Murder in the Dark (28 page)

‘That’s wonderful,’ said Phryne. ‘Congratulations. He’s a very nice man.’

Minnie blushed. ‘I never would have known it except for the way he’s looking after Marigold. I mean, he looks sort of rough. And, Miss? Is there any chance we could keep her for our own?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Phryne. ‘I shall have to see. Let’s just get through tonight, Minnie, and then tomorrow will be another day.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

Minnie carried her big silver jug through the recovering dancers, distributing smiles and wine. The girl was glowing with happiness. One person, at least, is unaffectedly happy in this gathering, thought Phryne. How nice. How very nice.

The Joker mopped his brow. Tonight was the night. He would know
when the perfect moment was. It was worth all this effort, if the
execution was at the peak time. Few things gave him pleasure.
Killing was one of them.

Phryne met Nicholas as they filed in to dinner in the purple tent. The daylight was beginning to wane. Swans flew over, heading for their nests on the little island in the lake. Crows winged towards the highest trees, croaking their dismal summons to dark things. Phryne drew a sharp breath. The hunting alertness, which had been soothed away by wine and exercise, was back.

‘Over the top,’ whispered Nicholas. Phryne nodded.

The tables had been set up like a baron’s hall or a university college. Across the dais was the high table, where Gerald, Isabella and the favoured courtiers sat. The rest of the company were ranked by costume: aristocrats first, clerics and religious next, then the others in order, above and below the salt, down to Phryne and several people in pages’ costume, who had leave to move all over the hall, serving wine to their betters. Nicholas took his seat directly in front of Gerald, and Phryne took up her station behind him, ewer in hand. Then the servers began to bring in the feast.

Phryne had never really thought about how important a feast was to a medieval person, especially in the middle of one of those English winters which seemed to go on for aeons: weeping skies, icy winds, blighted landscapes, perpetual cold nose, cold feet, cold in the head. To those poor souls, Christmas must have been a blessed festival indeed, a bright patch of food, wine and joy to both anticipate and remember as solace for the chill, monotonous months. Thus a spit roast of pig was a good thing, and a spit roast of mutton. And raised pies, game pies, apple pies, bitter sallet and fruit soup.

Phryne folded back her sleeves and flourished the carving knife in order to carve for the high table. There was a mountain of food. And this was only the first remove. Luckily the feast was to last for hours and hours, or no one would survive it. Would the Goat Lady get some of the leftovers? Phryne wondered what Willie, Wayland and Mintie would make of bitter sallet, composed of dandelion, purslane, wormwood leaves and lemon juice.

A minstrel with a lute begged leave to sing and to her astonishment Phryne knew the song. It was not ‘Gaily the troubadour’ or ‘Greensleeves’, it was ‘The Lark’ by Bertrand de Born, a famous troubadour.

‘When I see the lark
‘enfolding with his wings
‘the warm ray of the sun
‘until drowned in honey,
‘he swoons with delighted joy:
‘Ah, possessed am I with envy!
‘Of all joyous ones so jealous.
‘That my heart breaks not within me
‘I find most marvellous.’

Phryne kept carving. The tune was odd and almost off-key and very, very sad. She found herself longing for a full chorus of anything cheerful. ‘Round the Marble Arch’ was what she was humming.

The singers had begun on rounds, songs and madrigals, which Phryne loved. She was standing next to Gilbert, who was a page for the evening, along with Jonathan, Marie-Louise and Sabine. Gerald and Isabella were dressed, or rather clothed, in mystical, wonderful white samite in the form of flowing druids’ robes, crowned with mistletoe, which ought to make kissing them a sacred duty.

‘Who would have thought that Sad Alison would wash up so well?’ asked Sabine.

‘It’s amazing what a vinegar rinse and a few kind words can do,’ said Marie-Louise, straightening her jerkin.

‘Really can’t call her Sad Alison anymore,’ commented Sabine. ‘Amelia’s put a lot of time into finding the right dress, too. That cooling blue calms the red of her complexion.’

‘Amelia’s looking stricken,’ said Marie-Louise. ‘I wonder what she’s hiding?’

‘We all have secrets,’ said Jonathan profoundly.

‘Shut up,’ said Gilbert. ‘I’m listening to the music. Don’t you think that Bennet is wonderful?’

‘I do,’ said Phryne. Though she could think of more cheerful songs for them to be singing. ‘Weep o mine eyes, weep o mine eyes and cease not,’ they sang. Why not a brisk chorus of ‘Philip my Sparrow’ or ‘Fyer Fyer’ or even one of Phryne’s favourites, ‘When Celia was learning at the spinet to play . . .’

‘But I prefer John Isum.’ As though they had heard her, the singers regrouped, had a drink, and leapt into ‘
Laudate Nomen
Domini
’, one of the most cheerful exhortations to prayer in existence.

Phryne carried another platter of roast lamb to the high table as the next song repeated: ‘Up and down he wandered, up and down he wandered, up and down he wandered . . . while she was missing. When he found her, o then they fell a-kissing, a-kissing, o then they fell a-kissing.’

That was more like a merry Christmas feast, thought Phryne. She sneaked a piece of the roast pork. It was smoky and crisp. The upper classes lived well in the good old days. Except, of course, for the famines, the pirates, the bandits, the plagues, the shortness of life and the imminence of ever present death. And no medical treatment, no antiseptic childbirth, no hot baths, no coffee, no chocolate and no tobacco. The last four decided her on the advantages of the twentieth century. Her childhood had been so poor that Phryne still got a vague thrill when she turned on a tap and hot water came out.

The company lounged and lolled. The pages poured more wine. Phryne knocked off for a plate of roast meat, a slice of game pie, and a couple of goblets of the chilled red wine cup. It had slices of orange and lemon in it and the recipe owed more to Mrs Beeton than the Goodman of Paris, but it was very refreshing. Nicholas joined her and slumped down onto a seat.

‘This page lark has got whiskers on it,’ he observed, pouring himself a cup of authentic medieval lemonade. It would be a while before his system could tolerate any alcohol. ‘My feet are killing me.’

‘You’ve been dancing for two hours in costume shoes,’ said Phryne. ‘That can take it out of you. I’m going back into the tent. Apparently we are going to have medieval games.’

‘If it’s anything like those jokes . . .’ grumbled Nicholas. ‘Did he tell you the one about “When has the goose the most feathers? When the gander is on her back”?’

‘No, but he told me the one about “Why doth a dog lift his leg to piss? For he hath never a hand to pull out his prick”. How they must have roared in the fourteenth century over that one. Then again, this is a man who knows all the words to “Abdul the Bul-Bul Amir”, which is worrying in itself.’

When Phryne got back the singers were pronouncing that their man John had a thing that was long and their maid Mary had a thing that was hairy and their man John was about to put his thing that was long in their maid Mary’s thing that was hairy when Phryne realised that it was a broom head and a broom handle, and nothing like as rude as it sounded. Another riddle. She had been encompassed by riddles from the moment she arrived at this strange party and she swore a small private oath that she would never countenance so much as a very clean and proper riddle in her house again.

Medieval games appeared to be simple enough. To allow the company some digesting time, this was the old pass-the-parcel of everyone’s childhood.

A sole tootler, back turned to the assembled guests, tootled on a wooden recorder as a very large parcel, wrapped in cloth and tied with a ribbon, was handed along the table. The music stopped just as the parcel landed in front of a delighted Alison. She unpicked the bow and folded back the red cloth. Inside was another parcel, wrapped in green and tied with a green ribbon. A small gold dragon tinkled onto the table. Much prettier than anything Phryne had ever got in either cracker or pass-the-parcel. Alison took the red ribbon, threaded it through the ring on the pendant and allowed Jonathan to tie it around her neck. She was laughing. Phryne had never seen Sad Alison laugh.

The tootling began again and the parcel crept down the table. It stopped before a thin, pale acolyte in a clerical costume made for a large bass baritone or Chaucer’s abbot. He undid the ribbon and revealed a yellow parcel and ribbon, and a slip of paper.

Sylvanus snatched it from him. ‘Kiss the maid you love the most!’ he roared, and bounced his bladder off the unfortunate youth’s head. The boy blushed purple.

‘These parlour games are hard on the shy,’ Phryne said to Nicholas.

‘All he has to do is kiss her,’ Nicholas objected.

‘Yes, easy for you or me, but very hard for him . . .’

The acolyte staggered up, approached the high table at a stumbling run, threw himself down on his knees and kissed Isabella’s perfect toes. There was a roar of approval. He came back to his seat, tripping on his hem, on the verge of fainting. The parcel moved on.

The next victim had to stand up and sing a song. Fortunately this was a known singer and they obliged with a round of ‘Sumer is y-cumin’ in’. The next person got a bag of toffee. And so it went on, the parcel getting smaller all the time, Sylvanus capering and insisting on telling more riddles, and the forfeits becoming more biological. Finally the possessor of the tiny little gold wrapped parcel, Amelia, undid the gold ribbon and found a slender belt made of links shaped like leaves. It was a beautiful thing. The Templars did not play any games by halves. There they sat, like priest and priestess, shining in their white robes, beautiful and awe-inspiring.

To the tune of several tootlers, the next game was announced. As Sylvanus explained the rules, it seemed to Phryne that no new amusements had been invented since the twelfth century. For if this wasn’t a medieval version of musical chairs, she was Wynkyn de Worde. She slipped out into the gathering darkness. The tent was close, though the great heat had not returned. The horsemen and hearties were gathered in an impromptu camp down by the lake, where the occasional splash showed that the ‘throw a Chink in the river’ boys were still at their nefarious trade. They had lit a bonfire and Phryne could smell roasting meat.

Phryne ignited an entirely unmedieval cigarette. She had a few useful objects in the pouch which was part of the costume. She sat down on an iron bench, smoking luxuriously, puffing the fragrant fumes at the mosquitoes who were gathered in a cloud, muttering and waiting for her citronella to wear off.

The gasper tasted so good that she had another and by the time she sauntered back into the tent, the musical chairs had concluded and the second remove was being brought in. More meat—of course, meat was such a luxury in the Middle Ages— more fruits of all sorts. And some entertainment, in the form of a very solemn boy who escorted a very solemn other boy and were accompanied by the singers.

‘The Boar’s head in hand bear I
‘bedecked with bays and rosemarie
‘And I pray you my masters be merry
‘Quot estis in convivio!
‘Caput apri defero
‘Reddens laudes Domino.’

Isabella had probably considered the nauseating impact on a modern diner of being presented with the head of a real boar, and had ordered one made of marzipan. It was magnificent, likelife in colour, the tips of its marzipan tusks gilded. It was surrounded by a cornucopia of marzipan fruits and vegetables. The company hopped into these as though there was no next Wednesday but Phryne refrained because she did not like marzipan’s texture or taste. No matter what it was shaped like it still tasted very much like marzipan. And because she had marked down a dish of apple snow as her own. Also, she had to serve the Lord and Lady, as did her fellow pages, who were recalled to their duty by the Lord of Misrule, who made great play with his bladder and threatened to tell them more riddles. That got everyone moving.

Wine was poured, marzipan was nibbled. Phryne secured the dish of apple snow, which was a marvellous concoction of apple puree and beaten egg white. No one else seemed to fancy it so she ate it all.

‘Any messages, Miss?’ asked Minnie, disguised for the event in a sober gown and wimple.

‘Nothing yet,’ said Phryne. ‘Tell Mrs T that the food was magnificent. Particularly the apple snow.’

‘I never thought anyone would eat that,’ said Minnie.

‘Uncooked meringue! I’ll tell her,’ she said, and withdrew with the rest of the servers as the singers formed up again.

‘Never weather beaten sail more willing bent to shore
‘Never tired pilgrim’s limbs affected slumber more
‘Than my weary sprite now longs
‘To fly out of my troubled breast
‘Oh come quickly oh come quickly oh come quickly sweetest lord
‘and take my soul to rest.’

‘We don’t seem to be able to get away from death, do we?’ remarked Gilbert, wiping at a wine spill on his sleeve.