ale, herbal teas, and the usual
soft drinks. I sampled a honey cake, found it delicious, and immediately asked for the recipe, but the vendor informed me regretfully
that it was the king’s privilege to hand out recipes, not hers.
Pudding Lane petered out, appropriately, at a large picnic area
on a gently sloping hillside overlooking the oval joust arena and
the adjacent archery range. A simple two-bar fence encircled the
arena, and a giant white marquee stood at its western end, opposite Pudding Lane. I could see the twins’ ponies grazing with other
horses in the pasture beyond the marquee, but there was no sign
of activity in the arena. I assumed that the knights were taking
their ease in the big white tent while my sons and the rest of Emma’s junior gymkhana team polished armor, fluffed plumes, and
cleaned tack.
The archery range was bustling. A dozen William Tell wannabes stood on the firing line, drawing bowstrings and letting arrows fly at bull’s-eye targets mounted on hay bales. It looked like
an enjoyable challenge, but I was too excited to stay in one place
for more than a few minutes, so I strode back down Pudding Lane
and continued to explore.
At various stalls throughout the grounds, potters, spinners, weavers, wood carvers, metalsmiths, leatherworkers, and other artisans
demonstrated their crafts. After watching a potter turn a glob of
sticky clay into a graceful goblet, I decided that the fair would be a
wonderful educational opportunity for Will and Rob. I had no doubt
that my sons would be as fascinated as I was to watch raw materials
transformed by hand into useful and beautiful objects.
If I’d wanted to weigh myself down, I would have shopped till
72 Nancy Atherton
I dropped, but since I’d brought a shoulder bag instead of a day
pack, I merely ambled from one stall to the next, making mental
lists of the Christmas and birthday presents to be purchased when I
was better prepared to carry them. The choices seemed endless:
soaps, lotions, perfumes, pottery, jewelry, swords, staffs, leather
tankards, hooded capes, woven throws.
When I stumbled upon a stall filled with tiny costumes, I realized that I wasn’t alone in wanting to dress a cherished childhood
companion in a crown and an ermine-trimmed robe. A short conversation with the vendor confirmed my guess that I was surrounded by people who would smile benignly upon my relationship
with Reginald. It was a comforting thought, but I’d absorbed so
many thoughts by then that I had to retreat to a quiet alleyway, to
give my overloaded brain a chance to settle down.
The alleyway didn’t remain quiet for long. As I stood smiling
vaguely at a marvelous display of crystal balls, five young women
spilled out of a stall fi lled with bronze dragons and took up a position a few yards away from me. They appeared to be in their early
twenties, and each was dressed in what a vendor had described to
me as the standard wench uniform—laced bodice, peasant blouse,
and flowing skirts. They’d set themselves apart from the standard
wenches, however, by wearing flowered circlets on their heads, with
curled ribbons trailing down their backs.
The smallest member of the group, a pretty young woman with
hazel eyes and long brown hair, placed an empty basket on the
ground before her, then straightened. She hummed a note, the others harmonized, and the group began to sing a madrigal. I listened,
entranced, as their sweet, pure voices wove in and out of the intricate song, and when they finished, I was the first to step forward
and drop a handful of coins into their basket.
I wasn’t the only one to witness their performance. As I turned
away from the basket, I caught a fl icker of movement from the corner of my eye. Glancing toward it, I spied Edmond Deland lurking in
a narrow gap between two stalls. I pretended not to notice him, but
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
73
when I returned to my vantage point near the crystal
soft drinks. I sampled a honey cake, found it delicious, and immediately asked for the recipe, but the vendor informed me regretfully
that it was the king’s privilege to hand out recipes, not hers.
Pudding Lane petered out, appropriately, at a large picnic area
on a gently sloping hillside overlooking the oval joust arena and
the adjacent archery range. A simple two-bar fence encircled the
arena, and a giant white marquee stood at its western end, opposite Pudding Lane. I could see the twins’ ponies grazing with other
horses in the pasture beyond the marquee, but there was no sign
of activity in the arena. I assumed that the knights were taking
their ease in the big white tent while my sons and the rest of Emma’s junior gymkhana team polished armor, fluffed plumes, and
cleaned tack.
The archery range was bustling. A dozen William Tell wannabes stood on the firing line, drawing bowstrings and letting arrows fly at bull’s-eye targets mounted on hay bales. It looked like
an enjoyable challenge, but I was too excited to stay in one place
for more than a few minutes, so I strode back down Pudding Lane
and continued to explore.
At various stalls throughout the grounds, potters, spinners, weavers, wood carvers, metalsmiths, leatherworkers, and other artisans
demonstrated their crafts. After watching a potter turn a glob of
sticky clay into a graceful goblet, I decided that the fair would be a
wonderful educational opportunity for Will and Rob. I had no doubt
that my sons would be as fascinated as I was to watch raw materials
transformed by hand into useful and beautiful objects.
If I’d wanted to weigh myself down, I would have shopped till
72 Nancy Atherton
I dropped, but since I’d brought a shoulder bag instead of a day
pack, I merely ambled from one stall to the next, making mental
lists of the Christmas and birthday presents to be purchased when I
was better prepared to carry them. The choices seemed endless:
soaps, lotions, perfumes, pottery, jewelry, swords, staffs, leather
tankards, hooded capes, woven throws.
When I stumbled upon a stall filled with tiny costumes, I realized that I wasn’t alone in wanting to dress a cherished childhood
companion in a crown and an ermine-trimmed robe. A short conversation with the vendor confirmed my guess that I was surrounded by people who would smile benignly upon my relationship
with Reginald. It was a comforting thought, but I’d absorbed so
many thoughts by then that I had to retreat to a quiet alleyway, to
give my overloaded brain a chance to settle down.
The alleyway didn’t remain quiet for long. As I stood smiling
vaguely at a marvelous display of crystal balls, five young women
spilled out of a stall fi lled with bronze dragons and took up a position a few yards away from me. They appeared to be in their early
twenties, and each was dressed in what a vendor had described to
me as the standard wench uniform—laced bodice, peasant blouse,
and flowing skirts. They’d set themselves apart from the standard
wenches, however, by wearing flowered circlets on their heads, with
curled ribbons trailing down their backs.
The smallest member of the group, a pretty young woman with
hazel eyes and long brown hair, placed an empty basket on the
ground before her, then straightened. She hummed a note, the others harmonized, and the group began to sing a madrigal. I listened,
entranced, as their sweet, pure voices wove in and out of the intricate song, and when they finished, I was the first to step forward
and drop a handful of coins into their basket.
I wasn’t the only one to witness their performance. As I turned
away from the basket, I caught a fl icker of movement from the corner of my eye. Glancing toward it, I spied Edmond Deland lurking in
a narrow gap between two stalls. I pretended not to notice him, but
Aunt Dimity Slays the Dragon
73
when I returned to my vantage point near the crystal
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