“Meg! There you are!”
Chapter 10
I turned to see the Italian ice cart bearing down on me, propelled by a very angry young serving wench.
“You’ve got to do something about that man!”
Well, I could always send one of the boys out to bring back lunch.
I wasn’t surprised when “that man” turned out to be Terence. To my relief, he hadn’t dropped anything down her low-cut blouse, pinched her rear, or committed any of the other kinds of sexual harassment we’d had to call him on during the first weekend. And I had to marvel at his ability to invent new ways to be obnoxious.
“He bought a lemon ice—actually bought it this time, and with real, modern money. But then he took one bite out of it and pretended to be poisoned.”
“Good grief,” I muttered. “Not again.” He’d torpedoed mead sales the previous weekend by doing something similar in one of the taverns.
“So then he acts out this slow agonizing death, complete with multiple rounds of totally unrealistic convulsions, and at least three melodramatic deathbed statements. Oh, the tourists all laughed, of course, but do you think I’ve sold a single ice since then?”
“I’ll talk to him.”
Predictably, Terence managed to avoid me for the next half hour. Never mind. It wasn’t as if he were a puppy, who had to be corrected immediately to have any chance of realizing what he’d done wrong. If anything, the fact that Terence was doing such a skillful job of avoiding me meant he knew he was in for a tongue-lashing. So maybe the longer he suffered the better.
My two o’clock demonstration went well—and it was particularly well attended because Cordelia came to watch, followed by a large crowd of tourists. Toward the end of the demonstration she took a hand in it.
“Prithee, Mistress Meg,” she called out. “Dost thou see this blade?” She reached over to the sheath on her left wrist, pulled out the tiny jeweled stiletto, and held it up in a shaft of sun to make sure the glittering red stones embedded in the hilt caught the light. The tourists oohed and ahhed. I wondered if any of them could tell—or even suspected—that the stones were real garnets instead of the cubic zirconias, Swarovski crystals, or rhinestones most costumes sported.
“Ah.” I pretended to examine the blade. “A fine weapon.” I didn’t know if she wanted the tourists to know it was my handiwork, so I didn’t add “if I say so myself.”
“Couldst thou make us another dagger to match? We’ll make it worth thy while.”
“Aye,” I said. “Happy to serve Your Majesty.” I handed the dagger back and she tucked it back in the wrist sheath—carefully, because unlike most of the weapons used in the Game, the stiletto had razor-sharp edges.
“Here’s gold to seal the deal.” She poured four or five shiny gold-colored disks into my gloved hand and closed my fingers around them before I could tell for sure whether she was handing out some of the fake pirate coins we used when money changed hands in the Game or whether she’d just given me enough real doubloons or sovereigns or whatever to fund the boys’ college education.
I’d peek later. For now I sank into a deep curtsey.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
She nodded and sailed off, followed by many—though not all—of the tourists who’d followed her here. A satisfying number stayed for the wrap-up of my demo, or headed directly into the shop.
“Wonder why your grandmother suddenly needs a new dagger,” Faulk said, sotto voce, as we were handling the flood of sales that followed.
“Maybe she’s feeling more bloodthirsty than usual,” Jamie suggested.
“Of course she is,” I said. “She’s got Terence and Grandfather on her hands. She needs to be prepared in case she has to deal with them both at once.”
Faulk and the boys found that hilarious. I continued to wonder. Did she really want a new dagger? So she could have matching ones on both wrists, maybe? Was she starting some kind of storyline in the Game? Or did she just want a chance to show off a toy she was very fond of?
I’d ask her later.
The afternoon wore on. The boys insisted on surprising me with lunch, but fortunately they knew my likes and dislikes, so I happily munched on sausage on a stick, corn on the cob, a loaded baked potato, and a cherry limeade slushy.
“I hope this is an authentic Renaissance cherry limeade slushy,” I said, frowning at it. “Not some modern fake version.”
“We helped stomp the cherries and limes,” Jamie said, deadpan. “By hand.”
“Actually, by foot,” Josh added. “Were you planning to eat that last bit of sausage or can I give it to Spike?”
Faulk did his 3:00 P.M. demonstration, which was nine parts talking to every part blacksmithing. Ordinarily I’d have given him a hard time about how lazy he was being, but after talking to Tad I held my tongue. And hoped he didn’t hear the teenage tourist who said, “Maybe we should come back and see the lady blacksmith again. She actually does blacksmithing.”
George, looking almost back to normal in his blue-and-white velvet substitute costume, was found to have a sign taped to the back of his doublet that read “Prithee, smite me with thy foot in the nether regions.”
“I was wondering why Terence clapped me on the back and congratulated me,” he said, when I called him over to the forge and removed the sign. He chuckled as he tucked the paper inside his doublet. If anyone else did that I’d wonder if he was planning to retaliate in kind. George was probably just going to take it home and put it in his scrapbook. “Fond memories of my summer at the Faire.”
“I could tell him to lay off,” I said aloud, stifling the uncharitable thought that George needed to grow a backbone.
“He wouldn’t pay any attention,” he said. “And it doesn’t matter. Amused a few tourists, I expect. Ah, look—it’s winging again!” He pointed upward.
Winging? I glanced up to see Gracie hovering in the sky above the grove. Well, I suppose “winging” covered it. I’d have just said it was flying. Evidently Greg was doing some kind of demonstration.
“I love watching the eagles fly,” George mused.
“Eagles?” Jamie hurried out. “Where?”
George pointed up at Gracie.
“That’s a peregrine falcon,” I said. “Not an eagle. No eagles there that I’ve seen.”
“Ah. Good to know.” He didn’t sound as if he thought the difference all that important. He watched placidly as Gracie descended out of sight. “I still like watching him.”
“Her, actually,” I pointed out.
“Was it Gracie?” Josh stuck his head out of the forge and peered upward. “Too bad I missed her.”
“Don’t worry.” George was still gazing upward. “He—er, she’ll be back. The falcon always wings twice. See! There she is again!”
“He,” I said. “That’s Harry. Different bird. In fact, different species—he’s a red-tailed hawk.”
“Really?” George shaded his eyes and peered upward as Harry flew in graceful, leisurely circles. “They all look the same to me. I just like watching them. So free. I could watch them forever, except I think I should be going soon.” He reached inside his doublet and pulled out a pendant watch so precisely the kind I wanted that I couldn’t decide whether to ask him where he’d bought it or keep my mouth shut and pick his pocket.
“Yes, time for me to run along,” he said. “They’re expecting me at the Dragon’s Claw.”
With that he hurried off. Well, for him it was hurrying. In any of the other actors it would have been sauntering.
“He’s kind of dim, isn’t he?” Josh said. “Mistaking Gracie for an eagle.”
“Not everyone has ornithologists in their family,” I said.
“And he’s such a wimp,” Josh added.
“Josh, you know better,” I warned.
“Okay, I shouldn’t call him names,” Josh said. “But why does he let Sir Terence pick on him so much?”
“And act like it doesn’t even bother him?” Jamie ad
ded.
“Maybe it doesn’t bother him,” I said. “Maybe he thinks Sir Terence’s pranks are funny. Or maybe he’s figured out that it really annoys Sir Terence when you don’t even react to the pranks.”
The boys looked thoughtful at that last idea.
“Maybe he’s not so dim,” Jamie said.
“Maybe,” Josh said. “He still needs to get a clue about birds.”
Behind the shop, Spike erupted into frantic barking. But we heard no cursing and no yelps of pain, so we weren’t surprised when Michael came in through the back of the shop.
“How goes it?” he asked.
“See what I made?” Jamie held up the wrought iron leaf that had been his part of my latest demonstration.
“Oh, really practical,” Josh said. “Faulk showed me how to make this.” He held up a utilitarian and highly functional pothook.
“All in all, it’s going well,” I said. “In fact—bother. Can you guys watch the shop? I just spotted Terence, and I need to talk to him.” I pulled off my leather apron, threw it onto the hook, and ran in the direction I’d seen Terence going.
“What’s he done now?” Michael had come after me, and his longer legs made it easy for him to catch up with me.
“Pretended to be poisoned again. And now he’s going to pretend not to understand why I’m mad at him—but if he doesn’t have a guilty conscience, why has he been avoiding me all afternoon? And damn! He’s given me the slip again.”
Michael, who had half a foot of height on me, was craning his neck.
“I see him.” He pointed to the right. “Over by the Dragon’s Claw.”
By the time we drew near, Terence was obviously in the process of gathering a crowd so he could stage a scene. But scenes normally required more than one actor, and so far no one had stepped up to join him.
That didn’t seem to discourage Terence.
“Harken, my good friends!” Terence bellowed. “I have glad tidings!”
The tourists were crowding around with looks of eager anticipation. Yes, for all his faults, Terence was a crowd pleaser. A few fellow players of the Game began drifting nearer and joining the crowd but their expressions were less joyful. They ranged the gamut from mild annoyance on Michael’s face through resigned tolerance on George’s to something unnervingly close to panic and dread on Dianne’s. I made a mental note to take her aside and find out if anything was wrong.
Michael had taken up a place at the edge of the crowd, but behind a lot of fairly short people, so he had a good view while being less likely to be drawn into whatever was about to happen. I joined him, and we watched as Terence paced up and down, preening, joking, and waiting for his audience to reach its peak. He flourished his snake-headed cane with such expertise that I wondered if he’d ever taken lessons in baton twirling.
“What’s he up to?” I kept my voice low enough that only the nearest tourists could have heard, even if they weren’t all focused on Terence.
“No idea,” Michael said. “Last time I heard, the plan for the day was still for him to sow ill will between me and George by reporting insulting things we’d supposedly said about each other.”
“Leading to the dramatic scene when someone reveals his nefarious plot just in time to stop the sword fight between you and George. Yes, that’s what I thought we were doing.”
“But if that’s what he’s up to, he should be talking to George. Or me. Not the crowd.” Michael frowned at Terence—and made no effort to hide it. After all, Duke Michael and Sir Terence were bitter enemies in the Game. And not all that chummy out of it these days.
Grandfather strode up to stand beside us.
“What’s that jackass up to now?” he asked, his voice almost soft enough to make the question discreet.
I shrugged. Michael was focused on Terence, poised to jump into the Game if needed. Jacks and Dianne appeared to be lurking nearby, no doubt for the same reason.
Nobody trusted Terence.
Chapter 11
Just then Nigel came strolling along. He paused when he saw Terence, seeming surprised and just a little uneasy.
“Ah, methinks I see the good Sir Nigel!” Terence exclaimed. “Well met, reverend sir.”
Nigel looked anxious—or was it annoyed? The “reverend sir” was a bit much. Terence was only a few years younger than Nigel, although he didn’t look his age, while Nigel looked every minute of his and then some.
“Good morrow.” Nigel’s voice suggested that it really wasn’t, though that could be remedied if only he could escape Terence’s clutches. Then again, maybe I was reading my own emotions into his brusque, guarded tone. Still, he stepped forward so he was in the open space near Terence, ready to play his part in the Game.
“With your permission, good sir, I will share the joyous tidings.” Terence beamed at Nigel, who sighed and visibly braced himself. “The gracious Sir Nigel has at last harkened to my pleadings. He has agreed to grant me the hand of his only child, the beautiful Lady Dianne! Wish me joy, my friends!”
The tourists all clapped, and a few of them shouted “huzzah” in the approved Ren Faire fashion.
“Bloody hell,” Michael murmured.
After turning in a circle so all the assembled tourists could see his beaming face, Terence turned his gaze on Dianne. Who shrank behind Nigel.
“Now, now, my sweet!” Terence exclaimed. “No need to hide our love any longer. Your father has blessed our match. Is’t not so Sir Nigel?”
“Er…” Nigel looked briefly thrown. Then he rallied. “He hath, my lords, wrung from me my slow leave by laboursome petition, and at last upon his will I seal’d my hard consent.”
The words sounded familiar—a quote from some play Nigel had been in, I assumed—dredged out of memory to keep from being left speechless.
“Hamlet,” Michael muttered, as if reading my mind. “Polonius.”
Terence reacted as if Nigel’s words had been a ringing endorsement.
“There you have it!” he exclaimed. “So come, my pretty—let’s have a kiss to seal the bargain.”
Terence had only taken a step or two toward Dianne when she turned and fled, shoving aside any tourist unlucky enough to be in her way. The audience erupted in laughter. Terence pretended to be crestfallen.
“Alas!” he soliloquized. “My lady love flees me. Have I mistaken courtesy for love? But no! She is merely shy. It will be quite different when we are free from prying eyes.”
He leered so obviously that the audience began laughing again.
Michael and I exchanged a glance, and I could see that he had the same worries I did. Being betrothed to Dianne in the Game would give Terence much more opportunity to interact with her. More excuses to put his arm around her shoulders or waist. To beg her for a kiss.
To harass her. So far his behavior toward Dianne hadn’t crossed the line—at least not that I’d seen or heard about. But what he was apt to get up to in the Game under cover of being Dianne’s betrothed—or, worse, her husband—
“We need to break this up,” I muttered to Michael.
He nodded. So, for that matter, did Grandfather.
“But for now—Father!” Terence trilled. “May I anticipate the happy event and call you by that blessed name?”
“As your lordship pleases.” No mistaking the hostility in Nigel’s voice.
“Let us seal the bargain, then!” Terence turned and took a few steps into the audience, who parted as if by magic. He reached one of the small tables belonging to the nearby Dragon’s Claw, picked up a waiting pair of ornate pewter goblets, and hurried back to Nigel’s side.
“A toast!” Terence said, handing Nigel one of the goblets. “To the coming union of our families!”
Nigel rolled his eyes slightly and lifted the goblet. Then his eyes widened.
“This is mead!” He held the goblet at arm’s length as if it contained a deadly poison—which was exactly what it was from his point of view.
“Yes—a draught of honey wine, to
celebrate the coming honeymoon. But what is this—you scorn my draught? Is’t thus you treat your son-to-be?”
Terence put on the hurt expression of a small child who has just been told his dog died. The tourists were frowning at Nigel, and a murmur of discontent began rising from the crowd.
“Really rude,” I heard one woman say.
“Come on, toast with him,” someone else called.
“We have to do something,” I whispered to Michael. He nodded and frowned, no doubt plotting how best to intervene.
“What’s the big deal?” Grandfather muttered.
“Recovering alcoholic,” I muttered back. “One drink could cause a relapse. Michael, let’s—”
“Beware!” Grandfather shouted as he shoved through the crowd.
Michael had taken a few steps forward to enter the scene, but Grandfather beat him to it. He strode toward Terence and Nigel, holding his raven staff up before him, his black robe billowing behind and casting sparkles around the clearing as the sunlight bounced off the various faux jewels and silver-colored cabalistic devices sewn onto it.
He grabbed Nigel’s goblet and sniffed at its contents. He waved one hand over the mouth of the goblet and made some strange and complicated finger movements.
“Danaus plexippus,” he intoned. “Quercus stellata. Microstegium vimineum!”
The last bit of Latin seemed to do the trick. He jerked back as if he spotted something dangerous in the goblet. Then he nodded, his expression grim.
“You didn’t drink any of this did you?” he demanded, turning to Nigel.
Nigel shook his head.
“A lucky escape,” Grandfather said. “It would have been the death of you. There’s deadly poison in this goblet! And you, sir—” He whirled to scowl at Terence. “What is the meaning of this? Were you trying to poison Sir Nigel?”
“Not I, sir.” Terence pretended shock. “I handed him one of the two goblets at random. Why, I could just as easily have drunk from it myself! And I left them there on the table—someone else could have tampered with it.”
The Falcon Always Wings Twice Page 7
