Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

by Nancy Atherton

  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 gatehouse.

  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 flags flying from the tops of the towers suggested that their roofs were accessible through trapdoors. The gatehouse 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 gatehouse 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 gatehouse. 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.”

  “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 gatehouse. “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.

  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.

  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 flung 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 brok
e 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 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 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 hairs-breadth 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 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 gatehouse 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 gatehouse 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.

  The center door swung open and a lanky, dark-haired young man emerged from the gatehouse. 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 where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, then scurried forward, handed my ticket to a full-figured young woman in peasant garb, and followed Lilian Bunting through the gatehouse.

  “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 gatehouse. 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.