Baked to Death

by Dean James

  “Thank you, Elfwine,” Luke said. “I shall send over some of my special bread loaves this afternoon for you to start baking.” Then he frowned. “Where were you, Elfwine, when someone allegedly attacked the king?”

  The master baker shrugged. “I had need of a privy, Your Grace, and I had stepped away but for a moment. No one else was about when I left, but when I returned, all I saw was the two of them arguing.”

  “Was the oven damaged?” Luke asked.

  “No, Your Grace,” the baker replied with a wide grin. “The oven is in fine shape.”

  “Thank you, Elfwine,” Luke said. Then, as if dismissing the incident to be of no further importance, he started forward, his sister still attached to his arm. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, there is business to which I must direct my attention. Should you be interested in visiting me, anyone here can point out my pavilion.” He and Adele swept regally away.

  A deep sigh sounded from behind us. Totsye Titchmarsh was not in the least bit subtle about her admiration for her would-be king.

  “Miss Titchmarsh,” Giles said, arching an eyebrow at me, “perhaps now you would be so good as to show Simon and me to the tent of Master Webster?”

  Collecting herself, Totsye gathered her skirts in her hands, lifting them from the grass of the meadow, and tottered forward on her heels and pointed toes. “Certainly, Giles, dear. Follow me.”

  I cast one last glance at the oven. It was properly several feet from the nearest tent, but close enough to the one that was apparently serving as a kitchen. They had obviously given some thought to fire prevention. The tent next to it proudly proclaimed itself as a pub—The Happy Destrier. I thought that naming the pub for a warhorse was an odd choice, but then, most everything about this group was a bit on the odd side.

  I trailed behind Giles and the tittering, chattering Totsye. Several women cast admiring glances in Giles’s direction, as did one or two men. I frowned. I couldn’t believe that Giles was actually serious about wanting to play dress-up, but I decided I might as well go along with it, at least up to a point.

  Totsye seemed little the worse for her confrontation with Knutson. I strongly suspected that she had kicked the royal derriere, forcing the royal head into the oven. Why she had such animus against Knutson, or what she hoped to gain by such a potentially dangerous prank, I had no idea, but it might bear discreet inquiry.

  We came at last to the tent of the weaver, Master Webster, and Totsye Titchmarsh introduced us to the man. His eyes brightened at the thought of sales. “Certainly, gentlemen,” he said, eyeing us both up and down like an expert tailor, “I’ve no doubt I can find appropriate raiment for each of you.” He threw out an arm in an expansive gesture, indicating the array of cloth on a table nearby, as well as ready-made garments hanging from pegs and rope strung around the tent.

  As Totsye urged Giles forward to examine some of the clothing, I moved to one side of the tent and peered out from behind a concealing flap. I had spotted something interesting going on across the way, between two tents opposite that of the weaver.

  Harald Knutson stood in the shadows between the tents, talking to two thuggish-looking brutes dressed as foot soldiers. Broad and burly, they looked more like rugby players than medieval soldiers. They watched the king intently as he talked and gestured at them.

  I focused my hearing to time in on what they were saying. One of the advantages of being a vampire is that one’s hearing becomes much keener than it was in life, and I have had a number of occasions to be grateful for the change.

  I filtered out the noise of the encampment around us and honed in on Harald’s voice. “I assure you, if you do this for me, you’ll both have what you want.”

  One of the thugs grunted. “It’s worth a knight-hood to me, sire,” he said. “And Guillaume here will go along with what I says.”

  Guillaume nodded. “Me, too, sire. I fancy being Sir Guillaume.”

  “And so it shall be,” Harald promised them. “Just get it done, and make sure no one sees you. He has to be stopped.” With that, he slipped away behind the tents.

  What little plot had the king just hatched?

  CHAPTER SIX

  I watched for a moment longer, but the king’s two conspirators didn’t linger in the shadows between the tents. They strode off in the opposite direction from that taken by the monarch himself. Frowning, I turned my attention to what was taking place inside the weaver’s tent. I had no doubt that whatever Harald Knutson was planning, it boded nothing but ill for Luke de Montfort. Perhaps I should warn him.

  “What do you think of this, Simon?” Giles asked, his eyes bright with mischief and amusement.

  He held up in one hand some brightly colored hose, which would no doubt mold themselves to his shapely legs and hips. One leg was scarlet, the other navy blue. They looked suspiciously like modern, mass-produced tights, but I supposed one could not expect 100 percent authenticity. In the other hand he clutched a navy blue houppelande with red sleeves, elaborately embroidered with silver and gold geometric patterns. The houppelande was a dress-like garment worn by both sexes in the late Middle Ages. They were usually ankle length, but the one Giles had chosen was a knee-length tunic. He didn’t want to miss an opportunity to show off his nether parts.

  “Very nice, Giles,” I said. “The colors are quite flattering to you, and you’ll cut quite a dash. But of course you need some sort of headdress.” I turned to Master Webster. “No doubt you have something suitable?”

  Anselm Webster beamed at me. “Certainly, good sir.” He turned to a table behind him and selected a low-crowned black hat with an upturned brim. “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said as he reached forward to set the hat gently on Giles’s head.

  Giles grinned at me. I thought the medieval garb would suit him just fine. It was definitely more extravagant-looking than his usual wardrobe.

  “Now it’s your turn, Simon,” Giles said.

  “Very well,” I said, giving the appearance of bored reluctance, but seeing how attractive Giles looked made me curious to try it for myself. I had never worn any kind of medieval costume, and now here I was, preparing to play dress-up for the first time since childhood.

  I examined Master Webster’s wares and finally settled on a full-length houppelande of a deep green, embellished with rich embroidery. It was split in front and back and would flap about a bit as I walked, allowing my hose to be seen. I found a black hat with a large brim, along with some black hose. I fingered the latter. As I had suspected, these were simply tights and none too authentic. Giles and I each picked out shoes, his red and mine black, to match our costumes, and of course we had to have leather belts. Giles again chose red while I found a black one. Now that we seemed to have everything we would need, I asked Master Webster just how much all of this finery cost.

  My eyes widened slightly at the price he named, and Giles made a move as if to put his selections back. “No,” I said, “this is my treat, Giles. We’ll mark it down to research expenses.” I reached into my jacket pocket for my wallet. I had enough cash to pay for our clothing.

  Master Webster beamed even more widely as he watched the pile of fifty-pound notes growing in his palm. “Thank you most kindly, noble sir,” he said when I had finished. He turned to tuck away his money into an ornately carved wooden box he retrieved from under one of his tables.

  “Master Webster, I must speak with you,” came a strident voice from behind us. “We must stop those idiots Knutson and de Montfort before they ruin everything.” Giles, Totsye, and I turned to behold a man of enormous girth waddling into the tent.

  Perhaps the newcomer fancied himself as Henry VIII, for his features and size were reminiscent of that much-married monarch. His costume was the most elaborate I had seen this morning. He might have been one of the king’s chief courtiers for all the elegance and extravagance of his headdress and his houppelande. The points of his big shoes stuck out a good twelve inches, and he looked a bit like a medieval duck as a res
ult.

  Totsye Titchmarsh sniffed loudly in distaste. “Bugger off, why don’t you, Sir Reginald.”

  Thus addressed, Sir Reginald paused to cast an evil eye on Totsye, Giles, and me. The eye did indeed seem evil, because his left eye moved while the right one didn’t. Perhaps the right one was glass, I speculated. His inspection of us seemed comically sinister because of the unmoving eye.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t the Whore of Bath,” he said. “I see you’ve found a couple more sodomites to mince about with you.” He sniffed loudly. “As if mooning constantly over that bugger de Montfort isn’t embarrassing enough.”

  Master Webster clucked anxiously behind us. I laid a restraining hand on Totsye’s arm, because I could feel her about to launch herself at Sir Reginald. The woman certainly had a temper. Though I wouldn’t have minded seeing him brought to his knees by this whirling dervish, I really didn’t see any need for blood to be shed on my account.

  Instead I stepped forward until I had trod upon Sir Reginald’s extravagant shoes, immobilizing him. I stared down at him, ignoring his outraged sputters. “Really, Sir Reginald, you do have the most appalling manners. I should think it ill behooves anyone who obviously eats like a pig at a trough”— I pointed to the numerous stains on his gown—“to cast aspersions upon anyone else. I believe an apology to Goodwife Alysoun is in order, don’t you?”

  Sir Reginald’s one good eye rolled around as he nervously contemplated what might happen if he refused to do as I had requested. I took a step back, releasing him, and he drew a deep and shuddering breath. “My apologies, Alysoun,” he at last mumbled.

  “Accepted,” Totsye said, almost growling out the word.

  “There, you see, Sir Reginald,” I said, beaming at him, “good manners will always be appreciated.” Behind me, Giles and Master Webster were trying, not very successfully, to suppress their laughter. Sir Reginald’s face grew even redder.

  “Come along, Sir Giles, Alysoun,” I said. “No doubt Sir Reggie has business of grave import to discuss with Master Webster, and we should let them get on with it.” Clutching my costume in a bag provided by Webster, I stalked out of the tent Giles and the Wife of Bath were right behind me.

  The sky had clouded over, and I was grateful for some respite from the sun. We walked a few paces away from the tent before I stopped to question Totsye. “Just who was that prat?”

  She made a moue of distaste before responding. “Sir Reginald of Bolingbroke, he calls himself.”

  I groaned. “Don’t tell me. Another pretender to the throne.” Otherwise, why would he have chosen the family name of Henry IV, who had wrested the throne away from Richard III in 1399?

  “Exactly,” Totsye said, nearly spitting. “He despises both Harald and Luke, and he fancies he has the qualities that will make him a good king.”

  “And do others of the group share this delusion?”

  Totsye laughed. “Oh, Reggie has a few adherents, but only a few. Both Harald and Luke would have to be completely out of the running before Reggie stood a chance at being chosen king.”

  “It sounds as if this is going to be quite an interesting week,” Giles said.

  Totsye sighed deeply. “But not interesting in the right way. Ever since Harald became king, our society has become increasingly divided. He has not been the kind of leader we had hoped for, and the sooner he is dethroned, the better. The leaders of the great fiefdoms are not happy with him.”

  “I would say that Luke de Montfort is quite determined to see Harald dethroned,” I said.

  Totsye’s face brightened. “Dear Luke, such an intelligent man. And he has such presence as well. He looks like a king, unlike Harald.”

  I couldn’t disagree with her, but I didn’t see any point in continuing the discussion at present. “Is there somewhere nearby that Giles and I might change into our new clothing? We could go back to Blitherington Hall, but if we don’t have to, that would be most helpful.”

  “But of course,” Totsye said. “You may use my pavilion, dear sir. Please, follow me.”

  She strode forward, and Giles and I followed. After a few paces she turned from the main lane of the encampment down one of the side paths. We passed several large tents until we came to hers. Made of canvas like most of those we had passed, but dyed a rich gold, it was a large structure and must have taken some time to erect. She waved us inside, explaining that the pavilion had two chambers.

  “The front is my sitting room, more or less. There, behind that curtain, is my sleeping chamber.” She demonstrated how to let the flap down so that the opening was covered. “When you’re done, you may pin the flap back open again. You’re most welcome to leave your mundane things here, if you like. No one will bother them, I assure you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and Giles did the same.

  I let the flap down behind her, then turned to find Giles regarding me with considerable amusement.

  “Why are you suddenly so bent upon taking part in this play-acting, Simon? I believe that’s what you called it earlier.”

  I shrugged. “It is much more interesting than I anticipated, I must admit. I don’t see any harm in having a bit of fun with it, do you?”

  Giles laughed. “No, I suppose not, Simon. I’m game if you are.”

  “Thank you, Giles. Besides, I must admit to considerable curiosity about what is going on here. All this internecine struggling over the monarchy”—I couldn’t help laughing over it—“might lead to something most interesting.”

  “Surely not another dead body, Simon,” Giles said, his mouth twisted in distaste.

  “You never know,” I said. “Some of these people are a few cards shy of a deck as it is, and they all seem to take this pretty seriously. Whether they take it seriously enough to commit murder over, I don’t know. But let me tell you what I overheard.” As I spoke I had begun removing my clothing, and Giles, seeing me disrobe, began to do the same.

  I related to Giles the conversation I had heard between Harald Knutson and the two soldiers, and he frowned in response. “There’s definitely some plot in the works,” he said, his voice a bit muffled as he pulled his tight shirt over his head.

  “Yes, something’s up,” I agreed. I turned my back to him. I didn’t want him to think I was going to stand there and ogle him while we dressed. I also didn’t want him staring at me in the nearly altogether.

  It took us a few minutes to dress ourselves in the unfamiliar clothing, but when we were both finished, I was satisfied with the results. Giles was most handsome in his costume, and his hose molded themselves quite attractively to his muscular legs. I moved around a bit, letting the houppelande flap about me. I caught a glint in Giles’s eyes, which told me my own costume was flattering.

  “Now for the hats,” I said, fitting mine upon my head and appreciating the protection from the sun it offered. Giles’s brimless hat sat atop his curls at a jaunty angle. He could easily pass for a medieval lordling about to stroll through the village in search of mischief. He flashed me a saucy grin.

  “What now, Simon? I’ve no doubt you’ve hatched some plan yourself.”

  “As a matter of fact, Giles, I have,” I said, unruffled by his playful tone. “I would like you to wander about the encampment, chatting with folk, trying to get a feeling for what people think about this struggle over who’s going to be king.” I paused. “And about this film as well.”

  “Very well, Simon,” Giles said. “I wouldn’t mind having a look round. Particularly in The Happy Destrier. I’m more than a trifle peckish, not to mention thirsty.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “And you can tell me about the food later. I’m curious to know what kind of medieval fare they’re offering here.”

  “And what will you be doing?” Giles asked as I pinned the tent flap open again.

  The sky was still cloudy, I was relieved to see. I had tucked my sunglasses into my houppelande, along with my wallet and my pills. If the sun came out again, I’d have to don the glasses, eve
n though they would be out of place. I had noticed a couple of the encampment folk wearing them earlier, so I wouldn’t be the only walking anachronism.

  “Me?” I asked. “I’m going to find the would-be king and tell him what I overheard. If he’s the target of the plot, he ought to be warned, don’t you think?”

  “Certainly,” Giles said, “but perhaps I should tag along, just to make sure you’re safe. What if those thugs should attack him while you’re with him?”

  “Thank you, but no,” I said, mistrustful of the jocular tone in which he had spoken. “I’ll be perfectly fine, Giles, and you needn’t worry that I’m going to throw myself at the handsome duke.”

  “Perish the thought,” Giles said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “Be on your way,” I said, and he laughed as he turned and walked away. “We’ll chat later,” I called after him. He waved to acknowledge that he heard but did not slow down.

  I looked around for a moment. There were people in several of the tents nearby, but I didn’t think any of them had overheard the exchange between Giles and me. They were all busily engaged in various tasks.

  I approached a woman a couple of tents away who was sitting on a stool in the opening, plying a needle and thread to what looked like a pair of men’s braes with a frayed hem.

  “Pardon me, good lady,” I said, and she looked up at me.

  “How might I help you, sir?” she said, her hands stilled in her lap.

  “Could you point me in the direction of the tent of His Grace, the Duke of Wessex?”

  “Certainly, sir,” she said, pointing down the alley to her left. “Follow the path between these tents to the end, then turn to your left. You will see his pavilion a few paces away, off to itself. There will be a banner flying from it if he is within.”

  “Thank you, madame,” I said, bowing slightly. She nodded, then bent her head once again to her work.

  I ambled down the lane between the tents and soon came to the end. Turning to the left, I could see the pavilion she had described, about thirty yards away. It sat off by itself at a short distance from any of the others. It was the largest I had yet seen, of a rich and most definite royal purple. A banner flew from a flagpole stuck in the earth near the front of the pavilion.