A Midsummer's Day (17 page)

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 gone.

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 sun 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?

She back screamed.  She turned over.  Their new memory foam mattress felt as hard as a rock.  It would have been softer if they’d slept on the ground.

Where was her bloody pillow?  Don’t tell her it slipped behind the bed again?  How else was she going to block out this bloody sun?  Shivers ran down her spine.  Did Johnny open the window, too?  She reached for her blanket.

What she pulled around her shoulders wasn’t a blanket.  It was an arm.

And it didn’t belong to Johnny.

She shot into a sitting position and threw her eyes open.  The bright white bedroom dissolved into thin air, leaving in its wake the grassy knoll between the mud stage and the pond.

It had all been a dream.  Stonehenge.  The trial and dunke.  Waking up in the flat she and Johnny shared…

Part of her wished that she had really woken up there.  That the last part of her dream had been real, and the last day at festival had been the dream. 

The bigger part of her remembered yesterday.  All of yesterday.  She remembered learning that Johnny was not the man she’d thought he was.  She remembered believing it.  But, somehow, she didn’t remember her heart breaking.

Would it have been better if she’d actually woken up in her apartment, with Johnny by her side?  Would it have better if she’d not known about his affairs?  Or was it better to wake up as she did, chilled to the bone and an outlaw running for her life, but next to someone who’d never hurt her once?

Someone who’d risked his neck for her time and again to save her from her asthma, among other things?

Someone who sent warm waves through her heart just by the mere thought of him?

Vaughn woke and sat.  His eyes showed no surprise as he registered their surroundings.  He’d had no lying dreams, telling him that he was someplace else, someplace better.  He smiled at her.  Somehow Sammie knew he thought there was no better place to wake up.

She smiled, too.  There really wasn’t.

He pulled his arm away from her lap and blushed bright scarlet.  “Sorry, Sam,” he said sheepishly.  “It got cooler than I thought it would last night.  I didn’t want you to get too cold.  I know what that does to your asthma.”

“It’s okay.”  She smiled.  She knew it was a straight out lie, an excuse concocted for lack of a better reason for why he would have his arm around her.  And she didn’t care one bit.