by Thorne Moore
Queen Elizabeth made her regal appearance and everyone else faded into insignificance. She paraded round the grounds, dispensing benediction on the stalls, the refreshment tables, the St. John’s ambulance contingent, the musicians, the archers and the performing dogs. Peter and I trailed in her wake.
We were progressing back up through the newly mown meadow, when Al appeared, at the top of the terrace steps.
‘Your majesty, Lord Peter, Mistress Kate.’ Alone among the gang from Annwfyn, he had accepted my offer of a costume, so he’d had the first pick. White shirt, black doublet and hose, and a plumed cap that he doffed with a graceful sweep. Errol bloody Flynn. Mistress Kate indeed! He appeared just as Peter was hoisting his tights in an un-genteel manner. And where had he found that rapier?
‘Al, you look delicious.’ Sylvia engulfed him. ‘Isn’t this wonderful? Is it going to rain, do you think? That would be awful.’
Clouds were rolling across the sky, but there was no sign of rain. It was in fact perfect weather for the Fayre; just overcast enough to keep people off the beach. ‘Your Majesty has ordered sunshine,’ said Al. ‘Sunshine it shall be.’ He handed her up the steps with a bow.
‘You’re doing fine,’ I assured Peter, who was beginning to sulk.
*
The Fayre opened promptly at eleven, and an initial steady stream of visitors became a healthy flood. First port of call invariably was our charnel house display, or Meet the Bodies as Sylvia called it. In pride of place was the still wet painting of the bride, in lace crinoline, screaming as she was locked in the priest hole. As a poster for a horror B movie, it was perfect. A local folk singer had found a mournful ballad to accompany it, and there was a photograph of the priest hole, gaping open, with suitably eerie lighting. No pictures of the bones or any reference to the actual truth.
The photographs of Bertie the Bogman were at least more honest. There he was, blackened face perpetually snarling. Michael produced a factually correct account of the find, and an amateur historian provided us with quotes from mediaeval annals and the Mabinogion, none of which helped to explain why a man had been bound and dumped under stones in our bog.
The grisly exhibition brought our visitors on to the stalls and the entertainments and Sylvia’s animated welcome. I patrolled, watching and listening for hitches, but apart from minor whinges, all seemed to be going well.
‘You were worried no one would find the place,’ said Al, as I stopped my rounds for a gulp of ice-cold punch in the open air at the hall door.
‘Now I’m just worried that we haven’t catered for enough. Will cheese and onion crisps pass for Elizabethan nibbles if we run out?’
‘You won’t run out. The ox roast will feed a thousand. Just think of the takings.’
‘I’ll feel more confident about them when I know how many are actually paying. Sylvia’s told the students they can come for free.’
Al laughed. ‘The Queen’s bounty.’
‘I’m sure Hannah will add to the joy of the occasion. Except that I haven’t seen her. Have you?’
‘No. Probably thinks Elizabethan festivities are an insult to archaeological integrity.’
‘Ronnie doesn’t. I saw him quaffing. And I think I saw some hooded figures lurking around too. Spanish Inquisition, or did Molly invite her fellow druids?’
‘One or two, maybe. Most of them have gone to pay homage to the bluestone quarry, while they’re in the area.’
‘Not tempted to go with them?’
Al grinned. ‘The doublet and hose won. How could I resist?’
The costume did suit him extraordinarily well. I scowled down at his waist. ‘You realise we’re probably breaking all manner of byelaws with you brandishing that offensive weapon.’
He followed my gaze down and his eyebrows rose. ‘What dost thou speak of, prithee?’
‘The sword, and don’t you prithee me. Go and make yourself useful, instead of standing around like God’s gift to damsels. See if the archers can sober up. They’re on after the juggler.’
Al laughed and sauntered away, the rapier giving a twitch of farewell. He exchanged brotherly nothings with the gipsy girl on the terrace parapet, with her fiddle. Kim was happy to sit there playing folksy airs, and the outdoor stall holders seemed to like it.
I turned back to my duties. All was fine in the Hall. Even the jewellers had stopped frowning. The only unhappiness hovered around Peter. I kept him busy but his cruel discomfort with fancy dress was obvious.
Michael was doing better, carrying off his Lord Melchett costume with oblivious unconcern. He was the sort of man who let his wife buy his sweaters—turtle neck, polo neck, lace ruff, it was all one to Michael. Peter couldn’t emulate his sublime indifference, any more than he could emulate Al’s seductive Tudor gallantry. Peter was a hopeless actor, whereas Al was a natural. A different man every day.
I crossed the hall to Peter’s side. ‘I’ll take over,’ I whispered. ‘Have a break. You look as if you’re hating every minute.’
‘No! Not at all. It’s good fun. Honestly.’
‘Oh isn’t it!’ Sylvia, out of nowhere, embraced us both. ‘Kate, you’ve done a brilliant job. Hasn’t she, Peter? Didn’t those Florentine tarts turn out well?’
‘Very well. Peter, when that platter’s empty, can you slip over to the kitchen and see if they need any help?’
My heart bled for him as I marshalled the crowds back from the centre of the hall in readiness for the juggler, and convinced a photographer from the local paper that he couldn’t climb up to the gallery, because it might collapse under him.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we have more entertainment for you all.’ Sylvia swirled in the empty space. ‘What Elizabethan festivity would be complete without a juggler!’
‘Your turn,’ I whispered, waking our juggler from his snooze.
‘Oh right.’ He ambled into the arena to polite applause, sniffed, and began his tricks.
He was very good. Even too good. I’d anticipated coloured balls or skittles, but not blazing brands. I glanced nervously at Michael, who nodded meaningfully at the fire extinguisher in the corner. Sylvia, unperturbed by the small print of insurance cover, gasped with the rest of the audience, mesmerised by the spinning flames.
It had to happen then. At any other time, the noise of the milling crowd would have drowned it out, but the Hall was hushed as eyes were riveted on the swirling brands.
‘What the fuck’s going on here?’ Christian dropped each word with loud deliberation into the expectant silence as he stepped into the central space. The juggler staggered back to avoid him, tripped, dropped a brand and struggled to retrieve the others as he sprawled.
Instant chaos. There was a scream from someone too near the burning brands. A couple of resourceful men were stamping on the flames and sparks. There was outrage at Christian’s language and his obnoxious state, but Christian drowned them all. He was giggling uncontrollably. ‘Jesus Christ. What wankers, the fucking lot of you.’ His unfocussed eyes lighted on me. ‘Kate! Hey, It’s the Killer Queen. Shee-it!’ He stumbled over the juggler and farted loudly. ‘What’s the loony cow got you all doing now? Jeez, you look a bunch of twats.’ Seemingly stoned and oblivious to the consternation he had caused.
Sylvia wailed ‘Oh Chris!’ – torn between pleading and hurling her pewter goblet at him, her eyes brimming. Peter bounded across the hall to stand in front of me, as if to shield me from a dragon.
‘Listen, you little punk!’ he began, warning finger raised.
Christian managed a manic cackle in response, but that was all. His cheeks swelled. I could see the unpleasant, green tinge in his complexion as he began to gag; Sylvia’s regal magnificence was about to be targeted by perfectly aimed projectile vomiting.
‘Sylvia!’ I shouted, waving her back as she reached anxiously for her son. Christian’s victim was whirled from his sight as Al and Michael seized his arms and frog-marched him from the hall.
‘Are you all right?’ Peter asked
me, urgently.
‘Yes, yes.’ I’d barely registered Christian’s insult, far more concerned about damage to our Fayre. ‘Just check and make sure nothing’s on fire. Sylvia! It’s all right.’
‘Oh Kate.’ She was a hair’s breadth from full-scale sobbing.
‘Come on,’ I said with calm force. ‘We all know Christian. And we’re not going to let his little surprises spoil things. People are worried. Let’s smile, right?’
With a miraculous effort she pulled herself together and forced a smile. ‘It’s all right, everyone!’
‘Someone had a little too much sun and fine ale.’ I watched the sea of faces around me. ‘But don’t worry, we’ve got the stocks prepared. You can all throw rotten eggs at him later.’ Me first. ‘Simon…’ I looked at the juggler, but he’d had enough. He gathered up his props, muttering under his breath. ‘Thank you, Simon, that was a thrilling show.’
Taking up my cue, Peter began to applaud and the audience joined in.
‘Archery,’ I whispered to Sylvia.
‘Oh yes!’ She was back in control now. ‘Don’t forget the archery exhibition, everyone. It starts in ten minutes down in the meadow.’
Had we managed to limit the damage? The crowd began to drift out of the hall onto the terrace. One silly interruption from a drunken lout was surely not going to spoil the day.
Peter was watching me with consternation. Ridiculous. Did he really imagine I’d collapse in a heap because Christian called me names? Michael and Al’s rapid response had been far more to the point. Christian might be genuinely sky high or just trying to spoil his mother’s day, but either way he’d have relished Sylvia’s vomit-soaked distress. A slanging match with Peter in front of the watching crowd would have suited him perfectly.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ I said impatiently. Then I realised that, for the first time, Peter had forgotten his ridiculous clothes. His concern for me might be pointless but it was heart-felt. How could I blame him for that? I let him put his arm around me.
‘I could kill him,’ said Peter. Egad sir!
‘Couldn’t we all.’ I stopped, biting my tongue. ‘Where is he?’ We were out on the gravel now, in the wake of the crowds. I held up my velvet skirts in case I found them trailing in vomit. ‘What have they done with him?’
‘That obnoxious thug?’ asked the herb lady, sweeping up the compost from several smashed pots. ‘They took him off round the back of the hall. Turning the air blue.’
‘Oh Lord.’ I sighed.
She beamed at me. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve seen and heard much worse. You’re doing all right.’
‘Of course you are,’ said Peter. ‘Do you want me to go and find them?’
‘I would like to know.’ I blew him a kiss and ran after Sylvia, directing her down the meadow despite her repeated attempts to look back.
The archery took people’s minds off the brief unpleasantness, and the visitors were buoyant, some even joining in the folk dances that followed. I persuaded Sylvia to set an example; anything to stop her fleeing back to the house in search of her son. While she whirled and skipped, I did a quick tour of the grounds, checking for damage that Christian might have done on his way in. There was a felt-tip moustache drawn on one of the photos of Bertie the Bogman, but that seemed a bit too tame for Christian. No other vandalism that I could identify.
All I did find was Hannah, standing on the track leading to the cottages, engrossed in a book, her back ostentatiously turned on the festivities.
‘Not coming to the Fayre, Hannah?’ I couldn’t just ignore her.
‘I wasn’t invited.’ She primly turned a page.
‘Everyone was invited.’
‘Well, no one told me.’
Christian’s presence had drained my tolerance. I wasn’t in the mood to indulge her. ‘Suit yourself.’ I turned on my heel.
I caught a sob as I walked away. I decided she’d meant me to hear it, so I kept walking.
Peter hurried up to join me from the walled garden. ‘I found them. They took him to the carriage house round the back.’
‘Left him gagged and tied, I hope.’
‘Michael was reasoning with him, when I left.’
‘Please tell me you mean Corleone reasoning. Sending him to sleep with the fishes?’
‘No, but I bloody well might!’
‘Because he called me Killer Queen? Don’t rise to it. Christian uses words like hypodermics. It’s taken me time, but I’ve learned to ignore them.’
‘Your builder friend hasn’t. He wanted Chris to tell him where his sister’s got to. Chris found that very funny.’
‘Oh God.’ The girl had gone from the terrace when we emerged. Had she met Christian on his way in? ‘Kim is Chris’s perfect prey. Did he say anything?’
‘Plenty. All innuendo. Until Taverner hit him. Then he just rolled on the floor and made a big show of being crippled for life.’
‘Was he really hurt?’
‘Not enough. Your guy went off to find his sister and Mike told Chris to stop arsing around and start talking sense. I left them to it.’
‘I hope Mike’s okay on his own. Chris doesn’t talk sense when he’s in that state.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’ Peter scowled. ‘Mention money and he talks sense, whatever state he’s in. Seems to think Mike is his private banker. How does he get away with it? Mike’s not stupid. He must know Chris is just a thieving little toe-rag.’
‘Of course he knows, but he’ll do anything to make things easier for Syl. Chris knows Mike will do whatever it takes to keep him quiet until the Fayre’s over.’
Peter looked round at the crowds and grudgingly admitted the situation. ‘Now is not the time to put up a fight, is it?’
‘No. We save the scene for later.’ I forced myself back into positive thoughts. ‘Come on, we’ve got work to do.’
*
The Fayre had many more hours to run, into the summer evening, with a bonfire, fireworks, music and vaguely pagan happenings. I spent it all on the look-out for Christian, but he remained blissfully absent.
The last car rolled away down our lane just before midnight. We’d been informed, almost universally, that it had been a thoroughly enjoyable day. Gratifying, but it didn’t ease our dread of the confrontation to come.
To our general relief, it was postponed, at least for that night. Christian, bribed to lie low in the house, had discovered the bottles in the drawing room. We found him dead to the world and snoring like a pig in the Guinevere room. At least it allowed Peter and me to creep around him and retrieve Peter’s gear.
‘I’d better fish out another duvet,’ I whispered, though there seemed little likelihood of waking the monster. I paused. The simplest solution was to take Peter back to my room. He’d worked like a Trojan, endured embarrassed torment and flown to my defence. He deserved more than a cold shoulder.
But he was feeling noble. He plucked a blanket from the linen cupboard and gave me an affectionate goodnight kiss. ‘Don’t worry about me. You’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll go and sleep on the sofa, that’ll be the easiest.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t worry, Kate. Right now I could fall asleep anywhere.’
I watched him descend into the dark well of the stairs, and I felt – confused. Peter. Al. Peter… Was I going to count lovers like sheep? Fortunately, sheer exhaustion was enough to send me quickly sound asleep.
When, seven hours later, I came down to say good morning to my husband, I found Sylvia sitting in the kitchen, wiping the last of the dishes. ‘What time did you get up?’ I asked.
‘Early. I couldn’t sleep. We were on the local radio.’
‘Really?’
‘Near disaster as drunken guest sets fire to ancient hall.’
‘Oh no.’
It had been too good a story to pass over. Sylvia was naturally deflated after the hyper-tension of the fair, and Christian’s mere presence, let alone his behaviour, undermined her usual spiri
ts, but she managed a laugh. ‘They say any publicity is better than none, don’t they? And they did mention it being an ancient hall. It was quite good, really. Comments about the ox roast and the musicians, all very nice. It’s just that…’ She had tears in her eyes.
‘Sylvia, we had one tiny disaster. Do you realise we didn’t have a single punch-up? No stalls collapsing. No heart attacks. No pickpocket alert.’
‘I know.’ She swallowed, forcing a smile. ‘I’d never have managed any of it without you, Kate. It’s just that, if there had to be one miserable moment, why did it have to be down to my son?’
Because that’s what Christian did.
His drunken slumbers continued through the day, which was a relief; I had other business to attend to. Michael was organising some of the local lads in a mammoth litter patrol and Peter volunteered to join them. Before they set off, black plastic bags in hand, I took Michael to one side and showed him the planning letter.
He read it in silence, then thrust it back at me with exasperation. ‘Sheer bloody bureaucratic nonsense.’
‘We didn’t ask permission for the round house though. Maybe I should have.’
‘It’s not a proper dwelling. It’s…’ He shook his head. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll speak to someone about it. Someone out there must see reason.’
‘Okay, but I really need to tell Al. I can’t put it off. I have to warn him what they’re threatening to do.’
I climbed up to Annwfyn and found the gang in such a relaxed mood that I didn’t even know how to begin.
‘Come in,’ said Molly. ‘You’re exhausted. This is restorative. Try it.’
‘Thanks.’ I took the proffered cup, hot and herbal. ‘Did you have a successful day?’
‘It was good. Positive energy; you could feel it.’
‘I want to thank you all for your help. We’d never have managed without you.’
‘Fair payment for this,’ said Al, dumping a pile of wood as he joined Molly and me in the round house.
I looked around. This house was weeks of painstaking and loving labour, every slip of willow, every handful of clay selected and gathered and placed with care. It was alive, this house.
