on his face. The girl, by contrast, lit up like a Christmas tree and peered eagerly toward Broad

Street. The other madrigal singers exchanged knowing glances

and, after retrieving their basket from the ground, began to move

en masse toward the main boulevard, singing as they went. A knot

of appreciative listeners followed them, but Edmond frowned angrily, spun on his heel, and disappeared behind the stalls.

“What’s happening?” I asked the woman in the crystal-ball stall.

“ ’Tis one of the clock,” she replied. “The king’s pro cession cometh

forthwith.”

“Where does it, um, cometh?” I asked awkwardly.

She smiled. “If you make your way to Broad Street right quick,

my lady, the pro cession will pass before your very eyes.”

“Thanks.” I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t be allowed to return home if I missed Will and Rob riding in the king’s pro cession,

but I couldn’t stop myself from asking one more question. “Do you

know the name of the lead madrigal singer?”

“Mirabel,” she replied. “Little Mirabel. She has the voice of an

angel, does she not?”

“She does,” I said, and hurried to catch up with the singers.

They’d stopped at the edge of Broad Street, and I elbowed my way

through the jostling crowd to stand beside them. The taller girls

had formed a protective pocket behind Mirabel and regarded her

with tolerant amusement as she craned her neck and stood on tiptoe to watch for the oncoming pro cession.

74 Nancy Atherton

I studied her with frank curiosity. She looked like a besotted

groupie waiting for a rock star to appear. Was she anxious to see

the king’s pro cession, I wondered, or was she longing for a glimpse

of the king himself? Could it be that little Mirabel was, for reasons

beyond my understanding, infatuated with her king?

It was hard to picture Calvin Malvern as a Don Juan, but Jinks

had told me that people’s personalities changed when they took on

roles at a Ren fest. As King Wilfred, Calvin might very well enjoy a

spot of dalliance with a humble but adoring young maiden. He might

even attempt to exercise his droit du seigneur. As far as I could tell,

King Wilfred had no queen, so there was nothing to keep him from

making a royal pass at every pretty girl who crossed his path.

Or was there?

Though the sun was warm, a chill crept down my spine. Edmond’s furious scowl flashed before my mind’s eye, followed by the

stark image of a handsaw protruding from a wheelbarrow.

“Regicide,” I whispered.

Eight

T he sun seemed to darken and the crowd seemed to recede

into the background as I recalled how easily the parapet

had given way and how close Calvin Malvern had come to

losing his balance and, perhaps, his life. There was no denying that

Edmond Deland had the tools and the skills needed to make such

an accident happen. If Mirabel had spurned his love and bestowed

hers on the king, he would also have had a motive.

“Slow down,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t get ahead of

yourself, Lori. You don’t know anything yet.”

An earsplitting blare of trumpets interrupted my uneasy meditations. I winced, glanced around, and saw the king’s heralds striding past me, blowing their usual fanfare and crying, “Make way!

Make way for the king!”

The few stragglers still crossing Broad Street scuttled to the

sidelines to avoid being trampled by what turned out to be a formidable pro cession. The heralds were followed by a collection of entertainers who strutted, danced, banged tambourines, twirled ribbons

on wands, and exchanged good-humored badinage with the onlookers lining the route. People cheered for their favorites as they passed

by. Some showed their appreciation by tossing coins, which were

expertly caught, though not always by those at whom they’d been

aimed.

A phalanx of bearded men dressed in studded leather jerkins

came next. Each bore a longbow, a spear, a poleax, or a halberd.

The weapons looked deadly enough to be used in battle, but the

men who carried them were too soft in the belly and smiled too

genially to be mistaken for hardened warriors.

The soldiers were followed by a gap in which Jinks performed a

76 Nancy Atherton

breathtaking sequence of acrobatic maneuvers. As he sailed by, I

remembered his offer to pop over the stile for a visit after he’d finished his day’s work. I hoped he would make good on his offer. I

had a sudden, urgent need to know everything he could tell me

about the fair’s backstage intrigue.

After Jinks came the moment I’d been waiting for. King Wilfred

and his court strode into view, led by the gray-haired Lord Belvedere, flanked by Sir Peregrine and Sir Jacques, and accompanied by

a dozen noblewomen, all of whom wore lustrous gowns and splendid wimples. My heart ached with envy when I saw the wimples,

but I thrust my feelings aside and concentrated solely on the king.

As the merry monarch approached, he raised a plump hand to

his lips and blew a kiss toward my section of the crowd. I heard

Mirabel’s delighted squeal and turned just in time to see her blush

adorably and sink into a picture-perfect curtsy. The other madrigal

singers giggled and nudged one another approvingly, then the tallest

one, who seemed more mature than the rest, spoke to Mirabel.

“ ’Tis time for us to return to our labors,” she scolded good-naturedly. “Thou hast seen him and thou shalt see him again anon.”

“And anon and anon,” another girl added mischievously.

The girls then edged their way through the crowd, towing a

reluctant Mirabel in their wake. I peered at them pensively until a

pair of piping voices reminded me of my original reason for watching the king’s pro cession.

“Mummy! MUMMY!”

The sight of Will and Rob astride their gray ponies chased all

thoughts of sabotage from my mind. Alison and Billy McLaughlin,

their gymkhana teammates, rode in the pro cession as well, but I

couldn’t take my eyes off of my sons. As Sally Pyne had promised,

they looked like little princes in their gorgeous velvet tunics, and

Thunder and Storm looked equally noble, draped in white and gold

caparisons supplied by Calvin Malvern. When the boys finished waving giddily at me, they resumed the dignifi ed demeanor they’d been

taught to display at horse shows.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

77

The four children rode their ponies at a sedate pace at the rear

of the procession. They were followed by an older rider, also in

costume but riding sidesaddle. She wore a beautiful pair of suede

gloves, an elegant leaf-green gown, and a tall wimple adorned with

the daintiest wisp of silk. I was so busy checking out her garb that I

didn’t realize who she was until she passed directly in front of me.

“Emma?” I said, my voice squeaking with disbelief. “Emma?”

Emma Harris, my levelheaded, unromantic, unimaginative best

friend, turned her wimpled head to grin at me, then raised a gloved

hand and favored me with a regal wave as she followed my sons down

Broad Street on her mare, Pegasus. I was so shocked to see her

decked out in damsel gear that I nearly missed the pro cession’s denouement.

The crowd trailed after the king and his cohorts as they turned

up Pudding Lane toward the joust arena, but one member of the

pro cession 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

78 Nancy Atherton

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

Magnifi cent?”

“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 pro cession? 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 pro cession 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

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

79

festive banners and shaded by a striped canopy whose four stout

wooden posts were wreathed in bright ribbons and fresh fl owers.

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

fi eld.”

“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 pro cess that tournaments were eventually banned.

They were later revived as a form of royal entertainment as well as

80 Nancy Atherton

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 fl ickered 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 house holds, 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.”

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

bloodshed.

When the dust settled, Sir Peregrine stood with his foot on Sir

Jacques’ breastplate and the tip of his sword at Sir Jacques’ neck.

The soldiers froze in place, awaiting the conqueror’s decision.

“Cry mercy,” bellowed Sir Peregrine, “or die.”

“Mercy!” Sir Jacques grunted.

88 Nancy Atherton

Fully half of the spectators groaned with disappointment when

Sir Peregrine released his vanquished foe and turned to bow to the

king, but their spirits revived when the Dragon Knight sprang to

his feet, clouted Sir Peregrine over the head with the hilt of his

sword, and snatched the silken kerchief from the ground to claim

the final victory.

“Cheat to win!” shouted the wenches, and everyone joined in,

with gales of good-natured laughter.

Sir Jacques and his soldiers left the arena in triumph, accompanied by mingled cheers and catcalls. The defeated Sir Peregrine

declared that he would return to fight another day and led his band

of warriors into the marquee. The squires pulled the tent flaps back

into place, the king and his entourage departed the royal gallery,

and the joust was over.

“Well,” said Lilian, “I must say that Calvin was quite correct

when he told us that we wouldn’t demand a refund. The joust alone

was worth every penny of my admission fee.”

“Where will you go next?” I asked.

“I’m going home,” she replied, “where I will continue to do my

utmost to convince Teddy to don his costume.”

“I admire your per sis tence,” I said. “I’ve given up on Bill.”

“Never say die,” Lilian advised. “Where there’s a will there’s a

way. I could go on, but I’m sure you get the gist. Are you staying?”

“For a little while.” I nodded at the marquee. “I want to look in

on the twins before I leave.”

“Naturally.” Lilian gathered up the litter left over from her

lunch and stood. “I hope to see you in church tomorrow.”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “I can’t promise that Bill and the boys will

come with me, but I’ll be there.”

“In that case, there will be at least two of us present to hear

Teddy’s sermon. After tasting the delights of King Wilfred’s Faire,

I’ll count it a small miracle if anyone joins us.” Lilian nodded pleasantly and joined the stream of satisfied joust fans pouring down

Pudding Lane.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

89

I deposited my own trash in a nearby bin, then strolled casually

down the hill and along the arena’s fence until I reached the royal

gallery. I loitered in its shadows until the picnic area was deserted

and the arena was empty, apart from a pair of teenaged girls, who

seemed to be paying more attention to the marquee than to me. I

watched them for a time, to make sure they weren’t glancing my

way, then climbed through the two-bar fence and walked to a spot

below the gallery’s front railing.

The sandbag lay on the ground where Lord Belvedere had flung

it, half buried in the dirt kicked up by the battling knights. I knew

I wouldn’t be able to reach the scrap of rope dangling from the

quintain, but my diminutive height wouldn’t prevent me from examining the remnant of rope still attached to the sandbag.

I squatted beside the sandbag and plucked the rope from the

dirt. Its tightly twisted strands of hemp were nearly as thick as my

wrist and they didn’t look old or worn. I wasn’t surprised. It stood

to reason that the quintain would be fitted with a new, heavy-gauge

rope before the fair opened. The contraption was supposed to be

strong enough to withstand a puissant warrior’s blows.

I slid the rope through my hands until I held the broken end

between my fingers. If it had frayed naturally, I would have expected to see hemp fibers protruding unevenly along the entire

edge. Instead, only part of the edge was uneven. The rest of it was

as straight as the edge of a paintbrush. It looked as if someone had

deliberately sliced halfway through the rope, hoping that it would

break completely when a skinny lance struck the wooden dummy.

“I knew it,” I whispered. “Sabotage.”

My hands trembled as the enormity of my discovery hit home. I

wasn’t conjuring a murder plot out of thin air. The plot was chillingly real. Someone was trying to kill King Wilfred.

My first impulse was to run to the king and tell him that his life

was in danger, but the memory of Lilian Bunting’s lighthearted

chuckle stopped me cold. She’d made it clear that she found the notion of a coup d’état preposterous and I had little doubt that others

90 Nancy Atherton

would agree with her. The king himself had laughed off both attempts on his life, and his cronies appeared to be quite willing to ignore them. If I went to Calvin Malvern with a tale about a love

triangle, a handsaw, and a severed rope, he’d either dismiss me as delusional or hire me as a storyteller. Until I could support my claims

with solid proof, it would be useless to present them to anyone.

I gazed at the rope pensively. If I’d had a knife with me, I would

have cut off the severed end and preserved it as evidence. Unfortunately, my shoulder bag contained nothing sharper than a nail file. I

was contemplating the difficulties of laying my hands on Sir Peregrine’s sword when a voice intruded.

“My lady?”

I dropped the rope and looked up guiltily. A man was peering at

me from the far side of the fence. The sun was behind him, so I

couldn’t see his face properly, but his silhouette was nothing short of

breathtaking. A white shirt with billowing sleeves fell loosely from

his broad shoulders, and his dark tights clung seductively to a pair

of legs that could have won the Tour de France.

“Uh,” I said, straightening. “Hello.”

“Good morrow.” The man vaulted the fence and strode toward

me. “Dost thou not know me, my fair one?”

“No, I don’t know thee, and I’m not your fair—” I gasped as the

man drew close enough for me to make out his extremely familiar

features. “Bill?”

“ ’Tis I, my sweet,” said Bill, with a flowery bow. “I thought you

might come to the marquee after the joust. I didn’t expect to find

you playing in the dirt.”

“Bill?” I repeated, gaping at him.

When I’d last seen my husband, he’d been dressed in a polo

shirt, khaki shorts, a baseball cap, and sneakers, but his image had

undergone a radical transformation since then. Bill no longer

looked like a suburban dad. He looked like the hero of a saucy romance novel. He’d laced the deep V of his shirt with a leather

thong, buckled a wide leather belt around his hips, donned a pair of

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

91

knee-high leather boots, and perched a floppy velvet cap at a rakish

angle on his head. The white ostrich feather curled around the cap

quivered delicately when he spoke.

“C’est moi, chérie,” he said. “Why are you playing in the dirt?”

“I’m not . . . I’m just . . .” I stuttered to a halt, then began

again. “Never mind what I’m doing. What are you doing dressed

like that?”

“Do you like it?” He pointed a toe to show off a shapely leg.

“Do I like it?” I glared at him. “You lying hound. What happened

to ‘definitely and irrevocably no’? What happened to ‘it’s never going to happen’?”

“I changed my mind,” said Bill. “Calvin Malvern had some extra

costumes lying around and he suggested that I—”

“Oh, I see.” I folded my arms and regarded him haughtily. “Cal-

vin Malvern’s word carries more weight than your wife’s. If you didn’t

look so outrageously studly, I’d clobber you.”

“Do I look outrageously studly?” he inquired coyly.

“You know you do,” I retorted. “But if you think it’s going to

have the slightest effect on me, you’re very much—”

Bill silenced me by sweeping me into his arms and giving me a

kiss that made me forget what I was saying. When he put me on my

feet again, my knees were so wobbly I had to lean against him for

support.

“That’s cheating,” I complained, though not very strenuously.

“All’s fair at the fair,” he quipped.

I pushed myself away from him in order to take a good look at

his costume. “What are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“A cool medieval dude,” he replied, hooking his thumbs in his

belt. “Now, tell me, Lori. What are you doing in the arena?”

I couldn’t bring myself to spoil the moment by telling my husband that I was trying to pin the attempted murder of Good King

Wilfred on a lovelorn, poop-scooping handyman, so I told him that

I was looking for souvenirs.

“What kind of souvenirs?” Bill asked bemusedly. “Broken teeth?

92 Nancy Atherton

I imagine you might find a few if you sifted the dirt thoroughly, but

why would you want to? Come with me, my darling nutcase. I’ll

find better souvenirs for you.”

“I’d like a knife,” I said promptly.

Bill’s eyebrows rose. “A knife?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “All of the wenches wear knives on their belts.

My costume will be incomplete without one.”

“I think we can fi nd one for you easily enough,” said Bill. “Calvin has an entire armory at his disposal. Wait till you see it. . . .”

Bill went on talking as we walked toward the marquee, but I

wasn’t listening. I was envisioning myself back in the arena, retrieving the only piece of hard evidence I’d unearthed. My new

knife would have to be as sharp as a razor to slice through the thick

rope, I reasoned, and if I wanted to slice through it in private, I’d

have to invent an excuse to leave the marquee without Bill and the

twins accompanying me.

“I have to confess that I’m a little surprised at you, Lori.”

The sound of my name penetrated the dense thicket of my

thoughts, and I roused myself to respond.

“Why are you surprised?” I asked.

“You haven’t mentioned the quintain once,” he said.

I glanced up at him uncomfortably, wondering if he’d read my

mind, then said, much too rapidly, “The quintain? Why would I

mention the quintain? What’s so interesting about the quintain?”

We’d reached the entrance to the marquee, but Bill didn’t reach

out to open the tent flap. Instead he smiled down at me and put a

hand on my shoulder.

“I know what you were doing in the arena,” he said gently.

“You do?” I said, eyeing him uncertainly.

“The accident scared you,” said Bill, “so you decided to find out

why the rope broke.”

“Right,” I said. “Yes. That’s what I was doing.” In a way, I was

telling the truth.

“Calvin told me that it was a freak accident.” Bill gave my shoul-Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

93

der a reassuring squeeze. “Cal has seen hundreds of jousts and he’s

never seen a sandbag come loose like that before. The rope-maker

can’t understand how it happened. He makes the rope by hand, in

Bristol, and he inspects every inch of it before he sends it on. He

believes it was damaged during shipping. The replacement rope will

be carefully inspected on site before it’s attached to the quintain.

The chances of such a thing happening again are virtually nil.”

“Okay,” I said.

“I’m proud of you for keeping your cool,” Bill went on. “I expected you to tear across the arena to make sure that the boys were

all right.”

“Will and Rob were out of harm’s way,” I said. “And they were

with you. Why would I worry about them?”

“There was a time when you did nothing but worry about them,”

said Bill. “If I recall correctly, you thought a vampire was stalking

them last October.”

“There’s no need to bring up the vampire fiasco,” I muttered,

blushing.

“I’m simply trying to make a point, Lori,” said Bill. “And my point

is that you’ve come a long way since then. I’m proud of you.” He bent

to kiss me lightly on the forehead, then pulled the tent flap aside.

The stench that wafted from the marquee put an end to all rational thought. The miasma was so dense, so appallingly multilayered, and so remorselessly ripe that I fell back a step and retched.

“Ye gods!” I exclaimed, choking. “Has someone died in there?”

“What do you mean?” asked Bill.

“It stinks.” I cupped a hand over my abused nose. “It smells like a

year’s worth of dirty socks left to rot on a manure pile.”

“Oh, that.” Bill scratched his chin. “I guess I’ve gotten used to it.”

“Your olfactory nerves have shut down in self-defense,” I stated

firmly, “and I can’t say that I blame them.”

“It’s a combination of sweat, horses, and leftovers from lunch,”

Bill explained. “Some of the men had oysters.”

“Haven’t they heard of air fresheners?” I asked. “Or deodorant?”

94 Nancy Atherton

“It wouldn’t help,” said Bill. “The guys who play the soldiers

wear padded shirts beneath their jerkins, and since they’re all avid

reenactors, they’ve been using those shirts for years. They perspire

heavily when they fight, the perspiration soaks into the padding, and

the aroma lingers.”

“Lingers?” I said, grimacing. “It’s strong enough to melt lead.

Have they tried soaking the padded shirts in bleach?”

“I doubt it,” said Bill. “Our noble warriors have a fairly medieval

view of personal hygiene.”

“A bar of soap is the devil’s plaything?” I suggested.

Bill nodded. “Something like that.”

“Why don’t they leave the flaps open, to air the place out?” I

asked.

“I don’t think they realize that the place needs to be aired out,”

Bill explained patiently. “Besides, they wouldn’t want the equipment to get wet or blown about if a storm came through.”

“I can’t believe they ate lunch in there,” I said, fanning the noxious fumes away from my face. “Is there a way to see Will and Rob

without going inside?”

“Of course there is,” said Bill. “We can go around the marquee

instead of through it. I’ll find a knife for you later and bring it home

with me after we’ve finished up here.”

“Hold on,” I said hastily. I’d forgotten about the knife. “Maybe

I’m being too prissy. This is a medieval fair, after all. It’s supposed

to be . . . atmospheric.” I squared my shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“Are you sure?” Bill asked.

“If you can get used to it, so can I,” I said, and marched determinedly into the marquee.

It would take more than a smelly tent to keep me from catching

the king’s foe.

Ten

M y first glimpse of the tent’s cavernous interior made me

feel as if I weren’t simply stepping backstage, but back

in time. There was no power hookup and therefore no

background hum to spoil the peace and quiet. The only light was

that which filtered through the tent’s white fabric, and the only

sound was the gentle creak of the impressive supporting timbers.

The hard-packed dirt floor had been strewn with rushes, and the

wide central aisle was six inches deep in authentically soiled straw.

The floor space was divided into sections by ropes strung between barley-twist iron stanchions that looked as though they’d

been forged by a burly blacksmith back in the fourteenth century.

The weapons and armor had been arranged in an orderly fashion on

freestanding wooden shelves and racks that stood along the left-hand

wall. The soldiers’ padded shirts and leather jerkins lay in neat piles

to the right, beneath a wooden rack supporting the furled pennons

and banners the children had carried into the arena.

The

horses’ brightly colored caparisons and plumed bridles

hung from ropes strung above a row of saddletrees that held the

ponies’ simple saddles as well as the knights’ larger and more elaborate ones. The back wall, Bill pointed out, could be rolled up to

the ceiling, to admit the horses for their grand pro cession through

the marquee and into the arena.

The dressing area near the front of the marquee was furnished

with wooden benches, a handful of three-legged stools, an ancient,

speckled,

full-length mirror, and a covered water butt with a

wooden dipper. A pewter platter piled high with oyster shells sat

on one of the benches, but the men who’d devoured the oysters

were nowhere to be seen.

96 Nancy Atherton

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“The Anscombe Manor contingent is out back with the ponies,”

Bill replied. “The squires are there, too, looking after Angelus and

Lucifer, but the rest of the jousting crew has gone back to camp.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Angelus is the white horse and Lucifer

is the black one?”

“Predictable, but true,” Bill said, nodding. “Angelus belongs to

Perry, of course, and Lucifer is Jack’s.”

“Who are Perry and Jack?” I asked, feeling a bit lost.

“Sir Peregrine the Pure and Sir Jacques de Poitiers,” he answered. “When they’re off duty, they call themselves Perry and

Jack. The soldiers call them Pretty Perry and Randy Jack, but not to

their faces.” Bill glanced furtively toward the back wall, then leaned

forward to add in a confidential murmur, “Apparently, Perry spends

more time than he should primping in front of the mirror, and

Jack thinks he has a way with the ladies, although the soldiers tell

me that the ladies would debate the point.”

The curious change in Bill’s posture and tone of voice suggested

strongly that he’d finally succumbed to an illness endemic to Finch.

I’d caught it shortly after we’d moved into the cottage, but Bill had

somehow managed to avoid it—until now.

“You’re gossiping!” I said triumphantly.

“Guilty as charged,” Bill acknowledged sheepishly. “It’s easy to

get caught up in it. Everyone’s always talking about everyone else.”

“Are they?” I tried not to show it, but Bill’s words filled me

with hope. While I’d spent the day observing the fair’s public face,

he’d seen its private side. He’d had ample opportunities to learn

all sorts of useful things about King Wilfred, Edmond Deland,

and little Mirabel. “Have you heard anyone badmouth King Wilfred?”

“No,” he replied. “Everyone seems to like Calvin.”

“Is he popular with the ladies?” I asked.

“Not a clue,” said Bill. “Why? Are you going to volunteer to play

his queen?”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

97

“I already have my king,” I said, smiling up at him. “Have many

women volunteered to play the queen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if the position exists. Calvin’s

bud get may not include a queen.” Bill swept his arm in a wide arc to

indicate the whole of our surroundings. “Would you like a tour?”

“As long as we keep our distance from the padded shirts,” I said

warily.

As we moved through the marquee, I told myself to be patient.

Bill’s apparent lack of interest in King Wilfred’s love life was disappointing, but not surprising. My husband was new to the gossip

game. He’d need a lot more practice before he could live up to my

high standards.

Bill showed me Sir Peregrine’s shattered lance, explained the heraldic symbols painted on Lucifer’s saddle, and pointed out the fine

workmanship that had gone into creating the chain mail. We were

examining Sir Jacques’ dented shield when the bottom edge of the

tent’s back wall rolled upward a few feet and a young, red-haired

squire entered the marquee, carrying a bucket filled with curry

combs, hoof picks, and other grooming tools.

“Harold,” Bill called. “Come and meet my lady wife. Harold le

Rouge is Sir Peregrine’s squire,” he explained to me, adding in an

undertone, “His real name is Tommy Grout.”

“No wonder he changed it,” I murmured back.

Harold stowed his bucket carefully beneath Sir Peregrine’s saddletree, then strode over to meet me. After we’d been properly

introduced, and after he’d finished doffing his cap and bowing, Bill

asked him if I might borrow a knife from the king’s armory.

“Your good lady is welcome to mine,” Harold said instantly.

“I can’t take your knife,” I exclaimed, embarrassed.

“I have many others, my lady,” said Harold. “You would do me a

great honor if you would accept a small trifle from me.” He removed the sheathed knife from his belt and presented both knife

and sheath to me on bended knee.

I accepted them gratefully and saw at once that they were no

98 Nancy Atherton

mere trifles. The leather sheath had been hand-sewn with fine backstitching, and the knife’s black horn handle was bound in brass.

More importantly, the gleaming blade was nearly six inches long and

honed to a razor-sharp edge. It would serve my immediate purpose

perfectly.

“Thank you, Harold,” I said. “You have the makings of a most

chivalrous knight.”

“I hope one day to be worthy of the honor,” he said, rising. “I fear

I must beg leave of you, friends. My master awaits me at the encampment.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Bill. “Our sons await us.”

“I’m glad I didn’t ask him for a pair of tights,” I whispered to Bill

as I dropped the knife into my shoulder bag.

“So is Harold,” he said softly.

We stifled our snickers and followed the young squire under

the back wall and into a small stabling area equipped with a row of

hitching posts, two watering tanks, and an assortment of buckets,

ropes, rakes, and shovels. The Anscombe Manor horse trailers were

parked ten yards away, near the end of a rough track that led, presumably, to the Oxford Road, and the horses had been turned out

to graze in a nearby pasture.

Harold took his leave of us—after more bowing and capdoffing—and headed toward a row of poplar trees beyond the horse

trailers. Will, Rob, Alison, and Billy sat atop the fence surrounding

the pasture, watching their ponies, while Lawrence McLaughlin,

Emma, and the stable hands stood at the fence, chatting. They were

all dressed in period attire, though Emma had covered her leaf-green

gown with a voluminous apron. She spotted me and spoke to the

boys, who hopped down from the fence and came running.

“Mummy, did you see us?” Will asked.

“Did you see us in the pro cession?” asked Rob.

“You know I did,” I said, hugging both of them, “because you

saw me.”

“We heard you, too,” Rob informed me.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

99

“You were loud, ” Will said.

“I must have been,” I said, “if you could hear me above the crowd.”

“We could,” Bill asserted, with feeling.

“Perry says we ride better than Jack,” Rob announced.

“And Jack says we ride better than Perry,” Will declared.

“What does Emma say?” I asked.

“She says we need more practice,” said Rob.

“She always says that,” Will explained.

“And she’s always right,” said Emma, coming up behind them.

“You both did well, for a first try, but we’re going to run drills with

the pennons next week. We need to keep our hands steadier and

our trot smoother.”

“We’ll skewer the varlets!” Rob cried.

“A pox upon the knaves!” Will added.

The boys galloped off to conduct a mock joust on foot while I

cast a wondering look at Bill.

“They’ve been hanging around soldiers all day,” he said. “They

were bound to pick up some new phrases. It’s making history come

alive for them.”

“ ‘A pox upon the knaves’? Their teachers are going to love

hearing that on the playground.” I shook my head, then turned to

give Emma a measuring look. “I never thought I’d live to see the

day when you’d doll yourself up like Maid Marian. I nearly fell over

when I saw you in the pro cession.”

“I know,” she said, with a self-satisfied smile. “It’s fun to surprise

people once in a while. The expression on your face was priceless.”

“Compared to you and Bill, I feel woefully underdressed,” I said.

“But I’ll make up for it tomorrow.” I nodded toward the pasture.

“Why haven’t you loaded the ponies?”

“They’re going to spend the night here,” she said. “We’ll bring

them back to the manor tomorrow, after the show. Less stress for

all concerned.”

“Emma,” Rob said, returning from his joust. “Did you tell

Mummy and Daddy about the feast?”

100 Nancy Atherton

“King Wilfred’s feast,” Will clarifi ed, pulling up beside Rob.

“Thanks for the reminder, my lords.” Emma ruffl

ed Rob’s hair,

then turned to me and Bill. “King Wilfred has invited all of us to

stay on for the eve ning feast. I’ve accepted, and so has the rest of

our party, but I didn’t want to speak for you.”

Bill looked at me. “Shall we?”

“You and the boys shall,” I said.

Will and Rob whooped joyfully and galloped off to share the

good news with Alison and Billy. I contented myself with an inner

whoop and silently blessed King Wilfred for giving me the excuse

I’d needed to return to the arena alone.

“Aren’t you going to join us, Lori?” Bill asked. “I’m sure our

noble monarch will make room for one more at his banquet table.”

“Maybe next time,” I said, and went on to tell him the truth

without equivocation. “I shouldn’t have worn sandals today. My

feet are killing me. I can’t wait to soak them in a hot bath.”

“You just want to wash away the manly scent of the marquee,”

Bill teased.

“That, too,” I agreed. “I don’t think you and the boys will have

any trouble enjoying yourselves without me. Where will the evening feast be held?”

“In the encampment.” Bill pointed to the row of poplars. “Beyond those trees. I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m told it’s quite impressive.”

“You can tell me about it tonight,” I said. “In the meantime, I’d

like to say hello to everyone.”

Bill, Emma, and I strolled over to the fence to join the others. I

praised the children, visited with the adults, and bade them all bon

appetit when it was time for them to leave. As they moved in the

direction of the poplar trees, I turned on my heel and, with extremely bated breath, scurried back inside the marquee. I raced

down the central aisle, peeked through the gap in the tent flaps to

make sure the coast was clear, and saw to my dismay that the broken rope was no longer dangling from the quintain.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

101

A surge of apprehension propelled me forward, but by the time

I reached the gallery’s lengthening shadow I was angry enough to

spit tacks. The sandbag had been dragged over to lean lopsidedly

against a fence post, but the rope that had trailed from it was gone.

While I’d been touring the marquee and socializing, someone had

removed all traces of the murder attempt from the arena.

I was certain that Edmond Deland was the culprit. Everyone

expected him to tidy up the arena, just as he’d tidied up Broad

Street after the horses had passed. No one would have objected to

his actions or questioned his intentions as he tossed the two useless

bits of rope into his wheelbarrow and trundled them away. He

could remove and destroy vital evidence with impunity because no

one knew that it was vital evidence.

I scanned the area for Edmond, but I didn’t expect to see him.

If he had two brain cells to rub together, I told myself, he’d be

standing in front of a bonfire by now, watching my precious evidence go up in smoke.

I heaved a discouraged sigh, realized that a whiff of medieval

soldier sweat still clung to my dress, and decided to call it a day.

King Wilfred would have to survive the night without my help. I

needed to go home and regroup. Most of all, I needed to speak

with Aunt Dimity.

I thought I would beat the rush by leaving the fair an hour before it

closed. Unfortunately, hundreds of other fairgoers had the same

idea. A trip that should have taken ten minutes turned into a fortyminute stop-and-go nightmare that wouldn’t have looked out of

place on a Los Angeles freeway.

As Lilian Bunting had foretold, my little lane was clogged by

drivers who’d apparently made the mistake of believing that a

scenic route could also be a shortcut. I’d discovered long ago that

scenic routes in England were almost guaranteed to lengthen any

journey. As I inched along, listening to the blaring music, heated

102 Nancy Atherton

arguments, and incessant whining coming from the cars ahead of

and behind me, I hoped my fellow travelers would learn from their

experience and avoid my lane in the future.

Stanley greeted me with a piteous mewl when I finally entered

the cottage, so I cuddled him, fed him, and changed his water before running upstairs to deposit my dress in the laundry hamper

and climb into a bath filled with gardenia-scented bubbles. I stayed

there until my feet stopped throbbing, by which time the manly

scent of the marquee was but a distant memory.

Refreshed, I dressed in clean shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt,

then returned to the kitchen to throw together a salad for dinner.

It had been a long while since I’d eaten my last honey cake and I

didn’t want a rumbling stomach to interrupt my conversation

with Aunt Dimity. While I assembled the salad, I also put my

thoughts in order. If I couldn’t present them in a calm, coherent

manner, Aunt Dimity would be hard-pressed to take me seriously.

I was washing a handful of radishes I’d harvested from my vegetable patch when the sound of jingling bells floated to me from the

back garden. I cocked an ear toward the open window, recalled

Jinks’s sly hints about backstage intrigue, and abandoned the radishes to race outside. I was eager to hear everything he could tell

me about King Wilfred.

I found Jinks waiting for me atop the stile, still clad in his jester’s

garb.

“Come down and I’ll feed you dinner,” I coaxed.

He bowed to acknowledge the invitation, but stayed where he

was. “I’m afraid I can’t join you this eve ning, Lori. My lord and

master requires my presence at the feast, but I didn’t want you to

think I’d forgotten you.”

“Can you come back after the feast?” I asked.

“I could,” Jinks allowed, “but you’ll be in bed and asleep by

then. The king and his court will be quaffing until the wee hours.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

103

“Surely not,” I said, frowning doubtfully. “Tomorrow’s Sunday.

The fair will be open. If they spend all night quaffing, they’ll be too

groggy to work in the morning.”

“Quaffi

ng is their work,” said Jinks. “Happily, they recover from

drink almost as quickly as they put it away.”

“Can we meet at the fair tomorrow?” I suggested. “You must

have some time off during the day.”

A puzzled smile curled Jinks’s crooked mouth. “I can’t remember the last time a beautiful woman craved my company. I’d like to

think that you’re drawn to my rugged good looks, but since I don’t

have any, you must be drawn to me for another reason. What is it?”

His eyebrow arched inquisitively. “You’re not still fretting about

the broken parapet, are you?”

If I’d had the severed rope in my possession, I might have shared

my suspicions with him, but since I stood there empty-handed, I

chose instead to gloss over my concerns.

“I’m not fretting about anything,” I said blithely. “I’m just fascinated by the fair. I feel as if I’ve discovered a whole new world. I

was hoping to talk about it with someone who knows it as well as

you do.”

“Your disappointment cuts me to the quick.” Jinks rubbed his

pointed chin and pondered in silence for a moment. “I’ll have a

lunch break during the joust tomorrow. Meet me at two of the

clock behind the Shire Stage. I’ll provide the viands and we’ll have

a good old-fashioned chin-wag while we dine.”

“I’ll be there,” I told him.

“Until tomorrow, then.” He kissed his fingertips to me. “Adieu,

fair one.”

“Ciao, cheeky one,” I said, laughing.

He disappeared over the stile and I returned to the kitchen to

finish washing the radishes. I was so hungry by then that I could

have eaten them whole, but I cut them up, added them to the salad,

and sat down to enjoy my long-awaited meal. A forkful of leafy

104 Nancy Atherton

greens was halfway to my watering mouth when the front door

opened.

“Lori?” Bill called. “We’re back!”

I whimpered, but put my fork down. A glance at the wall clock

told me that I’d left Bill and the boys at the fair less than two hours

ago. I couldn’t imagine what had brought them home so early,

but after a last, longing look at my salad, I went to the front hall to

fi nd out.

It was almost worth missing a meal to see my romance hero

removing the twins’ riding boots. The boys, resplendent in their

velvet tunics, sat on the floor with their legs in the air while Bill

bent over them, his ostrich feather fl uttering. His position gave me

a fresh appreciation of men in tights.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Why aren’t you at the evening feast?”

“Let’s just say that it’s not a G-rated event,” Bill answered. “I’ll

tell you about it later. Right now their lordships and I are going to

take much-needed baths. I hope there’s a chance of having an evening feast at home, because we’re starving.”

“Kill the fatted calf!” Will bellowed, thrusting a small fist into

the air.

“Beer! Beer! Beer!” chanted Rob, pounding the fl oor with both

fi sts.

“Oh, dear lord,” I said weakly.

“While we’re having our baths,” Bill announced, “the boys and

I are going to have a little talk about good manners.”

“An excellent idea.” I jutted my chin toward the kitchen. “I’ll

prepare the feast.”

Since I’d forgotten to stock up on fatted calf, we had salmon

patties and a delicious green salad for dinner. Will and Rob didn’t

complain, nor did they demand beer instead of milk. They spoke in

relatively subdued voices and although they chatted enthusiastically

about their day at the fair, they didn’t issue a single threat against a

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

105

varlet or a knave. Their return to civilized behavior made it clear

that Bill’s little talk had not fallen on deaf ears.

“I don’t think we’ll be attending future feasts,” Bill informed me.

He and I were curled up on the living room sofa. The boys were

in bed, a load of laundry was in the washing machine, and Bill’s

unwashable hat was on the front seat of the Range Rover. I had no

intention of allowing the cottage to be tainted by eau de marquee.

“Why not?” I asked. “I thought you’d have a great time at the

king’s banquet table.”

“So did I,” said Bill. “But the encampment is . . . not a place for

children. Not my children, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” I pressed.

Bill pursed his lips. “Do you remember ‘free love’?”

“Vaguely,” I said.

“It’s still very much in vogue in the encampment,” said Bill.

“And it’s not confined to the privacy of tents or motor homes. It’s

right out in the open, where everyone can see. I only hope I got the

boys away in time. I don’t even want to think about the pictures

they might draw when they’re back in school.”

“Did the rest of the Anscombe Manor group leave early, too?” I

asked.

“Definitely,” said Bill. “We performed a simultaneous about-face

as soon as the first naked bottom came into view. We must have

looked like a marching band.” He threw back his head and laughed,

but the laugh quickly turned into a yawn. “I know it’s only nine

o’clock, love, but I’m beat. Coming to bed?”

“In a little while,” I said. “I have to hang your costumes up to

dry, and I want to tell Dimity about the fair.”

Bill nodded. He was one of the handful of people who knew

about Aunt Dimity’s ongoing presence in the cottage, and he understood better than anyone how much she meant to me.

106 Nancy Atherton

“Don’t forget to tell Dimity about the naked bottom,” he said.

“I won’t,” I promised.

Bill was half joking, but I wasn’t joking at all. He couldn’t have

known it, but he’d provided me with a clue that might prove vital

to the puzzle I was assembling. I had every intention of mentioning

it to Aunt Dimity.

We parted at the study’s door. Bill went up to the master bedroom and I made a beeline for the blue journal. I’d had plenty of

time to gather my thoughts. If I kept them to myself much longer, I

was fairly sure that my head would explode.

Eleven

I tripped over the ottoman in my haste to reach the blue journal, so I changed direction and headed for the mantelshelf

lamps instead. Once I could see properly, I lit a fire in the

hearth and stood quietly for a moment, allowing the study’s familiar

stillness to seep into me.

“I have to be cool, calm, and collected when I present my case

to Dimity,” I explained to Reginald. “Otherwise, she’ll think I’ve

embarked on another vampire hunt. I’d say that I have to be like

Emma, but after seeing her at the fair today, I’m no longer sure that

she’s a good role model for me. She seems to have a more active

imagination than I gave her credit for.”

My pink bunny regarded me sympathetically. The encouraging

gleam in his black button eyes let me know that, whatever happened, he was on my side. His unswerving loyalty was like a tonic

for my agitated soul. I reached for the blue journal with a steady

hand.

I sat in the tall leather armchair before the hearth, put my tender feet on the ottoman, and rested the journal in my lap. After

taking a slow breath, I opened the journal and said, “Dimity? I’m

back from the fair.”

Welcome home, my dear. The looping lines of royal-blue ink curled

across the page as fluidly as quicksilver. Was it as interesting as you

hoped it would be?

“Oh, yes,” I said. “It was interesting.”

I’m so glad. Tell me everything.

“It’s like another world. . . .” I began.

I went on to describe the fair in great detail, leaving out nothing

but the events that concerned me most. I created a comprehensive

108 Nancy Atherton

picture of the fair’s physical appearance—the gate house, the winding lanes, the stalls, the open-air stages, the joust arena—as well as

an impression of its festive atmosphere. I told her about the opening ceremony and the cannon blast, the water-balloon juggler and

the belly dancers, the walking tree and the madrigal singers. I marveled over the variety of items for sale in the stalls and remarked on

the evocative patois spoken by the vendors.

I took her up Pudding Lane and down Broad Street, pausing to

praise the twins’ mostly dignified performance in the king’s procession and to convey my reaction to seeing Emma ride past in her

finery. I brought her to the hillside picnic area, to eat honey cakes

with me and Lilian while Rob and Will circled the arena, their

unicorn pennons flying. I let her hear the crowd roar when the

knights demonstrated their skill at arms, and I helped her to feel

the ground tremble as the horses pounded toward each other in the

joust. Finally, I introduced her to my ultra-studly husband, took

her through the marquee, and entered the stabling area, where my

narrative came to a temporary halt.

My word. The fair has certainly provided you with the change of pace

you desired, Lori. It’s more stimulating than the dog show, the bring-and-buy

sale, and the flower show combined, unless you include the year when Patri-

cia Shuttleworth’s flea-bitten old pug won the dog show—what a kerfuffl

e!—

but that was before your time. The fair sounds as if it fulfilled all of your

wishes and then some. You must be exhausted, my dear.

“I won’t be swimming the English Channel tomorrow,” I told

her, “but I’ll get by.”

I must confess that I’m not as surprised by Emma’s transformation as you

were. She is a gardener, after all, and gardeners are dreamers at heart. How

else would they be able to look at a handful of seeds and envision a perennial

border in all its glory?

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I conceded.

Bill’s conversion, on the other hand, was wholly surprising, though I

suppose we should have suspected him of protesting a bit too much. Most

men would be peacocks if they were allowed to display their feathers, but I’m

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

109

afraid they’re discouraged from doing so in this day and age. I’m sure he’s

enjoying his “cool medieval dude” attire more than he ever thought he

would.

“I’m enjoying it quite a bit myself,” I said, recalling the pleasant

scene in the front hall.

Of course you are. You’re blessed with an extremely attractive husband.

It would have been a waste to swaddle him in a friar’s robe. Thank you for

giving me such a vivid account of your day, Lori. I feel as if I’ve experienced

every facet of King Wilfred’s marvelous fair. But now you must toddle off to

bed. If you’re going to attend the fair again tomorrow, you’ll need your

rest.

I cleared my throat. “I haven’t finished telling you about my day,

Dimity.”

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut you off. Please, go on.

“A couple of unusual things happened at the fair,” I said.

More unusual than a walking tree?

“Yes, because the walking tree was just a guy on stilts,” I replied. “The things I’m about to describe are real.” I glanced at

Reginald for courage, then hunkered down in my chair and tried to

sound like a jaded newspaper reporter. “I have a story to tell you.

It’s all about love. If it’s true, which I think it is, then King Wilfred’s Faire is going to need a new handyman. Or possibly a new

king. It depends on what happens first.”

An excellent introduction, Lori. My interest is thoroughly piqued.

“My story involves a handsaw, a broken parapet, a flying sandbag, and a severed rope.” I paused. “And a love triangle.”

Oh, hurrah! I knew you wouldn’t fail me, my dear. Please, proceed with

your thrilling tale. I’m on tenterhooks!

Aunt Dimity’s response contained more than a hint of sarcasm,

but I didn’t let it faze me. I’d sailed over the edge of reason so often

that it would have been foolishly optimistic of me to expect a more

sober reaction. Her playful tone made me more determined than

ever to prove to her that I wasn’t imagining things.

“Early this morning, before the fair opened, I heard the sound of

110 Nancy Atherton

a single handsaw coming from the direction of Bishop’s Wood,” I

said. “If I’d heard a lot of saws, I wouldn’t have thought twice about

it, but the sound of one saw indicated that one person was working

on one specific project.”

It also indicates that someone was working in the early hours, when the

fair’s grounds were deserted.

“That’s right.” Mildly encouraged by Aunt Dimity’s offering, I

continued, “During the opening ceremonies, a section of the gatehouse’s parapet broke away from the walkway wall. The parapet

broke away when King Wilfred leaned on it. If Lord Belvedere

hadn’t grabbed the king’s surcoat and hauled him back onto the

walkway, the king would have fallen twenty feet to the ground.”

Good gracious. How very distressing.

“It becomes more distressing,” I said, “when one assumes that

the king rehearses the opening ceremony, and that he goes through

the same routine every morning. In other words, he leans on the

same parapet in every performance.”

A fairly safe assumption, I would say. Are you asking me to make a con-

nection between the solitary handsaw and the broken parapet?

“Not yet,” I said, refusing to be rushed. “I didn’t connect the

two until a young man named Edmond Deland arrived on the

scene to clear away the debris. Edmond is the fair’s maintenance

man, but he doesn’t dress in period attire. In fact, he seems to be

the only employee who wears normal clothing to work.”

Does his attire suggest a failure to enter wholeheartedly into the spirit of

the fair?

“I believe it does,” I said. “Furthermore, his reaction to the parapet incident struck me as . . . odd. When he spotted the debris, he

looked sullen. When he peered up at the gap in the wall, he appeared to be angry and disappointed. And I couldn’t help noticing

that he had a handsaw in his wheelbarrow.”

Ah, I see! You believe that Edmond Deland used his handsaw to dam-

age the parapet early in the morning, in hopes of disrupting the opening

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

111

ceremonies. When the ceremonies went on as planned, he was angry and

disappointed, because his scheme had failed. Am I on the right track?

“Almost,” I said. “I’m now going to skip ahead a bit. Do you remember the madrigal singers I mentioned?”

How could I forget little Mirabel, the pretty girl with hazel eyes and the

voice of an angel?

“While I was listening to the madrigal singers,” I said, “I saw

Edmond Deland again, half hidden in the shadows between two

stalls. He stood as still as a statue and gazed only at Mirabel, as if he

worshipped the ground she walked on. I promise you, Dimity, his

longing for her was almost palpable. She seemed to be unaware of

him, and he didn’t draw attention to himself.”

Any sensible observer would conclude that Edmond Deland is hopelessly

in love with little Mirabel. Et voilà —we have two sides of our love triangle!

Who completes it, I wonder?

“I’m getting to that,” I said patiently. “As I told you earlier, the

sound of trumpets announced the start of the king’s pro cession.

Mirabel got very excited when she heard the trumpets, and the

group promptly moved from their quiet alleyway to Broad Street. It

seemed to me as if they moved in order to allow Mirabel to watch

the pro cession.”

How did Edmond react to their departure?

“When he heard the trumpets, he looked absolutely furious,” I

said. “He didn’t say a word, but he stomped off in a huff. I followed

Mirabel.”

Naturally.

“She could hardly keep still during the early parts of the procession,” I said. “She was all aflutter, as if she were waiting for the man

of her dreams to come into view. When she saw King Wilfred, she

gasped, and when he blew a kiss to her, she blushed like the setting

sun and dropped a curtsy to him. If the other singers hadn’t dragged

her away, I think she might have followed the king up Broad Street.”

The king, therefore, is the third person in our love triangle.

112 Nancy Atherton

“Which makes him Edmond’s rival,” I pointed out.

So it does. Does the king realize that he’s the rival of an angry young man

with a handsaw?

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I can tell you what happened next.”

I quickly related the quintain incident, underscoring Bill’s assertion that it was an exceptionally rare occurrence. I went on to

describe my discovery of the partially severed rope as well as my

failed attempt to retrieve it, then sat back and waited for Aunt

Dimity to draw her own conclusions. She didn’t take long.

Correct me if I’m wrong, Lori, but you seem to be suggesting that Ed-

mond’s goal isn’t merely to disrupt the fair, but to murder his chief rival.

“I realize that it sounds far-fetched,” I said calmly. “And I may

be jumping to a few thousand conclusions, but yes, I believe that

Edmond Deland is trying to kill King Wilfred.”

It’s a very serious accusation.

“I know it is, but think about it, Dimity,” I said. “Edmond is an

ideal suspect. He has access to every square inch of the fair, night and

day. He has the tools he’d need to sabotage the parapet as well as the

quintain. He can also get rid of the evidence easily, because it’s his

job to keep the grounds clean.”

I don’t doubt that Edmond has the means and the opportunity to carry

out the deeds you’ve ascribed to him. I do, however, question his motivation.

“He’s insane with jealousy,” I said.

He’d have to be insane, to be jealous of Calvin Malvern. The Calvin I

knew was an affable, pudgy daydreamer. I find it difficult to think of him as

the answer to a maiden’s prayers.

“Ren fests are all about role-playing,” I explained. “At the fair,

Tommy Grout, ordinary teenager, becomes Harold le Rouge, squire

to the noble Sir Peregrine. Similarly, Calvin Malvern, pudgy daydreamer, becomes King Wilfred, lecherous swain.”

Why must he be lecherous?

“Oh, sorry,” I said, sitting up straighter. “I forgot to tell you

about Bill’s naked bottom.”

I’m not entirely certain that I want to hear about Bill’s naked bottom.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

113

“I’m not talking about his personal bottom,” I said hastily. “I’m

talking about the naked bottom he saw when he and the twins were

crossing the performers’ encampment on their way to the king’s

eve ning feast.”

I’m at once baffl

ed and intrigued. Are the performers nudists?

“Not exactly.” I cleared my throat again, then asked hesitantly,

“Have you ever heard of free love?”

For goodness’ sake, Lori, free love wasn’t invented yesterday, as so many of

you children seem to think. I believe the term was coined in the 1860s, though

it didn’t have quite the same meaning then. Nevertheless, I’m well acquainted

with its modern meaning. What part does free love play in your story?

“According to Bill, free love is, if you’ll forgive the expression,

rampant in the encampment,” I replied. “Edmond is so conservative

that he won’t even wear a costume while he’s at work. I can’t imagine

that he would approve of the behavior Bill witnessed in the camp. Calvin, on the other hand, is in love with Ren fests. He probably includes

hanky-panky in his job description.” Another idea darted into my

head and I ran with it. “It would explain why Calvin is spending the

summer in a luxurious motor home instead of in his uncle’s farmhouse. Horace Malvern wouldn’t allow things like that to happen

under his roof.”

I take your point. Calvin Malvern might not indulge in naughty she-

nanigans, but King Wilfred wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of an im-

pressionable young madrigal singer.

“I’m just guessing,” I said cautiously, “but I think Edmond is a

romantic. I think he wants to rescue his innocent angel from the

king’s lewd clutches, and at the same time punish the king for trifling with her.”

Murder is a rather extreme form of punishment.

“Love has been known to push people to extremes,” I said wisely.

There was a long pause before the graceful handwriting continued.

Well, well, well. . . . You did leave a few interesting details out of your

initial account, Lori. What a very busy day you’ve had.

“I know what you’re going to tell me, Dimity,” I said. “You’re

114 Nancy Atherton

going to tell me that I’ve gone off half-cocked again, that I’m reading

too much into the situation, and that my conclusions are based on

too few facts. Before you do, though, ask yourself one question:

What are the odds against King Wilfred having two bizarre,

near-fatal accidents in one day?”

I’m not sure they’re as high as you seem to think they are. As Lilian Bun-

ting pointed out to you, King Wilfred’s Faire is a complex form of theater.

Things are bound to go wrong from time to time in any theatrical venture.

“But would you expect spectacularly bad things to happen to

the same person twice in one day?” I pressed.

Perhaps not. But I wouldn’t expect someone like Edmond to engineer

spectacularly bad things. If your observations are correct, his murder attempts

haven’t taken place in dark corners, but in full view of large audiences.

Would a conservative young man have such a flair for drama?

“It’s not about drama,” I countered. “Edmond is being pragmatic.

Sabotage allows him to be somewhere else when the so-called accidents happen. He’s cleverly distancing himself from the crime

scenes.”

But would a romantic young man use sabotage as a means of achieving

his goals? Wouldn’t he simply snatch up a sword and fight for his angel’s

honor? Heaven knows, there are enough swords lying about for him to use.

“If Edmond attacked the king openly, he’d be carted off to jail,”

I said. “Edmond can’t defend Mirabel’s honor if he’s behind bars.”

True.

I pursed my lips and sighed wearily. “I don’t have all of the answers, Dimity. But my gut tells me that something funny is going

on at the fair.”

Something funny . . . and potentially deadly. Perhaps it isn’t good to be

king.

I read her words twice before asking tentatively, “Do you think

I may be on to something?”

I wouldn’t go so far as to accuse anyone of attempted murder just yet. We

may be dealing with a case of malicious mischief. Someone may wish to

frighten people away from the fair by making it seem unsafe.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

115

“Why would someone do that?” I asked.

I can think of a dozen reasons—spite, envy, jealousy, greed, vengeance.

Your task will be to discover the correct one.

“Will it?” I said, my spirits rising.

Indeed, it will. I believe that the situation merits further investigation.

“You do?” I said, blinking at the journal in happy disbelief.

I most certainly do. I’m glad that you’re attending the fair again tomor-

row. It will give you the opportunity to gather more information. I, for one,

would like to know who was wielding the solitary handsaw this morning and

what he or she was doing with it. If someone was seen making unnecessary

alterations to the parapet, we may have our culprit.

“I’ll ask around,” I said.

I’d also like to know more about the quintain. Do the knights practice

their skills before displaying them to the public? If so, the saboteur must have

tampered with the rope after the practice session, but before the fair opened.

“If he damaged the rope before the practice session, it would have

broken too soon,” I said, nodding eagerly. “And if he damaged it

while the fair was in progress, he would have run too great a risk of

being seen. The fair was crawling with people almost as soon as the

gates opened, and most of them were just wandering around, taking

in the sights.”

Our culprit may have been seen by one of the performers. Try to find a

witness who can place him in the arena within the proper time frame, prefer-

ably with a sharp knife in his hand.

“I’ll do my best,” I assured her.

I would also urge you to wear your costume tomorrow.

“After seeing Bill and Emma, I don’t need urging,” I said. “I felt

like a party pooper today.”

I want you to feel like a performer tomorrow. Find out if anyone involved

in the fair has a grudge against King Wilfred. People will confide in you

more readily if they think you’re a cast member. Let your costume be your

disguise. It may even gain you access to the encampment.

“I’ll outwench the wenches,” I promised. “But I’ll keep my

clothes on in the encampment.”

116 Nancy Atherton

I’m relieved to hear it. I need hardly tell you to keep an ear open for

general gossip.

“I’m going to have lunch with Jinks the jester tomorrow,” I said.

“He’s promised to clue me in on the scuttlebutt.”

You speak the gossip’s language fluently, Lori. Finch has taught you

well.

“I’ll give Bill a crash course on the way to church tomorrow

morning,” I said. “It’ll be useful to have an extra set of eyes and ears

working for us behind the scenes.”

Will you share your suspicions with him?

I gave the matter careful consideration, then shook my head. “I

won’t put Bill into the picture until I’ve collected more facts. If I

jump the gun, he’ll just laugh at me.”

Your husband is a dear man, but he can be sarcastic at times.

“Yes, he can,” I agreed fervently. “Especially when it comes to

my suspicions.”

If you could discover tangible proof to support your claims, Bill would be

more willing to give credence to them. It’s a pity about the rope, but perhaps

something else will turn up. If it does, please try not to lose it.

“Thanks for the tip, Dimity,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Sarcasm runs in the family, I see. Never mind. I’ve been known to indulge

in it myself on occasion. Back to business. It’s up to you, my dear, to find out

who the saboteur is and—if you can do so without compromising your own

safety—to stop him before he harms the king. It may quite literally be a mat-

ter of life and death.

“Leave it to me, Dimity.” I peered grimly at the journal as I

paraphrased Lilian Bunting’s words. “I don’t want King Wilfred’s

Faire spoiled by bloodshed.”

No indeed. On a lighter note: I wonder what impact the performers’

free-and-easy lifestyle will have on the village.

“I don’t think it’ll have any impact on the village,” I said. “Most

of the performers are staying in the encampment. If they go anywhere, it’ll be to Oxford or some other big town. Finch isn’t exactly

the excitement capital of the universe.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

117

You may be right. It’s getting late, Lori. You should go to bed. You’ll

need your wits about you if you’re to catch our saboteur tomorrow.

A warm rush of gratitude welled up in me as I read the last sentence. I’d entered the study expecting to be doubted, teased, even

ridiculed for inventing yet another improbable scenario. Instead,

Aunt Dimity had believed my story, with reasonable reservations,

and suggested several lines of inquiry for me to pursue. Her confidence in me had never been more apparent.

Smiling, I traced the fine copperplate with a fingertip. “Thanks

for hearing me out, Dimity. I wasn’t sure you’d ever listen to me

again, after the vampire fiasco.”

Was it a fiasco? I thought it was a highly successful and rewarding en-

terprise. Now run along, my dear. We’ll speak again tomorrow.

I waited until the curling lines of royal-blue ink had faded from

the page, then closed the journal and hugged it to my chest. I was

still smiling as I tidied the study, bade Reginald good night, and

went to the laundry room, but as I removed the costumes from the

washing machine and hung them up to dry, my mind traveled back

to the fair.

Where was Edmond Deland? I wondered. And what would he

do next?

Twelve

T here was no need to load the twins’ ponies into trailers

and transport them to Bishop’s Wood the following

morning, but Bill and the boys rose at the crack of dawn

anyway, and I rose with them. They were champing at the bit to get

back to the fair. For very different reasons, so was I.

I intended to change into my garb after I returned from church.

Will and Rob wanted to jump right into theirs, but I insisted that

they put them aside until they were at the fair. I didn’t want porridge stains on their clean tunics. Bill clinched the decision by zipping their costumes and his into the garment bag and stowing it in

the Range Rover with his hat.

After some discussion, the overloaded day pack was left at

home. Bill argued successfully that they could find anything they

might need at the fair, including rain ponchos, bottled water, and

sunblock. If the temperature took an unexpected dip, he reasoned,

they could borrow leather capes from the foot soldiers.

I began my fact-finding mission as soon as we sat down for breakfast. I doubted that Bill would be able to tell me much about the solitary handsaw, because he and the twins had arrived at the fair long

after the telltale sound had drifted to me in the back garden, but he

would almost certainly be able to describe the early morning activities in the arena.

“Bill,” I said, passing the honey pot to him, “did the knights rehearse their show yesterday morning?”

“They were hard at it when we arrived,” he said. “Perry and Jack

may be entertainers, but their skills are real. They take practice sessions seriously.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

119

“So they went through the whole routine,” I said. “The spearthrowing, the ring-jousting, the quintain . . .”

“The whole nine yards,” Bill confirmed.

“How long did they practice?” I asked.

“Two solid hours,” he said, spreading a dollop of honey on his

toast. “Perry told me that they practice from seven until nine every

morning. It’s better to work the horses in the cool morning air, and it

gives them plenty of time to rest before the afternoon performance.”

“Were the soldiers and the squires there as well?” I asked.

“The squires were.” Bill leaned forward on his elbows, as if he

found the subject interesting. “The knights can’t don their armor

without help, and they certainly wouldn’t be able to practice ring

jousting without a trained squire to hold the rings for them. If Harold and Drogo hadn’t been there—”

“Drogo?” I interrupted.

“Sir Jacques’s squire.” Bill smiled wryly. “His real name is Kevin

McGee, but he prefers to be known as Drogo Dragonfire.”

“Who wouldn’t?” I said.

“At any rate,” Bill continued, “if Harold and Drogo hadn’t been

there, the knights would have had to dismount every time they

wanted to change weapons. It’s not easy to get on and off a horse

while you’re wearing armor and carrying a lance.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “Why didn’t the soldiers hand them their

weapons?”

“The soldiers didn’t attend yesterday’s practice session.” Bill gave

the twins a sidelong glance before adding in a meaningful undertone, “I think they’d enjoyed themselves a bit too much the night

before.”

“They

were drunk as lords,” Will said conversationally, between spoonfuls of porridge.

“Sloshed,” Rob clarifi ed.

“Pie-eyed,” Will remarked.

“Legless,” Rob offered, in case I hadn’t understood.

120 Nancy Atherton

“I . . . I beg your pardon?” I said, flabbergasted.

“It’s what soldiers do,” Rob explained matter-of-factly. “Drogo

said the soldiers had sore heads because they can’t say no to a pint

of the hard stuff .”

“They were quaffing,” Will added helpfully. “And ravishing

wenches.”

“What’s ravishing wenches, Daddy?” asked Rob, turning a pair

of innocent brown eyes on his father.

My mouth fell open and Bill choked on a snort of laughter. I

shot him a piercing look and he sobered immediately, but his voice

trembled with suppressed mirth as he answered Rob’s question.

“It’s a game for grown-ups,” he said, and went on briskly, “I

think we’ve seen enough of the arena for the time being, boys. What

do you say to exploring the rest of the fair today?”

Rob and Will were amenable and I was relieved. It seemed to me

that they’d already spent far too much time at the arena. I wanted my

sons to learn about spinning and weaving, not quaffi

ng and ravishing.

I was so rattled by their unexpected contributions to our breakfast

conversation that it took me a moment to regain my focus.

“What did the knights and the squires do after practice?” I

asked. “Did they hang around the marquee, polishing armor?”

“Harold and Drogo went out back to look after the horses,” said

Bill. “But Perry and Jack cleaned themselves up and went to Gatehouse Square, to be on hand for the opening ceremonies. King

Wilfred and his court assemble in Gate house Square at nine-thirty

on the dot, and the ceremonies commence at nine thirty-five precisely. Calvin may seem like an easygoing guy, but he runs a tight

ship.”

“It must be challenging to run a tight ship with so many free

spirits onboard.” I sipped my tea. “Have there been any mutinies?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” said Bill. “I told you yesterday, everyone

likes Cal. I think they respect his management skills. A strong king

makes for a happy kingdom, apparently.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

121

I didn’t want Bill to catch on to the fact that I was pumping him

for information, so I dug into my cheese omelet and let Bill work

on his. After he’d eaten a few bites, I began again.

“The grounds must be pretty quiet before the gates open,” I

commented. “Apart from the arena area, of course.”

“The place is like a ghost town,” Bill agreed. “Things don’t get going until nine o’clock, when the food vendors show up. I could smell

the steak-and-kidney pies baking while Will and Rob were grooming

Thunder and Storm. I almost drooled all over my dude shirt.”

“It’s called a poet’s shirt,” I told him. “I saw a whole rack full of

them in one of the stalls.”

“We’ve finished,” Will and Rob announced.

“In that case, you’d better run upstairs,” I said. “I want your

teeth brushed, your hands washed, and your hair combed before

we go to church.”

The twins’ faces registered surprise, as did their father’s.

“Are we going to church?” Bill inquired.

“Of course we are,” I said. “We don’t want the vicar to think

we’ve forgotten him, do we? And it seems to me that a certain pair

of young men will benefit greatly from a period of quiet reflection.”

Bill took the hint and nodded to the boys. “Off you go, guys.

Teeth, hands, and hair.”

I let Bill finish his omelet in peace, but resumed my interrogation while he and I loaded the dishwasher.

“When do the rest of the vendors set up?” I asked.

“Most of them come wandering in around half past nine,” he

replied.

“Do the vendors live in the encampment?” I asked.

“Most do,” said Bill. “Some live at home during the week and

spend weekends at the fair. They’re called weekenders.”

“Fascinating.” I closed the dishwasher, then asked another question out of sheer curiosity. “What do the nonweekenders do during

the week?”

122 Nancy Atherton

“I imagine the knights practice jousting. As for the others . . .”

Bill shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

As Bill and I went upstairs to tend to our own teeth, hands, and

hair, I analyzed the timetable he had constructed for me. If my calculations were correct, the arena would have been virtually deserted for a full thirty minutes after the rehearsal had ended. Once

the squires had taken the horses to the stabling area and the knights

had departed for Gate house Square, the saboteur would have had

more than enough time to damage the quintain’s rope, unobserved

by any members of the jousting crew.

The food vendors, on the other hand, could have seen him.

They’d gone to work an hour before the fair had opened, and their

stalls were so close to the arena that Bill had been able to identify the

savory aroma wafting from their ovens. I made a mental note to visit

Pudding Lane as soon as I reached the fair. As an afterthought, I decided that my first stop would be the honey cake stall. I saw nothing

wrong with mixing business with pleasure.

The early service at St. George’s Church was the only one my menfolk would consider attending, because it was the only one that

would allow them to arrive at the fair before ten

o’clock. My

last-minute decision to bring them with me meant that we got a

late start, but when we left the cottage we still had a modest chance

of reaching a pew before the vicar offered up the first prayer.

Thankfully, we left early enough to avoid the stream of vehicles

I’d encountered the previous morning. I savored the sensation of

having our lane to ourselves, though I was distressed to see the glint

of beer bottles in a ditch and a few discarded chewing gum wrappers clinging to the hedgerows. Under normal circumstances, we

would have stopped immediately to pick up the trash, but since we

were running late, I decided to wait until after church to begin our

cleanup campaign.

While I ruminated darkly on litter and litterbugs, Bill, Will, and

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

123

Rob performed the raucous family rituals that made a trip to Finch

complete. They cheered for the ponies when we passed Anscombe

Manor’s curving drive, and even though the Pym sisters were away at

the seaside, the boys saluted their redbrick house when we passed it.

All three hooted like hyenas when we reached the top of the humpbacked bridge. Bill encouraged me to join in the hooting, but we were

all shocked into silence by the sight that met our eyes when we came

down the bridge and saw the village stretched out before us.

It was as if a tornado had swept through Finch, leaving a trail

of destruction in its wake. Candy wrappers, potato chip bags, grocery sacks, empty beer bottles, and odd bits of clothing carpeted

the village green. Crumpled soda cans lay in drifts along the pavement and an abandoned fashion magazine fluttered forlornly on

the bench near the war memorial. The pub’s sign hung at a crazy

angle, a leg was missing from one of the bins in front of the greengrocer’s shop, and a splintered web of cracks covered the Emporium’s big display window. It looked as though someone had been

sick on the tearoom’s doorstep.

Bill and I were too stunned to speak, but the twins didn’t hesitate to share their take on the situation.

“Pirates,” Will said decisively.

“Marauding pirates,” agreed Rob.

“We’re too far from the sea for pirates,” said Bill, finding his voice.

“We’re not too far from the fair,” I said tersely.

“No one from the fair would do this,” said Bill. “They may be free

spirits, but they’re not fools. It’s in their interest to get along with

locals.”

“Who, then?” I demanded.

“Tourists,” Bill answered succinctly. “I think we can lay the blame

for this mess on marauding tourists.”

I was almost too angry to speak. “If they’ve touched St. George’s,

I’ll hunt them down and—”

“Let’s find out, shall we?” Bill interrupted, to keep me from spoiling the Sabbath day with strong speech. Peering somberly through the

124 Nancy Atherton

windshield, he put his foot on the accelerator and drove forward

slowly, almost at a snail’s pace, as if we were inspecting the site of a

natural disaster.

Someone had smeared mustard on the schoolhouse doors and

trampled the flowers Emma had planted around the war memorial,

but the rest of the village had escaped obvious damage. Wysteria

Lodge, where Bill had his office, appeared to be unharmed, as did

Crabtree Cottage, Briar Cottage, the old schoolmaster’s house, the

vicarage, and Mr. Barlow’s house.

The church seemed to be fine as well. The lych-gate hung solidly

from its hinges and none of the headstones in the cemetery had been

knocked over or defaced. Relieved, we parked on the verge, released

the boys from their booster seats, and hurried inside. Our slow progress through the village had delayed our arrival considerably.

It was impossible to enter the church quietly. The weighty oak

door creaked when Bill opened it and boomed when it swung shut

behind us, and we could do nothing to keep our footsteps from

echoing hollowly as we made our way across the flagstone fl oor.

A pale-faced congregation turned to watch us as we shuffl

ed

contritely into a back pew, and the vicar, who looked shattered,

waited courteously until we were settled to continue the service.

When he mounted the pulpit, I expected him to read the first lesson, but he’d apparently been inspired by recent events to give a

sermon instead.

“Matthew 24:6.” Theodore Bunting’s pleasantly sonorous voice

was cracked with fatigue and his long, dolorous face was haggard.

“ ‘Ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.’ ”

“Is he talking about the end of the world?” I whispered to Bill.

“Must have been a rough night,” Bill whispered back.

Thirteen

T he vicar’s doom-laden sermon was mercifully short, and

he brought the service to a close as swiftly as decency

would allow. Afterward, he didn’t stand at the church

door to exchange pleasantries with his departing flock, but staggered off to the vicarage, as if he needed to conserve his strength in

order to make it through the next service.

The rest of the villagers milled around the churchyard, twittering

excitedly as they exchanged views on the catastrophe that had befallen

Finch. A surprisingly large number of my neighbors had shown up for

the early service. I wondered how many of them had come in order to

get a jump start on the fair and how many had needed spiritual aid to

sustain them after seeing the village green.

While the twins ran off to play hide-and-seek among the headstones, Bill and I gravitated toward a circle that included Emma

and Derek Harris, Lilian Bunting, Mr. Barlow, Grant Tavistock,

Charles Bellingham, Christine Peacock, and Sally Pyne. Sally was

venting her spleen when we joined the group.

“What is the world coming to when full-grown adults behave

like rampaging water buffalo?” she demanded “What kind of example are they setting for their children? They should be ashamed

of themselves, every last one of them. If I’d been here, I would have

given them a few choice words and the back of my hand.”

“If I’d been here, I’d’ve broken a few heads,” growled Mr. Barlow.

“George Wetherhead won’t come out of his house,” said Christine Peacock. “He’s a nervous wreck.”

“Teddy’s terribly shaken, too,” Lilian said, looking anxiously at

the vicarage. “He thought he’d left hooliganism behind when we

left London.”

126 Nancy Atherton

“What happened?” I asked. “Who’s responsible for the mess?”

“Yahoos,” said Mr. Barlow.

“Savages,” said Sally Pyne.

“Barbarians,” said Grant Tavistock.

“Fairgoers,” said Lilian. “A flood of them swept through the village on their way to and from the fair. They stormed the shops,

wrought havoc on the village green, and vanished, like a plague of

locusts.”

“Locusts are a force of nature,” Emma pointed out. “Our disaster was definitely man-made.”

“Did it go on all night?” I asked, surveying their wan faces.

“No,” said Lilian, “but most of us were too worn out after our

day at the fair to deal with the situation when we returned home.”

“I was up till all hours finishing Peggy’s new bodice,” Sally put

in. “I’m going to make her pay dearly for robbing me of a good

night’s sleep.”

“Why did you have to make it overnight?” Emma asked.

Sally’s eyes twinkled. “She heard about the wenches and the belly

dancers. I have a feeling that Jasper will be left in charge of the Emporium from now on, while Peggy takes over the stall at the fair.”

“If she goes at all,” Lilian added portentously. “I’m afraid that

yesterday’s events have revived her antipathy toward the fair.”

“I’m not too keen on it myself, at the moment,” said Derek.

“People threw rubbish out of their car windows as they drove through

Finch. We’re lucky no one was hurt.”

“Very lucky,” said Grant. “A beer bottle came within inches of

striking Charles on the head.”

We all turned to Charles, to express our sympathy and to make

sure that he was all right.

“No harm done,” he said airily. “I must say that when Grant and

I purchased Crabtree Cottage, we didn’t expect to find ourselves in

the middle of a war zone. We were afraid to stand on our own doorstep yesterday.”

“Finch isn’t normally a war zone,” Lilian assured him.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

127

“It’s normally the most peaceful little village in the world,” I

added earnestly.

“It wasn’t yesterday,” said Christine Peacock. “Dick had to use

the soda siphon on some idiot who was swinging on the pub sign.

After that, he put two of the Sciaparelli boys on the door, to keep

drunks away from the pub. Half of the people who drove through

the village were squiffy before they got here.”

“The sober ones were just as bad,” said Sally Pyne. “I left my

niece in charge of the tearoom while I was at the fair. A riot nearly

broke out when she ran out of scones. When she ran out of fairy

cakes, she was so terrified that she locked the front door and hid in

the kitchen until I got back.”

“Teddy attempted to remonstrate with the invaders,” said Lilian, “but he was outnumbered and ignored. Peggy Taxman was so

busy minding the till at the Emporium that she didn’t have time to

assert her authority, and everyone else who might have helped Teddy

was at the fair.” She bowed her head remorsefully. “I can’t tell you

how guilty I feel. While I was off watching magicians and knights,

my poor husband was under siege.”

“If you’re guilty, we’re all guilty,” said Bill, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “We underestimated the destructive

power of irresponsible day-trippers.”

As he withdrew his hand, I saw him glance at his watch, then

look toward the boys, who were using willow wands to conduct an

action-packed sword fight among the headstones.

“Go,” I told him. “You can leave the Rover here with me. Emma

and Derek can take you and the boys to the fair.”

“Shouldn’t we stay here to help with the cleanup?” he asked.

“No, you shouldn’t,” I said. “We’ll have plenty of opportunities

to teach our sons civic responsibility. Right now they have a responsibility to their friends. If they stay here, they’ll let Alison and

Billy down.”

“What do you think, Emma?” Bill asked.

“I think Lori has a point,” Emma replied. “The show must go on.”

128 Nancy Atherton

“I agree,” Lilian said firmly. “Rob and Will have earned their

moment in the sun. We mustn’t allow the inconsiderate actions of

a few bad apples to rob them of it.”

“Hear, hear,” I said.

“Emma can drop me off at home on the way to the fair,” said Derek.

“I’ll round up a crew of riding students and stable hands and bring

them back with me in the van. We’ll manage the cleanup without

you, Bill.”

“Well,” Bill said reluctantly, “if you’re sure. . . .”

“The motion is carried,” said Emma. “We’d better get going. It’s

already half past nine. I want to make sure that the ponies have been

looked after properly, and I’d like the children to practice carrying

the pennons before they ride in the king’s pro cession this afternoon.”

“I’ll round up the twins,” I said.

“I’ll fetch our garb,” said Bill.

I felt a twinge of regret as I saw them off, but it was a very small

one. Although I regretted putting my investigation on hold, my priorities were clear. My village needed me. I wouldn’t have been able

to look my neighbors in the face if I’d gone to the fair while they

floundered beneath a mountain of trash.

“What happened to the window in the Emporium?” I asked,

after I’d rejoined my friends.

“It was struck by a flying mango,” Charles answered. “Five or

six little darlings had a food fight in front of the Emporium with

whatever they could nick from the greengrocer’s bins.”

“Their parents paid for the produce and the damage to Peggy’s

window,” Mr. Barlow told me, “but they didn’t stay behind to clear

up the mess.”

“I’m afraid that task has been left to us,” said Lilian.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may have your attention?”

Peggy Taxman’s voice was loud enough to wake the dead, but they

stayed put, while every living soul in the cemetery swung around to

face her. She stood on the church steps, her hands on her hips, her

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

129

massive bosom heaving with righteous indignation. The morning sun

glinting on her rhinestone-studded glasses made it seem as though

sparks were flying from her eyes.

“I told you a month ago that it would be a mistake to let Calvin

Malvern impose his will on our community,” she thundered. “I told

you that nothing good would come of it. I predicted chaos and

calamity . . .”

“And profits for the Emporium,” Sally interpolated under her

breath.

“. . . and ruin for our village, but would you listen? No, you

would not. Some of you have been so foolish as to welcome these

undesirables into your homes.”

“Don’t you dare criticize my wizard!” Sally shouted, stamping

her foot angrily. “Magus Silveroak is a perfect gentleman.” In an

aside to our circle, she explained, “The name on his credit card is

Gary Pelham, but he likes to be called by his wizard name. It helps

him to stay in character.”

“It’s the same with Merlot,” Christine commented. “The name

on his credit card is Albert Moysey, but he won’t answer to anything but Merlot. And I won’t have a word said against our magician or our jugglers,” she went on in a much louder voice. “They had

nothing to do with what happened yesterday.”

Newcomers to the village invariably kept their opinions to

themselves in Peggy’s presence, but Grant Tavistock set a new prece dent by speaking up in defense of the guest he and Charles had

welcomed to Crabtree Cottage.

“You can leave our mime out of it, too,” he called. “Simon was

devastated when he returned from the fair last night and saw the

state of the village.” He read the question in our eyes and added quietly, “His name is Simon Maris, but since he’s a mime, he doesn’t

really answer to anything.”

We nodded, our curiosity satisfied, and turned our attention to

Peggy Taxman, who was looking daggers at our circle of dissidents.

“You’re missing the point,” she bellowed. “The fair itself brought

130 Nancy Atherton

this blight upon our village. If it weren’t for the fair, Finch would

still be a haven of peace and tranquillity. Because of the fair, many

of us have lost whatever chance we might have had to win the tidy

cottage competition.”

The startled gasp that traveled through the churchyard indicated that I wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten about the tidy cottage competition.

“The judging was to take place this afternoon,” Lilian murmured.

“It’ll have to be canceled,” said Sally. “You can’t see half of the

cottages for the rubbish.”

“We’ll never shift it all by this afternoon,” Mr. Barlow said

gloomily.

“A time-honored village tradition has been disrupted because of

the fair,” Peggy continued. “Our lives have been blighted by the

fair. If we’d shown some backbone at the May meeting, we could

have prevented—” She broke off suddenly and peered toward the

village green.

Every head capable of movement in the churchyard swiveled to

look in the same direction.

“Do you hear . . . music?” I asked hesitantly.

“It sounds like drums and . . . bagpipes,” Mr. Barlow said,

cocking an ear toward the village green.

“Definitely bagpipes,” said Lilian.

“Come on,” I said, starting for the lych-gate. “Let’s find out what’s

going on.”

“You can’t leave!” Peggy roared, as her audience followed me

into the lane. “You haven’t heard my plans yet!”

“I don’t know what she’s worried about,” Sally muttered. “If she

stays here, we’ll still be able to hear her on the green.”

Lilian and I stifled uncharitable chuckles and kept walking. By

the time we reached the green, we’d been joined by nearly every

villager who hadn’t attended the early service at St. George’s. A

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

131

few who were trudging along in bathrobes and bedroom slippers

grumbled that they wouldn’t have bothered to set their alarm

clocks if they’d known the Scots were going to invade.

Miranda Morrow never went to church, but she was on her

knees nonetheless, replanting the trampled fl ower beds around the

war memorial. She waved a muddy trowel at us when we arrived.

“We have visitors!” she announced cheerfully.

Her words weren’t entirely necessary, because we couldn’t have

missed the visitors if we’d tried. Forty men from the fair were arrayed in ranks at the bottom of the humpbacked bridge. The first

row was made up of foot soldiers in leather jerkins, the second, of

courtiers in fine velvets and silks. The last two contained a mixed

bag of pirates, Vikings, monks, beggars, and bards.

Most of them looked bleary-eyed, as if they’d stayed up late the

night before, quaffing. I couldn’t imagine how they’d managed the

long slog from Bishop’s Wood to the village until I saw two of Horace Malvern’s farm trucks parked in front of the tearoom and realized that they’d used modern transport.

Six drummers stood before the assembled men, beating a stirring rhythm on hip-slung marching drums.

“They’re called tabors,” Lilian informed me.

“What are?” I asked.

“The drums,” she replied.

The drummers were flanked by a pair of pipers wearing kilts in

muted shades of brown and gray. Their bagpipes were smaller and

simpler than the pipes I’d seen in Scotland, and the sound they

produced wasn’t quite as deafening.

A short, round-bellied man stood before the drummers, facing

us. Like the soldiers, he was wearing a leather jerkin, but his black

cape and the black ostrich plume in his cap suggested that he might

be their leader. He waited until our group had come to a somewhat

befuddled halt in front of the war memorial, then raised his hand to

stop the music and strode across the green to meet us.

132 Nancy Atherton

“I am Sir James le Victorieux, Knight of the Southern Cross,

and the king’s field marshal,” he announced. “I come to parley with

your ruler.”

The villagers parted automatically to let Peggy Taxman through.

She stepped forward and faced the fi eld marshal unflinchingly.

“My lady.” Sir James doffed his feathered cap and revealed a

balding pate. “I am commissioned by His Royal Highness, King

Wilfred the Good, to offer our services to you. My liege lord has

commanded us to restore your charming hamlet to its original,

untrammeled condition. I await your permission to proceed.”

Peggy surveyed him from head to foot, then snapped, “Well,

don’t stand there like a booby. Get to work!”

The corners of Sir James’s mouth twitched, as if he found Peggy

comical rather than intimidating, but he wisely chose to contain his

merriment as he acknowledged her order. He turned to face his

men, raised his right arm, and brought it down in a chopping motion.

Those of us gathered around the war memorial watched in

stunned amazement as the performers responded to the field marshal’s signal. They broke ranks to form squads, retrieved garbage

bags and cleaning paraphernalia from Mr. Malvern’s farm trucks,

and began to move through the heart of the village, clearing debris

as they went.

It was as though a bearded, hungover, and sweaty maid service

had arrived to clean and polish Finch until it shone. One squad did

nothing but gather soda cans. Another picked up beer bottles. Yet

another collected paper trash, and the pirates removed everything

else. A bard armed with a bucket and a mop cleaned the tearoom’s

doorstep while a Viking scrubbed the schoolhouse doors. A pair of

beggars measured the Emporium’s broken display window.

“I’ll brew some coffee,” Christine Peacock said quietly. “They

look as if they could use it.”

“A cup of tea never goes amiss,” Sally Pyne observed. “And I

think they’ll welcome a bite to eat when they’re done.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

133

In less than ten minutes, Lilian Bunting, Peggy Taxman, and I

were the only villagers remaining on the green. The rest—even

the ones in bathrobes—had gone off to prepare a buffet-style meal

for the hardworking squads and set it up in the schoolhouse.

“Oh, my,” I said softly. “I don’t know who I love more at this

moment—King Wilfred’s men or my neighbors.”

Peggy Taxman snorted derisively. “What’s so wonderful about

the king’s men? They’re only doing what they ought. As for our

neighbors . . . hasn’t it dawned on anyone that we’ll have to go

through the whole pro cess over and over again every weekend from

now until the fair closes?”

A truck’s door opened and Horace Malvern climbed down from

the cab, a cell phone pressed to his ear. He shoved the phone into

his pocket as he hastened toward us.

“Lori, Lilian, Peggy,” he said, nodding to each of us in turn. His

brow was furrowed and his ruddy face was even redder than usual.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I should have seen it coming.”

“I saw it coming,” Peggy reminded him.

“That you did.” Mr. Malvern paused to glance at his watch, then

looked toward Fivefold Farm, frowning.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Malvern?” I asked, suddenly alert.

“It’s gone five past ten,” he said. “We should have heard the cannon by now.”

“I didn’t realize that it could be heard from here,” said Lilian.

“I heard it yesterday,” Peggy told her. “And I was at the counter

inside the Emporium.”

I felt a flutter of unease as I followed Mr. Malvern’s gaze, but

quickly realized that I was being overly suspicious. I had no reason

to worry about a silent weapon. If someone had tried to use the

cannon to kill King Wilfred, it would have gone off with a big

bang.

“I’ve called in a few favors,” Mr. Malvern said, shrugging off the

distraction, “and I’ve made some arrangements that should keep

the village from being overrun from now on.”

134 Nancy Atherton

“What sort of arrangements?” Peggy asked coldly.

“Police officers will set up two drink-driving checkpoints,” he

replied, “one at the fair’s car park and one here, in the village.

They’ll administer breath tests to anyone who appears to be over

the limit. As well, the county is going to put a road crew to work

repairing your lane, Lori.”

“My lane doesn’t need to be repaired,” I said.

“I know it doesn’t,” Mr. Malvern said patiently, “but the roadwork signs will discourage most drivers from using it as a throughway.”

“Brilliant!” I said, beaming at him.

Mr. Malvern scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “You’ll

still have some extra traffic. We won’t be able to keep all of the

fair’s patrons out of Finch—”

“Nor would we want to,” Peggy interrupted. “The decent ones

are good for business.”

“—but we’ll keep out most of the yobbos,” Mr. Malvern concluded. “There’s nothing like the sight of a few coppers to keep folk

on the straight and narrow.”

“If Finch awarded medals for problem-solving,” Lilian declared,

“you’d receive one, Horace. I’m going straight home to put Teddy’s

mind at ease. He’ll want to offer up prayers of thanksgiving for our

industrious helpers and our kind and thoughtful friend.” She patted

Mr. Malvern’s shoulder and turned toward the vicarage.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have other business to attend to,” Peggy

said loftily. “I won’t congratulate you, Horace, until we see if your

plans work.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to,” said Mr. Malvern after she’d disappeared into the Emporium. “Nor would I expect her to thank Magus Silveroak for ringing my nephew from the tearoom last night to

tell him that the village had been trashed. And I certainly wouldn’t

expect her to thank my nephew for sending his men to lend a hand

with the cleanup.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

135

“This was Calvin’s idea?” I said, gesturing to the work crews.

“He put it to the fellows and they agreed to help,” said Mr.

Malvern.

“No coercion?” I said.

Mr. Malvern gave me a sidelong, disbelieving look. “Coercion

doesn’t work on chaps like these, Lori. If they don’t want to do

something, they don’t do it. If you push them, they move on. No,

Cal just talked to them, got them to see things from his point of

view. He grew up here, remember. Finch means a lot to him. And

he wants to stay on Peggy’s good side. If she went to the press to

complain, it could spell trouble for the fair.”

“He’s looking out for Finch’s interests as well as his own,” I

said.

“Aye,” said Mr. Malvern. “He’s got a good heart, does Cal.”

“So do you,” I said. “In my book, you’re a knight in shining armor.”

“I’m a burgher,” he corrected. “What ever that is. Will we see

you today at the fair, or are you going to boycott it?”

“You’ll see me there,” I said. “I’m going to change into my costume as soon as I get home.”

“I’ll stay here until the men finish,” he said. “But I’ll see you

later.”

“See you later,” I said, and headed for the Range Rover.

After speaking with Mr. Malvern, I was convinced that the

saboteur was trying to kill or injure Calvin Malvern for personal

rather than professional reasons. Calvin might run a tight ship,

but he ran it by using persuasion rather than coercion, because

he had no other choice. Harsh tactics didn’t work with Ren fest

people. If they disliked an employer, they simply moved on to

another gig.

The saboteur, therefore, wasn’t a disgruntled employee. He

was someone who had a private quarrel with the king. Edmond

Deland, a young man seething with jealousy, resentment, and the

136 Nancy Atherton

heartache of unrequited love, fit the profile. He wouldn’t rest until

he’d destroyed his rival.

And I wouldn’t rest until I’d stopped him. Nodding grimly, I

climbed into the Rover and started for home. I couldn’t wait to get

to the fair and start interrogating the food vendors. Thanks to Sir

James le Victorieux and his motley band of heroes, I could pursue

my investigation with a clear conscience.

Fourteen

Ichanged into my wench attire—my disguise, as I now

thought of it—in less than fifteen minutes, but it took me

another twenty to work up the courage to wear it outside of

the cottage. The soft leather flats were a great improvement over

the sandals I’d worn the day before, the muffin cap was adorable,

and the flowing skirts allowed for ample freedom of movement,

but the low-cut, body-shaping bodice gave me pause. Every time I

took a breath, I wished I had a shawl.

I reminded myself forcibly that there was enough cleavage on

display at the fair for mine to go unnoticed, and that Bill had forfeited any right he’d ever had to object to my garb. If my cool medieval dude of a husband opened his mouth to complain about

wifely overexposure, I’d simply point to his clinging tights and remind him of what the pot called the kettle.

Fortified, I hung Harold le Rouge’s splendid knife on my leather

belt, slipped a few small necessities into the belt pouch Sally Pyne

had provided, and stepped out into the sunshine. The weather was

so lovely, and I was so wary of being caught in another traffi

c jam,

that I decided on the spot to leave the Mini at home and walk to the

fair. It would take me less than an hour to reach Bishop’s Wood on

foot, via Mr. Malvern’s pastures, and if I needed a lift home later

on, I could always catch a ride with one of my neighbors. I was certain that most of them would return to the fair, if for no other

reason than to show their gratitude to King Wilfred for helping

Finch in its hour of need.

I closed the cottage’s front door, went around to the back garden, hitched up my skirts, and climbed over the stile. Had it been

earlier in the morning, I would have been worried about disturbing

138 Nancy Atherton

Jinks or intruding on his privacy, but I’d gotten such a late start

that I didn’t expect to find him at home. By midmorning, the royal

jester would no doubt be at work, entertaining fairgoers with his

wit and his amazing tumbling runs.

I’d refrained from poking my nose over the stile ever since

Jinks had moved into Mr. Malvern’s cow pasture. Once I’d climbed

down from the stile, however, it seemed only natural to look

around. Jinks’s camper-van was very small and rather rusty, but

the bright yellow curtains in the windows and the lawn chair sitting beside it gave it a homey look. I would have found it trying to

spend a whole summer in such cramped quarters, but I imagined

that Jinks was used to it by now. If he didn’t love the vagabond life,

I reasoned, he would have found another line of work long ago.

Mr. Malvern’s dairy herd had worn a smooth path along the

hedgerow dividing my property from his. I followed the track,

clambering over a few gates along the way, until I reached the edge

of the fair’s extremely crowded parking lot.

The parking lot was a sign of things to come. I had to wait in one

long line to buy my ticket and a second to pass through the gatehouse. The delay would have been frustrating if I hadn’t put the time

to good use, studying the section of wall that had nearly brought

about the king’s downfall. The parapet had been seamlessly repaired

and it showed no signs of more “accidental” breakage, so I assumed

that the opening ceremonies had taken place without incident. I

hadn’t expected it to be otherwise. The saboteur would have aroused

serious suspicion if he’d pulled the same stunt twice.

When I finally passed through the main entrance, I found myself

adrift in a sea of people. Gate house Square was bursting at the

seams with chattering fairgoers, and the winding lanes leading off of

it appeared to be more congested than they had been the day before.

If, as Aunt Dimity had suggested, the saboteur was trying to scare

people away from King Wilfred’s Faire, he was failing miserably.

By the time I reached Pudding Lane, the food vendors were too

busy catering to the needs of their customers to spend time gossiping

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

139

with me. I consoled myself with a honey cake, resolved to return for

another try later in the day, and went in search of the quiet lane in

which I’d first seen the madrigal singers.

I hoped the lane would still be quiet, because I wanted to renew

my brief acquaintance with the crystal-ball vendor. She’d seemed like

a friendly, talkative soul when she’d answered my questions about little Mirabel. If her booth wasn’t swamped by aspiring fortune-tellers, I

was certain that she’d be willing to continue our conversation.

I thought it would be easy to retrace my steps to the crystal-ball

stall, but it wasn’t. The noise, the bustle, and the fair’s infinite distractions made it challenging to plot a steady course though the

labyrinth of crisscrossing lanes. A program book with its handy

map would have helped, but I’d left Saturday’s edition at home and

refused Sunday’s because it was too big to fi t into my belt pouch.

My progress was impeded by the crowds, but it was brought to

a complete halt by a Cyrano de Bergerac clone, who waylaid me at

the junction of Harmony Lane and Broad Street. After presenting

me with a long-stemmed red rose, the flamboyant dandy went

down on one knee to recite a poem in praise of my eyes, while fixing his gaze firmly on my chest. His utterly shameless flirtation attracted a small gathering of amused spectators who seemed to

think I was in on the act. By the time he pressed his lips—and his

oversized nose—to my hand, I was convinced that my disguise was

working. With a little luck, and a little medieval attitude, I’d be

able to infiltrate any part of the fair I chose.

I was still searching for the crystal-ball stall when Peggy Taxman’s unmistakable roar smote my ears.

“Water! Water! Ice-cold water! Get thy water here!”

Her stentorian cry stopped me in my tracks. I shot a furtive

look over my shoulder and saw Peggy standing before a small stall

not twenty feet away from me. My disguise must have fooled her,

because her eyes swept over me without betraying a fl icker of recognition. Relieved, I scurried to hide behind a tree, then peeked

cautiously around the trunk to watch her hawk her wares.

140 Nancy Atherton

“Precious ointment for thy skin!” she bellowed, holding up a

tube of sunblock. “Protect thine epidermis from the orb’s baleful

rays!”

Peggy’s stall was possibly the most popular one at the fair, in

large part because she’d stocked it with items that were useful rather

than decorative. Sun visors, sunblock, lip balm, disposable cameras,

bug spray, packets of tissue, and bottles of hand sanitizer seemed to

fly off the shelves, and she could hardly keep up with the demand

for bottled water.

In addition to meeting her public’s material needs, Peggy gave

them a memorable show. Whether she meant to be or not, she was

a superb performer, a sort of iron-lunged medieval carnival barker.

People lingered after making their purchases, as if they found the

sheer volume of her cries entertaining, though they may have been

impressed by her appearance as well. Peggy filled her yellow-andblue-striped bodice to its furthest extent, but instead of looking ridiculous, she looked majestic. Her statuesque figure, commanding

presence, and practical products attracted a steady stream of buyers

to her stall.

“Don’t know how long those laces will hold,” said a quiet voice

behind me.

I turned to find Sally Pyne peering past me at Peggy.

“They’re made of nylon, but even nylon has its limits,” she went

on. She took a step back and regarded me critically, while making

sure we were still hidden by the tree. “You fill out your top nicely,

Lori—not too much, not too little.”

“Sally,” I protested, folding my arms across my chest.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” she chided. “I saw that chap

with the fake nose giving you the business.”

In hopes of diverting her attention from my more conspicuous

charms, I surveyed her cotton blouse, baggy shorts, and sneakers, and

asked, “Why aren’t you wearing a costume?”

“I’ve been too busy making clothes for other people to make anything for myself,” she replied. “Besides, I’m comfy as I am.” She stuck

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

141

her hands in her pockets and rocked back on her heels. “Have you

heard about King Wilfred’s crown?”

My jaw dropped as an earthshaking insight exploded in my brain.

It was so glaringly obvious that I felt like a complete dunderhead for

not seeing it sooner. The good people of Finch were veritable bloodhounds when it came to sniffing out juicy gobbets of information.

They were observant, attentive, relentless, and always eager to pass

along what they’d learned. I didn’t need to interrogate strangers in

order to find out what was going on at the fair. All I had to do was

chat with my neighbors.

“No,” I said, leaning toward Sally. “I haven’t heard about King

Wilfred’s crown.”

Sally leaned toward me and lowered her voice. “He’s wearing a

different one today. Word has it that the pointy one he wore yesterday has gone missing.”

“Missing?” I repeated suggestively.

“Stolen,” she confirmed. “Worth a tidy sum, they say.”

“You’re kidding,” I said. “It looked like a piece of costume jewelry

to me.”

“Most of the stones are paste,” Sally conceded. “But the sapphire

and the diamonds are real. He took ’em from his mother’s engagement ring and put ’em in the crown, in memory of her. So they say.”

“Poor Calvin,” I said, shaking my head sadly. “Has he notified the

police?”

“No,” said Sally. “Calvin doesn’t want the police nosing around

the camp. They might not like some of the things they find there.”

She winked. “Unconventional tobacco, that sort of thing.”

Mr. Barlow appeared at Sally’s elbow. He seemed to materialize

out of nowhere, but he, too, was careful to put the tree between

himself and Peggy Taxman. Like Sally, Mr. Barlow was dressed in

everyday summer clothing, but apparently neither of them needed

to disguise themselves in order to garner gossip.

“I expect you’ve told Lori about the crown,” he said to Sally.

“I was just telling her,” she said.

142 Nancy Atherton

“It’s appalling,” I said. “Absolutely appalling.”

“Wait till you hear about the cannon,” said Mr. Barlow.

“I was getting to that,” Sally said, frowning irritably.

“What happened to the cannon?” I asked.

“Someone tampered with it,” said Mr. Barlow. “That’s why it

didn’t go off this morning.”

“So they say,” Sally put in.

“Good grief,” I said. “How was it tampered with?”

“Someone fiddled with the barrel,” said Mr. Barlow. “If it had

gone off, it would have blown the cannoneers to kingdom come.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Sally objected. “I heard that someone

filled the barrel with cannonballs and aimed it at the gate house.”

“What ever the case,” said Mr. Barlow, frowning skeptically at

Sally, “Horace Malvern was fit to be tied. Says he won’t have the

dratted thing used again. Wants it off his property before someone

gets hurt.”

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“Seems they dragged it off to that camp of theirs,” said Mr. Barlow, nodding vaguely in the direction of the encampment.

“Shouldn’t have brought it here in the first place,” Sally opined.

“Dangerous things, cannon.”

“They’re not dangerous if they’re handled properly,” said Mr.

Barlow.

“They are if they’re tampered with,” retorted Sally.

“If they’ve been tampered with, they haven’t been handled

properly,” Mr. Barlow explained.

I sensed a

Finch-style

tug-of-war argument coming on and

quickly excused myself.

“Sorry,” I said, handing the long-stemmed rose to Sally. “I have

to run. I told Bill and the boys I’d meet them at the petting zoo.”

“Good to see you, Lori,” said Mr. Barlow.

“Though we’re not used to seeing quite so much of you,” Sally

said archly.

Their sniggers followed me as I fled, red-faced, up the next lane.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

143

Sally’s saucy comment had reminded me that there were drawbacks

to speaking with neighbors, but my mortification was forgotten

when I lifted my gaze from the ground and saw in the distance the

glitter of a vagrant sunbeam striking a crystal ball. I hurried forward, spotted the stall filled with bronze dragons, and knew that I’d

found the quiet lane at last.

The crystal-ball vendor was holding an animated discussion with

a young woman wearing a turban, a spangled bolero, and a pair of

genie pants. I assumed that the young woman was a customer and

hung back, waiting for her to finish, but my attention was quickly

drawn to a flurry of whispers coming from the gap between two

stalls on my left.

My busybody instincts kicked into gear. Without hesitation, I

sidled over to the gap to eavesdrop on the whisperers. In less than

a second, I knew that I’d struck gold. Edmond and Mirabel were

engaged in a hushed but spirited argument, and they weren’t bothering to use medieval patois.

“I don’t care if you ever look at me again,” Edmond was saying.

“I just don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I’m not going to be hurt,” said Mirabel.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” said Edmond. “He has a reputation—”

“A man like him can’t help having a reputation,” Mirabel interrupted. “I simply refuse to believe most of the stories I’ve heard

about him.”

“They’re all true,” Edmond insisted. “I’ve seen him use other

girls the same way. He always picks the youngest and most inexperienced cast member.”

“I’m twenty years old, Edmond,” Mirabel said heatedly. “I’m not

a child.”

“I know,” said Edmond, “but you’re new to this sort of thing.

It’s easy to get caught up in the fantasy.”

“I think I can tell the difference between reality and fantasy,

thank you very much,” Mirabel snapped.

144 Nancy Atherton

“If you could, you’d realize that he’s toying with you,” said Edmond. “It’s a game to him. It’s not real. He’s playing a role, and

part of his role is to sweep girls off their feet.”

“I rather enjoy being swept off my feet,” Mirabel said airily.

“You won’t when you land on your face,” Edmond warned

sternly. “He’ll use you, then he’ll toss you aside.”

“You’re talking about his past,” said Mirabel. “I happen to know

that he’s changed.”

“Is that what he told you?” Edmond gave a strangled groan of

exasperation. “It’s the oldest line in the world.”

“He means it this time,” said Mirabel.

“You’re deluding yourself,” said Edmond. “Please, Janet—”

“I’m not Janet,” she scolded. “I’m Mirabel.”

“You’re Janet Watkins,” Edmond stated doggedly. “You were

born and raised in Nottingham and you’ll go back there when the

summer’s over because it’s your home, it’s where you belong. Mirabel is a role you play.”

“Do you know what your problem is, Edmond?” Mirabel said,

her voice rising. “You’re boring. Here we are, in the most romantic

place in the world, and you act as though it’s just another job. Look

at you, in your jeans and your boring shirt. You’re ordinary. You have

no imagination. You don’t have an ounce of poetry in your soul.

You’d never throw me over your shoulder and carry me off to your

castle. You’d ask me to sit in your wheelbarrow and trundle me off to

your bungalow. Now, will you please get on with your work and stop

following me around like a pathetic puppy? I can look after myself.”

I heard the swish of Mirabel’s skirts and swung around to face

the nearest stall. While I pretended to examine a display of grotesque gargoyles, Mirabel stormed past me to join the other madrigal singers, who’d assembled in front of the bronze dragons. Some

of the girls appeared to commiserate with her, but the tallest one

quickly called them to order. A moment later, the lane was filled

with their exquisite harmony.

I was about to peek between the stalls, to see if Edmond had

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

145

lingered, when he emerged from the shadows to cast a hopeless

look in Mirabel’s direction. She missed a note, glared at him, and

went on singing with a furious gusto that made the tallest girl put a

hand on her shoulder, as if to calm her down. Edmond bowed his

head and clenched his jaw as if he were in pain, then turned on his

heel and slipped silently back through the gap.

I followed him. If he’d been desperate enough to steal the king’s

crown and tamper with the cannon before his confrontation with

Mirabel, there was no telling what he’d do after it. He might retreat

to a private hideaway to lick his wounds, or he might behave like a

cornered animal and lash out. Whatever he did, I wanted to be on

hand to witness it.

Aunt Dimity had cautioned me against putting myself in harm’s

way, and I had every intention of heeding her warning. Edmond

was a strapping young man and I was handicapped by long skirts

and a bodice that might burst under stress, so I wouldn’t hurl myself in front of him if he decided to attack the king outright, nor

would I wrestle him to the ground to keep him from committing a

fresh act of sabotage. I would, however, shout a word of warning to

foil a physical assault, if necessary, and I would do my best to prevent any act of sabotage from succeeding.

Edmond seemed to be too absorbed in his own misery to notice

the strange woman flitting from stall to stall behind him. It was

hardly surprising. Mirabel hadn’t simply rejected him, she’d slammed

his good intentions to the ground and stomped on them. Her final

riposte had been crushing enough to send anyone into a tailspin. If

Edmond hadn’t already won my vote for Most Likely to Murder, my

heart would have gone out to him.

The dark-haired young handyman walked with his head down,

but he appeared to have a definite destination in mind because he

never paused to double-check his location or stand irresolute at a

crossroads. He cut between stalls several times, and though many

vendors and performers called out friendly greetings to him as he

passed, he didn’t respond to any of them.

146 Nancy Atherton

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 pro cession.

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 pro cession 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 pro cession. 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

“

vaunt ye, thou gorbellied, milk-livered measle!”

“Callest thou me a measle, ye mammering,

boil-A 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 aff ected 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.”

148 Nancy Atherton

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

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

149

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 pro cession. 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 fl at.

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. Wildflowers grew among the long grasses, filling the air with sweet,

subtle fragrances, and small birds twittered in the trees.

150 Nancy Atherton

“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

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

151

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 fi tted 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 fl attery 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

152 Nancy Atherton

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 fi nished, 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

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

153

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?”

154 Nancy Atherton

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

y.

“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 gate house 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 gate house would collapse,” said Jinks.

“The truth is, it was still a work in progress.”

“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 diffi

cult 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

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

155

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.”

Silence fell between us. While Jinks savored his sweet confection, I turned his explanations over in my mind. I would have found

them reassuring if they’d accounted for all of the facts, but it was

patently clear that they hadn’t. Contrary to popular opinion, King

Wilfred wasn’t universally beloved. He had at least one mortal enemy. The entire gate house may have been a jury-rigged mess, but

only one parapet had fallen. Edmond could have sawn through

the temporary struts holding it in place, just as he could have altered

the appearance of the rope before presenting it for inspection—the

clean cut I’d seen had been made by a knife, not a nail.

I glanced at Jinks, then looked at the sparkling water streaming

over the mossy rocks. I simply couldn’t bring myself to ask him

about Edmond and Mirabel. If I added a love triangle to the regicide plot, he’d patronize me again, and I would have to kill him. I

took a calming breath and reminded myself firmly that I wanted to

prevent a murder, not commit one.

“Strawberry for your thoughts,” Jinks said, holding one out to me.

156 Nancy Atherton

“You’ve heard enough of my thoughts for one afternoon,” I

told him.

“Take it anyway.” He placed the strawberry in my hand. “As a

peace offering. You’re looking very stormy.”

“It’s just . . .” I shrugged helplessly. “There’s a lot to take in, at

a Ren fest.”

A sweet smile curved Jinks’s crooked lips. He stretched out on

his back, crossed his legs, cupped his head in his clasped hands, and

gazed up at the trees.

“You mentioned earlier that the fair reminded you of Finch,” he

said. “In many ways, a Ren fest is a small village. Granted, there’s a

heightened sense of drama among the people in my village, but what

would you expect? We’re actors. We live by our emotions. We have

our petty squabbles and our long-running feuds, but we also have a

strong sense of camaraderie and a deep awareness of how lucky we

are to be able to practice our crafts in such a congenial setting. If

there’s a pretender to the throne, he doesn’t kill the king. He auditions for the role at another Ren fest. Or he starts his own.” Jinks

chuckled quietly, then turned his head to look at me. “We take our

work seriously, Lori, but we’re well aware that it’s make-believe.”

Jinks seemed to be telling me, in the nicest possible way, that

I’d gotten so caught up in the fair that I could no longer tell the difference between fantasy and reality. It was exactly the same thing

Edmond had told Mirabel, but my reaction was quite different

from hers. I didn’t fire cutting phrases into Jinks’s well-meaning

brain. I decided instead to prove that he was wrong.

“Thanks.” I swept a hand through the air. “For all of this. I’ve

really enjoyed your lunch break.”

“I hope you’re enjoying the fair as well,” he said.

“I’d enjoy it more if I could get the recipe for those honey

cakes,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him.

“Consider it done.” He moaned softly as he pushed himself into

a sitting position. “You have no idea how much I hate to say it, Lori,

but I have to go back to work.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

157

“I should get back, too,” I said. “I don’t know how I’m going to

explain to my sons why I wasn’t on hand to watch them in the

arena.”

“Tell them you were investigating an attempted regicide,” he

suggested, his eyes twinkling. “They’ll be impressed.”

“Good idea,” I said. After all, I thought, with an inward smile,

mothers should always tell their children the truth.

Sixteen

J inks and I parted ways at the nearly invisible gate. He went

off to the Great Hall, where the king was conferring

knighthoods on pretty much anyone who wanted one, including women, children, and small dogs, while I made my way

back to the crystal-ball vendor’s stall. I had no trouble fi nding it. I

simply followed the sound of Peggy Taxman’s voice and darted up

the lane next to hers.

The vendor was delighted to see me again, possibly because she

had no other customers. Her Rennie name, I discovered, was Mistress Farseeing, and she was every bit as talkative as I’d hoped

she’d be. In no time at all I learned that she lived on Feversham

Lane in Glastonbury with her husband, Hubert, and their cocker

spaniel, Mr. Wink; that she ran a fortune-telling supply business

from her home; that her three grown children—Hubert, Jr., Gwen,

and Lance—were mortified by her fascination with the occult;

and that Edmond Deland’s tent was one of the smallest in the encampment.

“No bigger than a peasant’s pocket,” she said, chuckling merrily, “but neat as Lord Belvedere’s beard. You won’t find rubbish

strewn about dear Edmond’s dwelling place.”

“You’re fond of him, then,” I said, recalling the friendly greetings Edmond had received from other vendors as he’d crossed the

fairground.

“That I am,” she agreed. “Poor lad. His affl

ictions are grievous,

but he bears them nobly.”

“Affl

ictions?” I prompted.

“Matters of the heart.” Mistress Farseeing folded her arms and

bent her muffin cap close to mine. “His ladylove scorns him and

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

159

bestows her favor on another. ’Tis a tale as old as time, with a sting

is as sharp as an adder’s.”

I would have pursued the topic further, but Mistress Farseeing

transferred her attention to a black-clad young woman sporting an

eye-popping array of tattoos and so many body piercings that, by

rights, she should have leaked. Since I’d shown no inclination to

spend money at the stall, the vendor’s defection was understandable and I bade her adieu with a cordial nod.

The time for talk was over anyway. I was ready to take action.

Aunt Dimity had urged me to find tangible proof to support my

claims, and after speaking with Jinks, I had a good notion of where

to look for it. My next stop would be the encampment.

The cannon seemed like a dead end—I wasn’t interested in

teenagers’ pranks—but the missing crown presented definite possibilities. Jinks doubted that the crown had been stolen, believing

instead that it had been “borrowed” by a cast member who planned

to return it in a humorous manner—on a pony’s head, for

example.

I thought it far more likely that Edmond had stolen the crown.

After his first two assassination attempts had failed, he would have

found it enormously satisfying to dethrone his rival symbolically.

Since the king’s motor home hadn’t been burgled, however, I suspected that Edmond had acted on impulse instead of with cool

calculation.

It wasn’t hard to imagine the scenario. I could picture King

Wilfred weaving tipsily from the banquet table to his motor home

after a long eve ning spent quaffi

ng with the lads. He’d bent to adjust a garter, perhaps, and the crown had tumbled from his head.

Although the king had been too far gone to notice its absence, the

young man who’d been tailing him was cold sober.

Edmond had seized the opportunity to deal the king another

blow—not a physical blow this time, but a blow to the mind and

the spirit—by retrieving the fallen crown and fading back into the

shadows. He’d returned with it to his tent and stashed it among his

160 Nancy Atherton

belongings, where it would remain until a clever person came

along and found it.

I would be that clever person. I would make Aunt Dimity proud

of me by proving that Edmond had stolen King Wilfred’s crown. I

would slip into the encampment, locate his tent, and search it from

top to bottom. I’d lost the rope, but I was determined to find the

crown.

When the town crier informed those within earshot that it was

half past three of the clock, I lifted my skirts and quickened my pace.

In ninety short minutes, the fair would close and the workers would

return to the camp. I had to reach Edmond’s tent before he did.

I scurried through the picnic area, past the arena and the royal

gallery, which had been taken over by a knot of giggling wenches

who were, I assumed, lying in wait for a soldier, a squire, a knight,

or any male who looked reasonably attractive in tights. I gave them

a withering glance, then jogged around to the far end of the white

marquee, where I paused to scan the stabling area and the pasture.

Angelus, Lucifer, Thunder, Storm, Pegasus, and the McLaughlin ponies were grazing peacefully in the pasture, but their owners

were nowhere to be seen. I wondered fleetingly where the Anscombe

Manor team had gone, then ran for the row of poplars.

The tall, slender trees stood on a small rise overlooking a vast

field that had once held Mr. Malvern’s largest herd of cattle. The

cows had been moved to the slightly smaller fi eld on the other side

of an imposing hedgerow and their old stomping ground had been

turned into a veritable metropolis.

My heart sank as I beheld the most complex campground I’d

ever seen. It seemed to contain tents of every imaginable size, shape,

and color. Most were the freestanding nylon variety used by outdoorsmen the world over, but scattered among them were teepees,

yurts, geodesic domes, old-fashioned pup tents, tarpaulins strung

between poles, elegant pavilions that looked as though they’d sprung

from the pages of The Arabian Nights, and cavernous canvas behemoths with vinyl windows and covered patios.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

161

Recreational vehicles sat in an orderly row a short distance

away from the tent jungle. The RVs were arranged according to

size, from the smallest, which were similar to Jinks’s camper-van,

to the largest, which was so gargantuan that only a madman would

have attempted to drive it down an English country lane. I decided

that the last one had to be Calvin’s, both because of its regal proportions and because it was the only RV with a cannon parked in

front of it.

Since my chances of finding Edmond’s tent in less than ninety

minutes ranged from slim to nonexis tent, I elected to check out the

cannon. Although I knew absolutely nothing about field artillery

I felt compelled to investigate something, and the cannon was the

most obvious choice. I was about ten steps away from it when a gruff

voice ordered me to stop.

I turned to fi nd myself looking up at the gray-bearded face of a

glowering Lord Belvedere. He was about a foot taller than me and

his right hand was resting on the hilt of a sword that looked terrifyingly sharp and shiny. For a moment I was afraid he’d either run me

through or challenge me to a duel.

He surveyed me with a hawklike gaze, then barked, “Who are

you and what are you doing here?”

There was no question of lying to such a fierce-looking authority figure, so I told most of the truth as quickly as I could.

“My name is Lori Shepherd and I live next door to Horace

Malvern—well, not next door, exactly, but my property runs alongside his,” I babbled in a half-panicked squeak.

“You don’t sound English to me,” he growled, eyeing me suspiciously.

“That’s because I’m not English,” I told him. “I’m from the States

originally, but I’ve lived near Finch for years and years. My husband

and I are raising our sons in a cottage not far from here. Perhaps

you’ve met them? My husband is Bill Willis—I didn’t change my

name when we got

married—and our sons are Will and Rob.

They’re riding in the—”

162 Nancy Atherton

“—pro cession and in the arena,” he finished for me. He seemed

to thaw ever so slightly, but he didn’t remove his hand from his

sword hilt. “What are you doing here, near the cannon?”

I gulped. “I heard that it misfired this morning—”

“It didn’t misfire,” Lord Belvedere interjected irritably. “It

didn’t fire at all.”

“Why not?” I asked, and when his lordship’s scowl darkened, I

added hurriedly, “It’s just that I’ve heard all sorts of rumors and I

want to be able to tell people what really happened so they won’t

be afraid to come to the fair next weekend.”

“You can tell the rumormongers that the cannon is in perfect

working order,” said Lord Belvedere. “It wasn’t used this morning

because some blithering idiot put projectiles in the barrel.”

“Aren’t there usually projectiles in the barrel?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” said Lord Belvedere, looking offended. “This

cannon isn’t used as an offensive weapon. Its purpose is to create an

impressive sound. If the barrel hadn’t been cleared, it would in all

likelihood have exploded, killing or severely injuring the cannoneers.”

“Good lord,” I said, casting a nervous glance at the barrel.

“Thankfully, our men are well trained,” Lord Belvedere continued. “They follow a strict routine before every firing. The prank

was discovered as soon as the men sponged the bore. Once the

projectiles were removed, the cannon could have been employed,

but Mr. Malvern was so upset by the incident that we decided not

to use it.”

“It sounds as though the blithering idiot didn’t know much

about proper artillery procedures and practices,” I commented. “If

he had, he would have known that his prank would be found out

before it ever got off the ground . . . so to speak.”

“Very true,” said Lord Belvedere.

“What kind of projectiles did he use?” I asked.

“Since the matter is still under investigation, I’d rather not say.”

Lord Belvedere raised an iron-gray eyebrow. “Have I appeased your

curiosity, madam?”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

163

“You have,” I said. “And you’ve done so most graciously.” I turned

to look at the encampment. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. Jinks told me—”

“You know Jinks?” said Lord Belvedere.

“I’ve chatted with him a few times,” I said. “His camper-van is

parked in the pasture next to my back garden.”

“Yes, of course.” Lord Belvedere nodded, as if my words had

tweaked his memory. “He needed space in which to practice his

tumbling.”

“He certainly does,” I said, venturing a smile. “There’s not

enough room here to swing a gerbil. I don’t think I’d be able to find

my own tent in such a mishmash.”

“It’s not a mishmash,” said Lord Belvedere. “It’s a highly stratified community.” He finally lifted his hand from his sword and gestured for me to walk with him. “Come with me and I’ll show you.”

Together we retraced my steps to the top of the rise, then turned

to look out over the encampment. Slowly and carefully, Lord Belvedere helped me to see patterns in the seeming chaos.

The tents were, in fact, arranged in carefully delineated clusters defi ned by the roles people played in the fair. Within the general encampment, there was the weekenders’ camp, the Rennies’

camp, the actors’ camp, the vendors’ camp, the jousters’ camp, and

a mixed area known simply as “the other camp.” The RV area was

called “electric row” because the larger RVs had their own generators.

Hygiene was evidently not a prime concern in the encampment,

because the nearest laundromat was ten miles away, in the small

market town of Upper Deeping, and the bathroom facilities were

limited to four portable showers and two dozen chemical toilets.

Lord Belvedere assured me that most of the resident cast members

brought their own washing facilities with them, but the thought of

spending an entire summer—or even an entire weekend—washing

my hair under a perforated plastic bag filled with cold water made

my scalp crawl.

164 Nancy Atherton

“I imagine you must have a few handymen on staff for emergency

repairs,” I said. “Where do they stay?”

“In the tradesmen’s camp,” he said, pointing to a small cluster

of modest tents to the left of a large multicolored pavilion.

I fastened my gaze on the tradesmen’s camp and tried to visualize the most direct route to it.

“I’m afraid I must leave you,” said Lord Belvedere. “Closing ceremonies are upon us.”

“Already?” I said, and I wasn’t feigning disappointment. I’d come

too close to turn back. “Would it be all right if I looked around the

encampment? I promise not to bother anyone.”

“You mustn’t touch anything, either,” he cautioned. “You might

injure yourself, and our insurance costs are high enough already.”

“I won’t touch a thing,” I promised. “May I look around? Please?”

Lord Belvedere stroked his beard reflectively and for the first

time allowed his hawklike gaze to slide downward from my face.

“Of course, my dear. You are a neighbor, after all. And a very pretty

one at that.” He bowed gracefully. “Until we meet again.”

“Until then,” I responded, and as I headed into the encampment, I silently blessed Sally Pyne and her uplifting needlework.

Seventeen

T he downside of wearing a fitted bodice became apparent

when I took a wrong turn and stumbled into the jousters’

camp. If the wind had been blowing in the other direction, I would have been forewarned by the unmistakable manly

stink, but with the wind at my back, I didn’t notice it until it was

too late.

Up to that point, my journey through the encampment had been

an eye-opening experience for entirely different reasons. In many

ways, the encampment was like any other campground. The spaces

between the tents were littered with usual jumble of barbecue

grills, lawn chairs, insulated coolers, picnic tables, washtubs, cricket

bats, soccer balls, laundry lines, and overflowing trash bins.

In many more ways, however, the encampment was unlike any

place I’d ever been. Pennons emblazoned with heraldic devices fluttered from the roof poles of nearly every tent, as if each were a separate country, and the laundry lines

were hung with doublets,

pantaloons, and muffin caps rather than T-shirts, hiking shorts, and

bathing suits.

Some campers had rigged up complicated cast-iron spits over

open fires. Others had casks of ale cooling in the shade of small leantos. I walked past pyramids of juggling balls, stacks of fire-eaters’ batons, scores of antique musical instruments, and enough lethal-looking

weaponry to start a second Hundred Years’ War. I didn’t see any

naked bottoms, but I figured they’d show up later, after work had

ended and playtime had begun.

I was so engrossed in the details of my surroundings that I

didn’t know I’d entered the jousters’ camp until I looked up to see

five grubby foot soldiers lounging in lawn chairs around a bonfire

166 Nancy Atherton

pit, with their backs to the entrance of a huge multicolored pavilion fl ying the black dragon standard.

It took me less than a nanosecond to conclude that the soldiers

gathered there would never be interested in my mind. As I backed

away from their much-too-admiring gazes, the bulkiest soldier,

who looked as though he hadn’t bathed or combed his hair since the

Battle of Hastings, called over his shoulder, “Jack! The eve ning’s

entertainment has arrived early! She must be eager to get started.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, planted my hands on my hips, and

said frostily, “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh-ho!” said the bulky soldier, nudging the man next to him.

“A feisty one. Jack’ll like her.”

The rest of the men emitted grunts of agreement accompanied

by a low rumble of lascivious laughter. I was calculating how long it

would take me to slap the goatish grins off of their faces when Sir

Jacques de Poitiers emerged from the pavilion, adjusting his dragon-embossed black leather jerkin. His eyes met mine and a small,

puzzled smile played about his lips. He made a flicking motion with

his hand and the grinning, grunting soldiers dispersed.

“You must forgive my comrades.” He crossed to stand a few feet

away from me, as if he feared that I might make a run for it if he

came any nearer. His voice was deep, slightly hoarse, and very attractive, and his

coal-black eyes

were fringed with long, dark

lashes. “They’re barbarians. They know no better.”

“I’ll teach them,” I offered, clenching both hands.

“I’m afraid your lessons would fall on deaf ears, and your fists

on rather thick skulls,” he said with a winsome grimace. “Please

allow me to apologize on their behalf. They will not trouble you

again.”

“Apology accepted,” I said shortly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“One moment more, I beg of you,” he said. “I don’t believe

we’ve been introduced.” He pointed his toe and sank into a low

bow. “Sir Jacques de Poitiers, at your service.”

“Madame de Bergere,” I said, curtsying politely. I hadn’t planned

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

167

to acquire a Rennie name, but I was glad that a suitable one had

popped into my head. “Bergere” was the French word for shepherdess,

which was as close as I would allow the Dragon Knight—or any of

his comrades—to come to my real last name. “Pleased to meet

you. Now I really must—”

“Why have we not met before, Mistress?” Sir Jacques interrupted.

I shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess.”

“Come, now,” the knight chided gently. “You mustn’t be cross

with me because of my men’s unchivalrous behavior. Unlike them,

I know how to treat a lady.”

He took a step forward and exhaled a cloud of ale fumes potent

enough to pickle granite. I coughed, glanced at the symbol embossed on his leather jerkin, and suddenly understood the meaning

of the term “dragon breath.”

“Mistress,” he continued, “you appear to be distressed. Have

you perchance lost your way? You have only to command me and I

will escort you safely to your destination.”

The clock that had been ticking in the back of my brain ever

since the town crier had announced the time grew noticeably

louder. It struck me that it would be worth spending a few minutes

in Randy Jack’s company if he could help me to find Edmond’s tent

before nightfall. I gazed into his dark eyes and began to invent a

cover story to go along with my new name.

“I don’t need an escort,” I told him, “but I could use a good set

of directions. The problem is, a customer broke a shelf in my stall.

I’d like Edmond Deland to fix it, so I’m trying to find his tent.”

Sir Jacques frowned. “Eddie won’t return to his quarters until

long after closing ceremonies. He never does, and though I’m sorry

to say it, all work and no play has made him a very dull boy indeed.”

“That’s odd,” I said, trying to sound both troubled and perplexed. “He told me to meet him there right about now.”

“Did he?” The knight’s puzzled frown slowly morphed into a

168 Nancy Atherton

knowing grin. “Steady Eddie is skiving off work early in order to

meet you in his tent, is he? It’ll be a tight fit in that sad little cot of

his, but well worth the effort—for him, at least. Having seen you,

I can sympathize fully with his sense of urgency, though I confess

that I never expected him to act on his . . . urges.”

Sir Jacques’ insinuations were as alarming as they were unsubtle. I attempted to set him straight.

“I think there’s been a slight misunderstanding,” I began. “Edmond Deland and I aren’t—”

“You can have no secrets from me, Mistress,” said the knight,

waving me to silence. “Your bewitching blushes admit the truth,

even if your shapely lips will not. I’m pleased to hear that Eddie has

moved on, though I daresay some in camp will be disappointed to

learn that he isn’t as lily-white as he seems.” He took another step

toward me. “I hope, for his sake, that you aren’t, either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said impatiently. “I’m old enough to be

his—”

“What has age to do with passion?” Sir Jacques interrupted. “If

youth fails to quench your thirst, however, I hope you’ll remember

that an older, more experienced man—a real man—is ready and

willing to fulfill your wildest fantasies. Come, my petal, don’t be

shy. Taste the delights that await you.”

Before I could react to his preposterous speech, he lunged forward, caught me by the waist, slammed me into his body, and clamped

his mouth over mine. I couldn’t tell whether it was a good kiss or not

because I was too busy trying not to vomit. Randy Jack had clearly

never heard of toothpaste, let alone mouthwash, and he was in dire

need of both.

I jerked my head away from his and pushed with all my might

against his chest, but his workouts in the arena had given him the

strength of a gorilla. His arms tightened around me like steel bands.

“She has spirit,” he breathed. “She has fire.”

I choked on ale fumes and raised my knee until it touched the

hem of his jerkin.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

169

“If you want to sit straight in the saddle again,” I said, gasping,

“you’ll unhand me this instant!”

Sir Jacques lowered his gaze, took stock of his position, and released me. I backed away from him, trembling with rage.

“Don’t ever come near me again,” I snarled. “And for God’s sake,

buy a toothbrush!”

I spat disgustedly into the bonfire pit, turned on my heel, and

took off. I kept walking until I’d put a couple of yurts between me

and the Dragon Knight, then ducked into the space between two

empty pup tents and stood there, spitting repeatedly and shuddering

with revulsion.

While I waited for my blood pressure to drop, it gradually

dawned on me that I’d acquired two extremely useful facts during

my unexpected encounter with Randy Jack. For one thing, I’d

learned that Edmond wouldn’t return to his tent for some time

yet, and for another, I’d remembered that the tradesmen’s camp

was a hundred yards to the left of the multicolored black dragon

pavilion.

Heartened, I wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my chemise

and set out for the tradesmen’s camp. I found it without further

delay and, bearing Mistress Farseeing’s description in mind, went

from tent to tent until I found the tidiest one. Apart from a metallic-blue motorbike parked next to it and a huge plastic water jug perched

on a small wooden stool near the tent’s entrance, the space around

it was completely clear and clutter-free. I wasn’t certain that I’d

reached my goal, however, until I spotted a monogram on the

leather tool kit attached to the motorbike’s handlebars.

“ED,” I whispered, tracing the letters with a fingertip. “Edmond Deland. Eureka, I’ve found it!”

Edmond’s tent wasn’t quite as small as the average peasant’s pocket,

but it wasn’t the Taj Mahal, either. With its ropes, stakes, and

khaki-colored canvas, it looked like an old army-surplus tent, with

straight walls and a peaked roof. It wasn’t fancy, but it appeared to

have plenty of headroom and enough floor space to accommodate

170 Nancy Atherton

four very close friends. I borrowed a handful of water from the jug

and used it to rinse my mouth thoroughly before pulling the tent flap

aside and entering Edmond’s domain.

It was a humble, almost spartan domain. The tent didn’t have a

floor, but Edmond had made provisions for rainy days by stacking

his meager belongings atop plastic milk crates. The only other furnishings were a narrow camp bed, a card table, and a folding chair.

The table was set with a plastic plate, a plastic cup, and plastic

utensils, and a camping lantern hung from the roof pole. His shaving kit, a neatly folded towel, and a small square mirror rested on a

milk crate at the foot of the bed.

A crate near the head of the bed held one solitary object. The

framed photograph of little Mirabel had been turned to face the

thin pillow. In it, her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a pale pink T-shirt, blue jeans, and brown sandals,

and stood on the steps of a modest brick bungalow, smiling bashfully at the camera lens, as though she were a bit embarrassed to be

immortalized on film.

As I looked down at Mirabel’s shy, smiling, and very young

face, I wondered if she knew how much Edmond loved her. I

doubted it. The Steady Eddies of the world didn’t get much credit

for having deep emotions, yet Edmond’s love for Mirabel was as

powerful as it was pure. I don’t care if you ever look at me again, he’d

said. I just don’t want you to be hurt. His happiness counted for nothing, as long as he knew she was happy, but he could not stand idly

by and do nothing if he knew she was at risk of being hurt.

I felt sorry for Edmond, but I thought I understood Mirabel, too.

She was too young to value what Edmond had to offer her. Reliability was an admirable trait, but it wasn’t exciting. At this stage in her

life, Mirabel wanted fireworks, not a steadfast, dependable flame,

and I couldn’t blame her. Who wouldn’t trade the ordinary world

for one filled with wizards and dragons and dreams? She hadn’t lived

long enough to learn that wizards could be evil, that dragons could

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

171

breathe fire, and that the worst dreams were sometimes the ones

that came true.

Mirabel wouldn’t appreciate Edmond’s true worth until her

fantasy world came crashing down around her. I had to keep the

young handyman from doing something that would land him in jail

for the rest of his life because a noble heart like his was worth saving, and because his ladylove would need him desperately when the

king’s dalliance with her had run its course.

I turned away from the photograph, surveyed my surroundings, and sighed. I didn’t need to search the tent to know that King

Wilfred’s crown wasn’t there. A pointy diadem set with glittering

gems would have stood out like an inflatable alligator among Edmond’s meager belongings. I examined the dirt floor hopefully,

looking for signs of a recently dug hole, but I found nothing to indicate that he’d hidden the crown by burying it.

I could have howled with frustration. I’d gone through an awful

lot to reach Edmond’s tent. I’d been scared half to death by Lord

Belvedere, leered at by grubby foot soldiers, and physically assaulted

by Sir Jacques de Poitiers, and it had all been for nothing. Though I

refrained from howling, I allowed myself a small, self-pitying moan

before I returned to the entrance. I’d accomplished all I could accomplish in Edmond’s tent. I wanted to go home.

My fingers were touching the tent flap when I heard the sound

of approaching footsteps.

“Edmond!” a man called. “Hold on a minute, will you? I need to

talk to you about the schedule for next weekend.”

I snatched my hand away from the flap and jumped back from

the entrance, feeling cornered and incredibly stupid. If Edmond

caught me inside his tent, I stood a good chance of ending up in

prison before he did. I briefly considered staying put and brazening

it out, but concluded that such tactics would do me no good in the

long run. Once Edmond saw me close-up, he’d remember me, and

I’d never again be able to follow him covertly.

172 Nancy Atherton

I scanned the milk crates, the camp bed, and the card table, but

if there was no place to hide a crown, there was certainly no place

to hide a full-grown woman. Then my eyes caught the gleam of

daylight shining through the gap between the tent’s bottom edge

and the dirt fl oor, and I hit upon a daring escape plan.

I darted to the rear of the tent, flung myself to the ground, and

dragged myself under the back wall to freedom. The tricky maneuver cost me my muffin cap, but I thrust a groping hand back through

the gap, found the cap, and pulled it to safety mere seconds before

Edmond said good night to his friend and strode into the tent.

Weak with relief, I jammed the cap on my head and tried to

crawl away on all fours. I learned almost instantly that it’s not easy

to crawl in two ankle-length skirts and an apron. I managed to

cover about three feet of ground before I accidentally knelt on the

apron and pitched face-first into the dirt. After that, I threw caution to the wind, got to my feet, and ran.

It took me longer than I’d anticipated to return to the fairground,

because the encampment was a lot more crowded than it had been

when I’d first arrived. Everywhere I looked, people were cooking

dinner, playing guitars, practicing yoga, quaffing ale, engaging in

naughty shenanigans, and generally finding ways to blow off steam

after a hard day’s work. The spike in the population seemed to confirm what Edmond’s return had already suggested. The fair’s opening weekend was over and the fairground was closed to the public.

It meant, of course, that the main entrance doors in the gatehouse would be locked and bolted, but I wasn’t worried about spending the night trapped inside the fairground or, worse, in the

encampment, because I knew of an alternative exit. As soon as I

reached the fairground, I headed for the Shire Stage and the nearly

invisible gate Jinks had opened for me on the way to our picnic on

the banks of the babbling brook.

I was so dispirited by then that I wouldn’t have let out a peep of

protest if I’d been arrested for trespassing. A ride in a police car

would have spared me the long walk home, but though I kept an eye

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

173

out for an officious night watchman, the fair’s lanes were deserted,

the stalls were closed, and the stages were empty. It was sad to see

a place that had been so full of life brought to a silent standstill and

I felt no regrets as I slipped through the gate and closed it quietly

behind me.

I followed the privacy fence to Mr. Malvern’s pasture, then followed the cattle track to the stile. Jinks’s camper-van was gone when

I got there. He’d evidently wasted no time kicking the dust of the fair

from his feet and setting out for his friend’s flat in Cheltenham.

“No quaffing with the lads tonight,” I murmured as I climbed

over the stile. Then I recalled his preference for Riesling and hoped

for his sake that his Cheltenham friend had a decent wine cellar.

It wasn’t until I was standing in my own back garden that I remembered Edmond’s shed. The storage unit behind the Farthing

Stage would make a perfect hiding place. King Wilfred’s crown

could be concealed inside a toolbox, covered with an oilcloth, or

tucked behind a sack of sawdust, and no one but Edmond would

ever know it was there. The realization that I’d thrown away a

golden opportunity to search the shed at my leisure while the fairground was deserted was so monumentally demoralizing that I swayed

on my feet.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I muttered, thumping my forehead

with the heel of my hand.

“Lori?” said Bill, stepping out of the solarium. “Are you okay?”

When I’d imagined Bill seeing me in my garb for the fi rst time,

I’d imagined him seeing me as Jinks and Lord Belvedere and even

foul Sir Jacques had seen me. Instead, I was filthy, sweaty, disheveled, dejected, and beet-red in the face from exertion. The injustice

of it all welled up in me and the howl I’d suppressed in Edmond’s

tent could no longer be contained. I threw myself into Bill’s arms

and burst into tears.

“I’m f-fine,” I managed, sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder. “It’s j-just been a v-very long d-day.”

Eigh teen

Will and Rob galloped into the garden to find out what all

the fuss was about. After studying me judiciously, they

deduced that I was upset because I’d gotten my new

dress dirty and advised their father to get it off of me and into the

washing machine as quickly as possible.

Bill thought a hot bath would help, too, and after he’d followed

the boys’ advice to the letter, he ran one for me and left me to soak

in it while the boys set the table and he put a roast in the oven. Their

solicitousness only made me feel worse. By the time Bill came back

to check on me, I’d added copious amounts of salt water to my

bath.

My poor husband had to sit on the edge of the tub for a solid

half hour and assure me that I wasn’t a terrible mother or a horrible

wife or the most bird-witted twit who’d ever walked the planet

before I could stop crying long enough to finish bathing and get

dressed. Before we left the bedroom, I leaned into his arms again.

“I’m sorry I missed the joust,” I said in a very small voice.

“I know,” he said, stroking my back.

“I’m sorry I didn’t spend time with you and the boys at the fair

today,” I said.

“I know,” he repeated.

“I’ve got a lot to tell you,” I said.

“I kind of figured you might have,” he said dryly. “We’ll talk

later. After the boys are asleep.”

I nuzzled his neck, shook off the last of my tears, and went with

him downstairs to the kitchen. Uncontrollable sobbing was a fairly

reliable indication that I’d bitten off more than I could chew. Once

Will and Rob were in bed, I would bite the bullet as well and tell

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

175

Bill about my investigation. He might even offer to help me with

it—if he ever stopped laughing at me.

I had a momentary setback when Will and Rob sat down at the dining room table and plopped two new stuffed animals beside their

plates. I had no problem with stuffed animals joining us for dinner,

but the sight of two black dragons peering at me over the boys’

baked potatoes had a quelling effect on my appetite. Had the twins

named either one of them Jacques, I might have been forced to

leave the table. Luckily, the new members of their stuffed animal

family were named Flame and Fireball, and they were so adorably

goofy-looking that I fell in love with them before I’d finished my

first helping of carrots.

The twins had been itching to tell me about their day at the fair,

so I didn’t have to contribute much to our dinner conversation. I

threw in an occasional “Fantastic!” or “Wow!” to let them know I

was listening, and they rattled on happily without any aid from

their parents.

They had a lot to talk about. In addition to riding in the procession and in the arena, they’d played in the bouncy castle, learned

to braid rope, eaten wild boar sausages on sticks, watched a Punch

and Judy show, learned to juggle two beanbags, listened to a story

about a lost dragon, met a woman who had a unicorn tattooed on

her shoulder, learned how to churn butter, snacked on sugared almonds, fudge on sticks, and cotton candy, and visited the petting

zoo, where, as I’d predicted, they’d been overjoyed to make the

acquaintance of Ajeeta, the six-foot-long python Lilian Bunting and

I had seen before Saturday’s opening ceremonies.

I was delighted to hear that they’d adopted Flame and Fireball

not because they admired a certain unworthy knight, but because

they pitied the lost dragon in the story. I nearly lost it, however,

when they informed me that they’d turned down King Wilfred’s

offer of knighthoods because I wasn’t there to see the ceremony, and

176 Nancy Atherton

when they asked why I hadn’t been at the arena to cheer them on,

my guilt glands went into overdrive.

“I was having lunch with Jinks the jester,” I explained. “The

only time Jinks can eat lunch is during the joust.”

The boys’ faces lit up as soon as they heard the jester’s name.

“We like Jinks,” said Rob, with a firm nod.

“He showed us how to do cartwheels,” said Will. “Want to

see?”

“Let’s save the cartwheels for tomorrow,” I suggested. “It’ll give

me something to look forward to.”

“Okay,” they chorused.

I gazed at my sons fondly. Although they hadn’t offered to forgive me, because they saw nothing wrong with skipping the joust

in order to have lunch with a likable man who’d taught them a cool

new trick, I felt forgiven.

I was about to clear the table and bring in dessert—fresh strawberries with absolutely no added sugar—when the boys announced

that they had something for me. After exchanging significant looks

with Bill, who promised not to say a word while they were gone,

they left the room. They returned a short time later bearing a tiny

gold crown, a little red cape, and a minuscule silver scepter.

“They’re for Reginald,” said Will, laying the scepter and the

cape beside my plate.

“King Reginald,” Rob corrected, handing the crown to me.

“We found a stall dedicated entirely to costumes for stuffed

animals,” Bill informed me. “I was tempted to buy a cape for Stanley. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff we saw there.”

I would have believed it, since I’d discovered the stall the day

before, but I wasn’t going to spoil the fun by saying so. I gave the

boys big hugs and many kisses, and beamed happily at Bill. The

crown they’d presented to me was more precious by far than King

Wilfred’s would ever be.

We trooped into the study to hold a coronation, and ate our

strawberries in the living room, attended by King Reginald and his

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

177

bodyguards, Flame and Fireball. His powder-pink Majesty’s presence inspired a game of Kings and Queens—a card game similar to

Go Fish—and then it was off to bed for my little ones.

By nine o’clock, my extremely tired husband and I were stretched

out on the couch facing each other, with our heads propped on

cushions and our legs entwined. Stanley was curled into a sleepy

ball on Bill’s favorite armchair. The playing cards had been put

away, my wench garb had been hung up to dry, the dishwasher was

running, Flame and Fireball were keeping watch over the twins,

and King Reginald had returned to his realm in the study. A companionable silence had settled over the living room, broken only by

the steady hum of Stanley’s purr. All was well in our world.

“So,” said Bill. “How was your day?”

I couldn’t help smiling. Not many men were as forbearing as Bill.

Instead of demanding an immediate explanation from his hysterical

wife, he’d waited until the storm had passed, then asked for one indirectly. It was good to be reminded of his finer qualities just then,

when I was about to throw myself open to his caustic wit. Dreading

the trial-by-sarcasm to come, I took a deep breath and answered his

deceptively simple question.

“It sort of started yesterday morning,” I began, “after you and

the boys left for Anscombe Manor. I was standing in the back garden when I heard a saw. . . .”

I made a clean breast of everything, from the sound of the

handsaw to my failure to search Edmond’s shed. I told him about

the parapet and the quintain, the crown and the cannon, Edmond

and Mirabel, and my fruitless quest for the crown. Bill’s jaw muscles tightened alarmingly when I described my unfortunate encounter with Randy Jack, but he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t say a

word until I’d finished.

“Are you all right?” he asked, after I’d fallen silent.

I knew what he meant, and nodded.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Grossed out, but fine.”

“Do you want me to have a word with him?” Bill asked.

178 Nancy Atherton

“I’d like you to put him on an island filled with strong, fastidious women,” I said. “He’d come back a changed man.”

“I’m serious,” said Bill.

“I know you are, and I love you for it, but a word won’t penetrate his cast-iron ego,” I said. “If he comes within ten feet of me

again, you have my permission to punch his lights out, okay?”

“Okay,” said Bill, but his jaw muscles still looked a bit tense.

“What about the rest of my story?” I said, hoping to lighten his

mood. “Go ahead, have a good laugh. Tease me about my overactive imagination. Tell me I’ve been on another vampire hunt. I can

take it.”

“I’m not going to laugh at you,” he said. “You’re not on another

vampire hunt.”

“Sure,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m on a dragon hunt, right? Good

punch line, Bill.”

“There’s no punch line, Lori,” said Bill, gazing levelly at me.

“You’ve been right all along. Someone is trying to harm Calvin

Malvern.”

It was the last thing in the world I’d expected to hear from my

husband. I blinked at him in disbelief and said hesitantly, “The assassination plot is . . . real?”

“It’s real,” said Bill. “Horace Malvern told me about it just before the fair closed today. You haven’t been imagining things, love.

Someone deliberately weakened the struts supporting the parapet. Someone tampered with the cannon early in the morning,

long before the teenaged boys stopped to look at it. Horace didn’t

know about the quintain’s rope, but he won’t be surprised when I

tell him what you saw. And the king’s crown was stolen from his

motor home.”

I frowned. “Jinks told me—”

“Jinks is under strict orders to quash rumors,” Bill informed me.

“The entire royal court has been ordered to keep mum about the

situation. Calvin refuses to listen to his uncle. He won’t call in the

police or hire bodyguards or move into the farmhouse, where he’d

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

179

be less vulnerable. I think he’s afraid that the fair will be shut down

if word gets out that someone is trying to kill him.”

“The fair should be shut down,” I said earnestly. “What if an innocent bystander gets hurt? What if you or the twins end up in the

line of fire?”

“The fair can’t be closed without Calvin’s cooperation,” Bill informed me. “And he’s not cooperating. He’s written off everything

that’s happened as an accident or a prank. It’s a pity you lost the

quintain rope.”

“Yeah, I know.” I gazed past him at the bow window that overlooked our front garden, and thought of the traffic that had clogged

our lane. The fair’s popularity meant that Calvin’s wasn’t the only

life in danger. “I hate to say it, Bill, but I think we have a responsibility to go to the newspapers with the story. It’s a matter of public

safety.”

“I agree, but I’d like to hold off for a few days,” said Bill. “Horace has hired a private investigator. If the PI can collar the perpetrator before the fair opens next weekend, there’ll be no need to

shut it down.”

“I should tell the investigator what I’ve learned about Edmond

Deland,” I said.

“I’ll fi ll him in,” said Bill. “Horace wants to limit the number of

people who know about the investigation, so keep it to yourself,

will you? The PI’s job will be ten times harder if his presence on the

case becomes common knowledge.”

“Mum’s the word.” I rested my head on the cushion and gazed

up at the ceiling. “I hope Mr. Private Investigator is good at his

job. Will and Rob will be crushed if the fair closes after its first

weekend.”

Bill sat up, swung his legs over the side of the couch, and peered

at me intently. “Now that Horace has hired a professional detective,

I want you to promise me that you’ll stop your investigation, Lori.

No more snooping around on your own. No more following Edmond Deland or sneaking into his tent or eavesdropping on his

180 Nancy Atherton

conversations. There’s no telling what the perpetrator might do if

he felt threatened by you. He might . . .” Bill took a shaky breath

before adding steadily, “The boys need their mother. And I need

my wife.”

“You’re going to make me cry again,” I said, taking his hands in

mine. “I promise to stop sneaking around, but I can’t promise to

stop listening to people. I’m an unregenerate eavesdropper. It’s too

late to change the habits of a lifetime.”

“All right. I won’t expect miracles.” Bill managed a smile, but

squeezed my hands to drive home his point. “Listen if you must,

but don’t act on what you hear. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said.

“Back to work tomorrow.” Bill groaned as he got to his feet,

then yawned hugely and stretched. “I’m off to bed. The boys wore

me out today. I’ll be asleep before my head hits the pillow.”

“Any trips on the schedule this week?” I asked.

As an international attorney who specialized in estate planning

for the fabulously wealthy, Bill spent a lot of time flying all over Europe to meet with his demanding clients. It was a rare treat to have

him at home for more than two weeks in a row.

“None planned,” he replied, “but you know how it is. If a client

kicks the bucket unexpectedly, I’ll be summoned to sort out the

paperwork.”

“Let’s hope everyone stays healthy, then.” I rose from the couch

and put my arms around his neck. “I like having you here.”

“That’s good, because I like being here.” He pulled me into a

long good-night kiss, then murmured, “Coming to bed?”

“In a little while,” I said. “I want to—”

“—report to Aunt Dimity,” he finished for me. “Try not to stay up

too late.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “You’ve had a very long day.”

Nineteen

T he satisfaction of knowing that I hadn’t imagined the assassination plot vanquished my need for sleep. I strode

confidently into the study, curtsied politely to King Reginald, lit a fire in the hearth, and settled into the tall armchair with

the blue journal. I was wide-awake and ready to chat until dawn

with Aunt Dimity.

“Dimity?” I said, opening the journal. “You’re not going to believe what I have to tell you. You’re simply not going to believe it!”

I smiled wryly as Aunt Dimity’s old-fashioned copperplate

curled gracefully across the blank page.

Why shouldn’t I believe you, my dear? I’ve never doubted your veracity

before—except on a few occasions when I had reason to believe that you

were withholding details about your unfortunate interactions with certain

good-looking men.

“There aren’t any good-looking men in the picture this time,” I

assured her. “Except for Bill, of course.”

I’m extremely pleased—and relieved and somewhat surprised—to hear

it. Well? What is your incredible news? Out with it!

“Hold on,” I said, disconcerting myself. “Before I give you the

big news, I should probably tell you what happened after church

this morning. It’s pretty incredible all by itself.”

I’m never bored by news of Finch.

“You definitely won’t be bored,” I told her. “Today will go down

in the annals of Finch as the day of too many tourists. . . .”

I was anxious to move on to Bill’s gratifying revelations, so I

sped through a description of the havoc wrought on the village by the

tourist tornado, gave a thumbnail sketch of the cleanup campaign

instigated by Calvin Malvern, and outlined the schemes Horace

182 Nancy Atherton

Malvern had implemented to prevent such a catastrophe from occurring again. Aunt Dimity listened without comment until I’d

finished. Then the handwriting began fl owing again.

You’ve left me quite breathless, Lori. As I’m sure the tourists left Finch.

“The villagers were completely overwhelmed by the barbarian

invasion,” I said. “And when the guys from the fair showed up, they

were overwhelmed in a different way. They may erect a statue of

King Wilfred on the village green. Without him, we’d still be picking candy wrappers out of George Wetherhead’s front garden.”

Has Mr. Wetherhead found the courage to emerge from his house yet?

“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I’ll fi nd out tomorrow. I have to

stop by the Emporium to pick up some milk.”

While you’re in the village, please ask after the vicar as well. It was

brave of him to face a horde of blundering louts on his own, but it may take

him several days to recover.

“I’ll drop in at the vicarage to make sure he’s okay,” I promised.

I’ll also be interested to hear if Peggy Taxman’s display window has

been replaced.

“Knowing Peggy, I’m sure it has,” I said, then added wryly,

“Knowing Peggy, I’m sure it’s been replaced with a better window.”

She certainly wouldn’t hesitate to demand one. I do hope that Miranda

Morrow has been thanked properly for replanting the flower beds around the

war memorial. And you must find out if the pub sign has been repaired. You

should be able to tell whether or not Horace’s police officers have done their

job as soon as you enter the village.

“True,” I said. “If the village looks like a shipwreck, a couple of

constables are going to fi nd themselves in hot water with Horace.”

I shifted restlessly in the chair. “Do you mind if we leave the village

for a little while and return to the fair?”

Not at all. I assume your incredible news has something to do with the

fair and I’m eager to hear it.

I gazed down at the page with an air of quiet triumph and announced, “I was right about the assassination attempts, Dimity. I

was right from start to finish. I wasn’t imagining things or reading

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

183

too much into situations or jumping to conclusions. My instincts

told me that something was out of kilter at King Wilfred’s Faire,

and they were spot on.”

Your instincts have always been quite sound, Lori. It’s your imagination

that has led you astray from time to time.

“It hasn’t led me astray this time,” I said. “Someone really is trying to kill King Wilfred.”

I understand the reason for your elation, but I’m afraid I can’t share it.

In truth, I wish with all my heart that you were wrong. Has the saboteur

been arrested?

“Not yet,” I said. “I don’t know if he’ll ever be arrested. But I’m

sure he’ll be caught soon. Let me explain. . . .”

I gave Aunt Dimity a lengthy and detailed recapitulation of my

conversation with Bill, including everything I’d told him about my

day as well as everything Horace Malvern had told him about the

behind-the-scenes drama at the fair. After Aunt Dimity’s unnecessary comment about my unfortunate interactions with good-looking

men, I was tempted to skip over the part about Randy Jack, but

since I’d been an incredibly unwilling recipient of his amorous attentions, I decided that it would be safe to leave it in.

Predictably, Aunt Dimity zeroed in on the Randy Jack episode

as soon as I’d finished my account, but her take on it seemed to

come out of left fi eld.

I’m glad you were able to repel Sir Jacques’ attack, but I wish you’d been

equally firm with the jester.

“What do you mean?” I asked, bewildered.

He took you to an isolated location, poured wine for you, paid you too

many compliments . . . Need I go on?

“No, but for the first time in living memory, I think you’re the

one who’s reading too much into a situation,” I said, laughing. “Let

me make a few things clear, Dimity. First, Jinks is a highly recognizable performer. People expect him to be funny all the time. If he

tried to eat lunch inside the fairground, he’d be constantly harassed

by fans. Second, he made no attempt to get me drunk. He poured

184 Nancy Atherton

one small glass of wine for me, and he didn’t try to refill it when I

wasn’t looking. Third, I was grateful to him for critiquing my garb.

Fourth, I didn’t take his compliments seriously. They’re part of his

job. He dispenses them automatically, and when I asked him to stop,

he stopped. End of story.”

But will it be the end of the story? Handsome men aren’t your only

weakness, Lori. You’re also attracted to men who make you laugh.

“Well, I’m not attracted to Jinks,” I said firmly. “After seeing my

husband in his medieval dude garb, I doubt that I’ll ever look twice

at another man.”

Hope springs eternal.

“You seem to be missing the big picture, Dimity,” I said. “It isn’t

about me. It’s about Calvin and Edmond and little Mirabel.”

I must confess that I feel sorry for each of them. It goes without saying that

Edmond must be stopped, but he can hardly be blamed for wanting to protect a girl

as foolish and naive as Mirabel. As for Mirabel . . . I agree with you, Lori. She’s

blinded by the stars in her eyes. I fear that she’s in for a very rude awakening.

“And Calvin?” I said.

He should have his face roundly slapped for toying with Mirabel’s aff ec-

tions, but he doesn’t deserve a death sentence.

“I don’t think he realizes that he’s doing anything wrong,” I said

thoughtfully. “According to Edmond, he has a reputation for taking

advantage of new cast members. I’m willing to bet that, in his

mind, he’s just following his usual routine and enjoying a bit of slap

and tickle with the new girl in town.”

In that case, Mirabel isn’t the only one in for a rude awakening.

“He’ll find it hard to believe that someone on his payroll hates

him enough to want him dead,” I said, nodding. “Calvin sees himself as a merry monarch. He thinks everyone loves him.”

He appears to be as delusional as Sir Jacques.

“No one is as delusional as Sir Jacques,” I countered vehemently.

“Randy Jack honestly believed that, once I’d tasted his ‘delights,’

I’d come running back for more.” I shuddered hard enough to make

the journal shake. “Ick, ick, ick, and yuck.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

185

Men who consider themselves irresistible seldom are.

I stared into the fire, pushing away the memory of Sir Jacques’s

breath, but remembering the strength of his arms.

“I wish I hadn’t told Bill about Sir Jacques,” I said worriedly. “I’m

afraid he’ll do something heroic, like give Randy Jack a black eye.”

Would that be such a bad thing?

“Bill is a fine fi gure of a man,” I allowed, “but he’s a lawyer. He

wields words, not swords. Randy Jack is built like a tank, and he

practices armed combat every day. Bill’s heart would be in the

right place, but I’m fairly certain that Randy Jack would knock his

head into the next county.”

Would it matter? Without warning, Aunt Dimity departed from

her usual format and wrote a passage from a poem on the page.

How can man die better

Than facing fearful odds

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods?

Macauley’s immortal words aren’t entirely applicable to Bill’s

circumstance—I don’t want Sir Jacques to kill him, for example, and ashes

and temples don’t really come into it—but the sentiment holds true. Bill’s

willingness to risk almost certain injury lends nobility to his effort, what-

ever the outcome. There’s nothing noble about entering a fight one knows

one can win. Knights must sometimes pit themselves against dragons, re-

gardless of the fearful odds. I’m not advising you to encourage him, Lori,

but if Bill decides to defend your honor, I’d suggest you stand back and let

him get on with it. You never know. He might surprise you. Knights have

been known to slay dragons.

I rested my elbow on the arm of the chair, propped my chin in

my hand, and sighed mournfully. Though I disliked Aunt Dimity’s

advice, it made a certain kind of sense. I’d jokingly given Bill my

permission to punch Randy Jack’s lights out, but he didn’t need my

permission. He was my husband, and he was also a man. There was

186 Nancy Atherton

a clause in our marriage contract that gave him the right to protect

his wife, and there was a cog in his brain that gave him a burning

need to fight for his woman. I cringed to think of the awful things

that could happen to him in such an unequal match, but if he

wanted to engage in a physical altercation with the man who’d assaulted me, I wouldn’t get in his way.

“I’ll put an ice pack in the freezer before I go to bed tonight,” I

said. “And I’ll put Miranda Morrow on alert when I go into Finch

tomorrow, in case we need some of her herbal poultices. They

work really well on bruises and sprains.”

Very wise.

I looked down at the journal with a faint smile. “It’ll be strange

to go back to the village, after spending so much time at the fair.

Everything and everyone will seem so . . . normal.” I fell silent for

a moment, absorbing the thought, then caught my breath as another

one fl ashed in my brain. “Oh, my gosh, I wonder who won the tidy

cottage competition.”

You’ll find out tomorrow, while you find out about Mr. Wetherhead and

the vicar and Peggy Taxman’s window and the pub’s sign and the thank-you

owed to Miranda Morrow. I’m looking forward to hearing your description of

the new flower beds. Her taste in plants is so original.

“If I’m going to spend a whole day catching up on village gossip,” I said, “I’d better head for bed.”

I was about to make a similar suggestion. As you know, gossip-gathering

can be quite taxing. Sleep well, my dear. And congratulations. You may have

failed to catch a vampire, but if you’re lucky, you’ll be on hand to watch your

knight in shining armor slay a dragon.

“If Bill’s lucky, you mean,” I murmured. After the lines of

royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I looked up at King Reginald

and groaned softly. It wasn’t easy, being a damsel in distress.

Twenty

Since Bill hadn’t so much as looked at his ever-present pile of

paperwork over the weekend, he left for the offi

ce earlier

than usual on Monday morning. The twins and I had breakfast on our own, then climbed into the Range Rover and headed for

Anscombe Manor. I dropped them off at the stables for their riding

lessons with Kit Smith and was pulling the car around to drive

back toward the lane when Emma Harris dashed out of the manor

house, carrying a cardboard box and calling for me to wait. I hit

the brakes and lowered my window.

She paused at the window to catch her breath before asking, “If

you’re going to Finch, do you mind if I ride with you? I haven’t unhooked the horse trailer yet, and I don’t want to drive into Finch

with it still attached to the truck.”

“Hop in,” I told her.

She walked around the Rover and hauled herself into the passenger seat. I waited until she’d shifted the cardboard box in her

lap and fastened her seat belt, then rolled slowly down the long,

curving drive that led to our quiet lane.

“What’s in the box?” I inquired.

“Blackberry jam,” she replied.

My best friend was one of those profoundly depressing people

who are not only good at everything they do, but who find the time

to do everything they’re good at. Like me, Emma was an American

living in England, but unlike me, Emma designed computer programs, ran a stables, tended an enormous garden, helped her husband run his architectural restoration business, and bottled her

own fruit, among many other things.

“To whom are you bearing gifts?” I asked.

188 Nancy Atherton

“Miranda Morrow,” she answered. “I want to thank her for refurbishing the flower beds the tourists destroyed on Saturday. I

can’t wait to see what she’s planted. I don’t know if any of the new

plants will be legal, but I’m sure they’ll be pretty.”

Emma didn’t need to explain herself. Everyone in Finch knew

that a wide variety of interesting herbs lurked in the junglelike

gardens surrounding Miranda Morrow’s cottage. No one minded,

because there wasn’t a villager alive who hadn’t benefited at one

time or another from her herbal teas, poultices, massage oils, and

tisanes. I knew that Aunt Dimity, for one, would appreciate Emma’s neighborly gesture.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “I’m going to Briar Cottage, too. I

may need a few of Miranda’s poultices before the week is out.” I

told Emma about my wrestling match with Sir Jacques, and about

my fears for Bill’s health and welfare should he choose to retaliate.

“If Bill takes a swing at Randy Jack, I’ll be there to cheer him

on,” Emma said firmly. “Jack made a pass at me, too. He thought

my riding crop was alluring until I smacked him across the face

with it.”

“Good grief,” I said. “Is any woman safe from him?”

“If I were Horace Malvern,” said Emma, “I’d hide the cows.”

We laughed until we reached the Pym sisters’ house and I asked

Emma if she knew when they’d be back from their seaside jaunt.

“Next week,” she replied. “I think Ruth and Louise will like

King Wilfred’s Faire.”

“They’ll love it,” I agreed. “Can’t you just see them, dripping in

velvet and gold?”

We paused to savor the mental image of the two ancient, genteel, and utterly identical twin sisters wearing the finest, most elegant medieval garb Sally Pyne could create for them.

“Calvin is bound to ask them to be part of his court,” I said.

“Ruth and Louise are natural aristocrats.”

“Queens to the core,” Emma agreed.

When we drove over the humpbacked bridge, my first reaction

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

189

was one of relief to see that the Emporium’s broken window had

been replaced, and that the village in general looked as neat as a pin.

My second reaction was a bit more complicated.

“What on earth . . . ?” I muttered.

A lone figure stood in the center of the village green. He was

quite tall and so lean that every tendon, ligament, and muscle in his

body seemed to stand out individually, as if he were a walking

anatomy lesson. His grizzled hair fell past his shoulders and his gray

beard hung to his collarbones. He wore a silver chain with a

half-moon pendant suspended around his neck.

“I believe,” Emma said hesitantly, “it’s a wizard . . . doing tai chi.”

“I believe you’re right,” I said, nodding slowly. “The pointy

purple hat is a dead giveaway.”

“I guess he finds clothes restrictive,” Emma observed. “Or

maybe an evil wizard made them disappear.”

“It would explain why he’s out there in his underpants,” I said

equably.

“And his hat,” Emma put in helpfully. “Don’t forget the hat.”

“He’s lodging in Sally Pyne’s spare room,” I said.

“How exciting for Sally,” said Emma.

We didn’t even try to hide our giggles as we drove past. Anyone

who practiced tai chi in his underpants on a village green was asking

to be giggled at. Beyond the wizard, closer to the war memorial, two

jugglers were keeping an apple, two bananas, and three honeydew

melons flying rhythmically between them. Beyond the jugglers, yet

another solitary figure was behaving very strangely indeed.

“Is he having a seizure?” I asked.

“No,” said Emma. “He’s a mime.”

“Ah,” I said, as understanding blossomed. “He’s staying with

Grant and Charles. What do you suppose he’s doing?”

“He’s walking an imaginary dog, of course,” Emma said.

“It must be a big dog,” I commented. “It almost pulled him over

just then.”

Grog, the Peacocks’ basset hound, was watching the proceedings

190 Nancy Atherton

from his usual spot near the pub’s front door. He seemed fascinated

by the mime’s jerky and irregular movements, but unthreatened by

the imaginary dog. After ten seconds or so, he put his head on his

paws and dozed off. The pub’s sign, I noted approvingly, was hanging

evenly from new chains, and no one was swinging from it.

George Wetherhead and Mr. Barlow sat on the bench near the

war memorial, sharing a bag of crisps and observing the jugglers.

Buster, Mr. Barlow’s cairn terrier, was helping the performers to

hone their concentration skills by bouncing between them and occasionally nipping at their toes. We waved to our neighbors as we

drove by and they waved back.

“I’m glad to see that Mr. Wetherhead is out and about,” I said.

“It took Lilian Bunting an hour to convince him that it was safe

for him to come to evensong yesterday,” said Emma. “She had to

walk with him from his house to St. George’s, then walk home

with him afterward.”

“Bench therapy seems to be helping his recovery,” I observed.

“There’s nothing like fresh air and a shared bag of chips to calm the

nerves.”

I parked the Rover on the verge near Briar Cottage. Miranda

Morrow greeted us at her front door, received Emma’s thank-you

gift with evident pleasure, and assured me that she would be able

to whip up a supply of poultices at a moment’s notice.

“They work best when they’re fresh,” she advised me. “But I can

bring them to you anytime, night or day. Ring me, and I’ll be there.”

“I don’t think a midnight delivery will be necessary,” I assured her.

“Anytime, day or night,” Miranda reiterated. “If Bill breaks Randy

Jack’s nose, I’ll give him a lifetime supply of poultices, gratis.”

“I take it you’re not a Randy Jack fan,” I said.

“With good reason, I’m sure,” said Emma.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He has bad karma,” said Miranda, “and he tried to share it

with me.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Emma.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

191

Miranda tossed her strawberry-blond hair. “If Bill breaks Randy

Jack’s jaw, I’ll throw in a year’s worth of therapeutic massages for

you as well as him.”

“Bill will need a year’s worth of therapeutic massages if he goes

up against Randy Jack,” I said. “My husband’s a lover, not a fighter.”

“Lovers make the best fighters,” said Miranda. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Emma shook her head wonderingly as we retreated through

Briar Cottage’s tangled front garden.

“You’d never know that Miranda is a pacifist,” she said.

“Randy Jack can turn any woman into a rabid ax murderer,” I said

blithely. “It’s a gift.”

We strolled over to the war memorial to examine the replanted

flower beds. To our surprise, they looked much as they had before

the rampaging tourists had ruined them. Instead of adding her own

creative touches—and unusual herbs—to the display, Miranda had

followed Emma’s original plan and planted a patriotic mix of red

geraniums, blue petunias, and white lobelia.

“Maybe she’s playing it safe out of deference to Mr. Malvern’s

weekend police patrol,” I speculated.

“Let’s hope they don’t decide to take a garden tour,” said Emma.

The jugglers had stretched out on the grass to take a break, so

Mr. Barlow and Mr. Wetherhead rose from their bench and joined

us at the war memorial. Buster sniffed the new flowers while the

two men informed us that Sunday’s tourist invasion had been kept

in check by an alert and imposing police constable.

“Six-foot-six, if he’s an inch, and built like a bull,” said Mr. Barlow. “When Constable Huntzicker directed folk to take their rubbish

home with them or put it in the bins, he didn’t even have to raise his

voice.”

“The Sciaparelli boys were back on the door at the pub,” said

Mr. Wetherhead, smoothing the few strands of hair that covered

his otherwise bald head. “But they didn’t have much to do. Constable Huntzicker kept everyone in good order.”

192 Nancy Atherton

“You missed a fine time at the pub last night,” Mr. Barlow informed us. “It was fair bursting with fair folk. Dick and Chris could

hardly keep up with the dinner rush. Good business for them, but

bad business for the fair folk.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Food poisoning at the banquet table,” said Mr. Wetherhead

importantly. “King Wilfred was taken off to hospital.”

I gasped and swung around to face him squarely. “Is he all right?”

“He’s fine and dandy,” said Mr. Barlow at my shoulder. “Pumped

him clean and sent him back to his motor home this morning.”

“Did anyone else get sick?” I asked sharply.

“Three courtiers and Sir James le Victorieux had rummy tummies after the banquet,” Mr. Wetherhead replied, “but they weren’t

as sick as poor Calvin.”

“The rest of the king’s court played it safe by eating at the pub

last night,” said Mr. Barlow. “It was quite a scene. They sang and danced

and told funny stories until closing time. Knew songs I’d never

heard before—old ones, from Queen Bess’s time. I reckon it would

be a fine thing if they came back again tonight.”

I glanced uneasily in the direction of Bishop’s Wood. It seemed

obvious to me that the alleged food poisoning incident had in reality been yet another attempt on Calvin’s life. While my neighbors

continued to discuss the lively scene at the pub, I considered offering my findings directly to Horace Malvern’s private investigator. It

was entirely possible that, when Bill had relayed my story to Mr.

Malvern, he’d accidentally left out a crucial detail that would crack

the case wide open. Without my fi rsthand account to aid him, the

investigator might not be able to keep King Wilfred alive long

enough to reign over the fair’s second weekend.

I was still pondering my decision when Lilian and Theodore

Bunting walked over from the vicarage to find out what was happening at the war memorial. The vicar had evidently bounced back

from Saturday’s ordeal. He looked as though the end of the world

was the furthest thing from his mind.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

193

“Good morning, all,” he said. “I hope the jugglers haven’t finished practicing. I was rather looking forward to watching them.”

“Teddy’s as fond of jugglers as I am of magicians,” Lilian told us.

“Does anyone know who won the tidy cottage competition?”

Emma inquired.

“Ta-da!” Grant Tavistock called. He and Goya, his golden Pomeranian, scurried from Crabtree Cottage to the war memorial.

“Charles and I won! As new residents, we didn’t think we’d be in

the running, but apparently our begonias put us over the top.”

“Are you still bragging about our begonias?” scolded Charles,

trotting across the lane with Matisse, his friendly little Maltese.

“Still?” said Grant, taken aback. “We won the prize yesterday,

Charles. If you’d read the fine print you’d know that we’re entitled

to one week’s worth of bragging rights.”

“I always forget to read the fine print,” Charles said apologetically.

“Brag on!”

He and Grant released their dogs to play with Buster. Grog,

sensing a party, padded over from the pub to frisk with his friends.

Sally Pyne, no doubt sensing the same thing, emerged from the tearoom and hastened toward the war memorial. A moment later,

Christine and Dick Peacock followed Grog’s example and left the

pub to join our merry band.

“Have you heard?” Charles said excitedly after the latecomers

had arrived. “King Wilfred has offered to hold the village dog show

at the fair.”

“Everyone’s heard,” said Sally. “Which is why I now have a dozen

orders for medieval dog garb.”

The dog owners in the group flushed simultaneously and avoided

one another’s eyes. I turned to Emma, who owned an elderly black

Labrador retriever, and raised my eyebrows.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “Hamlet’s too mature for beauty

contests.”

“I wish Peggy would get off her high horse and accept Calvin’s

offer,” Sally grumbled. “If we don’t hold village events at the fair

194 Nancy Atherton

this summer, there won’t be any village events. She’s already canceled the bring-and-buy sale.”

“Why?” asked Emma.

“Lack of interest,” said Lilian. “On Peggy’s part, that is.”

“That’s right,” said Sally. “She can’t run the bring-and-buy if she’s at

the fair, and she’s not about to close that stall of hers. It’s a gold mine.”

“Thankfully,” said Lilian, “Calvin’s generous donation to the

church roof fund will more than offset the lack of proceeds from

the bring-and-buy. Sir Peregrine delivered the first check last night.

He called it a tithe.”

Information was flying so thick and fast that an inexperienced

gossipmonger would have needed a tape recorder to remember it all.

Distracted as I was by thoughts of Calvin’s threatened demise, I had

to focus hard in order to keep up.

“I was pleasantly surprised to see so many of you in church yesterday,” said the vicar. “Attendance was down at the morning service, but the early service and evensong were, as they say, sold out.

I hope the trend will continue throughout the summer.”

“Our jugglers will be there next Sunday,” Christine Peacock

piped up. “They told me they like costume drama.”

“How very . . . ecumenical of them,” the vicar faltered.

“I wouldn’t count on seeing our magician,” said Dick.

“I do envy you your magician,” said Lilian, turning shining eyes

on the publican. “Merlot the Magnificent pulled scarves from my

ears on Saturday. I have no idea how the trick was done, but it was

such fun. Is it true that he’s going to give an impromptu performance on the green this afternoon?”

“If he’s awake by then,” Christine muttered.

She gave the reclining jugglers a wary, sidelong glance, and our

group closed ranks. The well-practiced maneuver came into play

whenever a speaker needed to lower his or her voice in order to impart sensitive news.

“They don’t call him Merlot for nothing,” Christine informed

us quietly. “He knows how to make wine disappear.”

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

195

An appreciative “Ooh” went through the group.

“I found twelve empty bottles in his room when I cleaned it

yesterday afternoon,” said Christine. “Twelve empty bottles! He’d

only been there for two nights!”

“Poor man,” Lilian said sadly. “He did seem a bit fragile on Sunday. He winced whenever the town crier announced the time.”

“It’s a miracle he didn’t fall off the stage,” said Christine, folding

her arms. “And those jugglers—the noises coming from their room

all night long . . .” She clucked her tongue.

The closed ranks suddenly closed further. I could almost see my

neighbors’ ears prick up.

“What sort of . . . noises?” Sally asked carefully.

“Thuds, bumps, bangs . . .” Christine shook her head. “It sounds as

though they spend half the night chucking things round their room.”

“Practice makes perfect,” the vicar pointed out.

“It also makes for broken lamps,” Dick retorted, “as well as a

good deal of annoying racket. They can take their dratted practice

outside from now on.”

Christine turned to Charles and Grant. “How are things working out with your mime? You must not even know he’s there.”

Our newest neighbors exchanged dismayed glances.

“That’s the problem,” said Grant in a slightly desperate undertone. “We never know where he is. I nearly tripped over him in the

parlor last night. He was miming a dying swan. I think. It may have

been a cat coughing up a hair ball.”

“He mimes everything,” Charles went on. “It took me twenty

minutes to figure out that he wanted Bovril for his toast. How in

God’s name was I supposed to decipher his artistic visual interpretation of beef extract? I finally had to make him write it down.”

“I dread to think of what he’ll do when he needs more loo paper,” said Grant, shuddering.

Snorts of laughter escaped most of us, but they were quickly

suppressed. Grant and Charles appeared to be genuinely distressed,

and no one wanted to hurt their feelings.

196 Nancy Atherton

“It sounds as though I’ve struck lucky this time,” Sally said complacently. “Magus Silveroak is a charming houseguest.”

The rest of us turned as one to gaze at the underdressed wizard.

I wasn’t sure about the others, but my mind was reeling with wild

surmises.

“He has lovely manners,” Sally continued. “And he keeps his

room ever so tidy. I haven’t had to pick up so much as a sock.”

I longed to ask her if he owned a sock, but I kept my mouth

shut. Something told me that Sally would react badly to any jokes

made about her wizard.

“Well,” said Mr. Barlow, breaking the very thoughtful silence

that had descended on everyone but Sally. “Must run. The Pyms’

garden won’t water itself.”

“Mr. Barlow,” Emma said. “As long as you’re going out that way,

would you mind giving me a lift home?” She turned to me. “You

don’t mind if I leave you to your shopping, do you? I’d like to get

back to the stables.”

“It’s fine with me,” I said.

“And with me,” said Mr. Barlow.

Mr. Wetherhead and the Buntings moved to the bench to watch

the jugglers, who had recommenced flinging fruit at each other.

Sally Pyne bustled off to open the tearoom, Charles and Grant returned to Crabtree Cottage with Goya and Matisse, and Grog led

the Peacocks back to the pub.

Mr. Barlow called Buster to his side and squatted down to scratch

the terrier’s ears.

“Between the three of us,” he said, looking up at me and Emma,

“I know how the Peacocks could solve their magician’s drinking

problem.”

“How?” I asked.

“Leave a bottle of Dick’s homemade wine in his room,” Mr. Barlow

replied. “One sip will make him a teetotaler for life.”

He gave a bark of laughter as he straightened, which was echoed

by a bark from Buster, then he and his dog escorted Emma to his

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

197

car. After they’d gone, I headed for Wysteria Lodge to have a word

with Bill.

I found him sitting at his paper-strewn desk, peering intently at

one of his three computer screens. Behind its quaint and charming facade, Wysteria Lodge was brimming with cutting-edge technology.

“Did you hear—” I began.

“About the food poisoning?” he interrupted. “I just got off the

phone with Horace. The private investigator is looking into it.”

“Good,” I said, and turned to leave.

“Lori?” Bill said. “Remember our deal?”

“I’m going to the Emporium to buy milk,” I told him indignantly. “I’m not going anywhere near Bishop’s Wood or Fivefold

Farm or the fairground or the encampment.”

“Just checking,” Bill said serenely, and returned his attention to

his computer.

I left the offi

ce weighing the pros and cons of having a husband

who could read my mind.

Twenty-one

Ispent the next two days doggedly following my normal

routine. I cooked, cleaned, did laundry, ran errands, visited

friends, gossiped with neighbors, put in a few hours of volunteer work in Oxford, and remained preternaturally alert for the

tiniest morsel of news concerning Calvin Malvern.

By all accounts, he’d made a speedy recovery from the so-called

food poisoning incident and nothing untoward or unexpected had

happened to him since. I was happy to hear that Calvin had made it

through two whole days without becoming deathly ill or having a

near-fatal accident, but I would have been happier to hear that an

arrest had been made.

On Wednesday eve ning, after Will and Rob were in bed, Bill

announced that he and I had been invited to witness a special dress

rehearsal in the joust arena. The knights and the foot soldiers, Bill

informed me, had been working hard to perfect a new act. They

wanted to perform it before a small audience before presenting it

to the public at large. The rehearsal would take place at two o’clock

the following afternoon, he said, and we were not required to wear

costumes.

Since the twins hadn’t been invited to the event, we elected not

to tell them about it, but we wouldn’t have taken them with us in

any case. With a potential killer on the loose, the fairground wasn’t

a safe place for our sons. Bill wanted to attend the rehearsal because he thought it would be good fun. I wanted to attend it because I thought he was lying through his teeth.

I believed that a rehearsal would take place, and that we’d been invited to see it, but I didn’t for one moment believe the reason Bill gave

for wanting to attend it. My husband was a confirmed workaholic.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

199

He left for work early, came home late, and spent more than half

the year flying hither and yon, catering to the special needs of his

clients. I had to twist his arm to get him to leave the offi

ce on a

weekday, and he usually spent quite a few weekend hours there as

well. He simply didn’t have it in him to play hooky. Therefore,

when he told me that he wanted to attend a Thursday afternoon

event because it would be “good fun,” I knew that something fishy

was going on.

I was certain that Bill regarded the rehearsal as an opportunity

to prove himself to me. I was convinced that my heroic fool of a

husband was going to hurl himself into the joust arena on Thursday

afternoon and attempt to flatten Sir Jacques de Poitiers. I was so

sure of it that I put an extra ice pack in the freezer and programmed

Miranda’s number into my cell phone. I wouldn’t try to stop him, I

promised myself solemnly, but I would be there to catch him when

he fell.

A ticket wench was on hand to let us in when Bill and I arrived at

the gate house the following day. The fairground seemed to be deserted as we made our way through Gate house Square and across

Broad Street, but when we reached the end of Pudding Lane, a cacophony of human sounds—singing, shouting, laughing, and nonstop talking—smote our ears.

A large number of people had gathered in and around the arena,

and they all appeared to be Rennies. A quick scan confirmed that Bill

and I were the only members of the audience wearing modern clothing instead of much-used and finely detailed period costumes. I felt

strangely self-conscious in my twenty-first-century summer garb,

but the Rennies didn’t seem to be bothered by it. They were too involved with each other to notice the mundanes in their midst.

Foot soldiers and pretty wenches chatted flirtatiously over the

arena’s two-bar fence, vendors congregated around the picnic tables, and performers sang, danced, and played guitars, drums,

200 Nancy Atherton

tambourines, and fiddles on the hillside where Lilian Bunting and I

had eaten our honey cakes.

Neither the knights nor their squires were present in the arena,

but the king’s court had filled the seats in the royal gallery. Courtiers, noblewomen, and silk-clad damsels lounged comfortably beneath the striped canopy, and King Wilfred stood beside his

high-backed throne, talking animatedly with round, balding Sir

James le Victorieux, the gallant field marshal who’d led his troops

into battle against the trash that had blanketed Finch.

“Where’s Lord Belvedere?” I asked, frowning. “Has Sir James

taken his place?”

“Possibly,” said Bill. “Perhaps a shared attack of food poisoning

created a special bond between Calvin and Sir James. Come on.

Let’s find a good place to watch the rehearsal.”

I wanted to sit as far away from the arena as possible—in our

back garden, for example, or in my father-in-law’s living room in

Boston—but Bill insisted that we stand at the fence, between the

royal gallery and the marquee. It was the spot I would have chosen

had I intended to vault over the fence and challenge the Dragon

Knight to a duel.

My sense of foreboding became one of certain doom when King

Wilfred descended the steps of the royal gallery, entered the arena,

and called for Sir Peregrine and Sir Jacques to join him. I gripped

the fence’s top rail tightly and braced myself for carnage when the

knights emerged from the marquee, but Bill didn’t move a muscle.

He seemed to be more interested in King Wilfred than Randy

Jack, but he didn’t fool me. I knew he was just biding his time.

“This must be the new twist in the show,” he said. “King Wilfred is interacting with the knights at ground level.”

King Wilfred held a laurel wreath, which he apparently planned

to present to the victorious knight at the end of the revamped show.

He practiced several different poses with the knights and asked

them to comment on his stance and his placement in the arena.

Sir Peregrine gave his opinions freely, but Sir Jacques’ attention

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

201

wandered. He looked like a juvenile delinquent in a candy shop as

his coal-black eyes slid from wench to noblewoman to damsel.

I ducked my head quickly when his gaze moved toward me, but

when I raised it again, he was staring at me with a faintly puzzled

expression on his face. I must have seemed vaguely familiar to him,

but since he’d never seen me in mundane garb, he couldn’t quite

remember where we’d met. His curiosity finally got the better of

him and he began to walk toward me. Bill stiffened suddenly, his

nostrils flared, and his jaw muscles tightened ominously, but before

Sir Jacques had taken more than five steps in our direction, angry

shouts rang out from the marquee.

Sir Jacques stopped midstride and swung around to stare at the

tent flaps. The king and Sir Peregrine fell silent. The royal retinue

sat bolt upright, the soldiers and wenches stopped fl irting, and the

music and dancing on the hillside came to an abrupt halt. Every

pair of eyes in and around the arena was focused on the marquee’s

front entrance.

“Stop treating me like a child!” Mirabel bellowed.

“Stop behaving like one!” Edmond thundered.

The madrigal singer and the handyman came storming out of

the marquee, bickering ferociously and at the tops of their lungs.

They charged directly to the center of the arena, then stopped to

continue their shouting match face-to-face. They seemed wholly

unaware of anyone but each other.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” Mirabel hollered.

“Someone has to,” Edmond roared.

The foot soldiers and the wenches withdrew discreetly to the

picnic area, and Sir Peregrine and King Wilfred retreated with

them. As performers, they knew when to surrender center stage.

“We

were engaged for a year,” Edmond shouted, “and you

changed your mind in less than a week. We were supposed to have

a romantic summer working the fair together, but you threw it all

away the minute he looked at you. Don’t you understand? You’re

not yourself. You’ve let him scramble your brains!”

202 Nancy Atherton

“There’s nothing wrong with my brain,” Mirabel said fi ercely.

“If you think he’s ever going to take you seriously, your brain

has stopped working,” Edmond retorted. “Haven’t you heard about

him? Don’t you know what people call him behind his back? Randy

Jack! That’s what they call him!”

My brain twitched. Randy Jack? I thought blankly. What happened to King Wilfred?

“You should talk!” Mirabel hurled back. “You act as though

you’re Sir Edmond the Pure, but I’ve heard all about your woman.”

“My . . . my what?” Edmond faltered, looking mystifi ed.

“Your woman,” Mirabel raged. “Alex and Leslie and Jim and Diane saw her sneaking away from your tent! Did you think you

could keep your new girlfriend secret by making her crawl under

the back wall?”

I blinked, gasped, clapped a hand over my mouth, and stared,

thunderstruck, at Mirabel.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Edmond said

sta unchly.

Sir Jacques strolled casually toward the couple. “No use denying it, Eddie. I ran into your bit of fluff when she was on her way to

meet you. She’s a tasty morsel. I should know.” He licked his lips. “I

had a taste.”

Mirabel looked at him sharply, but said nothing.

“You’re lying,” growled Edmond. “I’ve never even looked at another woman.”

“Keep your eyes closed, do you? I prefer to keep mine open.” Sir

Jacques gave Mirabel a slimy, sidelong glance. “I like to see what

I’m getting.”

Edmond uttered an inarticulate roar and launched himself at

Sir Jacques. It was a mistake. Edmond was a strapping young man,

but he wasn’t a trained fighter. Sir Jacques parried his blows easily,

then knocked him flat with one mighty punch and kicked him viciously in the ribs. Mirabel stood frozen, her eyes like saucers, but

King Wilfred strode forward.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

203

“I say,” he cried. “That’s enough. Leave him alone, Jack.”

“Keep out of it, Calvin,” snarled Sir Jacques. “Eddie’s had it coming for some time.”

“You heard the king.” Bill vaulted over the fence and strode

toward the Dragon Knight. “Back off .”

Sir Jacques favored him with a measuring look, then snorted derisively. “Stay on your side of the fence, old man, and you won’t get hurt.”

He flexed his muscles and reared back for a second kick, but Bill

was on him before his foot left the ground. I’m not sure what happened next because I closed my eyes and cringed, but when I

opened them again, Randy Jack was sprawled on the ground. Blood

was pouring from his nose, his lip was split, his right eye was beginning to swell, and he was sucking air as though the wind had

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

of sabotage and theft because he knew he could appear in strange

places at odd hours without arousing anyone’s suspicions.”

Sir James spoke up. “The point Bill’s making, Calvin, is that

each of the fair’s hundred-plus employees was a suspect. Background checks take time. It would have taken him months to identify the perpetrator if we hadn’t narrowed the fi eld of suspects.”

“We?” I said, eyeing him curiously.

“Lord Belvedere, Lord Llewellyn, and I have experience in

criminal investigations,” Sir James informed me. “We retired from

the Yard a few years ago.”

“The Yard?” I said, my eyes widening. “Scotland Yard?”

“Correct,” said Sir James. “We’ve participated in historical reenactments for many years, but when Calvin approached us, we

decided to give the Ren fest idea a go.”

“Why didn’t you guys run the background checks?” I asked.

“We couldn’t spare the time,” Sir James replied. “We play highprofi le roles at the fair. If we’d failed to show up for per formances

or rehearsals, we might have put the perpetrator on his guard.”

“What’s more, you would have disappointed our audiences,”

Calvin put in. “Rule number one at a Ren fest: Don’t disappoint the

punters.”

“Be that as it may,” Sir James said, with a slightly exasperated

glance at his king, “Lord Belvedere examined the evidence and determined that none of the accidents had, in fact, been accidents. At

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

211

the same time, Lord Llewellyn and I conducted extensive on-site

interviews with employees. Those interviews repeatedly placed

one person in the right places at the right times.” He nodded at Bill.

“Over to you, sir.”

“With that person in mind,” Bill went on, “I made inquiries,

conducted online searches, spoke with friends and colleagues,

twisted a few arms, bent a few rules”—he paused to take a breath—

“and eventually unearthed several highly suggestive facts.” He

leaned against the railing and folded his arms. “Calvin? How did

you come up with the money to pay for King Wilfred’s Faire?”

“I used my inheritance to make a few investments when I was in

America,” Calvin replied proudly. “They paid off handsomely.”

Bill nodded. “Did you also take out a life insurance policy when

you were in America?”

“I did,” said Calvin.

Horace Malvern groaned and put a hand to his forehead, but

Bill pressed on.

“Did you make these decisions on your own, Calvin, or did you

have a financial advisor?” he asked.

“I had an advisor, of course,” said Calvin, with a genial,

self-deprecating grin. “I’ve no head for figures at all.”

“Do you know a man named Rowan Grove?” Bill asked.

I started, and my mind leaped instantly to a scene in my back

garden and a voice saying: A weedy child with a silly name learns early

on to fight with words rather than with fists. I stared hard at Bill. I felt as

if he’d thrown a glass of ice water in my face.

“Never heard of the chap,” Calvin declared.

“That’s strange,” said Bill, “because the name appears on many

of the papers you signed. Rowan Grove controls your investment

portfolio. Rowan Grove has access to your bank accounts. Rowan

Grove is the sole beneficiary on your life insurance policy. You’ll be

interested to know that Rowan Grove is listed as your primary financial advisor.”

“That can’t be right,” Calvin objected. “I’ve never met the fellow.

212 Nancy Atherton

My financial advisor is Jinks.” He beamed at the rest of us. “Terribly

clever chap, old Jinks. He was taking a postgraduate degree in finance at the University of Wisconsin. Gave it all up when he discovered Ren fests, of course, but he never lost his magic touch with

money. Couldn’t have done half so well without him.”

“Calvin,” Bill said gently. “Jinks’s legal name is Rowan Grove.”

“Sorry?” Calvin said, as if he hadn’t caught Bill’s words.

“When you die, Jinks will receive a handsome payout from your

insurance company.” Bill spoke slowly and carefully, as if he were

explaining the situation to a child. “He’ll also have complete control of your assets. It won’t come as a shock to me to learn that he’s

been siphoning money from your accounts for years.”

“Jinks told me he had no idea how much Calvin was worth,” I

said.

“He lied,” said Bill.

“Look here,” Calvin rumbled, eyeing Bill truculently, “if you’re

suggesting that Jinks has had anything to do with the confounded

run of bad luck I’ve been having, you’re quite mistaken. I’ve known

him since I sold turkey legs at the Ren fest in Wisconsin. We’ve

traveled all over America together—staying up till all hours, sleeping rough, getting up the next day to perform. That sort of thing

forges a bond of friendship mundanes simply can’t understand.

Jinks is like a brother to me.”

“He didn’t drink to your health,” I said, half to myself.

“Eh?” said Calvin, turning to me.

“It didn’t mean anything to me at the time, but now . . .” I

looked at Calvin’s troubled face and forced myself to go on. “I drank

a toast to you when I had lunch with Jinks on Sunday.” I raised an

invisible glass. “ ‘To King Wilfred. Long may he reign.’ ” I let my hand

fall as the significance of the moment struck home. “Jinks raised his

glass, too, but he didn’t drink from it.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t thirsty,” Calvin offered.

“Toasts aren’t about thirst,” I mumbled, unable to meet his eyes.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

213

“I’m afraid Jinks used you for his own purposes, Calvin,” Bill

said. “He gained your trust, then took advantage of you.”

“See sense, Cal,” Mr. Malvern scolded, peering sternly at his

nephew. “Jinks will get a packet of cash when you pop your clogs. If

that’s not motivation for murder, I don’t know what is.”

Sir James nodded. “We have eyewitnesses who saw him fiddle

with the parapet, cut the quintain rope, steal your crown, put

rocks in the cannon—”

“Rocks?” I interrupted. “The famous ‘projectiles’ were rocks?”

“Mossy ones,” Sir James confirmed. “They could have come

from a local river or stream.”

“Or from the brook next to our picnic spot.” I could hardly believe what I was saying. I looked to Bill for support, but he’d turned

his back on me to peer up Pudding Lane. “Jinks couldn’t have poisoned Calvin, though, or started the stampede. He hasn’t been

here since the fair closed on Sunday.”

“That’s right,” Calvin said, his cherubic face brightening. “He’s

been in Cheltenham.”

“He came back,” said Bill, still looking toward Pudding Lane. “If

you don’t believe us, Calvin, you can ask Jinks. Here he is now.”

I swiveled in my chair to follow Bill’s gaze. Lord Belvedere and

Jinks had just emerged from Pudding Lane and

were walking

toward the royal gallery. Lord Belvedere was dressed in twill trousers and a plain, button-down white shirt. Jinks was wearing the

same tie-dyed T-shirt and torn jeans he’d worn the first time we’d

met, when he’d sailed over the stile and into the twins’ sandbox,

hoping I’d remember him.

“Evening, all,” he called, smiling his crooked smile. “His Lordship rousted me out of the pub in Finch to attend this meeting, so

it had better be worth my while.”

“Finch?” Calvin said weakly. “I thought you were in Cheltenham.”

“I was,” said Jinks. “But I came back early. I get restless if I

dwell among mundanes for too long.” He hopped nimbly onto the

214 Nancy Atherton

platform. “So . . . what’s up? Have you finally come to your senses

and given me a starring role in the joust?”

“We’ve been discussing the fair’s finances,” said Bill.

“Not my best subject,” Jinks admitted amiably, “but if you want

a layman’s opinion—”

“We don’t,” Bill interrupted. “We want your expert opinion . . .

Rowan.”

Jinks’s smile froze and his green eyes darted from one face to

another. Then he took his lower lip between his teeth and bowed

his head, chuckling quietly.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “The joke’s on the jester. I’ve been caught

with my hand in the cookie jar, have I?”

“I wish it were so simple,” said Bill.

“Tell them it’s not true,” pleaded Calvin. “Tell them they’ve

made a mistake.”

“Ah, but they haven’t,” Jinks said softly. “You see, I couldn’t let

you waste your money on this ridiculous venture, old friend. Working a Ren fest is one thing, but running one? Do you have the slightest notion of how much you’ve spent already?” He lifted his head and

met Calvin’s beseeching gaze. “I don’t have a pension, Cal. My knees

are shot, but there’s no golden-age home for broken-down acrobats.

I was investing in my future as well as yours. I love you, Cal, but

I couldn’t let you waste my retirement fund.”

“No,” Calvin whispered.

“If it’s any consolation,” Jinks said, “I wasn’t trying to kill you. I

wanted merely to frighten those closest to you. I hoped they’d convince you to shut down the fair, not only to protect you, but to

protect your fellow players and the paying public. Accidents are bad

for business.”

Sir James harrumphed impatiently. “You’ve explained why you

staged the accidents. Would you be so kind as to explain why

you stole the crown?”

Jinks threw his head back and laughed. “It’s Cal’s lucky charm.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

215

I was sure he’d give up the throne once he’d lost the precious,

custom-made crown sprinkled with his mummy’s jewels, but he

soldiered on, regardless. Rule number one at a Ren fest: Don’t disappoint the punters.”

Lord Llewellyn lumbered to his feet and spoke for the first

time. “Now, then, sir, if you’ll come with me.”

“Certainly I’ll come with you.” Jinks’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “But you’ll have to catch me first!”

Lord Llewellyn’s brawny arm shot out, but Jinks dodged it, did a

backflip off the platform, and sprinted down Pudding Lane. Bill took

off after him, I took off after Bill, and everyone else followed me,

with Calvin bringing up the rear. Jinks’s laughter rang out ahead of

us as we tore down Pudding Lane, dashed across Broad Street, and

raced toward Gate house Square.

Bill reached the square before I did, but when I caught up with

him, he’d come to a standstill. He signaled for me to stay back,

then turned in a circle, scanning the stalls bordering the square.

“Jinks!” he shouted. “This may sound like a cliché, but we really

do have you surrounded. You’ll be caught the moment you set foot

outside the fairground.”

I looked over my shoulder at the retired Scotland Yard detectives, the middle-aged farmer, and the farmer’s overweight nephew.

All five were bent double and gasping for air, as if they’d recently

crossed the finish line in a marathon. I didn’t think they posed

much of a threat to Jinks’s bid for freedom.

“Police,” Lord Belvedere managed, catching my doubtful glance.

“Out front. All round the perimeter. Brought them with me.”

I nodded to him, and as I turned to face the square again, a lithe

figure darted out from the shadows between two of the stalls.

“Bill!” I screamed. “He’s behind you!”

Bill swung around, but Jinks darted past him, hurled himself at

the gate house, and began to clamber up the fake stone wall of the

west tower. I heard the clinking of keys as Calvin jogged past me,

216 Nancy Atherton

but I didn’t understand what the sound meant until I saw him open

the locked door I’d tried to enter on my first day at the fair.

“Stop him!” I shouted, but I was too late.

Before anyone could react, Calvin had disappeared into the

tower and slammed the door behind him. Bill darted after him and

tugged on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. He threw me a

helpless look, then backed into the center of the square, peering

upward. Lord Belvedere, Sir James, Lord Llewellyn, Horace Malvern,

and I strode forward to join him, our gazes transfixed on the top of

the west tower. Above us, Jinks pulled himself over the battlements, rolled onto the tower’s roof, and sprang to his feet, with his

arms outstretched.

“Outnumbered and undone!” Jinks shouted down to us, grinning. “Never fear, though. I have a new retirement plan!” He jumped

up on the battlements and balanced on one foot, like a tightrope

walker.

“Don’t be a fool!” Bill shouted.

“But I am a fool,” Jinks retorted, teetering precariously as he

hopped from one foot to the other. “Just ask your wife. I tried my

best to seduce her, but she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to

take me seriously. Women never do take me seriously. The story of

my love life would fit on the head of a pin.”

I heard a faint, whining creak followed by a thud that reverberated throughout the deserted fairground, and Calvin’s bulky form

suddenly appeared atop the west tower. He bent to close the trapdoor he’d pushed open, then stood straight and looked up at Jinks.

“I say, old man, come down from there,” he said in a kindly voice.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“No,” said Jinks, chuckling. “I’m going to kill myself.”

“Don’t be daft,” Calvin chided. “Your sovereign majesty won’t

allow it. And I certainly won’t.”

“I’m sorry, Cal.” Jinks’s manic grin vanished as he locked eyes

with Calvin. Then he let himself fall.

Calvin lunged forward and caught Jinks around the knees with

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

217

both arms. Jinks struggled wildly to break free, but with the strength

of a sumo wrestler, Calvin heaved him onto the roof, pulled him

upright, and punched him in the face. Jinks crumpled into an unconscious heap at Calvin’s feet.

Calvin looked down at him for a moment, breathing heavily,

then leaned over the battlement and threw the keys to Bill.

“Be a good chap and pop up here,” he said. “I’ll need help getting the poor fellow down.”

Twenty-three

T he bonfire crackled and snapped in the cool night air. I

sipped from my flagon of hot chocolate and listened to

the sounds of the drowsing encampment—the indistinct

murmur of voices, sudden outbreaks of laughter, the gentle notes of

a harp. Beside me, Bill gazed reflectively at the star-fi lled sky. Unbeknownst to me, he’d arranged for Will, Rob, and Stanley to

spend the night at Anscombe Manor, so we were allowed to stay

out late.

Bill had attained celebrity status among the Rennies. He’d received so many salutes, bows, curtsys, and admiring looks as we

crossed the encampment that Calvin had half jokingly off ered to

share the throne with him. Bill had politely rejected the off er, saying

that he’d already found his Camelot.

Randy Jack had been given a somewhat less favorable reception

when he’d crept back to his pavilion after the fight. The foot soldiers,

as it turned out, took a dim view of the mistreatment of civilians.

Their code of honor did not allow a knight to kick a handyman in

the ribs.

The men had communicated their dis

pleasure to the Dragon

Knight, who’d promptly packed his bags, loaded Lucifer in his trailer,

and taken off for parts unknown. Calvin was serenely untroubled by

Sir Jacques’ defection. He’d intended to sack the bounder anyway, he

told us over dinner at the farmhouse, and replace him with a chap

who didn’t take the bad guy role quite so seriously.

A log fell on the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

Horace Malvern refilled his flagon, then passed the pitcher of ale to

Sir James, who handed it off to Lord Llewellyn. Lord Belvedere

was drinking mead. The hectic hours we’d spent giving statements

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

219

at the police station in Upper Deeping were behind us. It was

pleasant to sit peacefully around a bonfire, sipping our chosen beverages and reviewing the remarkable events that had brought us

together.

“The fair is very much like a village,” Bill continued, lowering

his head and looking from Calvin’s face to mine. “And nothing goes

unnoticed in a village. Two food vendors saw Jinks near the quintain, with a knife in his hand, after the morning practice session on

opening day. They didn’t think twice about it, because . . . well,

because he’s Jinks.”

I nodded. “That morning, when I heard the sound of the saw—I

remember noticing how quiet it was on the other side of the stile. I

thought Jinks was still asleep in his camper.”

“He wasn’t asleep,” said Sir James. “He was up on the gatehouse, making fine cuts in the parapet’s supports. A builder noticed him, but didn’t ask him what he was doing. He assumed that

it had something to do with the opening ceremony.”

“A ticket wench saw Jinks come out of the motor home with the

crown,” said Lord Belvedere. “She assumed that he intended to

wear it during one of his routines.” He gazed into his mead. “We

found it in his caravan, hanging next to his jester’s cap.”

“Mistress Farseeing, the crystal-ball vendor, saw him near the

cannon,” said Lord Llewellyn, “and the rocks in the brook near his

picnic spot had definitely been disturbed.”

“It’s a moot point, in any case,” said Lord Belvedere. “He’s confessed to everything.”

“I haven’t read his confession,” I said, “and I can’t read your

minds, so I’m still in the dark about a few things. Would someone

please explain to me how he poisoned the king after he’d left for

Cheltenham? I mean, did he ever go to Cheltenham, or did he lie

about that, too?”

“He went there.” Bill took a swig of ale, then placed his flagon

on the ground and clasped his hands loosely around his knees. “But

before he left, he presented Calvin with a bottle of Riesling, which

220 Nancy Atherton

he’d spiked with a tincture of aconite—also known as monkshood.”

“We found monkshood growing wild near his picnic spot,” Lord

Llewellyn put in.

I recalled the pretty flowers dotting the sylvan glade and shivered.

“We had the wine bottle analyzed after Calvin became ill,” said

Lord Belvedere. “The dose of aconite in it was too low to kill anyone, but it would have incapacitated Calvin for several days, had he

drunk the entire bottle himself.”

“Fortunately, Calvin has a generous nature,” Sir James went on.

“He shared the bottle with me and three of the courtiers, thus

sparing himself the full effects of the aconite.”

“Okay,” I said. “I understand how he managed the poisoning,

but I’m still not clear about the stampede. Where did Jinks get the

dog?”

“Liebling belongs to a gentleman who lives in a flat on Montpellier Terrace in Cheltenham,” said Lord Belvedere.

“Jinks’s friend?” I asked.

“They were at school together,” said Lord Belvedere. “I followed Jinks to Cheltenham. I saw him put Liebling in his caravan.

If I hadn’t lost him in traffic, I might have prevented the stampede.

However, I did lose him traffic, and he was able to travel back to

Fivefold Farm and set Liebling loose on the herd in the south paddock.”

“After he’d opened the gates between the paddock and the

horse pasture,” Mr. Malvern interjected. “Liebling’s a fine, friendly

dog, by the way. He’d just never seen a cow before, so he got overexcited.”

A young woman emerged from the darkness beyond the pool of

bonfi re light and walked over to Calvin. I recognized her immediately as the tallest madrigal singer.

“Sorry to bother you, Cal,” she said, “but I thought you’d want to

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

221

know that Mirabel and Edmond are back from hospital. Edmond’s

ribs are bruised, not broken. He should be up and about in a couple

of days. Mirabel’s going to nurse him back to health.”

“Of course she is,” said Calvin, smiling. “Thanks, Kay. That’s wonderful news, indeed.”

“Mirabel also asked me to ask you if you would marry them on

the last day of the fair,” said the young woman.

“Tell her that I will be honored to preside at the ceremony,” said

Calvin. “It will be an idyllic conclusion to their romantic summer. Now,

off to bed with you. I expect you to be in fine voice on Saturday.”

The young woman bent to kiss the top of his head and he blew a

kiss to her as she departed. I sat up straight and stared after her as a

number of ideas began to spin rapidly in my mind.

“Calvin,” I said slowly. “Who was that?”

“Kay Jorgensen,” he replied. “My cousin.”

“If you spot her in the crowd during the pro cession,” I said, “do

you blow a kiss to her?”

“I do, as a matter of fact.” He laughed. “It’s a family tradition. I’ve

blown kisses to her ever since she was a small girl.”

I felt the color rise in my face and hastily lowered my gaze to my

flagon. I would never admit it to the men sitting around the bonfire

with me, but I’d just solved another mystery. Mirabel hadn’t been

responding to King Wilfred when she’d curtsied during the procession. She’d been flirting with Sir Jacques, who’d been walking

beside the king. King Wilfred’s kiss had been aimed well over Mirabel’s head, at Kay Jorgensen, his cousin, who’d reacted with composure because it was a family tradition, not a come-on. My mistake

had been in assigning Calvin characteristics he simply didn’t possess.

Aunt Dimity had been right about him. Calvin was no lothario.

“Cal,” Mr. Malvern said gruffly, “I wish you’d change your mind.”

“You can go on wishing, then,” said Calvin, with unaccustomed

severity. “I’m not going to press charges against Jinks. He’s spending

the night at the station because the police insisted on it, but he’ll be

222

Nancy Atherton

a free man tomorrow morning. The poor chap’s had a breakdown.

He needs to be looked after, not thrown in prison.”

“He could have killed you,” Sir James pointed out.

“Yes, but he didn’t, did he?” Calvin retorted irritably. “And he

never meant to kill me, so I don’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“He duped you into giving him control of your finances,” said

Lord Belvedere.

“I want him to control my finances,” Calvin shot back. “He’s done

a bang-up job so far, and I expect he will again, once he’s recovered

himself. We’ll make the arrangement all legal and aboveboard, naturally, but I’m going to ensure that he has his fair share of my

money. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have so much of it.” Calvin

peered at us in exasperation. “Can’t any of you imagine what he’s

been going through? The poor fellow’s been worried sick about ending up penniless, crippled, and alone. Is it any wonder he’s a bit

doolally?”

Mr. Malvern, Sir James, and the two lords shook their heads in

bewilderment, but I caught Calvin’s eye and nodded. I found it extremely easy to imagine what Jinks had been going through. It was,

however, nearly impossible for me to imagine someone with a heart

bigger than Calvin’s.

“Once he stops fretting about his future,” Calvin continued,

“he’ll settle down and be his old self again. When he’s released

from jail in the morning, I’m going to see to it that he has the

very best of care.” He raised his hand, palm outward, in a gesture

signaling finality. “Let there be no more discussion. My mind is

made up.”

A period of silence followed his pronouncement. Finally, Calvin cleared his throat.

“I think you should have a knighthood for your valorous work

on my behalf, Bill,” he said. “What say you?”

“I’m sorry,” said Bill, “but I can’t accept. I’ve already sworn an

oath of fealty to my family, so I can’t swear one to you. My sons, on

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

223

the other hand, are ready and willing to become knights of your

realm.”

“We’ll have a horseback ceremony for them,” Calvin proposed,

warming to the idea. “We’ll do it in the arena, before the joust.

The more pageantry, the better, I say.”

“They’ll love it,” I said. “It might be a good idea to knight Thunder and Storm as well.”

“An excellent idea,” said Calvin. “We’ll have to start thinking

about Edmond and Mirabel’s wedding, too. I want it to be a day

they’ll never forget.”

“Leave it to Lori,” said Bill. “She’s good at weddings.”

“Would you consider arranging it?” Calvin asked me.

“Would I consider arranging a full-out medieval, prince-andprincess,

happily-ever-after, fairy-tale wedding?” I said in one

breath. “Yeah. I think I might be willing to give it a go.”

“Try stopping her,” said Bill, grinning. “Are you allowed to

marry people, Calvin?”

“Oh, yes,” Calvin replied. “I got my minister’s license online last

year. It’s perfectly legal.” He sighed. “The wedding will be my last

official ceremony at King Wilfred’s Faire.”

“Until next year,” I said.

“I’m afraid there won’t be a next year,” he said. “At the end of

the summer, I will close King Wilfred’s Faire permanently.”

For a split second we simply gaped at him. Then came the reactions.

“What?” said Mr. Malvern.

“Huh?” said Lord Llewellyn.

“I beg your pardon?” said Sir James.

“Close the fair?” said Bill.

“Permanently?” I said.

“Why?” said Lord Belvedere.

“I don’t much like being king,” Calvin replied thoughtfully. “Nor

do I enjoy managing such a large enterprise. I’ll see it out to the end

224 Nancy Atherton

of the run, of course, but when it’s over—and when Jinks is well

enough to come with me—I’m going back to America. I’ll work as

a town crier or a lord mayor or a peasant.” He chuckled. “Perhaps

I’ll sell turkey legs again. Anything to spare myself the dreadful

burden of all this blasted responsibility.”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,” said Bill.

“Truer words were never spoken,” said Calvin. “Clever chap,

Shakespeare. Knew a thing or two. My head’s so uneasy that I’ve

decided to demote myself to the rank of duke for the rest of the

summer. I’ve hired a new king. He’ll start on Saturday.”

I stared at him in utter disbelief. “You mean . . . King Wilfred

is dead?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Calvin. “But a new King Wilfred will be born the day after tomorrow.”

The men observed him solemnly for a moment, then got to their

feet and raised their flagons. I hastily followed suit.

“The king is dead,” said Bill. “Long live the king!”

“Long live the king!” we chorused.

We sat up past midnight, talking, laughing, and quaffi

ng, but

the day’s intense emotions and dramatic events finally caught up

with us and it was time to bring our gathering to a close. While Bill

exchanged

last-minute pleasantries with the other men, Calvin

stepped to one side and beckoned to me.

“I have something for you, Lori,” he said. He reached into his

belt pouch and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “Jinks asked me to

give it to you.”

I unfolded the slip of paper and saw in the flickering firelight a

handwritten copy of the honey cake recipe.

“Oh,” I said softly, and felt my throat constrict. “Thank him for

me, will you?”

“You can thank him yourself,” said Calvin. “They encourage

visitors in the place I’ve found for him. I’m going to make sure everyone goes to see him, especially Lady Amelia. She’s had her eye

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

225

on him, but she’s been too shy to make her preference known. I

think it’s time for her to speak up, don’t you?” He glanced furtively

at Bill, Lord Belvedere, Sir James, Lord Llewellyn, and Mr. Malvern,

then leaned closer to me and said quietly, “It’s not just about money,

you know. He needs to be shown how much he’s loved.” Calvin

beamed jovially at me, turned, and strode away from the bonfire.

As the darkness swallowed him, I blinked back tears and whispered, “Long live King Calvin the Good!”

Epilogue

T he invasion of Finch ended on a sweltering afternoon in

late August. My peaceful English village had survived

rampaging tourists, eccentric houseguests, and overcrowded eve nings at the pub, but King Wilfred’s Faire could not

survive the unexpected death of its original merry monarch. At the

end of the summer, the Mayne Entrance was closed for good, and

all traces of the fair vanished from Bishop’s Wood.

Merlot the Magician shocked Finch’s wine connoisseurs by purchasing six cases of Dick Peacock’s ghastly homemade wine to take

home with him. Bill and I decided that his next trick would be to

make his own tooth enamel disappear. Magus Silveroak graciously

accepted Sally Pyne’s going-away gift of lovingly hand-knitted

sweaters, socks, and scarves, but no one believed that the wizard

would get much use out of them. Peggy Taxman presented the jugglers with a bag of practice fruit when they departed, and the mime

left without saying a word to anyone.

The village’s traditional summer events flourished once Peggy

agreed to hold them at the fairground. Grog the basset hound won

the newly created Fancy Dress Award at the dog show, thanks to

the dashing Robin Hood costume Sally Pyne had made for him.

Grant Tavistock and Charles Bellingham took first place in the

flower show with their stunning begonias, and the Anscombe Manor

junior team won their portion of the gymkhana, which drew large

and appreciative crowds to the joust arena.

Will, Rob, Thunder, and Storm were knighted in the arena by

King Wilfred the Second, who conducted the entire ceremony on

horseback. Bill wore his medieval dude garb to the festivities, but

after wearing my costume for one action-packed day, I retired my

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

227

role as Madame de Bergere and stuck to mundane clothes for the

rest of the summer. I didn’t want Alex or Leslie or Jim or Diane—

whoever they were—to recognize me as the woman they’d seen

crawling away from Edmond’s tent. No bride wants to find out that

her wedding planner was her fiancé’s bit of fluff .

Calvin resumed the throne one last time, to marry Edmond and

Mirabel in a daylong Rennie extravaganza that involved nearly every

performer at the fair. The happy couple was escorted to the Great

Hall by the soldiers, squires, and knights, serenaded during the

ceremony by the madrigal maidens, and feted at the sumptuous

wedding feast by beggars, gypsies, pirates, fairies, monks, snake

charmers, Morris dancers, belly dancers, puppeteers, wenches, magicians, wizards, jugglers, acrobats, musicians, and the walking, talking

tree. The wedding was the highlight of the summer, and a splendid

way to say farewell to King Wilfred’s marvelous, magical fair.

Afterward, the Rennies struck camp and dispersed. Some returned

to their regular nine-to-five jobs, others moved on to participate in

historic festivals and reenactments all over England, and a few traveled

to America, to try their luck on the year-round Ren fest circuit.

Jinks spent seven weeks in the rest home Calvin had found for

him, healing from minor knee surgery as well as a major nervous

breakdown. Calvin didn’t have to cajole his employees into visiting

the rest home. Since the fair was very much like a village, the Rennies knew of Jinks’s crimes before he was released from the lockup

in Upper Deeping. They didn’t condemn him because they were, on

the whole, a remarkably nonjudgmental lot and because, like Calvin, they sympathized with Jinks’s fears. Not a day went by without

one or more of them showing up at the rest home to keep Jinks

abreast of the fair’s hottest gossip or simply to keep him company.

Lady Amelia was his most frequent visitor. The slim, raven-haired

beauty taught him to play the lute and discovered that he had a fine

singing voice that happened to blend exquisitely with hers. When he

came to the wedding with her on his arm, he was no longer Jinks

the Jester, but Rowan the Bard. The songs he’d composed to perform

228 Nancy Atherton

at the feast were witty and funny and wise, and they didn’t require

him to wear a belled cap or to do backflips.

“Lady Amelia reckons he’ll be ready to go back to America in

another week or two,” I said. “He’s asked her to go with him, which

is just as well, because she’s had her bags packed since July.”

I sat in the study, with my feet on the ottoman and the blue

journal open in my lap. King Reginald gazed down at me from his

niche on the bookshelves with a satisfied glimmer in his black button eyes. He seemed to think that it was very good to be king.

Is Calvin aware of Lady Amelia’s intentions?

I laughed as the question appeared on the page in Aunt Dimity’s

old-fashioned script.

“Are you kidding?” I said. “Calvin’s done everything in his power

to encourage and support her intentions. He’s hoping for a wedding

by Christmas.”

I’m pleased to know that Calvin continues to regard Lady Amelia with

affection. It can be awkward when one’s best friend finds a mate. I was afraid

Calvin might feel excluded.

“Lady Amelia’s way ahead of you,” I said. “She’s put Calvin to

work arranging their schedule for next year. If a Ren fest doesn’t

want all three of them, he’s to scratch it off the list and move on to

the next one. He shouldn’t have any trouble finding gigs, though.

They’re a talented and experienced trio.”

I’m certain they’ll do well as a team. I applaud Calvin’s decision to give

up his grand dream and return to his roots as a humble player.

“Why?” I asked. “Most people think he’s going backwards—

changing from a butterfly into a caterpillar.”

Unlike most people, Calvin is at peace with himself. When his dream

proved to be more than he could handle, he didn’t become discouraged. He

simply recognized his limitations and decided to live happily within them. I

have no doubt that he’ll make an exemplary caterpillar. Butterfly wings can

be awfully hard to manage.

“Lord Belvedere and Sir James think he’s a fool for letting Jinks

off so lightly,” I said.

Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

229

I’d rather be his kind of fool than theirs. Where they see wickedness and

demand punishment, Calvin sees despair and demands compassion. He

won’t tolerate cruelty—he would have sacked Sir Jacques if the soldiers

hadn’t beaten him to the punch—and to send a sick friend to prison would

have been the harshest form of cruelty. Calvin is wiser than even he knows.

He refuses to let bitterness poison his heart. He chooses instead to believe in

the healing power of love.

“He certainly gives new meaning to ‘Forgive and forget,’ ” I

commented dryly.

The old meaning is potent enough. What would he have gained by holding

on to anger and seeking revenge? A future shared with Lady Amelia and

Rowan the Bard is brighter by far than one filled with regret and resentment.

“Calvin’s smarter than I am,” I said. “I’m still holding on to a sack

of regrets.”

Such as?

“I wish I hadn’t pegged Calvin as a playboy,” I said. “I wish I hadn’t

seen Edmond as a crazed assassin. I wish I’d noticed Jinks’s attempt

to seduce me. He would have felt much better about himself if I’d

slapped his face. I wish I’d had more confidence in Bill’s ability to

defend my honor. I was so afraid that Randy Jack would knock the tar

out of him that I couldn’t bring myself to watch the fight.”

What a strange and interesting set of regrets. Would you care to explain

them further?

“It’s my imagination,” I said. “It’s completely screwed up. The

things I could imagine turned out to be false and the things I couldn’t

imagine turned out to be true. Calvin’s not a playboy and Edmond

isn’t a crazed assassin, but Jinks was trying to seduce me, and Bill

was perfectly capable of defending my honor. What’s wrong with

me, Dimity? No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to see what’s in

front of me.”

How boring life would be if we could see only what’s in front of us! Your

imagination may lead you astray, my dear, but it takes you on fascinating

journeys, and you always get off at the right stop in the end. Face it, Lori:

You’re not cut out to be a normal human being. You’re meant to be better

230 Nancy Atherton

than normal. Take a page from Calvin’s book. Recognize your limitations

and rejoice in them!

“But—”

No buts! Dragons come in all shapes and sizes. Some need to be punched

on the nose. Some need to spend time in a rest home. The dragons within us

need to be slain. Stop doubting yourself, my dear. Don’t try to be someone

you’re not. Let Emma be Emma. I vastly prefer you as Lori.

By the first weekend in September, Horace Malvern’s cows had

settled into their old pasture, and Finch had settled into its old

ways. The village grapevine quivered with rumors about the wedding that would take place in two short weeks, and Peggy Taxman’s gavel could be heard throughout the land. Nothing had really

changed in Finch. Thank heavens.

I attended every committee meeting, not because I was afraid

of being landed with an unpalatable job, but because I was eager to

get to work organizing the Harvest Festival, the Guy Fawkes Day

bonfire, the Nativity play, and the rescheduled bring-and-buy sale.

I’d had my fill of spectacle. I couldn’t wait to bring out the frayed

linen tablecloths, tarnished tea urns, and increasingly shabby, but

soothingly familiar, decorations.

I was much too busy to dwell on the summer of the dragon. I

looked to the future, and I let my imagination soar.

King Wilfred’s Honey Cakes

Cakes

1⁄2 cup butter

4 cups sifted fl our

2 egg yolks

1 cup milk

2 tablespoons superfine sugar

2 tablespoons honey

11⁄2 teaspoons baking powder

pinch salt

Topping

1 egg white

1 cup heather honey

3 tablespoons ground almonds

Preheat the oven to 350˚F. Grease the baking sheet.

Cakes

Rub the butter into the flour. Beat the egg yolks with the milk. Combine the sugar and honey in a small saucepan and heat over a low

flame, stirring until well mixed. Then stir in the baking powder.

Add the sugar/honey mixture to the flour/butter mixture, alternating with the egg yolks/milk mixture. Mix everything together

very well, add the salt, and mix again. Roll out gently on a fl oured

board to approximately a 1⁄2-inch thickness. Cut into twenty-four

rounds. Place the rounds on a greased baking sheet. Bake at 350˚F

232 Nancy Atherton

for about 20 minutes, or until golden brown. Remove to a rack to

cool. When cool, add the topping.

Topping

Lightly beat the egg white. Combine the honey with the almonds.

Paint the tops of the cakes with the egg white, then spread the

honey/almond mixture over the tops of the cakes. Bake in a very

cool oven for no longer than 5 minutes, to set. Eat either hot or

cold, and let your imagination soar!

Document Outline

- Cover Page

- Title Page

- Copyright Page

- Dedication Page

- Chapter One

- Chapter Two

- Chapter Three

- Chapter Four

- Chapter Five

- Chapter Six

- Chapter Seven

- Chapter Eight

- Chapter Nine

- Chapter Ten

- Chapter Eleven

- Chapter Twelve

- Chapter Thirteen

- Chapter Fourteen

- Chapter Fifteen

- Chapter Sixteen

- Chapter Seventeen

- Chapter Eighteen

- Chapter Nineteen

- Chapter Twenty

- Chapter Twenty-One

- Chapter Twenty-Two

- Chapter Twenty-Three

- Epilogue