Phryne poured them both a cup of coffee from her refilled thermos.

'Good, because I need my bed. I am proposing to conclude lunch with a nice nap,' she told him. 'Tonight is going to be testing. Are you armed?'

'Yes,' said Nicholas soberly. 'Are you?'

'I am. My companion brought me some extra ammo.'

'I've got enough for all the good it will do,' he said, eating another sandwich. 'This Joker is impossible to catch.'

'Nonsense. You're just saying that because no one ever has,'

she told him. 'Stop being so discouraging. I just won five pounds on a polo team that no one would sensibly back, so you can see how foolish you are being. Now, you need some exercise. Go for a nice long walk and a swim and you will feel much better. The Feast of Fools starts at four on the Great Lawn. I shall be there. And if you do not know how to dance a pavane, I shall be delighted to teach you. Bye,' said Phryne, and Nicholas removed himself and his lunch box into the corridor. He heard the door shut and a chair-back being forced under the handle.

A little at a loss, he went to the hornbeam to finish his meal, and then decided on a nice long walk as Miss Fisher had suggested. He was getting stale with all these late nights.

Phryne Fisher, relieved of company, finished the biscuits (which were as excellent as ever) with a cup of coffee. Then she took off most of her clothes and lay down in her bed, 234 *235 cradling the pillow to her cheek, and willed herself to fall asleep.

And did.

Three thirty and Phryne came awake, as she had arranged with her internal clock. Time for a wash and the donning of her very own costume. Phryne had been persuaded by a certain Orkney fiddler to attend several functions which required medieval dress, and she decided that she would have her own clothes made. This was a rather tasty page's outfit in Lincoln green.

She did not want to be encumbered with the long sleeves and flowing gown of a medieval woman on this night. And her instructions had told her that she was elected page for the night.

And while she was at it she needed to muster her troops. She needed to talk to Sam, Gabriel, the wharfies and Mrs Truebody about the projected capture of the Joker. This took some effort and she scrambled into the tights and jerkin just in time to arrive at the Great Lawn before the Templars. The company was very decorative, as multi-coloured as a field of flowers.

Gauzy veils floated from high hennins, sleeves dipped to the grass to meet the curly points of shoes, and Sylvanus Leigh was resplendent as the Lord of Misrule. He had a jester's costume and a reproving bladder on a stick. He grinned sardonically at Phryne in her boy's clothes and belted her with the bladder.

'Lost your nerve, lovely lady?'

'Joining the other side,' retorted Phryne.

Sylvanus laughed. Phryne sniffed. Somewhere, someone had lit a fire and was roasting meat. On a spit, perhaps? Very medieval. We must look like a Turkey carpet from the sky, thought Phryne. All these colours. All moving. Nicholas arrived in a knee length purple gown and surcoat, wearing a small round Piranesi hat.

235.

*236 'Pavane,' said Phryne, holding out her left hand. He bowed, kissed her fingers, and waited for instructions.

'The pavane was invented so that everyone, even the elderly and infirm, could walk around the hall and inspect everyone else-clothes, hairstyle, who they were dancing with. Therefore it is slow and graceful and even one in possession of two left feet can dance it. Thus . . .'

The company had lined up in a long snaking circle of couples around the perimeter of the Great Lawn. Three musicians stood in the middle. One had a pipe, one had a drum, and one was playing Phryne's particular detestation, the crumhorn, an instrument which sounded like a trodden-on trumpet with warped clarinet overtones.

'Bow,' said Phryne, bowing. 'Step, pause at the end of each step. You lift yourself onto your toes and down but you don't need to worry about that yet. Step, three small steps, pause. Forward again. Step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause. Again. Then back,' she said, shoving him gently.

'The same thing. Step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause.

Then you drop to one knee and I go around you, clockwise, thus. Then I stand here and you go around me. That's it. And now forward . . .'

After a few repetitions of the figures, Nicholas began to enjoy the pavane. It did allow one time to look around, especially considering that most medieval dancers would have been pavaning since early childhood. Even the hearties and the horsemen were joining in, though some were miffed when Jill and Ann insisted on dancing with each other. Step, pause, step, pause, step, step, step, pause. Where was the Joker? Who was he? And who was his target? Am I going to live through tonight? thought Nicholas. He stumbled, and missed his step.

'Hold up,' said Phryne. 'Talk, if you're worried.'

236.

*237 'How did you know that?'

'I'm worried too,' said Miss Fisher. 'I'm not a soldier, trained to battle. In fact I bet soldiers worry as well, they just don't tell us about it.'

'Just the usual worries, Phryne: shall I eat breakfast tomorrow?' he said, smiling with some effort.

'Oh, yes,' she said, smiling with no effort at all. 'I am confident of that.'

Nicholas immediately felt better. He told himself this was silly, but he felt better all the same.

'And I can't imagine a world without you in it,' he said to the top of Phryne's green velvet cap, which was all of her that he could see when she moved closer to him. Her long pheasant's feather tickled his chin.

'Good,' she answered. 'Keep on imagining. With you imagining and Dot praying, we ought to manage.'

An hour later Nicholas was mastering the intricacies of the Officer's Bransle and wondering why he had ever classed himself as an inept dancer. Of course, there was no medieval version of the Charleston, for which he just didn't have the ankles. And instead of the sharp, jarring rhythms of modern dances, the medieval ones were energetic enough but designed for someone wearing approximately three times the weight in clothes of the average 1928 nightclubber.

He grabbed a stout acolyte around the waist and hurled her into the air. This was fun. Though he did wish Sylvanus would stop bashing him with that stupid bladder on a stick. And if those were authentic medieval jokes, the bawdry of his ancestors had been remarkable.

Phryne took a break while the musicians retooled their crumhorn. With any luck it would be permanently broken. The 237 *238 strange thing was that anyone could even tell when there was something wrong with it. She accepted a drink of chilled red wine cup from Minnie, who was quivering with excitement.

'Everything's ready, Miss. Your blokes brought the stuff out and it's all where you said it should be.'

'Good,' said Phryne. 'And Mrs Truebody knows about getting everyone inside and the big doors shut? This is a dangerous person.'

'Yes, Miss. Just you give the signal.'

'Good work, Minnie.'

'Oh, and Miss?'

'Yes?' asked Phryne, holding out her goblet for a refill.

'Sam said I should tell you, Miss. About him and me. We're getting married.'

'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.

238.

*239 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 239 *240 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.'

240.

*241 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.

241.

*242 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"?'

242.

*243 '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 243 *244 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 . . .'