Baked to Death

by Dean James

  “Now, about this Harald character,” Giles asked, apparently fascinated by all of it, “is he really a descendant of the Danish kings of England?”

  Luke emitted a snort most unbecoming to a duke and would-be king. “Chance would be a fine thing! No, he’s just plain Henry Baker from Chester. He likes to pretend he’s of royal blood, just to enhance his claim to be our king.”

  “But it sounds like his days as monarch are numbered,” I said.

  “They are,” Luke said darkly. “He is completely incompetent, and the GAA is being torn apart by his antics. For example, we wouldn’t be here at Blitherington Hall at all if he hadn’t bungled the lease and our relationship with the owner of the land where we have always held our summer gathering.”

  Giles and I shook our heads in commiseration.

  “Furthermore,” Luke said, growing more heated, “he should never have signed such an imbecilic contract with Millbank.” He grinned. “Nor should I, for that matter. But he should have been more careful in dealing with Millbank. To think that we would have to pack up and leave on a moment’s notice!”

  “I doubt it will come to that,” Giles said.

  “I can only hope not,” Luke said, his eyes warm. Perhaps too warm, I thought Luke was definitely interested in Giles, and who could blame him? Probably because he knew Tris and I would appear today, Giles had dressed as he had the last few days, and Luke had not stinted himself of cataloging and assessing every one of Giles’s attributes. I had no doubt whatsoever that he approved of everything he saw.

  “No,” Luke continued, his eyes still on Giles. “If we don’t have a change in leadership soon, Harald might just cause a split in the ranks, and we would lose a considerable part of our membership.”

  “Is there a coup planned for this week?” I asked. I wasn’t really that interested in the internal politics of this batty group, but I thought it couldn’t hurt to divert his attention from Giles for a few moments.

  When Luke grinned this time, he resembled a wolf about to dismember his prey. Suddenly I didn’t envy poor old Harald. If he made it through the week with his crown intact, he was far more clever than he appeared.

  “I take that as a ‘yes,’ ” I said.

  Luke merely continued grinning. I decided to ask him another question, one about which I was truly curious. “One thing I’ve noticed this morning, Luke, is that there doesn’t appear to be any attempt to have the group all existing in the same century.” I waved my hand in the direction of the encampment “From what I’ve seen, you’ve got folk dressed in everything from the garb of thirteenth-century common laborers to the robes of a late medieval English king.”

  Luke frowned. “That’s another of the beefs that many of us have with our so-called king. Up until two years ago, we had stuck rather firmly to the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries. But ever since Harald was elected king, he has been trying to push us all further back in time.”

  “Perhaps because of his claim to be descended from the Danish kings?” Giles asked.

  Shrugging, Luke said, “Probably. That makes as much sense as any reason he has seen fit to give. There have been enough of the membership to go along with him that it has caused a considerable split between those who want to enact the thirteenth century and those who want to adhere to the original concept of the founding members.”

  “Quite a kerfuffle in the making,” I said.

  “It will be sorted out,” Luke said in a hard voice. “One way or another, this week Harald will be out of a job.”

  “Luke! Luke!”

  We turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, crying out urgently. Moving rapidly toward us, as rapidly as her costume would allow, was a shorter, more feminine version of His Grace of Wessex. From the similarity of her facial features, I knew she had to be his sister.

  “Yes, what is it, Adele?” Luke did not mask the impatience in his voice.

  “You’re needed urgently, Luke,” she said, coming to a halt in front of us and puffing slightly. “Harald and Totsye are having another screaming match, throwing things about. Someone has to stop them before one of them is badly hurt!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At those words, Luke de Montfort uttered a curse and strode off to intervene. His sister, with her shorter legs, struggled to keep up as she scurried after him.

  I cocked an eyebrow at Giles. “Shall we?”

  Giles grinned. “But of course. This is as much fun as a play, don’t you think?”

  Following at a slightly more leisurely pace, Giles and I made our way through the encampment in the wake of the de Montfort siblings. Word of the imbroglio was spreading, however, and soon we were part of a throng that was making its way to the other end of the encampment.

  The closer we came to the scene of the argument, the more easily I could hear the voices of the combatants over the noise of the crowd. The strident soprano of a woman—the aforementioned Totsye, I presumed—soared high above the squeaks of her opponent, Harald Knutson, whose voice had gone up at least an octave since we had spoken with him.

  Luke de Montfort had cut a path through the crowd, and Giles and I quickly pushed in behind him. I felt a tug at my elbow and looked down to see Luke’s sister trying to get past Giles and me. I moved aside, and with a muttered apology, she slipped through.

  The crowd stood in a semicircle around the combatants, whose simultaneous screaming at each other made their words difficult to understand. Knutson, his head and face smudged black, his crown gone, loomed over the woman by nearly a foot, yet he seemed unable to use this to his advantage. Instead, she was slowly moving him backward, by the sheer force of her personality, toward a smoking mound in the earth behind him.

  I eyed the mound curiously. It resembled a medieval oven I had seen in a picture. Evidently this group was very serious about living in the past if they went to the trouble to construct a medieval oven. To me that seemed like much more trouble than it was worth, but I wasn’t the one having to tend it.

  By now Luke de Montfort had managed to get between the two, and, sticking an arm out toward each of them, he pushed them apart.

  “That’s enough!” His voice was loud enough to rouse the dead down in the churchyard at St. Ethelwold’s Church in the village, and I winced from the sheer power of it.

  In the sudden stillness that followed, I heard a quickly smothered giggle or two, then no one said a word. I could hear both combatants breathing heavily.

  Giles jabbed me in the side. “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s Totsye Titchmarsh,” Giles said in tones of wonder. “She’s an old school friend of my mother’s. I had no idea she was involved with this group. Mummy will be beside herself when she finds out.” I eyed the woman curiously. She was the same age as Lady Prunella, late fifties, and, again like Lady Prunella, Ms. Titchmarsh had the figure of a pouter pigeon. Her extravagant costume caused her to bulge in odd places, chiefly in the over-large bosom, which now heaved with anger and exertion.

  Her clothing drew my attention, for she brought to mind Geoffrey Chaucer’s infamous Wife of Bath. Her hose were scarlet, and her hat was large, as was her skirt; the style belonged to the late fourteenth century. I was willing to bet that her name within this potty society was Alysoun something or other. If she were somewhat deaf and gap-toothed, the picture would be almost complete.

  “What is all this ruckus about?” Luke said loudly, looking right at Totsye Titchmarsh. Her eyes focused intently on his lips. She must be hard of hearing, then. “And what happened to you, Harald?”

  Knutson pointed a wobbly finger at his opponent. “This vicious besom tried to kill me, that’s what!”

  Totsye screeched back at him, “That’s a lie, you knave. I never laid a hand on you! Though if you persist in claiming I did, I very likely will after all.”

  Knutson stepped back a pace. “Look at me! It’s a wonder I wasn’t grievously injured. It’s only by a miracle that I didn’t have all my hair burned off or have my eyes put
out by burning coals.”

  Luke de Montfort breathed deeply in an attempt to keep a rein on his temper. “I will ask you one more time, Harald. What happened?”

  Knutson huffily clamped his arms across his chest and stared down at the duke. “I came to inspect the oven. There was no one about, and I knelt down for a closer look. While I was down on my knees with my head near the opening, someone kicked me into the oven.” His voice had risen steadily on the last few syllables until he was screeching in fair imitation of Totsye Titchmarsh. “She did it, I tell you! I got myself out of the oven as quickly as I could, and there she was.”

  “Yes, I was,” Totsye said, “because I had been looking for you the better part of an hour.” When she spoke, I could see that she was gap-toothed. The Wife of Bath indeed. “I wanted to explain to this poltroon,” she said, her voice loud and ringing, “that there is no way we can hold our banquet tonight. The idea is utterly ridiculous. Just as ridiculous as the idea that I shoved his head into the oven.”

  “Nonsense, you ignorant slut,” Knutson shouted, evidently feeling safe with Luke standing between him and the woman he was insulting. Luke automatically thrust out his arm to keep Totsye Titchmarsh from charging forward.

  “There is no reason why we cannot have our banquet this evening,” Knutson continued in quieter tones. “And if you didn’t attack me, who did?” Someone from the crowd stepped forward to hand him his missing crown, and he stuck it on his head at a slight angle.

  “Any one of the considerable number of people here who think you’re an idiot,” Totsye said, and her remark elicited a number of laughs from the bystanders.

  “I doubt rather seriously, Henry,” Luke said, using the man’s real name deliberately, “that Totsye would have attacked you. You probably did it to yourself. We all know how clumsy you are.” He laughed, and the crowd laughed with him.

  “I’ll find out who did it,” Knutson said, “and whoever it was will be very sorry indeed.” He glared at Totsye, who simply rolled her eyes at him.

  “Now, about this idea of having our banquet early,” Luke said. “That won’t wash. Representatives from several of the fiefdoms won’t be here until tomorrow, and we cannot hold the banquet without them.”

  “Yes, we can, d’Amboise,” Knutson said stubbornly. “I am the ruler here, and it is my wish.”

  Luke shook his head slowly. “Hear me now, Henry, and hear me well. Your days as king are numbered, and you might as well resign yourself to that fact. We will hold the banquet as scheduled, with representatives of all the fiefdoms present, which is according to the rules of our society. You’re trying to maneuver the election so you won’t be defeated, but it won’t work.”

  “Exactly,” Totsye Titchmarsh said in ringing tones. “I told the fool that, but he’s too stupid to see when he’s licked.”

  “This is not over just yet,” Knutson promised them. “I’ll see you both in Hades before I give up my crown.” He turned and pushed his way through the crowd. There was considerable tittering amongst those assembled, and it seemed to me old Harald didn’t have much support left He was fighting a losing battle, and rather than accept defeat gracefully, he intended to go down swinging.

  Luke clapped his hands peremptorily. “Everyone back to your tasks! We still have much to do.” Slowly the muttering crowd began to drift away, back to their tents. Adele de Montfort went forward and tucked her hand in the crook of her brother’s arm. “Poor Luke,” she said. “The sooner that idiot Harald is drummed out of the society, the better. You’ll make a much better king than he ever did.”

  “What’s that you say?” Totsye Titchmarsh leaned forward, trying to hear what Adele was saying.

  “My sister,” Luke said, enunciating clearly and slowly, “is simply saying that I’ll make a good king.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” Totsye said, beaming at him. As I watched, I got the strongest feeling that Ms. Titchmarsh was deeply in love with the handsome duke. The love and longing fairly poured out of her. Poor woman! She wouldn’t be the first woman to fall hopelessly in love with a gay man.

  “Miss Titchmarsh,” Giles said loudly as he strode forward, “I’d like you to meet a dear friend of mine.”

  Her head turned at the sound of Giles’s voice, and she beamed in recognition. Luke and Adele watched in amusement as I took in the full glory of Miss Titchmarsh’s get-up at close range.

  “Giles, dear, how lovely to see you,” Miss Titchmarsh said. “I haven’t had the chance yet to visit dear Prunella, but tell her I shall attend upon her soon.”

  “Certainly,” Giles said. He motioned for me to come forward. “Miss Titchmarsh, allow me to present a very dear friend, Dr. Simon Kirby-Jones. He’s a medieval historian.”

  “How do you do, Miss Titchmarsh,” I said. “Though I suspect you have rather a different name among this society.”

  She giggled loudly. I tried not to wince. “But of course, Dr. Kirby-Jones. And I am quite certain you can tell me just what my name is, you being a medievalist and all.”

  I bowed slightly, then began quoting, in the original Middle English, “A good wif was ther of biside Bathe, But she was somdel deef, and that was scathe.”

  Again she giggled. “Alysoun of Bath, at your service. How clever of you, Dr. Kirby-Jones.”

  And how unoriginal of you, I thought If people were going to play at these games, surely they would have more imagination.

  “Would you mind, Simon, translating for those of us who aren’t au courant with Middle English?” Giles said in a slightly acid tone.

  “There was a good wife from near Bath, but she was somewhat deaf, and that was unfortunate.” Totsye giggled again. The woman was old enough to know better. Girlish giggling at her age. Honestly.

  “Most impressive, Simon,” Luke de Montfort said. “You should think about joining us. You certainly have the background, and we can always use someone of your credentials.” The way he was eyeing me, I didn’t think it was my academic credentials he was after.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” Until I had met some of these re-enactors face to face, I’d had no intention of having anything to do with such a group. But I was beginning to find myself oddly intrigued by the whole thing. There was an added bonus as well. It would drive Tris utterly mad. I smiled at the thought.

  “Giles, Simon, this is my sister, Adele,” Luke said, patting the hand tucked into the crook of his arm. He continued the formal introduction.

  Giles and I both inclined our heads, and Adele curtsied to acknowledge the introduction. “You certainly must prevail upon both Giles and Simon to join us, Your Grace. They would make such a handsome addition to our court.” She leered briefly at Giles and me, then turned to her brother with a demure smile.

  He frowned down at her. He apparently detected some sting in those words that escaped the rest of us. “Thank you, sister dear,” he said. “I will certainly keep that in mind.”

  “Oh, you should join us,” trumpeted the wife of Bath. “We have a merry old time, and I must say you would both be quite striking, properly dressed.”

  “Thank you,” Giles said, speaking for both of us. “But I’m afraid neither Simon nor I has the appropriate clothing.”

  Totsye giggled, yet again. Why someone hadn’t stuffed her in the oven for that blasted giggling, I had no idea. “Nonsense, Giles, dear. I’ll just take you along to Master Anselm Webster. Besides weaving the most divine textiles, he keeps quite a number of ready-made garments for sale. No doubt there will be something suitable for both of you.”

  “Well,” Giles said, unsure how to decline such an invitation gracefully.

  “We shall certainly make a visit to Master Webster,” I said smoothly. “But first, good Alysoun, you must tell us about yon oven.”

  Totsye, Luke, and Adele all turned to the oven. “We’re quite proud of that,” Luke said. “It’s only in the last couple of years that we’ve had a functioning medieval oven during our gatherings.” He l
ooked about, seeking someone. He caught the eye of a rotund man garbed in sweat-stained workman’s clothes, overlaid with an apron. “Elfwine,” he called. “You are needed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” the man said as he ambled over. His rolling gait was that of a sailor, but judging from his girth, he was an expert trencherman as well. His florid face perspired in the heat of the midsummer sun, and occasionally he would flap his apron about in an attempt to generate a breeze.

  I too was beginning to feel the heat of the day. After a quick look at the oven, I’d be ready to seek cover from the sun.

  “These gentlemen are interested in your oven, Elfwine,” Luke explained.

  The baker beamed at us. “Ah, gentlemen, we’re all very proud of our oven. Come closer.”

  We stepped nearer the oven, and Elfwine launched into a technical explanation of the oven’s construction. The salient point was that they chose this particular type of oven, based on a twelfth-century example found in an excavation in York, because it could be constructed and fired fairly quickly. The base was between four and five feet square, and, hemispherical in shape, it looked rather like half a large and lumpy beehive.

  The brick with which it had been constructed, Elfwine explained, was regular building brick, and it was covered with ordinary daub—that is, clay mixed with straw, a common building tool of medieval times. A wooden door with a metal handle covered the opening, and wafts of smoke and steam escaped here and there.

  “It’s been firing for about fifteen hours now,” he said. “We arrived early yesterday afternoon so’s we could get it going. By this evening we can start baking bread in it.” He paused to wipe his dripping brow with his apron. “You can see there are still a few leaks in it, but we’ll just keep putting on the daub until they’re sealed.” He pointed to a bucket of the material sitting near the oven.

  “Fascinating,” Giles said heartily, and Elfwine beamed proudly. The oven was interesting, but mostly it made me thankful that I didn’t have to tend to it. Before the week was out the portly baker would have sweated away a few pounds of his excess flesh.