Baked to Death

by Dean James

  We heard them well before we came in sight of the encampment. Voices rose in song and conversation, and the breeze was already wafting smoke from cooking fires here and there. The noise grew louder the closer we came, and soon we were standing on a slight rise near the edge of the meadow. Just below us a fence and a gate, overseen by a chap in the costume of a soldier, guarded the entrance to the faire.

  Everywhere were color, movement, and noise. Tents and pavilions of varying sizes and myriad hues dotted the landscape, many sporting banners with colorful badges flying in the wind. Folk in arcane clothing drifted by, chatting and gesturing. The modern English and variety of accents jarred with the quaintness of their garb and footwear. They looked as if they should be chattering in Middle English or Norman French instead.

  Tris turned to me and frowned. “What bloody century are they supposed to be living in? I thought they picked a particular time, and they all went along with it.”

  I shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they can pick their century. There certainly doesn’t seem to be much agreement.” I pointed to a couple of young men digging a pit for a cook fire. Those two are dressed like common laborers from the early thirteenth century.” They sported the simple tunic, worn by both men and women, of that period.

  “Yes,” Tris said. “And those women at the next tent are dressed like respectable merchants’ wives of the fifteenth century.” He snorted in disgust. “I can certainly see now why they need the services of a qualified medievalist.”

  We stood and watched for a few minutes longer, and we continued to see a wide variety in style and century of costume as members of the group paraded past us. Dress ranged from those simple tunics of the thirteenth century to the elegant and decorative styles of two centuries later. The points on the shoes of some of the men were so long that I wondered how the wearers managed not to fall flat on their bums or faces every other step. We witnessed the same confusion in periods of armor sported by some of the more martial-minded men. Idly I wondered whether there was any kind of tournament planned, and, if so, how they would fight with their armor of different centuries. That could be interesting, not to say amusing.

  We walked down to the gate, and Tris explained his identity to the guard on duty, who consulted a most unmedieval clipboard and waved us through without comment.

  Our arrival had attracted attention. A tall man with regal bearing stalked toward Tris and me. He came to a stop in front of us, and I looked up into his face. I am tall myself, but this man stood a good three inches over me. He was a blonde with piercing blue eyes and a closely trimmed beard of a darker hue than the hair on his head. Clad in a red tunic and a richly purple surcoat, both made of very fine cloth, he also sported a small crown. The jewels of the crown, mostly mere flecks of color, sparkled in the morning sunlight

  “I give you good day, gentlemen,” he boomed in a deep voice. “I am Harald Knutson, the sovereign of this small kingdom. As you see, we are still in the process of establishing our settlement here, and in a few days we shall be delighted to welcome all visitors. This mom, however, we still have much to do.”

  “Knutson, eh?” Tris inquired. “Any relation to good old Cnut?”

  Knutson dipped his head in acknowledgment “Actually, yes. I am a direct descendant of the Danish kings of England.”

  Was this man serious? I wondered. Or was this merely part of his role as the king of this merry little flock of re-enactors? Something about the gleam in his eye told me that he wasn’t kidding.

  “Your Majesty,” Tris drawled, dipping forward into a caricature of a courtly bow.

  Knutson’s mouth turned down into an irritated frown. “I care not whether you scoff, sir. I need not prove myself to the likes of you.” His eyes swept over Tris and then me. “Nor to your catamite.”

  “How clever of you,” I said, smiling sweetly. “But how mistaken, Your Majesty.” Then my smile turned quickly into a ferocious snarl, and Knutson blinked several times and actually stepped back two paces.

  Attempting to recover his dignity, Knutson said, “I will repeat gentlemen”—and his tone cast doubt on the aptness of that particular word—“if you should desire to visit our settlement in a few days, when the mundane public are admitted to our enclave, you will find a welcome. Today, however, I must ask you to leave.”

  “I think not, Knutson,” spoke a voice from behind us. I turned to see a strange man frowning at the king. Giles stood beside the man, looking about with considerable interest and endeavoring to keep a straight face.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Millbank?” Knutson frowned.

  “I must remind you, Your Majesty,” Millbank said, investing the honorific with mild sarcasm, “that your settlement, as you call it, is on my land. Long as you’re here, you will be civil to my guests.” He had stepped forward to stand beside Tris. “This is Professor Tristan Lovelace, the distinguished medievalist who is advising us on the film. And I presume the gentleman with him is a colleague. Therefore you ought to be respectful. Do you understand me?” His voice held the faintest hint of a Scots burr, but he had worked to overlay it with a more sophisticated Oxbridge accent.

  Knutson flushed, and sparks flew from those blue eyes. He was very angry, but he evidently couldn’t risk alienating his landlord. “As you wish, Mr. Millbank. Though I must repeat yet again I do not approve of this film and want nothing to do with it. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I must attend upon my court.” Without further ado, he spun on his heels and stalked away.

  Millbank smiled with great satisfaction. “He’s a bleedin’ idjit,” he said, “and I take great pleasure in putting him in his place.” He laughed. “He might be king in his little world, but this is my kingdom.” Giles snorted in disgust, but Millbank paid him no attention. He was a stubby little man, full of self- importance. In his late fifties, he exuded the air of one who was greatly satisfied with life.

  “I should think you need the cooperation of the king, Millbank,” Tris said, “if you want this film done.”

  “Oh, he’ll cooperate, all right,” Millbank responded smugly. “There’s a clause in their contract that gives me permission to throw them out afore the week is up, if I find anythin’ they do harmful to m’property.”

  I laughed. “I can’t believe they would knowingly sign something of that sort.”

  Millbank shrugged. “Frankly, I didn’t expect that to get by them m’self, but yon King Harald is not so sharp as he would like everyone to think. I don’t think he even read the contract before he signed it, the idjit!”

  “Which is exactly why,” interposed a strange voice, “his head is about to go on the block!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A rich tenor had uttered the harsh threat, and I saw that the owner matched his plummy voice when we turned to greet the man.

  He was of more modest height than the man he had just threatened, but he had the breadth of chest and width of shoulders that his erstwhile rival, of reedy build, lacked. Garbed in the sumptuous and elaborate robes of a fifteenth-century monarch, he possessed considerable elan, and the confidence with which he sported his regalia enhanced the image. His flashing dark eyes, tanned face, and luxuriant mane of curly, coal-black hair suggested a Mediterranean origin, but his voice was pure Oxbridge.

  As Millbank, Giles, Tris, and I watched, he made a sweeping bow. “Luke de Montfort, Duke of Wessex, at your service, gentlemen.”

  “Hallo, Luke,” Tris said.

  The self-appointed Duke of Wessex turned startled eyes to Tris. “My God, Tris. What are you doing here?”

  Tris laughed. “I might ask you the same, Monsieur d’Amboise. What are you doing capering about like this? Surely you haven’t forgotten your academic training so far as to join in such idiocy.”

  Tris’s tone was deliberately cutting, and Giles and I exchanged amused and curious glances as we waited for the duke’s response.

  Though his tanned face turned a tiny bit red, Luke de Montfort retained his poise. “I
don’t consider it capering about, Tris,” he said. “Just because I’ve not isolated myself inside some academic ivory tower doesn’t mean I’m not still a serious student of the Middle Ages.”

  Tris snorted, and before the conversation could degenerate further, I decided to intervene. “I take it,” I said, my voice dripping with irony, “that you two are acquainted. Perhaps, Tris, you might introduce us to the duke here?”

  “But of course, Simon,” Tris said. “I would be delighted. Simon Kirbyjones, Sir Giles Blitherington, I have the distinct pleasure of introducing to you Luke d’Amboise, a former student, who for some apparent reason now fancies himself as Luke de Montfort, His Grace of Wessex. Luke, mon vieux, might I present Sir Giles Blitherington of Blitherington Hall, yon manor up the hill, and Dr. Simon Kirbyjones, another former student of mine.” Trust Tris to be at his most irritatingly pompous. If I had started batting him over the head, I had no doubt that Giles and Luke would have joined happily with me. Instead of giving Tris the drubbing he deserved for being a twit, I stuck out my hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Luke,” I said. As he clasped my hand in his for a firm shake, I continued, “I gather you too had the misfortune of having studied with Tris.”

  Too right,” he responded with a cheeky grin, sounding for a moment like an Aussie. He turned to Giles to shake his hand as well. “Sir Giles, I trust you won’t be too disturbed by our activities over the coming week.”

  Millbank laughed loudly. “It doesn’t blooming matter, does it? I own the land now, and I can’t see as where it’s anyone else’s business but mine.” Giles flushed in irritation, but he ignored Millbank, choosing instead to offer the faux duke a radiant smile. “I’ve no doubt, Your Grace, that we at Blitherington Hall will have no cause for complaint.” The sharp twinge of jealousy I felt at those words annoyed me. The fact that the duke continued to hold Giles’s hand didn’t help, either. I cleared my throat noisily, and the two hands separated, albeit reluctantly, I thought.

  “Yes, Simon, Giles,” Tris said heavily, “Luke here was once one of my star pupils whilst I was at Cambridge. He could have gone on to a distinguished career as a lecturer, but instead he forsook academia for the pillars of Mammon. And now I find he’s mixed himself in with this play-acting rabble.”

  “Oh, do stop sneering, Tris," Luke said, smiling faintly. “You can be terribly pompous, you know.”

  I had to laugh at that. I thought I was the only one who had ever dared speak to Tris like that. This Luke character had unexpected depths. But perhaps, the thought struck me, he had a deeper knowledge of Tris than I had anticipated.

  Was he a vampire like Tris and me? Was he, indeed, one of Tris’s castoffs? I knew I wasn’t the first, and it took only one look at the man to know that he was just the type to snare Tris’s fancy.

  I regarded him more closely, investigating him for the signs of vampirism. He wore no lenses to shade his eyes from the sun, though the rest of him was well covered by his robes. He breathed, deeply and regularly, and his skin had a rich, warm hue to it that betokened the regular flow of blood through his veins. No, he was mortal.

  But that didn’t mean that he hadn’t been Tris’s lover at some point. I found that thought vaguely annoying, though when I had become involved with Tris, I was not naive enough to believe I was the first. I had been naive enough, however, to believe that I would be the last.

  Tris made no direct response to Luke’s teasing reproof. “As touching as this reunion has been, gentlemen,” Tris said, his voice deceptively mild, “I am afraid we must cut this short. Millbank and I have work to do. The documentary, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know,” Luke said. “In fact, it was my idea in the first place. Or didn’t Mr. Millbank tell you that?” The duke turned to glare at Millbank.

  Not in the least ruffled by Luke’s hostility, Millbank grinned. “Doesn’t matter all that much whose idea it was, now does it, Your Grace?” He laughed uproariously. “It’s my money what’s bankrolling it, and it won’t hurt you to remember that, now will it?”

  Luke flushed. “It is your money, Millbank, but it’s not your vision, your creativity. That came solely from me.”

  Millbank sniggered. “Well, now, Your Grace, I’ve managed to find me a very distinguished adviser in the professor here, and I reckon he’s the one we ought to listen to.”

  “I do not appreciate having someone else, no matter how distinguished, taking charge of my project,” Luke said hotly. “Begging your pardon, Tris, but you have no business being here. You’re not needed.”

  “My dear Luke,” Tris began, but before he could say anything else, Millbank broke in.

  “Now listen here, my fine fella,” Millbank said, shaking a finger in Luke’s face, “I’m the one bank-rolling this film, and I’m the one who says what’s what. You just cast your mind back on that contract we signed.”

  “I do remember the contract, and another pending one as well, even if you seem to have forgotten it,” Luke said, slapping Millbank’s hand away from his face. “You ignorant prat, I have creative control of this film, not you.”

  Nursing his hand, Millbank scowled at Luke. “Not if I say you don’t, you bleedin’ idjit. You should have read the contract more carefully, shouldn’t you? I have the final say on anything. You go back to your cooking, and leave the rest to me.”

  I could feel the rage rising in Luke, and I thought he was going to go for Millbank’s throat. Instead, by a supreme effort, he mastered his temper. “We’ll see about that, Millbank. Remember that other, unsigned contract, and remember also that these people here are loyal to me, not you. If we all decide to leave, then you won’t have anything to film, will you?”

  Judging from the look on Millbank’s face, I could tell he hadn’t considered that aspect of the situation. I could almost see the wheels turning in his brain as he decided he had to do some backpedaling. “Now there’s no need to get so riled up, Your Grace. I didn’t say you wouldn’t be consulted, now did I? And, after all, you were the one who first mentioned the professor here to me, isn’t that right?”

  Slowly, Luke nodded.

  “And it’s not like you don’t know the man,” Millbank continued. “Surely you two can work together. You’re going to have enough to do anyway, and the professor here can lighten the load a considerable bit.”

  Luke stared at him for a long moment, then turned his head to look at Tris. Tris had remained unusually silent throughout the whole exchange, and I knew he had been embarrassed by the whole thing. He detested any such display of emotion, particularly when he was involved in it by no choice of his own.

  “I’m willing to work with Tris,” Luke said, “if he is willing to work with me. What about it, Tris?”

  Tris cast a baleful eye upon Millbank, and I imagined that Tris was deciding whether to tell Millbank to go to the devil and be done with the whole imbroglio. Then he turned to Luke and smiled. “I think, Luke, that I shall enjoy working with you again. I deplore deeply the fact that Millbank here neglected to inform me completely about the situation, but you and I shan’t let that affect us.”

  Luke inclined his head in a gesture of thanks. “Come on, Millbank,” Tris said roughly. “Let’s get on with it. Coming with us, Luke?”

  “Not just yet, Tris,” Luke said. “I’ll catch up with you later on. Millbank can fill you in on the basics in the meantime.”

  Tris nodded, then grasped Millbank none too gently by the arm and led him away. Millbank’s short legs struggled to keep up with Tris’s long strides, and Tris was nearly lifting Millbank off the ground. Giles, Luke, and I all smothered laughs as we watched them.

  “Enough of that,” Giles said smoothly. “I gather that there is some rebellion in the ranks?”

  “What?” Luke said, startled, his attention abruptly drawn from Tris and Millbank. “Oh, you mean my remark when I first approached you.”

  Giles nodded, and I awaited Luke’s response with interest.

  His Grace’s lips na
rrowed into a thin line. “Our good King Harald is behaving like the idiot he truly is, and it’s about time that the old king was deposed and a new one put in his place.”

  “That new king being yourself, I take it?” I asked.

  Luke smiled modestly. “If called upon to serve, I would certainly do my duty.”

  “Then it is an elected position?” Giles asked.

  “Yes,” Luke said. “I doubt you know much about how the G.A.A. is organized, so if you will bear with me.” We nodded, and he continued, “There are roughly eight thousand members spread through the United Kingdom, and we are divided into seven great fiefdoms, which are in turn divided into baronies, and so on. I am the leader of the largest of all the seven fiefdoms, that of Wessex.”

  “So named, I presume, for the ancient ruling house of Anglo-Saxon England?”

  “Yes,” Luke responded to my query. “I was the founder of my fiefdom, and I chose the name in honor of my hero, Alfred of Wessex.”

  “Alfred the Great,” Giles clarified.

  “Exactly so,” Luke said. “In the time since I first founded the fiefdom of Wessex four years ago, it has grown to be the largest and most popular among the fiefdoms of the GAA.” He smiled modestly, inviting us to see that it was all due to his efforts and personality.

  “Quite an accomplishment,” I said.

  “Thank you,” Luke said.

  “How do you prefer that we address you?” Giles asked. “I take it your real name is Luc d’Amboise, but your name within the G.AA is Luke de Montfort.”

  Luke grinned. “I know it’s a bit confusing, but while we are meeting together like this”—he swept a hand through the air, indicating the encampment before us—“I am His Grace of Wessex. Thus you may address me as Your Grace, or Luke, if you prefer.”

  “Thank you, Luke,” I said wryly. Giles could play along and continue to call the man “Your Grace” if he so chose, but I found it all just a bit on the silly side.