Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon

by Nancy Atherton

  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 evening’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 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 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.

  “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 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 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.

  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 floor, 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 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 first 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.”

  Eighteen

  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 sol
icitousness 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 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.