White Haven and the Lord of Misrule Page 2

  And with that he swept off the stage, and the Morris Dancers filed on.

  Avery turned to Shadow, dread seeping through her. “Oh crap, I’ve just realised what Rupert was on about!”

  “Rupert? Oh, the Occult Tour man!” Shadow said, her confusion clearing. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  Avery remembered his malevolent look and satisfied smugness. “I think he’s in Stan’s court.”

  Two

  Alex was pulling what felt like the millionth pint of the day when Avery slid onto a bar stool at close to six on Friday evening. She looked worried as she pulled her hat and gloves off and patted down her hair.

  He leaned over the bar and kissed her cheek. “Give me a minute and I’ll be right with you.”

  “It’s fine, don’t rush. I’ll check the menu,” she said, giving him a wan smile. “Are the others coming?”

  She meant the other witches, and he nodded. “They shouldn’t be too much longer. I’ve reserved a table in the back room. I thought it was a good idea, because honestly, today has been mad.”

  Fridays were always busy in The Wayward Son, but perhaps it was Stan’s announcement at lunchtime that had made it seem busier than usual. Or maybe it was just because they were only a couple of weeks from the solstice and Christmas. Locals and tourists alike had been pouring through the door, and the mulled wine and cider was selling fast. Most of the tables were full, and Marie, one of his barmaids, was already serving early evening meals.

  He quickly finished helping his current customer, and then leaving Zee and his new barmaid, Petra, hired for the Christmas rush, to deal with the customers, he returned to Avery at the end of the bar. “Why are you looking so worried?”

  “Rupert again.”

  He sighed. He didn’t like Rupert either, but he particularly needled Avery, and no matter what Alex said or she did, she couldn’t seem to shake it. “What’s he done now?”

  “Have you heard Stan’s plans for this year? His Lord of Misrule thing?”

  He laughed, recalling his visit mid-afternoon. “Yes. He came in wearing that crazy costume.”

  “So, you’ve heard about the court?”

  He poured her a glass of mulled wine and placed it in front of her. “To be honest, it’s been the hot topic in here all afternoon.”

  She groaned. “I have a horrible feeling that Rupert will be a member.”

  He shrugged, trying to reassure her. “So? It will just be some silly fun.”

  “But Rupert looked so—” she grimaced, “malevolent!”

  “Avery, the man is an annoying idiot, but it doesn’t mean anything. And Stan is harmless.”

  She sipped her wine and seemed to relax. “This is lovely, thank you. And yes. I’m sure you’re right. He just pushes all my buttons!”

  “He pushes lots of peoples’ buttons, but he’s not going anywhere, so we have to get used to him! And his tours bring in extra business.”

  While they chatted, El joined them, looking as glamorous as ever, and especially festive with her dark red lipstick and matching nails. “Are we talking about Rupert?” she asked as she took a seat.

  “Yes,” Avery groaned, repeating her concerns.

  “Ah yes, the court! What is that about?” Far from looking worried, El appeared excited. “Maybe we could put Rupert in the stocks and throw rotten vegetables at him.”

  “I already threw a mince pie at him,” Avery confessed with a giggle.

  “Why don’t you two head to the table,” Alex suggested, pouring El her usual pint, “and I’ll join you soon.”

  As soon as they left, Alex headed into the kitchen, and the heady aroma of food and heat hit him. While he wasn’t particularly worried about Rupert, he thought it might be worth talking to Jago about the new celebrations, in case he knew something they didn’t. Although, it was bad timing; he’d only arrived half an hour before for the evening shift.

  There was no missing Jago once he clocked in. His booming voice carried across the kitchen, and he was already teasing Georgia, the young chef.

  “Hey, Jago,” he said heading to his side. “Seeing as you’re this year’s Holly King, do you know much about Stan’s new Christmas plans?”

  Jago’s face was already flushed from the heat as he checked the orders. “Not much, apart from the fact that I think he’s lost the plot!”

  Alarmed, he asked, “Why do you say that?”

  Jago barked an order behind him, and then said, “Have you seen the stocks he’s organised?”

  “I’ve heard about them.”

  Jago huffed. “Bloody massive thing. It’s going right in the square. I’m already saving all the vegetable scraps for him.” He nodded behind him to where a large metal bin stood in the corner of the kitchen. “He’s been asking all the restaurants.”

  Alex frowned. “Why does he need so much?”

  “He’s planning to put someone in them every day, from what I can gather. It’s part of the whole topsy-turvyness of the Lord of Misrule.” Jago frowned at him. “I thought you knew all about this kind of thing!”

  Alex blinked, confused. “What kind of thing?”

  “You know, old celebrations. Solstice stuff.”

  “But this isn’t solstice stuff. It’s a medieval thing, isn’t it?” Alex had looked it up online that afternoon.

  He shrugged. “I guess so. From what I can gather, Stan thinks this is the chance for ordinary folk to target the rich. You know, business owners, or the independently wealthy, and let their employees have their own back.”

  “Hold on,” Alex said, starting to feel nervous. “Business owners like me? Because I am not rich! And I treat you guys well, don’t I?”

  “Of course you do!” Jago grinned. “But it’s just a bit of fun. That’s the whole misrule thing!”

  Alex decided he needed to do some more research. “And what about his court? What’s that for?”

  “They help decide who goes in the stocks—or can nominate someone. And they oversee some of the other things planned. But,” he said, forestalling Alex with a raised hand, “I don’t know who they are. As the Holly King I am not privy to that!” He wiped his forehead. “Alex, really sorry, but this is a bad time. I need to get on with things if you want food reaching the customers.”

  Alex turned to go. “Sure, sorry. If you hear anything odd though, do me a favour and let me know.”

  Jago nodded, already reading out more orders, and Alex returned to the main pub, thinking Avery might have a point. He let Zee know he was taking his break, and then joined the other witches in the backroom of the pub. Reuben and Briar had arrived too, all of them deep in conversation about Stan.

  “Hey Reuben, you might be targeted too, with this stocks business,” Alex said, updating them all on Jago’s news.

  Reuben just laughed. “I’d like to see someone try to wrestle me into some stocks, unless of course they agreed to give money to charity to do it. Then I’d go willingly!”

  El wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I’d rather give the money to charity myself. I don’t want people throwing rotten vegetables at me!”

  Briar sipped her wine, looking as worried as Avery had earlier. “Stan’s costume smelled odd to me. Like some strange herb that I couldn’t place. And no, it wasn’t mothballs.”

  “You’re all worrying about nothing,” Reuben said, sipping his pint and looking as nonchalant as he always did. “It’s just one of Stan’s mad schemes designed to entertain the tourists. From what he was telling me, White Haven is going to be bursting at the seams for the solstice celebrations again. I think the poor man thinks he needs to keep cooking up ideas to entertain us all. As a local landowner, I will do my best to help.”

  Reuben lived in Greenlane Manor on the cliff top overlooking the coast, and came from a very old landowning White Haven family. He also owned Greenlane Nursery, which supplied seasonal decorations for the town through the council and private arrangements.

  “You’re a right bloody pillock sometimes,�
� Alex told his best mate affectionately. “What’s he got you doing for the solstice?”

  “Filling endless pots to decorate the town, of course, and I’m leading the wassailing!”

  “Are you?” Avery asked, shocked. “You kept that quiet!”

  “Because he only asked me yesterday.” He winked at her. “It’s not a conspiracy, Avery, although I know you like to find a mystery in everything.”

  She flushed and glared at him. “That’s not true at all! I just have a nose for things, which you, surfer dude, do not.”

  Reuben laughed again, not in the least bit offended, and Alex felt everyone’s tension start to dissipate. He raised his pint in a toast. “I guess we should come and join your wassail. As long as there’s spiced cider on offer.”

  “I am funding it myself, as a gesture of goodwill,” Reuben said loftily. “Now, who’s going to watch the court announcement tomorrow? I think if there’s going to be some misruling in White Haven, the least we can do is welcome the court with rotten vegetables.”

  El held her hand up, and her bangles jingled like bells. “Hold on. Can someone please explain this whole thing to me? Who exactly is the Lord of Misrule, and what does he do? I mean, I get he’s some mad jester, but why?”

  Avery leaned forward, animated with her news. “I’ve been talking to Dan about it. It originated in medieval times, organised usually by a lord or landowner, or in a royal court by the King himself. The title was appointed to someone who wasn’t high up in the social ladder—hence, the topsy-turvy nature of the role. He was in charge of all of the celebrations leading up to Christmas, or after it. Lots of drunkenness and parties, apparently.”

  Alex recalled his own conversation with Stan that afternoon, and said, “Apparently, it was planned around the twelve nights of Christmas, and consequently Stan has moulded this for his own use. The twelve nights start today and end on the solstice—not Christmas or after it. But that’s as much as I know.”

  “Trust Stan to make it suit his own needs,” Briar said, shaking her head. “Does that mean twelve days of celebrations, then?”

  “I only know about wassailing on Sunday,” Reuben admitted. “Beyond that is a mystery. But maybe he’ll announce that tomorrow, too.”

  “In that case,” Alex said, standing to go to the bar and get another round, “I’ll come to the square with you, Reuben. I’d like to know what other medieval mischief Stan is planning on getting up to.”

  Reuben wasn’t entirely surprised that El had decided to join him and Alex on Saturday at lunchtime to watch Stan appoint his court. She was intrigued about the whole thing, but Briar couldn’t get away from work, and Avery refused to celebrate Rupert being appointed to the Court of Fools.

  In some weird feudal gesture, Stan had sought Reuben’s approval with his medieval plans just because he was a Jackson, although the truth was that Reuben wasn’t interested one way or another. However, he liked Stan, who did a great deal to make White Haven’s pagan celebrations memorable, and was glad to make him happy. Now, as he stood next to Alex and El, Stan caught his eye and called him over.

  “Sorry,” he muttered to Alex and El, “be back soon.”

  Stan was at the bottom of the stairs that led to the small rustic stage at the back of the square, dwarfed by the huge Christmas tree. The backdrop had been decorated with jesters’ faces, and six thrones were lined up in front of it. An area next to the stage was sealed off with large velvet curtains that must have come from White Haven Little Theatre, creating wings.

  “You okay, Stan?” Reuben asked as he reached his side. He tried not to look alarmed at Stan’s face paint, which was once again quite macabre.

  “Well, Reuben, now that you’re here, I wonder if you’d like to give your public blessing to the whole affair?” He lowered his voice and pulled Reuben down to his level, and Reuben tried not to breathe too deeply as a strange scent wafted from him. He wondered if this is what Briar had smelt, but before he could give it any further thought, Stan said, “I think everyone is alarmed that I mentioned stocks yesterday.”

  “Not surprising, really, Stan. No one wants to think they’re going to be judged by your crazy court.” He looked around, wondering where the stocks were, and then saw a huge, blocky object covered by a large sheet. “Is that it?”

  “It is! Perhaps you could be our first victim,” Stan said eagerly. “Just so people know it’s fun!”

  Reuben groaned. He’d suspected this might happen, just not so soon. “If I have to. But reassure me first that you won’t be dragging people into it! The stocks are purely voluntary, yes?”

  “Of course! It’s fun!” Stan repeated, his round face looking shocked, which with the effect of his makeup was all the more horrific.

  “What will you be throwing at me?”

  He pointed to the black bin behind him with a lid on it. “Just old scraps of veg. Please!” Stan eyes widened as he appealed to him.

  “And who’s throwing stuff?”

  “Anyone who wants to!”

  Reuben seized his moment. “Only if they give to charity first. If you rustle up a bucket, I’ll say yes. In fact,” he said, thinking this would be a good way to help Stan’s cause, “I insist that the whole stocks thing is for charity.”

  Stan clutched his arm. “Brilliant, thank you. You announce me, and I’ll announce the court!”

  And without giving him a chance to discuss anything else, Stan marched up the steps, dragging Reuben with him. There was a huge crowd gathered now, the square packed with many familiar faces, but also lots of tourists who were celebrating the solstice events in famous White Haven. Reuben groaned, realising he could well end up covered in a mountain of rotten vegetables. But subduing his concerns, he introduced Stan with great fanfare and then hurriedly left the stage. He decided to wait at the bottom of the stairs to see if the other costumes also had a strange scent.

  A man, middle-aged and dressed in a suit, emerged from behind the curtains as Stan started his speech, and spotting Reuben, he introduced himself. “I’m Peter Simpson, one of the councillors who works with Stan.”

  “Reuben Jackson,” he murmured, shaking his hand.

  “Ah, of course,” Peter nodded, his voice low as he kept an eye on Stan. “He mentioned you. He’s very anxious for this to go well, you know.”

  “So I gather. Is the rest of the Court of Fools back there?”

  “Yes, all eager to get things underway.” A flash of concern passed across Peter’s face. “I just hope they don’t terrify the kids.”

  Before Reuben could ask anything more, Stan’s voice boomed from above. “It is my pleasure to introduce the Lady of Misrule—Mayor Judy Flannigan!”

  Peter was obviously there to ensure the events moved smoothly, and he stuck his head inside the curtain; in seconds, the mayor came out, and Reuben blinked in shock.

  The mayor, of a similar age to Stan and also slightly overweight, was dressed in another outlandish jester’s outfit. She bounded on stage to a huge cheer as Stan said, “I know this is a topsy-turvy event, so strictly speaking the mayor should be in the stocks, but I could not think of a better person to be our Lady of Misrule!”

  Judy bowed with a flourish, and then sat on one of the thrones.

  Stan was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet like an excited child as he made his second announcement, calling the Grandmaster to the stage, a man called Arthur Lloyd who emerged in another garish jester’s costume, but was also wearing a tabard over the top with a large red cross on it. He clutched a huge sword that Reuben was relieved to see was fake.

  “As our Grandmaster, Arthur,” Stan announced, “will ensure chivalry is adhered to—or you will all be in trouble!”

  Reuben turned to Peter. “Who’s Arthur, normally?”

  “A librarian. He helped Stan do some research, so this is his reward.”

  Stan’s voice boomed again as he warmed to his task. “And now The Royal Fool! Jessica Chadwick!”

  A young woman burs
t from behind the curtain, carrying a fresh blast of the strange scent. She ran up the steps, and as soon as she arrived on stage, she performed a series of athletic tumbles and backflips to great applause.

  Peter caught Reuben’s questioning gaze. “One of the acrobats who normally performs in the parades. She’s the niece of one of Stan’s friends.”

  Reuben nodded. So far, so good. Nothing seemed untoward, although Briar was right about the scent; it was odd.

  Stan rubbed his hands together. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, for the fun part of my Court of Fools! We have a Master of the Hunt, and a Confessor! I shall introduce them together, as they are the formidable couple behind White Haven Occult Tours. Rupert Warner is our Master of the Hunt, and Charlotte Warner is our Confessor!”

  Rupert and Charlotte emerged from behind the curtains in a suitably dramatic fashion, both throwing their hands wide as if they were the stars of the show. To be fair though, Stan had announced them as such, and their costumes were probably the most eye-catching. Again they were dressed as jesters, but the colours were darker, and their makeup more malevolent.

  Reuben couldn’t help but suppress a shudder as he watched their eyes glitter with smugness. He hadn’t met Charlotte before, not even when they had been to the House of Spirits. It was hard to fathom what she looked like without the makeup, but she was thin, her face pinched, and Reuben had the feeling he wouldn’t like her. Neither paid Reuben much interest as they swept past him and up the stairs, where they bowed majestically. The strange scent of their clothes hung around him, and although he couldn’t place why, he now felt very uneasy, and he noticed Peter did, too.

  Stan continued his introductions. “The Confessor will seek you out to find your sins. Or,” his voice dropped to sneaky silkiness, “the sins of others you wish to tell her about! The Master of the Hunt will ensure they end up in the stocks to receive their comeuppance!” With a nod, the stocks were unveiled with a flourish and a cheer went up from the crowd. “And the first to go in the stocks will be Reuben Jackson!”