“What’s that? Oh, hello, Alan. How’s the arm?”
“Painful, and a damned nuisance. Anne was just saying we’ll need some help with the Scouts—Ross McCready’s off sick.”
“Of course I’ll help with the lads.” He patted his pocket and smiled at them. “It’s a good job I brought extra supplies of sweets today.”
“Thanks.” Anne forced a smile. “And perhaps you’d keep an eye on Sam Stansfield—playing Goliath. He’s been winding up the other boys all morning.”
“There, what did I tell you?” Alan grinned as Godfrey Mullett marched off in search of the Scout troop. “And Jane will be here, trust me. I expect she’s stuck in traffic. Never seen so many cars pouring into the village.” He glanced over her shoulder. “Was that Professor Duggan you were talking to when I arrived? Arrogant devil, turning up here. I hope you told him where to go.”
She glanced round in time to see the professor’s silver convertible leaving the car park.
“Yes,” she said flatly. “I suppose I did.”
Out of the chaos of the morning, the procession of floats gradually took shape, and at ten-thirty Jane Lovett’s Range Rover pulled into the car park, a large horse-box swinging precariously behind it.
“Sorry I’m late!” Jane called, jumping down. “Dulcis decided to cast a shoe at the last minute and we had to make a quick swap.” She opened the tailgate of the horsebox and led out a huge grey horse.
“Meet Murphy.” Her smile faded as she looked at Alan. “Good God, what happened to you?”
“Slipped off a step.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. But you can’t ride Murphy like that.”
“I don’t intend to. We have a stand-in.” Alan nodded at a figure marching towards them.
Deborah watched Bernard stride up, his grey knitted chain mail and cardboard armour looking very realistic. Someone had given him a lance made from a curtain pole with a white pennant attached. He caught her eye and grinned. He seemed to be saying to her, Look at me, I’m your knight in shining armour.
“Well, very impressive!” Jane Lovett nodded at him approvingly. “And Murphy will take your weight, no problem.”
Alan stepped forward. “Bernard, isn’t it? I’ll just run through the procedure for you again. You will lead the procession down the road here, past the church and over West Bridge to the green, then bear left onto Drakes Walk, the road around the northern edge of the green. It’s been arranged that any spectators will be on the south side, so it should be clear. Walk on until you come to the far end of the green, just before the High Street, and stop there. The floats will pull up along that north side of the green—there should be enough room for them all, then you will walk slowly back along the front of them while Mr. Bodicote says a few words over the PA system. Once you’ve reached the other end, each of our little groups will do their bit. When they’ve all finished, you will ride back to the front of the procession and lead everyone off through the High Street and across Eastgate Bridge. Take your first left after the Bridge into North Lane, opposite the Yew Tree Restaurant, and that will bring you back to the Happy Landings. Got all that?”
Bernard nodded. “Simple enough.”
Hilda Gresham came over clutching a large bundle.
“We made a saddlecloth—you know, it goes over the horse’s back and hangs down around his legs. We thought it could go over the saddle, and we’ve slit it so that the young man can use the stirrups.”
“That’s super, Hilda. The red crosses are just right. Will the horse be okay with it?” Anne looked at Jane, who nodded.
“Don’t see any problem. Let’s get it on.”
Murphy took exception to the fluttering material and backed away, rolling his eyes.
“Whoa, there,” Jane steadied him. “He’ll be fine once you get going. Steady as a rock. The only thing he really doesn’t like is donkeys, and there’s none of those in the procession, I hope.”
“No.” Alan turned to Bernard. “Well, young man. This is it—you’d better climb aboard. What do you think, Anne?”
She shrugged, thinking of Toby. “Purists might say it’s not accurate, but it’s close enough—after all, this is an entertainment, not a history lesson. Okay, that’s everyone ready now, I think. We’ll just make a final check of the lorries.” She looked at Deborah. “I’ll be finished here in a couple of minutes and I promised Alan a lift down to the village—do you want to come? If we set off as soon as I’ve made the final checks, I should be able to get the car into my garage before they close the road.”
Diversion signs had been set up on the approach to the village, and Donald Carrick the community policeman was directing those who’d come to watch the pageant to the large makeshift car park in a nearby field. He grinned when he recognised Anne’s car.
“Morning, Mrs. Lindsay. Going home? I’d advise getting there as soon as you can, there’s dozens turning up to watch your carnival.”
“Good! Will you be able to watch it too?”
“I’ll see it pass here, of course, and I want to get down to the green to see them do their little plays—our Wayne’s a Philistine, you know—but the traffic’s heavier than we anticipated. I’ve put out a call for another car to come and give me a hand, and Sergeant Potter’s gone to ask Bertram Oldfield if he’ll let us use his north pasture as a car park for t’other side of the village.”
“What about the press?” Alan leaned forward anxiously. “Many reporters here?”
PC Carrick rubbed his chin. “One or two local guys, that’s all I’ve seen.”
“Well, thank God for that!” Alan declared as they drove on. “Hopefully we’re yesterday’s news now, and they’ll leave us alone.”
“It does seem to have had some effect though,” Deborah observed from the backseat. “There’s a lot of people here.”
Anne grinned. “We might make a bit of money, then, if they stay around.”
“Reverend Bodicote is organising members of his Bible Class to sell ice creams and go round with the collecting tins. Let’s hope they’re all in place by now.”
By the time they walked onto the green, there was already a crowd gathering, and a gratifyingly large number were strangers to Anne. Alan grunted his approval.
“Looks as if the publicity wasn’t such a bad thing after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
PC Carrick saluted smartly as the procession made its ponderous way past him towards the village, but somewhat ruined the effect by grinning broadly and giving the thumbs-up to his son, who was standing beside Goliath on the float.
“Must be a sod having a copper for a dad.” Sam Stansfield sneered down from his superior height. “I mean, you’ve gotta be a little goody-goody, ain’t you?”
“Leave him alone, Stansfield,” growled Shaun Tring, who was Wayne’s best friend. “You don’t know nuffin about it.”
“Ah, shut your trap, stringy.”
Shaun reddened, hating the nickname, but he bit his lip. He couldn’t pick a fight now, not in the middle of the procession. Besides, Stansfield was so much bigger, he was bound to win.
At the head of the procession, Bernard dug his heels into Murphy and spoke between teeth that were clenched into a broad smile. “Come on, you bastard, pick your feet up.”
The sun was making a fitful attempt to pierce through the grey cloud, and as the procession made its way past St. John’s and across the bridge it managed its first, brief appearance of the day. From their vantage point by the public address system, Deborah and Anne watched the mock Crusader lead the floats along Drakes Walk, skirting the village green.
Reaching the far end of the green, Bernard halted and remained motionless for a few minutes, listening to the trucks pulling up behind him, their brakes hissing and wheezing. Then, as instructed, he turned Murphy and made his stately progress back along the line. God, these rustics like their playacting! Bernard walked Murphy on to the end of the procession, his lance held firmly upright and its pennant flying proudly in
the breeze.
Nothing to it, he thought, these little village fêtes. What was all the fuss about?
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to our pageant to celebrate seven hundred years of St. John’s Church.”
Murphy started as the vicar’s voice boomed out over the speakers, but Bernard tightened the reins.
“It’s only a microphone, you stupid brute,” he muttered. “Come up, now!”
“Our splendid floats here represent the stained glass windows in the church, and we’re going to act out the stories for your entertainment.” The vicar’s voice fell a little uncertainly on the last word, but the audience responded with round of applause.
“I have to admit I was worried that they would all be acting out their little pieces with the sun in their eyes,” Anne said. “The cloud cover has solved that problem.”
Deborah nodded. “I just hope Moses can descend from Mount Sinai without dropping her Commandments. She doesn’t look very happy.”
The vicar was standing before the first float, holding aloft a microphone to catch the speeches. A little girl in a rather battered cardboard crown stepped to the front.
“I am King Darius, and Daniel is my favourite official.”
She was joined by a second, much larger girl, who gabbled in a loud monotone. “But-your-Majesty-you-issued-a-decree-that-nobody-should-pray-to-anyone-but-yourself-and-Daniel-prays-to-his-God-three-times-a-day.”
“Then he must be cast into the lions’ den!” cried the first child with obvious relish.
A tall, thin girl with a multicoloured tea towel on her head was marched forward by two giggling guards. She was pushed forward and an imaginary gate was slammed shut behind her. Then from under a blanket in the corner of the truck emerged the lion, roaring and pawing at the air, while a good-natured cheer went up from the crowd.
“I think she’s trying for an Oscar!” Anne laughed as the lion responded to the applause by roaring even louder, and Daniel delivered a surreptitious kick at the furry flanks to quieten the beast before King Darius could deliver his last line.
“Oh, dear, I hope Daniel is all right. I have been awake all night worrying about him.”
Daniel stepped through the imaginary gate and bent towards the microphone. “Of course I’m all right. God protected me from the lions, and now you can write to all the other kings and tell them that they must worship the one true God.”
Their ordeal over, the children shifted into a line to bow, while the crowd cheered enthusiastically. Aubrey Bodicote mopped his brow.
Clara Babbacombe had found herself a prime position at the end of High Street, where she perched on her shooting stick and watched the tableaux through her field glasses. She didn’t mind if she couldn’t hear all the words—after all, she had listened to enough rehearsals to know them off by heart. The market stalls were almost deserted, with everyone crowded onto the green to watch the pageant, but a sudden movement caught her eye and she glanced back to see a familiar figure advancing towards her, leading a donkey.
“Hello, Bertram—come to see the pageant?”
“No, that I ain’t, Babs. I’ve gotta get old Annabelle ’ere up to Long Meadow. I agreed that the police could use my north pasture as a car park, and Annabelle don’t take kindly to sharing ’er field with a lot of cars. She started fretting, so I’m moving ’er.”
“But you can’t go across the green, they’ve just started their plays! Can’t you wait until they’ve finished?”
“No, I can’t! I ain’t got time to stand around here all day. Besides, we shan’t go straight across the middle—I ain’t that thick. No, I’ll take ’er round the back of all them wagons. No one’ll even notice.”
He set off again and, after a brief sigh and a shake of her head, Clara turned her attention back to the pageant.
“…And now we have the Moreton-by-Fleetwater Cubs and Brownies enacting the tale of Jacob’s Ladder.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can look!” Anne covered her eyes as the youngest members of the pageant swarmed over a tall and shaky stepladder, which had been decorated with Christmas tinsel for the occasion. The children’s words were lost on the breeze, but no one seemed to mind, clapping and cheering at the end of their little tableau.
“There, wasn’t that splendid?” Reverend Bodicote beamed, patently relieved.
The next float was the Mothers’ Union interpretation of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments. Rita Tring and her companions were wrapped in sheets and looking very improbable as the children of Israel. Aubrey Bodicote passed them the microphone and, as one of the ladies relayed the story, Moses wobbled uncertainly on the pile of sandbags that represented the mountain, her purple robes billowing softly about her. At the appropriate moment, she was handed two large chocolate sponges, each one covered with delicate writing in white icing.
As she began to descend from the mountain, she lost her balance on the sandbags. One of the cakes flew out of her hand, sailed through the air and smashed to pieces as it landed on the grass. After a brief hesitation, the Cubs and Brownies decided that this was manna and too good to miss. They scrambled down off their float and began to scoop up the unexpected treat.
Hilda Gresham reached out to grab at the microphone. “Don’t worry, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve plenty more cakes to share with you.” She held up another large chocolate sponge, grinning broadly, before allowing the vicar to retrieve his microphone and move on.
Deborah felt her stomach knotting with anxiety as Josh stepped forward to say his lines. Yvonne was behind him, reclining on an incongruous chaise longue. Deborah closed her eyes for a second, willing everything to go right for him.
“Well, he looks good, I’ll say that for him,” Anne said. “Gorgeous, in fact.”
Deborah opened her eyes and indulged herself by enjoying the picture he presented. Dressed only in a pair of loose leggings, his upper body was tanned and glistening, and his black curls hung in an untidy mane about his head. Gorgeous, indeed. Even if he was leaving.
“Yvonne looks the part, too, don’t you think?” Anne remarked.
Deborah had to agree that Delilah looked seductive in a low-cut dress, and she seemed to be enjoying the role, leaning against Josh and rubbing her hands over his bare chest.
“Ooh, Samson, go on. Tell me the secret of your strength.” Yvonne had turned her head to speak into the microphone, but her generous curves were pressed against Josh. The vicar held the microphone aloft but delicately averted his gaze.
“Looks like Graham Tring’s enjoying the performance too,” Deborah remarked. Anne followed her glance.
“Good grief, his tongue’s almost hanging out there. Oh dear, poor Rita. If I had a bucket of water I’d throw it over him now!”
But Deborah wasn’t listening anymore—she was watching Josh’s final scene, as he pulled the polystyrene pillars down around himself. He ended on his knees, his dark head bowed, like a model for some pre-Raphaelite painting.
“Oh, thank goodness that worked!” she cried, clapping.
Observing her young friend’s smiling face and glowing eyes, Anne smiled to herself. “Yes, very effective. He was a good choice, wasn’t he, as Samson?”
Deborah was still clapping. “Oh yes,” she said, laughing, “the best!”
On the next float, Goliath moved into position. “Get ready then, stringy.”
Little Shaun Tring scowled at the giant. “Shut up, Stansfield!”
Sam Stansfield grinned and drew himself up to his impressive if skinny height. “Who’s gonna make me?”
Reverend Bodicote gave them an admonishing frown and turned to the crowd.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, you will remember that David was the little shepherd boy who took on the giant Goliath…”
Shaun waved his slingshot in the air and put one hand into the pouch hanging from his belt, where the scrunched-up paper balls were waiting to be fired at the giant. But at the bottom of the pouch his fingers touched another object, a s
mall, hard ball that would fit perfectly into his slingshot. Smiling to himself, Shaun Tring prepared for his moment of glory.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As the order reverberated through the columns, the exhausted Templars saw their attackers withdraw, and the relentless showers of arrows ceased. But their relief was short-lived. As dusk fell and the Christians withdrew behind their meagre defences, a dense dark cloud enveloped them.
“Sweet Jesus, the devils have fired the scrub!” Hugo’s sergeant pulled his scarf across his mouth and watering eyes.
“Aye,” Hugo grunted, “but you may be sure they will retire to a well-watered camp tonight.”
The men huddled down, trying to evade the hot, acrid smoke that scorched their already parched throats. Like his fellows, Hugo sipped cautiously at his goatskin water carrier and buried his head in his cloak, waiting for the dawn.
As the sky lightened first to grey, then pale rose, the Christians abandoned their camp, determined to press on, leaving behind them beasts that could not keep up. The soldiers were in poor heart, their eyes smarting and lips cracked from the acrid bush smoke they had endured throughout the night.
The Saracens continued to harry them, forcing the army off the road and onto the rough ground of the high plateau. As the heat of the day took its toll on the weary soldiers, the Muslims grew bolder, circling the army with crude taunts, while all the time the deadly arrows showered down upon them, until the knights’ arms ached with the effort of holding their shields aloft. Progress ground to a halt, the king’s crimson tent was set up in the centre of the troops, and they gave up their attempts to advance, concentrating on survival.
The Christian army turned to face the enemy. Bravely the knights charged, and charged again, but gradually they were forced back. The ground was slippery with blood, and they had to guide their mounts over the bodies of their fallen brothers. There was a grim determination in their struggle. A Templar riding at Hugo’s side fell with scarcely a cry, his head severed with one blow from a Saracen’s deadly curved blade. The screams of the horses mingled with those of the men cut down by the attack. Hugo fought on, his breath rasping in a throat parched and dry. Eventually the Templar found himself beside Raymond of Tripoli.
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