Eat, Drink and Be Buried by Peter King Page A

instructions to a group of minstrels, radiant in bright yellows, greens, and reds. Over by the tents, several horses broke into a canter, urged by leather-clad riders, apparently practicing some maneuver. The thump-thump of their hooves on the grass and an occasional snorted cloud of steam lent an authentic air to the proceedings.
    McCartney finished speaking to the minstrels and came in my direction. “Morning,” he said. “You’ll enjoy today. Oh, I know it’s mainly for the kids, but it’s always a great day’s entertainment. Adults love it as much as the kids. You’re going to be around, aren’t you?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” I said. “Looking forward to it.”
    â€œWe don’t have any violent stuff, as some of the kids are quite young. A few sword fights, some wrestling with the bears, minstrel shows with some slapstick and a few pratfalls—that kind of thing. A couple of Punch-and-Judy shows, they’re always popular. Don’t miss the archery display, by the way. On the stage over there, we’re putting on reenactments of fairy tales, and the local Shakespeare Society is doing excerpts from plays—”
    â€œ Midsummer Night’s Dream , no doubt.”
    He grinned. “Naturally. They take a lot of liberties with it. Bottom dons his ass’s head several times more than the script calls for, so if you’re a purist…”
    â€œNot on Children’s Day,” I told him.
    He went to assist two young women in flowing robes who were having a problem locating the place where they were due to perform. Before they had gone, a man dressed as a woodsman and carrying a plastic ax came to protest that Red Riding Hood had failed to appear. “But she doesn’t have any lines, does she?” asked McCartney. The woodsman admitted that she did not, whereupon McCartney rapped, “Then get any girl!”
    Children were now flowing in, bringing their parents, who looked just as eager. A group of musicians was circulating. One had an instrument like a viola, another a harp, a third a flute, and a fourth tambourines. They mixed in some tunes that sounded medieval with a few Beatles numbers.
    A crowd was gathering and I went over to join it. Felicity, the elder of the two Harlington girls, was the first familiar face I saw. “You’re just in time,” she said, helping me to squeeze through to a clear space with a good view. “I love this show. We put it on all the time, of course, but this is a special version of it for children.” She pointed. “That’s Daniel—and here come his Dancing Bears.”
    Daniel was a youngish man with a thick bush of curly hair. He had appropriately classic features and wore an outfit in light gray with scarlet piping, collar and cuffs. On his head was a peaked hat with a scarlet plume. He played a small flute with a limited range, but the bears apparently understood it. They reared on their hind legs, making the children press back with small cries of excitement. The bears twirled, dropped on all fours, and repeated their performance.
    â€œAren’t they great!” said Felicity, clapping her hands in delight. She wore a dress in a salmon color that made her look like a slightly older version of the children around her. “I love this show.”
    I decided not to recount the conversation with Victor Gontier and Madeleine Bristow when I had suggested bear meat as a suitable food for the banquets. Watching the gyrating animals, I knew that the whole idea of serving bear was doomed to oblivion. They were small enough not to be menacing. They were brown and fuzzy and the children were loving them.
    Felicity waved to someone on our left and a man in his late twenties came through to us. “Have you met?” Felicity asked. She introduced me and said, “This is Frank Morgan, he worked with Kenny.”
    He was dark and athletic-looking. He