balls, I shifted
my position slightly so that I could keep an eye on him.
The surly young handyman kept to the shadows, as if he didn’t
wish to be seen, and gazed fixedly at the tiniest madrigal singer.
When she led the group into the next madrigal with a solo introduction, his chest heaved and his expression softened, as if the
sound of her voice had pierced his heart. It took no imagination
whatsoever to see that he had feelings for her.
The distant sound of trumpets pulled Edmond from his pleasant reverie and put the scowl back on his face. The girl, by contrast, lit up like a Christmas tree and peered eagerly toward Broad
Street. The other madrigal singers exchanged knowing glances
and, after retrieving their basket from the ground, began to move
en masse toward the main boulevard, singing as they went. A knot
of appreciative listeners followed them, but Edmond frowned angrily, spun on his heel, and disappeared behind the stalls.
“What’s happening?” I asked the woman in the crystal-ball stall.
“ ’Tis one of the clock,” she replied. “The king’s pro cession cometh
forthwith.”
“Where does it, um, cometh?” I asked awkwardly.
She smiled. “If you make your way to Broad Street right quick,
my lady, the pro cession will pass before your very eyes.”
“Thanks.” I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t be allowed to return home if I missed Will and Rob riding in the king’s pro cession,
but I couldn’t stop myself from asking one more question. “Do you
know the name of the lead madrigal singer?”
“Mirabel,” she replied. “Little Mirabel. She has the voice of an
angel, does she not?”
“She does,” I said, and hurried to catch up with the singers.
They’d stopped at the edge of Broad Street, and I elbowed my way
through the jostling crowd to stand beside them. The taller girls
had formed a protective pocket behind Mirabel and regarded her
with tolerant amusement as she craned her neck and stood on tiptoe to watch for the oncoming pro cession.
74 Nancy Atherton
I studied her with frank curiosity. She looked like a besotted
groupie waiting for a rock star to appear. Was she anxious to see
the king’s pro cession, I wondered, or was she longing for a glimpse
of the king himself? Could it be that little Mirabel was, for reasons
beyond my understanding, infatuated with her king?
It was hard to picture Calvin Malvern as a Don Juan, but Jinks
had told me that people’s personalities changed when they took on
roles at a Ren fest. As King Wilfred, Calvin might very well enjoy a
spot of dalliance with a humble but adoring young maiden. He might
even attempt to exercise his droit du seigneur. As far as I could tell,
King Wilfred had no queen, so there was nothing to keep him from
making a royal pass at every pretty girl who crossed his path.
Or was there?
Though the sun was warm, a chill crept down my spine. Edmond’s furious scowl flashed before my mind’s eye, followed by the
stark image of a handsaw protruding from a wheelbarrow.
“Regicide,” I whispered.
Eight
T he sun seemed to darken and the crowd seemed to recede
into the background as I recalled how easily the parapet
had given way and how close Calvin Malvern had come to
losing his balance and, perhaps, his life. There was no denying that
Edmond Deland had the tools and the skills needed to make such
an accident happen. If Mirabel had spurned his love and bestowed
hers on the king, he would also have had a motive.
“Slow down,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t get ahead of
yourself, Lori. You don’t know anything yet.”
An earsplitting blare of trumpets interrupted my uneasy meditations. I winced, glanced around, and saw the king’s heralds striding past me, blowing their usual fanfare and crying, “Make way!
Make way for the king!”
The few stragglers still crossing Broad Street scuttled to the
sidelines to avoid being trampled by what turned out to be a formidable
my position slightly so that I could keep an eye on him.
The surly young handyman kept to the shadows, as if he didn’t
wish to be seen, and gazed fixedly at the tiniest madrigal singer.
When she led the group into the next madrigal with a solo introduction, his chest heaved and his expression softened, as if the
sound of her voice had pierced his heart. It took no imagination
whatsoever to see that he had feelings for her.
The distant sound of trumpets pulled Edmond from his pleasant reverie and put the scowl back on his face. The girl, by contrast, lit up like a Christmas tree and peered eagerly toward Broad
Street. The other madrigal singers exchanged knowing glances
and, after retrieving their basket from the ground, began to move
en masse toward the main boulevard, singing as they went. A knot
of appreciative listeners followed them, but Edmond frowned angrily, spun on his heel, and disappeared behind the stalls.
“What’s happening?” I asked the woman in the crystal-ball stall.
“ ’Tis one of the clock,” she replied. “The king’s pro cession cometh
forthwith.”
“Where does it, um, cometh?” I asked awkwardly.
She smiled. “If you make your way to Broad Street right quick,
my lady, the pro cession will pass before your very eyes.”
“Thanks.” I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t be allowed to return home if I missed Will and Rob riding in the king’s pro cession,
but I couldn’t stop myself from asking one more question. “Do you
know the name of the lead madrigal singer?”
“Mirabel,” she replied. “Little Mirabel. She has the voice of an
angel, does she not?”
“She does,” I said, and hurried to catch up with the singers.
They’d stopped at the edge of Broad Street, and I elbowed my way
through the jostling crowd to stand beside them. The taller girls
had formed a protective pocket behind Mirabel and regarded her
with tolerant amusement as she craned her neck and stood on tiptoe to watch for the oncoming pro cession.
74 Nancy Atherton
I studied her with frank curiosity. She looked like a besotted
groupie waiting for a rock star to appear. Was she anxious to see
the king’s pro cession, I wondered, or was she longing for a glimpse
of the king himself? Could it be that little Mirabel was, for reasons
beyond my understanding, infatuated with her king?
It was hard to picture Calvin Malvern as a Don Juan, but Jinks
had told me that people’s personalities changed when they took on
roles at a Ren fest. As King Wilfred, Calvin might very well enjoy a
spot of dalliance with a humble but adoring young maiden. He might
even attempt to exercise his droit du seigneur. As far as I could tell,
King Wilfred had no queen, so there was nothing to keep him from
making a royal pass at every pretty girl who crossed his path.
Or was there?
Though the sun was warm, a chill crept down my spine. Edmond’s furious scowl flashed before my mind’s eye, followed by the
stark image of a handsaw protruding from a wheelbarrow.
“Regicide,” I whispered.
Eight
T he sun seemed to darken and the crowd seemed to recede
into the background as I recalled how easily the parapet
had given way and how close Calvin Malvern had come to
losing his balance and, perhaps, his life. There was no denying that
Edmond Deland had the tools and the skills needed to make such
an accident happen. If Mirabel had spurned his love and bestowed
hers on the king, he would also have had a motive.
“Slow down,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t get ahead of
yourself, Lori. You don’t know anything yet.”
An earsplitting blare of trumpets interrupted my uneasy meditations. I winced, glanced around, and saw the king’s heralds striding past me, blowing their usual fanfare and crying, “Make way!
Make way for the king!”
The few stragglers still crossing Broad Street scuttled to the
sidelines to avoid being trampled by what turned out to be a formidable
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