“Then I shalt return me to thy most tender graces most swiftly.” The Lord High Sheriff Johnny brushed her lips with his. His hand found its way to her lower back.
A proper Tudor Lady might have stopped the public display almost immediately. But Anne Halloway was far from proper. Even if she was... Sammie wouldn’t have stopped. She was in Heaven. She closed her eyes and lost herself in Johnny’s smell. He smelled of the festival. He smelled of roasted meat and mead. He smelled of the horses. He smelled of grass and mud and water, and the slightest bit of sweat.
He smelled... amazing.
After too long a moment, she forced herself to push him away. “Hello! My Lord High Sheriff!” Her voice screeched with convincing shock. “The eyes of many a Court gossip lay most eagerly upon us. Thou shouldst place others in thy wood stocks for lesser displays.”
He took a step back and bowed. “Pray forgive me, my dearest.” Then he leaned forward. “Just wait until I get you out of sight, then,” he whispered. He winked and bowed once again. “By thy leave.” He turned down Hill Street.
And immediately found a tourist to harass. The young man’s crime seemed no more serious than looking at a Shire woman for too long, but his friends cackled so loud Johnny might have told him his fly was open.
Sammie smiled. Torturing the tourists was Johnny's favorite thing to do. And wandering the festival, free to do as she wanted until her next scripted scene, was her favorite thing to do. And it was time to do it.
The top level of the festival might not have had an abundance of trees, but the majority of them were around the Village Green. Sammie wandered towards a shaded corner of the meadow nearest the Crossroads. A bench rested beneath a lacy, flowering tree, and was bathed in gorgeously dappled shade.
It was perfect. She sat.
A flight of half a dozen faery chose that moment to appear in the Green. They fluttered their way across the grass, stopping in front of Sammie’s seat. Things couldn't have worked better if they had been planned. It was almost as if they could read her mind. It was almost as if they knew how much she wanted to see them.
The faery danced a circle only they could see. The browns and greens and oranges of their light and airy skirts swirled with each spin and twirl. A faery knelt in the lacy boughs sweeping the ground near Sammie. She played a sprightly tune on a double barreled pipe.
The faery were the freest characters in the festival. They were part of the Queen’s professional, the closing Pub Sing, and only one stage show. After that they could do what they wanted. They could wander wherever they wanted. They were welcome in all parts of the festival. But they tended to keep themselves to the Village Green and the area around the Woodland Stage. There they sang and danced and played tricks on the adult tourists. They gave children hugs and magical faery stones. And enchanted memories that would last a lifetime.
And… if just being a faery wasn’t amazing enough… they wore remarkably light clothing. Everything was made out of light, flowing, gauzy fabric, even their beautifully translucent wings.
Sammie stretched out her weary shoulders. Her gown seemed extra heavy at the moment.
The flautist finished her song. The dance of the faery ended. Other performers would acknowledge the tourists who applauded them, but the faery ignored such mortal behavior. Instead they congratulated each other for having such wicked fun.
Sammie stood and clapped. “Huzzah!”
The flautist faery heard Sammie. “‘Tis our Lady Anne,” she said. “Thou hast most enjoyed our dance, I see.”
“The dance be most enjoyable, and thy music be near divine, Faery Nymph,” Sammie said.
“‘Tis not so often a Lady from the human Court enjoyest herself our forest games.” Nymph skipped from side to side. “The faery enjoy us singing and fine voice, and word hath reached mine ear that thou art possessive of both. Pray sing for our dance?”
To interact with the faery… To sing with the faery, though she was still a Lady… It didn’t matter that she was still a Lady in a heavy gown. For the next few minutes, she was living her dream.
“The honor doth lay with me, Lady Faery.” Sammie leaned forward. “I only know one faery song.” She whispered the title to the sprite of a girl playing Nymph.
Nymph smiled. “I do know that one,” she whispered. “If thou wouldst stand just here, Lady Anne,” she said aloud as led Sammie to the center of the circle.
“Mayhap thou wouldst grant me with a visit to thy Faery world after this.” Sammie smiled, indulging her love of the winged creatures and Lady Anne’s love of defying nature at the same time. People of the time period believed that the faery swept mortals away to the world of Faery, never again to return home. And those who did would soon diminish and die from the want to return to the faery. These were ideas to be feared.
But not by Sammie. And certainly not by Anne.
“Mayhap, my Lady Anne,” Nymph said. “Thou wouldst make a most wondrous addition to the Court of Oberon and Titania.”
“Only if thou doth enjoy my singing, faery Nymph.” Sammie grinned from ear to ear. She was in heaven. And she hadn’t even joined the flight yet.
Nymph retook her place and raised her pipe to her lips. The dancers retook their places around the circle, their arms raised.
Sammie took a deep breath. They waited for her.
The song came more naturally than the songs she rehearsed and performed with the Noble Ladies. It was a song about humans celebrating the faery, humans who gathered in dance to celebrate every joy the faery brought to humanity. Sammie lived every word. Before the end of the song, she swayed in time with the faery’s dancing around her.
“What be the meaning of this?”
The deep, echoing bellow cut off the last line of the song. All the faery, save for Nymph, darted to hide behind trees or tourists. Their brave leader went to stand next to Sammie in the circle. A stout man in the fading gray robe of the long forgotten Catholic monks lumbered across the Green. His eyes were fixed on Sammie and Nymph. They were the target of his wrath.
Sammie smiled. This was going to be fun.
“Be gone, ye vile spawns of the devil!” the monk bellowed to the hiding faery. “My Lady Halloway,” he said without any respect. “It doth thoroughly surprise mine eyes to spy such a noble Lady carousing with yon heathen demons. The Queen wilt be most mightily displeased shouldst she hear of this.”
Sammie crossed her arms across her chest. Not smiling was the hardest part of her job. “Perchance her Majesty the Queen wouldst like to hear tale of a Catholic monk disrupting her festival. Mayhap too wouldst mine own betrothed, Lord High Sheriff Jameson Kent, like to hear of thy threats to his betrothed, Brother Monk.” She raised an eyebrow.
The monk’s rotund little head blushed like a burst tomato, and he bowed more deeply than he’d ever bowed in front of the current Queen. “My Lady Halloway,” he muttered, and left for safer parts of the festival where he could preach his Catholic rhetoric in peace. If such a place existed in the festival.
Ah well. He was Johnny’s problem now.
“‘Twas too much fun, milady,” Nymph said as the other faery came out of hiding. “Methinks the noble Lady doth possess the heart of a faery.”
Sammie smiled. “My dearest Nymph, I do give thee my most heartfelt thanks for allowing me to sing with thee. But matters do press, and I must away.”
The faery turned. They fluttered their wings in her direction. It was their version of a curtsy.
Sammie turned and walked to the Crossroads with an extra spring in her step.
The heat intensified as she stepped from grass to the dusty juncture that was the Crossroads. She would love to return to the shade. She would love to find a shadowy space of the festival, maybe near some water, and just sit and enjoy her thoughts. But she couldn’t. She’d promised Johnny.
Anyways, the biggest part of her day happened here. So here she’d stay. Browsing the shops was an activity that could be done at a leisurely pace, and with her fan
fluttering away it wasn’t an unpleasant way to spend some time.
After fifteen minutes of browsing the shops, she started to scan the tourists. The perfect one was in the crowd. She just had to sniff him out.
The leather maker was one of the few crafters lucky enough to be housed in an enclosed building each season. It was shaded and cool. And it was routinely packed with men. It was the best place to fish.
The young blond couldn’t have been more than twenty. He looked listlessly at a display of biking gloves. He had the look of someone waiting to meet a friend, and they weren’t showing up.
He would do just fine.
“My good Sir,” Sammie said loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the shop. “My good Sir, art thou a knight?” She grabbed his arm and squeezed his bicep. At least this one has one today.
She’d taken all the senses from his brain, save for the natural manly sense to look her up and down. And she had only started with him.
“My good Sir, thou art strong and most muscular.” She put a hand on the young man’s chest. His heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird. “Surely thou art a knight of the realm.”
He opened his mouth to talk. But all that came out was squeaks and stammers.
“Come.” Sammie pulled his arm. “We must have us a test of skill.”
The young man put up no resistance. She led him from the shop and across the sun parched Crossroads to a penned-in field.
“What sorry, vile canker-blossom’d runt have you brought to me this day, my Lady Halloway?” The festival’s heckler was ever as vile as he called out to her from the safety of his tomato stained board. “By my troth, his spindly arm seemest not strong enough to hit a castle from three paces.”
“Nay, cruel Ungar,” Sammie called back. “I bring me one who could pass for a grand knight of the realm and wish me to test his skill.” She nodded to the game master, and the burly man handed the blond three tomatoes. Free of charge to the Lady’s newest toy.
“Heed my warning, young runt.” Ungar turned his attention to the tourist, standing now on the adult’s throwing line. “‘Tis most every day our Lady Halloway bringest me a young rogue by the magic of her silver tongue. She playest thee for a fool.”
The blond turned to Sammie and looked her up and down again. “She’s hot, so I don’t care.”
Laughter erupted from her. It was too funny. No tourist had ever thrown out such a snappy comeback before. Especially not to quick witted Ungar.
The first tomato missed Ungar by mere millimeters, which increased the speed at which the heckler threw out his taunts. With a kind smile from Sammie, the tourist took a better stance.
The second tomato landed with a splash just above Ungar’s head. The red juice washed the heckler’s face, but it could not wash away his stinging barbs. “Mayhap your most majestic knight wouldst like to throw from the children’s line, my Lady Halloway,” he yelled.
“Go thee again, my most handsome Sir,” Sammie told her toy. “Thy victory shalt win thee a kiss.”
Nearby actors gasped at the Lady Anne’s brashness. Ungar rolled his eyes. Tourists around turned their eager attention towards the attraction.
Fierce determination crossed the blond’s face. He wound up like the pitchers she saw when she watched baseball with Johnny and Vaughn.
He threw.
The tomato flew in a perfect arc. Ungar’s eyes went wide. He shrank as much as he could against the board.
Not one tourist Sammie brought here ever hit Ungar after she issued the promise of a kiss. Aims usually became far worse, and on more than one occasion the third tomato missed Ungar’s board completely.
But this one… This one was determined to claim the ultimate prize.
He was determined. And hot. And young. And blond. Much more pleasant to behold than some of the older, heavier men she chose from time to time. This would be one prize she would be happy to reward.
The tomato exploded in a shower of juice and seeds over Ungar’s face. The spectators gave the blond a great cheer.
Sammie clapped with Courtly grace as she crossed the game area. “Thou hast done thee well, young Knight. Mine honor shalt prevail, and thy reward thou shalt receive.”
The young man closed his eyes and puckered his lips. Sammie leaned forward.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate…”
She turned just as her lips were about to brush the tourist’s cheek. The grandest poet of all time stood behind her, reciting to her the words of the most romantic sonnet ever written.
“My good Master Shakespeare! What miraculous words! Methinks thou wouldst seek to claim for thee the snowy white virtues of many a maiden with such beauteous speech.”
The actor playing Shakespeare, by happy coincidence also named William, took Sammie’s arm and threaded it through his own. “Dear Lady, your beauty seekest to shame the most glorious words to spill from my quill. The Goddesses of olden Rome pale in envy at the very thought of your eyes.”
Shakespeare led his captivated Lady away. The blond was left in Ungar’s pen.
She almost felt bad sometimes, leaving her chosen toys forgotten in the dust. It was almost cruel, the way she teased them and left them.
But the guilt never lasted long. Especially not by the time she got to Poet’s Stage. Guilt was the last thing on her mind when the greatest poet in history recited another love sonnet just to her.
Chapter 7
“Away with him. The cur shalt see the depths of the pond for his continued defiance of my law.” Johnny handed the man over to his constable.
It was little wonder that Henry VIII and two of his three children worked to oust Catholicism from England, if the monks of the time were as full of vile and venom as the festival’s resident friar. Nottingham’s monk was so heinous that it was hard to remember that the man only played a part.
What time was it? Johnny had no timepiece on his costume, but it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes since he’d left Sammie. Yet he’d already arrested the monk. Either the monk had decided not to harass the faery again, or Sammie had dispatched him with easy quickness.
Johnny smiled. It was always Sammie. Her Anne had a sharp tongue, and enough will to use it.
There were so few strong headed women in the festival. There were so few who spoke their minds, regardless of the consequences, because there were few such women in Tudor England. But those who were strong headed… Those who spoke their minds with impunity… They went on to become queens.
Sammie was poised to play Queen Elizabeth one day.
Johnny’s stomach rumbled. He’d get some lunch. He wanted to wait for Sammie… But she wouldn’t mind if he ate now.
The workers at the pork-pocket-on-a-sword stand saw him coming. He had a hot sandwich speared on a plastic sword and a cup of birch beer waiting for him when he got to the front of the line. He didn’t carry a cup on his belt like Sammie did, so he had to break character just a bit during meals.
Something about eating roasted meat from a sword, even a plastic one, just made it taste all the better. He ate slowly, taking his time, savoring every bite of his food. He didn’t want to get to the Crossroads any sooner than he had to. He didn’t want to see her play with today’s tourist. He didn’t want to see how close she would come to kissing the lucky man. He didn’t want to know if the man was old or young, ugly or handsome.
The idea of knowing, of walking in on the scene… It made his skin crawl.
He would walk around the grounds one more time. If he got to the Crossroads late… Well, he was sure that slimy Shakespeare would keep Sammie occupied.
The Grotto Stage was empty. It only held two or three shows a day since the festival added half a dozen new stages during the last off season. Sammie was offered her pick of any of the new stages for her one performance of the day, but she chose to stay at this remote stage. It was the coolest stage, and the pond behind it was good for her asthma.
Johnny would love to hear Sammie sing. It seemed almost impossible that he’d never once seen her show. He’d never once heard her practice. Arresting people for the first trial and dunke of the day kept him from this part of the grounds during her show.
He’d change that one day. One day, he’d sneak away from his duties. One day, he’d let his constables do the arresting. One day, he would hear his Sammie sing.
“‘Tis a strange thing to find my Lord High Sheriff in such a lowly place.”
A young woman in the dress of one of the festival’s gypsies stood at the edge of the stage. A lock of blond hair fell from her sparkly headband.
A shallow wave of terror swept through him. Was this the gypsy Sammie went to this morning? He didn’t know many fortune tellers were in Gypsy Way, but there weren’t many that were so young. There were even less that were blond.
Had she been the one to tell Sammie her life was going to change today?
What else did she tell her?
The girl walked towards him. He knew what he should do. He knew what his role as Lord High Sheriff was. The gypsy was riff raff. She had no right to be so near him. She had no right to be so far away from the evil depths of the Gypsy Way. He should warn her about being arrested, about meeting the pond or the stocks, and then he should have left her in a huff. Even without an abundance of tourists around to see… That is what he should have done.
But would he?
Could he?
He grabbed her arm and pulled her close.
No. He wouldn’t do that at all.
<>
The girl walked away from the Pits like a hyena hopped up on helium. Her friends giggled themselves crazy at the end of the seats, waiting for her to show them the picture she’d just taken with the three mud beggars.
Vaughn was to blame for her giddy hysteria. Partially at least. He and his fellow beggars had tormented the girl ceaselessly while a friend tried to take a picture. They’d made horrendous faces at her and threatened her perfectly clean flouncy shirt with their muddy hands. But that was part of the fun of being a beggar.
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