Page 92 of How to Cross a Marquess (The Way to a Lord's Heart 3)

“I must find something to do for that girl,” said Fenella.

“You don’t think she’s…a bit touched?” Roger replied.

“She’s beset by an oversized imagination,” said Macklin.

“Yes.” That described it exactly, Fenella thought.

“And a lack of judgment?” asked Roger.

“Perhaps.” The older man shrugged. “The same might be said for some of our finest artists. And a great manyrationaladults as well.”

“She’s only, what, nine years old,” said Fenella. “An adult who really wanted to might have fooled any of us at that age.”

Roger looked dubious. “She gave us a clue at least. We can begin to track down this demented woman.” His expression was fierce. “I’m trying to remember if any neighbor of ours is a skilled archer. Can you recall anyone, Fenella?”

“Sara Haskins liked it. But she has lived in Devon for years.” Watching Roger’s face, his intense concentration, Fenella thought how much she loved him. She ought to tell him so. As she certainly would, as soon as she found the right moment.

“She hasn’t been back?” Roger shook his head. “I would have heard. And what reason would Sara have to do any of this?”

“None,” said Fenella. “What reason does anybody?”

Roger’s response was near a growl.

Later that day, Lally led a party from the castle to a patch of forest in the area. They found signs of activity and a tree that had been pierced by many arrows, but there were no clues to the identity of the inexplicable Maid Marian.

Eighteen

And none were found as the month came to an end, and the day of the historical pageant on Lindisfarne arrived, with scudding clouds and breezes that held a taste of autumn. The last of August was near the turn of the season this far north, and the occasional sharp gust foreshadowed winter storms.

The pageant now represented a running dispute for the newly married pair. Roger continued to argue that they should withdraw. But Fenella insisted that they not be intimidated into hiding. They would be surrounded by friends and members of their household. No one would dare shoot arrows into a crowd, and anyone who tried would be seen and captured at once. Her arm was much better. And they had promised to be a part of this neighborhood effort. In the end, Roger gave in. But he arranged to post a party of men from his estate to watch for threats.

The Chatton household set out early, so that all those who had roles would be in place well before time. The timing of the pageant had been arranged around the tides that could make passage to the island treacherous, allowing everyone to come and then go at the lowest ebb. Those attending expected to make a day of it, and people had come from far away to see the pageant. Many had employed small boats, Roger noticed as they arrived, which would free them from the demands of the sea.

They found everything arranged around a wall of the ruined priory on Lindisfarne Island. One side of the line of vacant stone arches was set aside for spectators. Macklin and Roger’s mother staked out a perfect spot for viewing, and the servants who’d come along furnished it with rugs and chairs, hampers of food and sunshades.

The performers were gathering on the other side of the ruined wall, where a large tent had been set up to serve as dressing room. Mrs. Thorpe was received with acclaim and led away to her own curtained corner. The others were directed to the separate areas for men and women to put on their costumes.

As Fenella donned the long skirt, heavy tunic, and cloth headdress that marked her as a Saxon matron, she wondered about the whereabouts of her attacker. Was the sneakingMaid Mariannearby? It was lowering to think the archer might be lurking in the shadows, burning with inexplicable malice. Not because she feared another assault. Fenella truly did not believe that would happen here, where the woman would be caught at once. She’d been so careful to avoid exposure. It was the idea of hatred aimed in her direction, perhaps by someone she knew, that depressed her spirits. Adjusting the last details of her costume, she determined to shake the feeling off.

The series of scenes and tableaus began with establishment of the religious center on the island many centuries ago. John’s part came early, and he seemed very much to enjoy being slathered with mud from head to toe. He received the homily from St. Cuthbert with commendable humility, as well as the bucket of water poured over his head—partly hygienic and partly baptismal. When his bit was finished, however, he veered into the audience. As people edged away from his filthy, dripping figure, he rushed up to Wrayle and threw his arms around the valet.

He might have been a child overwhelmed by the attention and seeking comfort. Indeed, when Wrayle pushed him away with a disgusted exclamation, some parents in the crowd frowned. But Fenella suspected that this was a prank her nephew and Tom had planned to pay Wrayle back for some of his spite. When she glimpsed Tom’s smirk, nearly hidden by the hood of his costume, she was certain. And she couldn’t say that Wrayle didn’t deserve it. Thwarted by William’s continual presence, Wrayle had been doing all he could to make John’s stay at Chatton Castle a trial.

The day progressed, and history moved forward, the scenes shifting smoothly from arch to arch.

The Viking Age came fairly soon, rife with shouting men waving swords and axes. Fenella wielded her broom with enthusiasm and was carried off by her dear, familiar marauder. Their scene was well received, with cheers and a few hoots and whistles. Out of sight of the crowd they laughed together, in relief that it was done and that no intrusion had marred the occasion.

Monks wound through the arches, chanting. A melee with sword and axes was roundly cheered. A speech very like a sermon was not. The Normans arrived and recited bits of local history. Henry VIII’s troops came to abolish the monastery and make it into a naval store before building a castle. After that it was chiefly the Scots and the English grappling over the border. Both sides had partisans in the audience.

Finally, as the sun neared the horizon, it was time for Mrs. Thorpe’s contribution. Her recitation was not strictly chronological, as Macbeth had lived in the eleventh century. She came last because everyone had envisioned her recitation as the crowning moment of the show, a professional performance to cap the sprawling drama. Fenella found a good spot to listen at the far side of the audience just under one of the arches. She was still in her costume, awaiting the end of the pageant when all of them were to line up and be acknowledged together. Roger, sitting with Macklin and his mother, beckoned, but Fenella stayed where she was.

A deep drumbeat began out of sight. The sound gradually drew the attention of the crowd. There was a pause, building anticipation. Then Mrs. Thorpe drifted into a vacant, candlelit archway like a phantom. She wore a simple black gown and a peaked headdress. Such was the power of her presence that stillness spread out from her position over all the people present. Only when all was quiet and every eye had turned to her did she speak, in a ringing voice that reached the far edges of the gathering.

“The raven himself is hoarse

That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan

Under my battlements. Come, you spirits

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