Beyond the Fortuneteller's Tent

by Kristy Tate

  “Improbable, not impossible,” she said, quoting Laurel. She touched his hand. “I’m going to assume they’ll be happy. Being happy is a head game.”

  During her mother’s illness, Grammy Jean had taken her to a counselor to “help you make sense of your changing world.” Doctor Hartman, a middle-aged motherly sort with a mustache and a fondness for peppermints, liked to speak in platitudes. Petra, though only eleven, had rewritten a few. She who dares wins became she who tries dies, and seize the day turned to sneeze the day.

  Back then, she had hated visiting Hairy Hartman. She had much better things to do with her after-school hours than chat up with some old, weepy woman. Odd that now, in another time and place, Doctor Hartman would suddenly make sense. She shook herself out of the memory, determined not to give in to the mopes—another of Hartman’s phrases—or the dopes.

  She turned to Emory. In the gentle starlight, he was beautiful and he was here. And so was she. True, she didn’t know how long she’d stay. She knew she couldn’t take him with her when she left, but according to Hartman, she should be happy right here, right now, doing something she knew was important to the world, not just in her world, but the world in general… meaning everyone.

  “What happened at Hampton Court?” she asked.

  He moved away from her. She knew he didn’t want her involved in his save the Bible crusade. Well, too bad.

  “They had trouble getting the kegs in the cellar, but eventually they did.”

  “You just watched?”

  Emory stiffened under her implied criticism. “The King needs to discover the plot and those involved. We have to wait for the right moment.”

  Petra sniffed.

  “Unfortunately, I believe Chambers saw me.” Emory shrugged.

  “But if he really thought you were a threat, he would have come after you.”

  Emory took a deep breath. “Not necessarily. It is likely that the Earl will hold Chambers at least partly responsible for Young Falstaff’s engagement. I would hazard a guess that at this moment Chambers is furious with Young Falstaff. Of me, he may have suspicions, but of Young Falstaff he has concrete reason for anger.”

  “We should go to Hampton Court.”

  Emory shook his head. “My lady, there is no ‘we’, and I am not in any danger.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re Mr. Immunity.”

  He smiled and borrowed one of her phrases. “Something like that.”

  “But how are we going to stop Chambers?”

  “You must watch Chambers and let me know when he leaves again.” He pulled her to the side door and lifted her hand. Gently, he kissed the inside of her palm. “I will stop Chambers. Until then, goodnight, Petra.”

  He turned to leave, footsteps scrunching on the pebbles that led down the path. In the dark moonlight, the world seemed quiet and still on this side of the manor, but on the other side of the manor there would be the crowd of villagers. And Chambers.

  “Wait, no,” she called after him. “How will I let you know?”

  “You may send a message through Anne,” he said over his shoulder.

  Petra scowled. Anne again. Why did Anne get to play go-between? “Where are you going?”

  Turning back, he reached around her to push open the kitchen door and then he pushed her inside. “To bed, of course,” he said, shutting the door behind her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  An engagement or betrothal, seventeenth century style:

  A legally binding contract.

  Parental permission required for anyone under the age of 21.

  Penalty, fines and a trip to the church court could result if anyone got cold feet and tried to renege.

  —Petra’s notes

  Mary bustled into her room, and pulled back the drapes with a flourish. If she’d been an actor in a musical she would have burst into song.

  “You’re happy about the engagement,” Petra guessed, watching Mary dance around the room.

  Mary shook a yellow dress at Petra, motioning for her to hurry.

  “Am I going somewhere?” Petra ran her tongue over her teeth, longing for a toothbrush.

  “You have a visitor, my lady.” Mary’s voice had a new trill. “Tis Mistress Anne.”

  “Already?” Petra swung her feet to the floor and stretched. Mary came to pull the nightgown over her head. It still felt odd to have Mary dress her, like she was a life-size doll or a store mannequin.

  Mary practically threw her clothes on her and then began attacking her hair with a comb. “Do you know why?” Petra asked.

  “Well, if I was her, I would use the excuse to spy out my new home.” Mary used the comb to pull Petra’s hair.

  “She’s been here before.”

  “Not as the future mistress,” Mary said, smiling, twisting Petra’s hair into long coils.

  “Mary, do you think Anne and Lord Garret will be happy together?” Petra asked.

  “Happy?” Mary poised a pin above Petra’s head.

  “I know you’re happy about Anne, but do you think Anne will be happy?”

  Mary looked as if she’d found flowers sprouting from Petra’s head. “Why would she not be happy?”

  “Will people be nice to her?”

  Mary lowered the comb, confusion creasing her forehead. “I thought you disliked Mistress Anne?”

  Petra took a deep breath. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well, you were not sunshine and happiness when you met. You discouraged Lord Garret from purchasing her tapestry.”

  The first time she’d met Anne, Anne had drugged her, poked through her things and had called her stupid.

  “And when we went to her cottage, you were…” for once Mary seemed to be considering her words, “telling her what to do.”

  She’d been bossy. Being bossy in some situations was a good thing. It made her good with animals, it made her a good editor of the Royal Oaks high school newspaper, but probably not a good friend.

  “I want people to be nice to Anne. I…” she faltered. “I wish I’d been nicer.”

  Mary didn’t look up from Petra’s buttons. “You’ll be kind to her, won’t you Mary?”

  Mary snorted.

  “Of course you will. You can’t afford to lose your job.” How sad if her only “friends” were people who were paid to be kind to her.

  “Mary, are you sure Anne is here to visit me? Perhaps she’s here to see Lord Garret.”

  Mary, who’d been bent over the buttons, straightened. “A lady would never presume to call upon a gentleman.”

  “Even one she’s going to marry?”

  Mary lifted her eyebrows. “Besides, Lord Garret has gone to London to speak to his father.” Mary gave Petra a broad, encouraging smile and pushed her toward the door.

  “Well, that’ll be interesting.” Petra wondered what kind of man he was. He probably wasn’t horrible because Garret wasn’t horrible.

  But he did have a torture chamber in his basement.

  And he had hired Chambers. Hadn’t he?

  ***

  Anne stood in the first parlor, wringing her hands, eyes red. She rushed toward Petra and caught her in a hug.

  “Good morning, my Lady Petra,” she said loudly enough for the servants to hear.

  Then she whispered in Petra’s ear, “Friar Rohan has been arrested. I would not have come, because I hate to disturb you, but I cannot find Master Emory.”

  Petra stepped away, taking Anne’s hands in her own, wondering which of the questions flying through her head to ask first. Where is Rohan? Why was he arrested? Why are you looking for Emory? Where have you looked? Do you often look for Emory?

  Anne moved to the table and placed a hand on Petra’s purse. “I’ve returned your things. I believe you must have left them at my house the other morning.”

  Petra opened the purse, not expecting to find answers, but for something to do with her hands. When an answer came, it surprised her. The phone, Zoe’s Girl Scout Gadget, the lipstick—t
hey reminded her of a faraway world. Her world. In time, would she be more at home in 1610 than 2014? She thought of her family and felt sad. “Would you care to walk in the garden?”

  When Anne nodded, Petra took her hand and picked up the purse. “Follow me,” she said, drawing her to the French doors.

  Not a great day for walking, Petra decided when she opened the doors and a bank of fog rolled in. Cold moist air hung between them. When they passed the rose trellis, away from the ears of the servants, Petra asked, “Where have you looked for Emory?”

  “Everywhere!”

  A twinge of jealousy pricked. It bothered Petra that Anne, engaged to Garret, worried about Emory enough to look everywhere for him. She shivered, remembering the torture chamber. “Do you know where Rohan is?”

  “In a cell at the edge of town.”

  Petra relaxed a fraction. A cell at the edge of town sounded much kinder than the rack and pulleys in the chamber. She reminded herself that Rohan seemed to have amazing healing abilities. “Do you know why?”

  Anne shook her head. “I’m sure it has something to do with the trip to Hampton Court yesterday.”

  Emory had said Chambers had seen him. Had he also seen Rohan? “They can’t just throw someone in jail for going to Hampton Court.”

  Anne looked at her blankly. “Of course they can. My Lord Garret is away, and that leaves Chambers in charge. He can do as he sees fit. He usually does.”

  Petra thought. Anne had Garret tied around her finger, and Garret had more weight than Chambers. “We just need for Rohan to be safe until Lord Garret returns.”

  Anne wrung her hands. “We don’t know when that will be.”

  “Not long, though, right? Hampton Court isn’t far.”

  Anne looked bleak. “Perchance ‘tis long enough.”

  Long enough? Court cases in the twenty-first century took eons, but maybe not so in the seventeenth.

  “If Emory were here, he could free Rohan.” Panic tinged Anne’s voice.

  Petra wondered exactly how Anne’s brother had been killed.

  We don’t need Emory, Petra decided. She took Anne’s hand and pulled her back to the manor. “We’ll get him out,” Petra said. “I’ve got an idea.”

  ***

  Raiding Anne’s father’s chest of clothes gave Petra an odd sense of déjà vu. It reminded her of when she and Robyn had put on their old prom dresses for the Renaissance fair. They’d been dressing up, playacting, then too, although the stakes had dramatically changed. Now, just four days later, it seemed silly that she’d thought a date to the prom had been so all consuming important. Anne’s brother had died trying to protect the translators of the Bible. Rohan had gone to jail, and Emory had disappeared. The prom seemed trivial in comparison.

  Anne tossed out breeches and shirts. “You cannot guess what has become of Master Emory?”

  Petra shook her head, wondering if Anne was in love with Emory. The thought gave her a sick feeling, even though she knew she couldn’t have a future with him. Whatever her future was. A cottage with milk cows? The suburbs with a minivan? A city with a briefcase? Did Emory fit in any scenario other than the one with a cottage and cows? She didn’t even like cows, and she really didn’t like bulls.

  Even though she knew she shouldn’t, the thought of Anne’s relationship with Emory worried her. If Anne loved Emory, why would she marry Garret?

  Petra bolstered up the nerve to ask something she’d wanted to know for a long time. “Anne,” she said. “How do you know Rohan and Emory?”

  Anne selected a pair of breeches and held them up. “I have always known Rohan,” Anne said. “He introduced me to Emory a few years ago.” She paused. “I have never shared this, but Emory reminds me of an uncle I had when I was little. But that doesn’t make sense, does it? Because Emory, if anything, is younger than me.”

  Petra reached into her purse and pulled out her panties and bra. They’d been washed and unworn since her arrival at the manor and they reminded her of her other life. She turned her back to Anne, stripped down and put them on. When she turned around, she saw Anne’s gaze flinch away, like she didn’t want to be caught staring.

  “This is what we wear in my village,” Petra explained.

  Anne blushed and studied her shoes.

  Petra looked down at the lacy bra and panties. They were modest by 2014 standards and probably shocking to Anne. To Petra, they felt good, infinitely more comfortable than 1614 underwear. Petra considered a large, ugly jacket made of smelly wool. Maybe smelly could be useful.

  “Where did Emory come from?” Petra asked, thinking of the maps in his cottage. She put on a pair of well-worn and loose breeches and tucked them into the baroness’ boots she’d borrowed. Then, she rolled the sleeves of the cotton work shirt and shrugged into the wool coat. Tugging at the belt holding up Anne’s father’s pants, she took a deep breath. It felt so good to move without the weight of skirts, petticoats and stays.

  “All I know is he is a friend of Rohan.” Anne put on a felt hat and began tucking up her hair. “Are you sure of your plan?”

  “Cross dressing always seems to work in Shakespeare’s plays,” Petra said.

  “Shakespeare?” Anne asked. “You know of him? Have you seen his plays?”

  Petra started to say she’d read some of them, but then thought better of it. She didn’t know if his work had been published in 1614. “A few,” she said, squelching the familiar tug of homesickness before it sidetracked her.

  Maybe we should wait for nightfall, Petra thought, biting her lip because those hips refused to hide even with a long jacket.

  “Hold still,” Petra said, trying to a wrap a thin blanket around Anne’s waist. If she used the quilt to bind Anne’s breasts and thicken her waist, maybe it would give her the appearance of a fat man in an oversized coat.

  Petra fashioned a scarf about her neck. “Just keep your chin down and your hands in your pockets.” Petra gave Anne’s figure a doubtful glance, smiled, and nodded.

  Petra looked in the mirror. She’d make a good villain in a melodrama. All she needed was a mustache.

  “I still don’t understand how you’re going to cause a distraction,” Anne said moments later, as she followed Petra out the door.

  “You will,” Petra said, considering, for maybe the tenth time, showing Anne the phone. She simply didn’t want a long, impossible conversation on how her tiny phone sounded like it had an entire rock band inside. She’d have to explain what a rock band was, which could possibly lead to a discussion on electric guitars, and techno-pop. And no one could explain techno-pop.

  She handed Anne the vial of tincture. “Ready?”

  Chapter Twenty

  The jail, or gaol, was used for detention, not for the punishment of criminals. It held those waiting trial and those found guilty and awaiting punishment. Sentences were usually whipping, flogging, or death. The detention period was short, which, in most cases, was not a good thing. The jail keeper usually kept his keys on his belt, and this was a good thing.

  —Petra’s notes

  The public house sat at the edge of the square. From the woods Petra could just make out the barred windows. Anne drew her to the other side of the building, where a guard sat on a stool in front of the door. He had a brown jug at his feet and a ring of keys on his belt. A dark cloud hovered, threatening rain.

  A few villagers walked up the street, on their way to market. No longer breakfast and not quite midday, the inn beside the jailhouse looked empty, although the innkeeper and his wife were probably inside preparing lunch. The bakery across the lane had pies in the window, and a fragrant smoke rose from the chimney stack. From inside came a scolding voice.

  A mean wind blew in, tossing leaves and branches. Undoubtedly it would be better to wait for night, but Anne said conviction and sentencing didn’t have to wait for a trial. And a storm waited for no one.

  What if they were caught? Chambers might want to put Anne behind bars, but would he risk turning Garret a
gainst him? Of course, as far as Chambers was considered, Petra was expendable.

  Anne lifted her loom mallet and gave Petra a wide eyed look as if to ask now what? Petra smiled nervously, and took her phone from her purse. She took a deep breath, trying to calm down. I’m here to help, she reminded herself.

  Flipping open the phone, she scrolled through the options, and pressed a button. Barking dogs.

  The guard, a beefy guy not much taller than Petra but much heavier, looked in their direction, shifted in his chair, pushed back his hat, and closed his eyes. A dog in the street spun in circles, snout lifted for scent.

  Anne stared at Petra. Petra flashed her another brief smile and then returned to her phone. Moments later, Breaking Benjamin began to scream. Petra upped the volume and watched the guard dash into the woods.

  Anne jumped from behind the log to trip the charging guard and then hit him over the head with her mallet.

  Petra switched off the phone, dropped it and lunged for the keys as Anne whacked the guard again.

  “Let’s hide him behind that boulder.” Petra took one arm. Anne grabbed the other and they dragged him a few feet.

  “Hurry,” Anne urged, her mallet poised over the guard’s head.

  Keys in hand, Petra took off for the town square, holding the cloak tight to hide her face. The bakery still rang with scolding. Only a tailor, a round man with a gimpy walk, came to watch Petra throw the keys into the cell window.

  “Hey!” the tailor called, but Petra sprinted back into the woods, choosing a path that wouldn’t lead to Anne and the guard. Hiding behind a cedar, Petra watched the tailor hesitate at the edge of the woods. He scratched his head, and then, after a few moments, limped back to his shop, wiping his forehead from the exertion.

  Petra joined Anne in a thicket of alders. “The guard?” Petra asked.

  Anne drew the vial of sleeping potion from her pocket. “He won’t be waking soon.” She grabbed Petra’s hand, and they ran into the woods.