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And then he became more sober. “And home it is indeed, I have learned. I have learned something else—that my son is ready to take on many of the responsibilities of a manored lord, and may well perform them better than I.”
At this, the people laughed and clapped, and John blushed to be praised. Lord Temsland, too, flushed at the enthusiasm of everyone’s agreement.
He continued, “I have learned that by opening the coffers, one obtains other treasures, and that...” He paused and looked about him. “Well, enough of speeches. Surely it is time for the fair to begin!”
This time the cheering was deafening.
Parson Tom raised his hand. “God bless this fair,” he pronounced then. “Let the fair begin.”
Someone began to play a pipe, and a few sang together.
I heard the king talking to Lord Temsland as a friend talks with another.
“Tomorrow we will hunt the great hart,” Lord Temsland said to the king. “He has evaded me for many years now, and has grown into a noble animal. He is as intelligent as he is large, helping other deer escape from traps, leading them to our haystacks when it was bitterly cold last winter. My arrows have not been able to find him, but surely yours will, Your Majesty.”
The king smiled and looked with longing toward the forest. “There is nothing I like more than a challenging hunt,” he said.
John and I exchanged a look.
“The hart ca
The king frowned. “No beast escapes my arrow, once my heart is in it,” he said.
“Of course not!” Lord Temsland said, and then they both laughed, and the king put his hand on Lord Temsland s shoulder.
I watched Parson Tom slump in his chair and promptly go to sleep. His goiter was larger than usual. One day soon he would sleep and not awake, his goiter having sucked the life out of him.
But I did not want to see such things today. I wanted the noise and music and laughter of the fair, and so I took Grandmother’s hand and plunged into the middle of it.
The morning began with a boulder pull. Everyone predicted that it would be Simon Langley or Barnaby Buttercross who would pull the boulder the farthest. Hadn’t they won, one of them, every year for seven years? But weren’t we all surprised when Stephen Little won the day. He lived in the rockiest part of the parish and had become good at taking rocks out of his poor soil. Lord Temsland was so pleased at the turn of events that he promised Stephen the right to clear another half-acre of forestland that bordered his portion.
When the boulder pull was ended, everyone went to see the booths of vegetables and goods. There were cabbages and rhubarb, corn, leeks and cucumbers, beans and garlic, and white meats of milk and cheeses. There were gooseberries and rye and wheat breads, baked and warm, golden butters in fancy molds, and bunches of picked flowers tied with ribbon. Martha Hornsby sold her famous jams and syrups, and Lord Temsland gave her a great gold coin for one bottle. This made her cry, for all her life she had longed to have a real gold coin to bite of an evening.
A number of youths entered the eating contest, and a great crowd gathered round and bet on who would be able to eat the most currant buns. Jeremy Smith ate until he was sick. Richard Walters had to stop at twenty, and then spent the better part of an hour lying on the village lawn, moaning. Michael Red ate thirty-three buns and stopped, saying that it was a lucky number and that it was the first time in his life he had been full. Michael’s wife was very proud of him and wove his first-place blue ribbon into her hair.
The young lads were stoic when they all lost in archery to Barty Lumberjon. They knew he wouldn’t let them forget his victory until next year’s fair, but freedom from enforced humility came when Adam Wiltweather beat Barty in the arm-wrestling competition. Adam was a quiet lad who would let others win at times and declare he had done his best.
I walked Grandmother around the booths. We touched woolens and silks, tasted strange foods, smelled exotic spices. We saw a man juggle fiery torches, then raw eggs. Grandmother clapped with happiness to see a man who could tie himself into a knot. The villagers proudly showed their calves and bulls and their lambs and ewes and their turkeys and roosters and hogs. Children showed their prize rabbits and donkeys. Grandmother and I laughed and clapped, and I marveled to think it possible that I might be lady over all my people.
Then came the judging of fruits and vegetables. Ben Marshall won, of course, for melons and pumpkins and cabbages and turnips and leeks. The other fruit and vegetable ribbons were shared, one per person, and there was some debate over whether the wi
Soor Lily’s great baby son won the wrestling contest and gave the ribbon to his mother. Soor Lily herself did not enter any contest but sold many bottles of her “tonic,” which cured everything from warts to melancholy. A man who had several warts on his nose drank an entire bottle, and within minutes every wart fell off. He was so happy he proposed to Soor Lily, and was immediately chased out of town by three of her sons.
Goody Thompson won a contest by guessing the correct number of beans in ajar and got a beautiful new teapot for her prize. She carried her baby as she walked about the fair; his cheeks were growing fat and rosy.
Gretta won a blue ribbon for some exquisite embroidery, but it was well known that her most important contribution was being worn by Lady Temsland, who was every bit as gorgeously arrayed as the queen.
There was one surprise in the textiles category. Master Tailor displayed a beautiful gown of lavender silk and won hands down, of course. As soon as he had been presented the ribbon, he gave the gown to Gretta. “ ‘Tis a wedding gown,” he said. “And if I have any eye at all, it will fit you perfectly.”
She held it up in a rapture, then looked at him sternly. “You must promise never to boss me.”
Tailor smiled. “And if I tried?”
“Why, I would love you anyway,” she said, smiling.
They embraced, and we all clapped to see it, none more loudly than Tailor’s children.
Choirmaster’s choir sang for the king and queen while they ate a di
Now all that was left was the judging of Best Cook. I had entered my pie for the sake of Tobias, who had boasted that the queen would eat a dish made of his lemons. There seemed no need now to see the judging, but my friends took me by the hands and pulled me to the cookery tent. Along the way, we skipped and sang, bartered with the merchants, and cooed over babies.
Under the tent, the dignified panel of judges still tasted and conferred. They had placed a blue ribbon on Padmoh s teacake and a red on her bean soup. And so it was in every category except pies—the judges had yet to decide that category. My heart lifted at the sight of all Padmoh s ribbons. Of course she would win. Ben Marshall had eyes only for the judges.
Finally, one judge tasted my lemon pie. He moaned and sighed with pleasure.
Then the other judges tasted, and kept tasting more and more until the pie was half gone.
And then they placed a blue ribbon on the plate.