A Midsummer's Day

by Montford, Heather

  At least the moon was rising as quickly as darkness fell. A full moon.

  They’d have plenty of light.

  “Just think of it as camping under the stars. And we’ll hardly freeze.” A smile tinted Vaughn’s voice. “I think the storage area behind the Boleyn Stage has blankets, if not pillows. I’ll go grab a few so we’re not sleeping straight on the ground.”

  He stood. Sammie followed him up. “While you do that, I’ll go use the privies.” She hadn’t gone in hours, and her eyes felt like they were floating. The two large mugs she’d greedily drank weren’t helping, either.

  “What if someone’s in there?”

  “I can hardly go anywhere I want like you.” She laughed sarcastically and crossed her legs.

  Vaughn looked uncertain. “All right,” he said an eternity later. “I’ll go check it out first.”

  He led her slowly from their hiding spot. There was nobody around. But that didn’t mean that a constable couldn’t come around a corner at any time. They slipped silently down the Dregs until they reached the public restroom. Vaughn hid Sammie on the far side of the building while he checked both the men’s and the women’s sides.

  It didn’t take him long to come back out. “Okay. It’s all clear. Just be careful.”

  “Please don’t worry, Vaughn.” She danced around now. “I’ll be quick and head straight back to the pond.” She pushed past him and ran into the women’s side of the restroom.

  She felt her way through the pitch-blackness of the nearly windowless room. Eventually she found the inside of a stall.

  It shouldn’t have been a surprise that the porcelain toilets were gone, that the stalls were little more than wooden boards with holes in them, separated by rough wooden walls. There weren’t even doors.

  Not that it mattered. Who would come in at this time of night? Who would see her in this level of darkness?

  She hitched up her skirt and sat. She rested her head against the wooden wall and sighed. The only way this could have been better was if the walls were the cool metal of modern restrooms. Not even the smell bothered her.

  “Be the grounds cleared?”

  The deep voice came from the men’s side of the building, followed shortly after by the sound of not one, but two, men relieving themselves.

  She held her breath. How in the hell hadn’t she heard them come in?

  “Aye,” the other said. “All have returned themselves to their tents. The outlaws are yet to be seen.”

  “The Lord High Sheriff shalt not be happy to learn him of such things.”

  “Mark my words. It shalt not be from my mouth that he shalt hear such disturbing news.”

  They laughed, their voices fading into oblivion.

  Sammie stayed perfectly still. That had been too close. If they’d heard her, if they’d come into the other half of the building even by accident… She came within feet of being caught. Of being brought back to John… Jameson and his incurable temper.

  She didn’t move again until she was absolutely sure the constables were long gone. She sprinted from the building and back to the safety of the pond…

  And forgot all about the constables. Lying in the silver light of the moon were two roughly hewn beds, lying side by side.

  <>

  They lay on their beds, staring at the perfect disc of moon above them.

  Nobody said anything. Sammie had been deathly silent since her return from the privies. Vaughn could guess why. He’d heard the constables walk by when he rooted around the storage area of the Boleyn Stage. Had she gotten closer?

  Had they used the privies the same time she had?

  The silence was painful. “What are you thinking, Sammie?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer he’d get. But any answer would be better than none.

  He’d rather hear the most horrible answer imaginable than nothing at all.

  Sammie sighed. “I was thinking about Johnny.”

  Vaughn cringed. It was what he was afraid of. The memory of what he never told her ate away at his soul. “Do you miss him?” he asked carefully. Let her say no. Let the insanity Johnny showed her drive all of the caring from him from her heart.

  That would make things so much easier.

  It took her a long time to answer. She turned to face him and rested her head on her arm. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I know Johnny and Jameson aren’t the same people, but it’s hard to separate the two of them now.” She sighed. “I just know that Johnny would never be so cruel to me.”

  He had to tell her. She had to know the truth. She deserved to know the truth. “Sam, there’s something I think you should know.” He paused.

  “I knew there was something you weren’t telling me. What is it, Vaughn?” She put her hand on his.

  “Earlier, when I was at the fountain, I overheard your band mates gossiping about the Lord High Sheriff.” He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to break her heart... But what other choice did he have? “They say he dabbles with the gypsies.”

  He watched her process what she’d just heard. “Dabbles with the gypsies… Dabbles, as in…”

  “As in he sleeps with them,” Vaughn finished.

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to believe it. “But that’s Jameson. That’s not Johnny.”

  Vaughn took a deep breath. God, don’t let her shatter right in front of him. “It is Johnny, Sam. Before the shockwave I saw Johnny at the Grotto Stage. Sam, he was making out with a gypsy. If I hadn’t caught him, I think he would have gone a lot farther.”

  It took a minute... Her silver eyes filled with fresh tears. “I should have known. After he arrested me…” Her voice shook. “He was too eager to prove he still loved me. I should have seen how guilty he felt. I should have known.” She took a deep breath. “I guess it makes sense now.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sam.” He touched her cheek gently.

  She shook her head. “No. I’m glad you told me. It’s better to find out now than after we got married.”

  “Are you okay?” What a stupid question.

  A few tears escaped the confines of her eyes. “I don’t know. I guess it makes his cruelty make more sense.”

  They fell into a silence again. Vaughn would love to know what Sammie was thinking. He’d love to know how he could make her feel better, how to protect her from the horrible truth. He’d love to know…

  So many things.

  Sammie yawned. Her eyes grew heavy. The poor thing was exhausted.

  “You just sleep now, Sammie,” Vaughn whispered, kissing her gently on the forehead. “It’s been a long day. Just sleep.”

  “You’ll be here in the morning, right Vaughn?” Her breathing turned steady and shallow.

  She was already sleeping.

  He covered her with a blanket. “You bet I will.”

  He took her hand. He was never going to leave her again.

  <>

  She wafted through the air as a wisp caught on the breeze.

  It was magic hour. All was quiet. No insect chirped or buzzed. No nighttime bird sang songs of wonder. The tall grasses stood still, frozen in time until the sun would rise again. The leaves on the trees ceased their nighttime symphony. The building, the stages and stands, were edged in mist turned silver by the moonlight.

  Behind her laid her one time prison and the guard charged with watching over her. He didn’t stop her. He couldn’t fight against the ties she’d bound around his wrists and ankles. He couldn’t call for help through the gag in his mouth, torn from her gown which the constables had thankfully left near her.

  The constables had left her bruised and sore, but she had seen worse. She fluttered with ease through the empty grounds. To her left was the mud pits. They were huddled together, sleeping in peace behind the stage.

  Behind her was the veritable sea of tents where the visitors to the festival lived. In one of them lay the Lord High Sheriff. As soon as the sun rose, he’d walk the paths of the festival again. He would see that she was g
one.

  She floated to the back of the festival. She would make herself known again. But now was not the time.

  Now, she must disappear.

  Chapter 17

  He would find no sleep this night.

  It was but a short carriage ride to his own manner in Nottinghamshire. But during festival, Jameson showed solidarity to his subjects by staying in the tents outside of Sherwood. His lavishly furnished tent had the honor of being right next to Queen Elizabeth’s, only a stone’s throw from the gates of the festival.

  But it was not his tent he found himself in that night. Anne’s tent was just down the row from his, and more comfortably furnished. It was too far to have her things carted in from London, where the Court was in session, so her furnishings came from her chambers in his manor. They were the very best. Jameson had seen to it personally that she would be comfortable and well taken care of.

  And what was the result of such caring? Anne had turned her back on him. She had turned from his arms to the arms of a lowly beggar. She’d openly defied his orders, and ran off with the vile criminal. She spoke of dangerous things, of witchcraft and prophecy and the future.

  The last was no more than the gypsy had done. But a well-born noble Lady should have known better. Anne showed no propriety to her Lord High Sheriff... To her betrothed.

  Jameson could not say why he was in Anne’s tent. His anger towards her behavior, her disappearance with the scoundrel Puck, threatened to overflow at every second. And yet, here he was, lying in the bed he had provided for her. It was vastly more comfortable than his own bed. The mattress was stuffed with the finest material. The coverlet was made of the softest satin and stuffed with the finest goose down.

  And yet, he would find no sleep.

  A couple in the next tent over was in the throes of passion only rarely seen in arranged marriages. But that wasn’t what kept Jameson awake.

  Was it possible that, despite everything, part of him still loved Anne? It was possible. He could hardly forget the smoothness of her skin. The silkiness of her auburn hair. The glint of her silver eyes in candle light.

  But he couldn’t allow such reprehensible behavior from his own betrothed. What did such behavior say about him, not only as a man, but as the Sheriff of Nottingham and host of this festival? His good name hung in the balance. He would not go down in history as a man who could not control his beautiful, though sickly, betrothed.

  And yet… He had spent the better part of the day begging the Queen for clemency on Anne’s behalf. First he had begged her to only banish Anne from the festival. Then to banish her from the Court. And then from England.

  But he could not ignore the order for her arrest. The Queen thought Anne was too much trouble, not only for Jameson but for the realm as well. Anne caused too much trouble at the festival in the face of the Queen. And somehow, word of Anne’s evil words about the future, about the year 2012, reached the Queen’s ears, and the word witch was thrown around. Anne could not be left to go free and spread such wildfire throughout the population.

  The Queen did promise Jameson that Anne would have the most comfortable quarters in the Tower. There was no need to put her to death. She also promised to dissolve Jameson’s betrothal to Anne, and she promised him a much more suitable wife.

  Perhaps that was the reason Jameson found himself in Anne’s tent. This would be the only opportunity he would have to be in her bed.

  If she had behaved like a proper Lady, she could have been in it with him.

  Blast it. He was too agitated to get any sleep. He sprang from the bed and threw on his jacket and boots. He’d walk through the grounds. He’d see his village in its quiet time. The cool fresh air, the quietness and solitude, would work to clear his head.

  Maybe he would stumble upon Anne’s hiding spot. Wouldn’t that be something? He’d kill the beggar and take Anne before the Queen.

  Before that, he’d just take her.

  He kicked something in the darkness and picked it up. He looked at it in the dim light of an oil lamp.

  In the silver frame was the miniature of the portrait he and Anne had posed for not two months ago. It had been upside down on the ground.

  Had Anne been out here since she’d gone missing? Had she turned the portrait over in a last act of fully separating herself from him?

  Or had she turned it over before the past horrible day even began? Had she been planning on betraying him all along?”

  “My dear Anne,” he growled. “Thou art heartless until they very end, art thou not, thy harlot?” He threw the portrait against the bed’s headboard and put out the lamp. He was in desperate want of fresh air.

  The sun had just begun to rise, bathing the sea of white tents in a warm orange glow. Servants moved about, preparing to get their masters ready for the day. But the rest of the city slept on. No one noticed Jameson as he walked through the festival gates.

  He wandered towards the Crossroads. The anger he’d experienced yesterday at the hands of Anne washed over him with force. This was where he’d first arrested Anne. When he thought that a simple dunking would be all that was needed to remedy her behavior. He didn’t know then... He didn’t know that this was the place Anne’s betrayal began.

  His thoughts turned from Anne to Tacyn. A smile spread across his lips. The gypsy wench was still in the stocks. She’d be an easy, if not completely willing, conquest. He would loose his frustrations within her, and then he’d start his search for Anne. Then, perhaps, he would have enough restraint not to slay his betrothed once he found her.

  It was a moment before he realized that anything was wrong. There should have been signs of life in the center of the Crossroads, despite the early hour. There should have been noises. Tacyn, nude for the world to witness, strapped into the stocks all night, should have made noise. The guard set to watch over her should have breathed, or snored, or groaned happily as he enjoyed the wench one last time before the festival opened.

  But there was nothing. No snoring. No breathing.

  The stocks were open. Their prisoner had been lost to the darkness of the night. The guard, one of Jameson’s most trusted, was bound by the hands and feet, slumped at the bottom of the stocks. A purple rag gagged him silent.

  Jameson knelt in front of the man. “And what did happen here?” he asked calmly, pulling the rag from the man’s mouth. It looked like Tacyn had torn it from her own skirt.

  The guard gasped. “I do humbly crave your most gracious pardon, my Lord High Sheriff. The gypsy did say that if I released her for but a moment, she would show me pleasure greater than I might ever imagine me.”

  “And so thou did release her whilst knowing thee that she be arrested for the most dangerous crime of witchcraft?”

  The man nodded. He looked at the ground. “I beg you forgive me, my Lord High Sheriff. The gypsy truly be a witch. She did bewitch me to turn against your orders.”

  Jameson nodded. “Indeed. She hath bewitched us all.”

  He pulled a dagger from his boot. It sank deeply into the guard’s neck.

  His eyes went wide. Color drained from his surprised face. He moved his mouth, as if he tried to speak, but blood bubbled from the wound below his Adam’s apple. He slumped to the side, the life draining from him in a pool of dark red and brown.

  Jameson stood, wiping the blood from his blade with the purple silk. He threw the rag into the dead man’s face.

  His constables stood behind him, their faces as white as the guard’s. Their eyes went wide at the growing pool of blood forming around Jameson’s feet.

  “He hath failed me most thoroughly,” Jameson said calmly. “Pray thou do not follow in his footsteps. What news has thou for me? I do hope thou art here at this early hour to continue thy search for my betrothed and the leech that dost keep her from me.”

  “Verily, my Lord High Sheriff.” Balmer eyed the dagger in Jameson’s hand warily. Jameson was not going to re-sheath it. Not just yet. “We did begin us our search anew ‘ere the su
n did rise. We did hope to catch the pair unawares.”

  Jameson was impressed. “‘Tis well, lads. ‘Tis well.” He knew his punishment would have a positive effect.

  “We did search us all the buildings from top to bottom, my Lord High Sheriff,” the other constable said, staring into the air above Jameson’s head. “The stages as well. All proved most abjectly empty.”

  Jameson tightened his grip around the jeweled handle of the dagger. He wanted to run it deep into the hearts of each man. He wanted to paint the sand with blood. His arm twitched.

  He saw the trees beyond the farthest reaches of the joust field. His grip around his dagger loosened. “We be surrounded by wilderness. Chop down the trees. Cut down the grass. Tear up the bushes. Tear the whole world down until they art found!”

  Chapter 18

  They hid in the shade of one of Stonehenge’s arches, eating chicken and apple dumplings while being serenaded by the soothing symphony of a babbling brook. Then they lay back together, their hands intertwined, and watched the moon rise. They fell asleep, blanketed in warm silver.

  She sat in the dunking chair, poised over the blue green water. Vaughn looked at her from inside the cage. What was he doing there? He never got dunked. He looked as scared as she felt.

  She fell through the air. The water opened up like a mouth. A mouth waiting to swallow her whole. She struggled against the arm straps… Arm straps? She landed in the water. She didn’t move. She wasn’t coming up.

  Oh God, he wasn’t going to let her come back up.

  Sammie’s eyes fluttered open. What a horrible dream. She’d dreamed about the Renaissance Faire before. Hundreds of times. But the dreams had always been good. They’d all been her and Johnny having the grounds to themselves and making the most out of their privacy. And the dozen stages. And the two dozen shops…

  She’d never had one that scared her like this. She still shook from the thought of it.

  She yawned and closed her eyes again. It was too bloody bright. Would that man never learn to keep the curtains closed when he got up before she did?