THE SWORD DANCE
Life wasn't just about the Secret Service, and as days-off went, a weekend trip to Glastonbury to see an old friend was about as relaxing as James Bond could imagine.
The trip out from Chelsea had given him the opportunity to skip breakfast to make an early start, giving the old Bentley a run out onto the Old Bath Road, passing through some of the finest towns and countryside that England had to offer.
From there, the A39 through Wells had brought him to what was fast becoming the country's hippy capital. Here, at the George and Pilgrim, the South West's oldest Inn, he was to meet an old acquaintance.
Formerly of Special Branch, George Howard had been Bond's first port of call when he needed an arrest to be made. As an intelligence officer, Bond had no authority to detain those suspected of spying activities, so it was considered necessary to have
/apersonal liaison within the force who could cut through the red tape when it was needed. They had only worked together for a couple of years before George took an early pension, retiring to Somerset and angling for pike along the Brue.
"James!" He called across from the bar as Bond stepped inside the fifteenth century pub. "It's great to see you."
"And you George," said Bond, "have we a table?"
"Of course, I was just taking the liberty of ordering. What will you drink?"
"Black coffee, thanks," said Bond, a little apprehensive about what, exactly, breakfast might entail. When it arrived he was pleasantly surprised. Accompanying two tarragon-topped baked eggs there were two rashers of excellently cured butcher's bacon,two
/pork and leek sausages, seasoned tomato, mushrooms, black pudding, some shredded potato waffles made with cheddar and parsley and two thickly buttered wedges of hot toast.
"So what's this Fayre you wanted me to see?" Bond asked, moving on from their small talk.
"Well that's the thing, James. It's a privately organised procession. You know the old saying, 'button to chin, 'til May be in', well the Morris Season doesn't usually start until May, and this little shindig seems to be celebrating out ofseason."
"It doesn't sound like you're telling me this so we can enjoy ourselves. What's the catch?"
"Damn. Well, I've been doing a spot of private detective work on the side. Simple enough work, but my latest case has me worried."
"How so?"
Reaching into his worsted jacket, Howard took out a square envelope, which he passed to Bond.
"Her name is Virginia Touchstone," he said as Bond slipped a small photograph from the envelope. It showed a young woman, possibly a teenager, with a short black Sassoon cut and a loose top with horizontal stripes, "and her parents want meto bringher
/home."
"Pretty girl," said Bond. "How old?"
"Sixteen going on twenty," said Howard. "There was a Fayre just like this one in her village last Saturday. Pensford, just a few miles south of Bristol. She went along and never returned home."
"And you think she's here?"
"No, but I believe the people who abducted her are. The Sunrise Fayre was my first port of call, and I contacted the organisers three days ago. They have me short shrift and told me to go away, nothing to do with them."
"Why Sunrise?"
"Something to do with the Solstice next week. Today's is the last of a dozen Sunrise Fayres that have travelled down from the Midlands, through the Cotswolds and into the Southwest. Each has included a procession led by the Cock 'Oss, whomust select awhitelady
/to ride it to the the lost land of Lyonesse."
"White Lady on a White Horse?"
"Yes. The old rhyme said fine lady, or old lady. Apparently 'white lady' means 'virgin'."
"How very poetic. I presume Virginia here was selected?"
"Yes."
"And the other white ladies?"
"I spoke to one, from Up Hatherley near Cheltenham. Apparently the Fayre culminates in a test."
"What kind of test?"
"A purity test. It turns out all those who preceded Virginia failed, and today's procession-"
"Has no white lady competition?"
"Precisely. The Sunrise Fayres were booked well in advance, presumably for the purpose of finding a white lady. Now they have one, the game has changed."
"And why do you need me? Why not bring in the police?"
"I just want some back-up for now. I already tracked down the organiser. He's a reclusive millionaire who goes by the name of Lord Vyvian, which seems to be a prescriptive title that directly challenges that enjoyed by the Barons Vivian ofCornwall.
/He lives in the Scilly Islands, but he's been renting an apartment in Bath's Royal Crescent for the duration of the Fayres."
"You confronted him?"
"I tried, but I was turned away, and none too peacefully. I decided to see if today's procession still included the virgin lady, because if there's no competition, then I'm thinking that Virginia will be taking part."
"So we just watch and see if she's here."
"Yes, and if she's under any form of restraint. Either way I plan to approach her, and having a reliable witness could prove useful."
"And if she doesn't show up?"
"Then I need to gather more than circumstantial evidence."
"Well, George, I'm more than happy to oblige."
Out on the high street the crowds had gathered to await the procession. The old town had been decked out with bunting and fresh spring flowers had been set along the route, which started and ended at St John's Square, making a circuit along the four streetsthatenclosed
/the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey.
There were plenty of onlookers lining the streets; mostly tourists, as the locals were easily identified by their traditional white clothes and a variety of hats and parasols in place to keep the midday sun at bay. Tar barrels and multicolouredribbons
/kept the empty roads free as, at a quarter to twelve, the chimes of the St John's Church clock signalled the start of the festivities. Seconds later the band struck up and, with an almighty cheer from the crowd, the procession began to moveforwards.
Howard and Bond had taken up opposing sides of Magdalene Street, just south of the Market Square. This afforded a good view of the procession heading out, and would give them an even better vantage point for its conclusion. Ever the detective,
Howard was armed with a Pentaxcamera, determined to capture an image of the white lady.
For something so artificial, Bond was impressed with the attention to detail. Every participant wore a mask, mostly representing medieval beasts, but it had the feel of an authentic parade.
The music had an almost primeval rhythm, made up of instruments more suited to the Middle Ages than to the twentieth century. Tambourines, accordions, Breton drums, fiddles, mandolins, recorders and a variety of bells and triangles producedan eerie
/cacophony and a throbbing beat that announced the arrival of the principal characters in an undulating parade that reminded Bond of a Chinese dragon dance. At the head of this ensemble were a crowd of dancing men. Guisers, black faced with sharp-beaked
/masks and clad in black rather than the traditional white, their crow-feather cloaks and top-hats bobbed and weaved as they moved out onto the High Street. As they danced, wooden swords clashed in time, and at the heart of their dancing ringthere
/was a flash of white which seemed to be gathering cheers from the crowd.
This was Howard's white lady, swishing her huge white cape around to the beat of the music, it was a girl whose face, painted white, was framed by a shocking white wig of shoulder length hair. She rode the Cock 'Oss, which was a grotesque hobby-horse
/comprised
of a large horse's skull mounted on a a ribbon-wrapped stick whose long streamers were splayed out like a wild horse's mane.
The make-up and the constant motion made it difficult for Bond to make out the girl's features as the party continued through the streets and away from his vantage point.
The folk band followed behind the Guisers, their simpler white costumes adorned with bells and coloured ribbons, their faces painted but without the masks worn by their fellows. Behind this came a large float, shaped like an old Viking longship riding
/paintedplywood waves. This was flanked by men and women with buckets, collecting for some cause while the ship's crew, dressed in a mixture of Viking and Saxon costumes, waved to the crowd. At the centre of this float, beneath a mast and sail
decorated with
a stylised sunset, danced a tall man dressed like a king dressed from head to foot in gold, his arms spread wide as he roused the crowd from behind the sun-mask that obscured his features.
As the float moved away, Bond saw George break from his position, running down the street and turning left to follow the parade.
Cursing, Bond followed at a distance, pushing through the crowds as the last part of the procession-the grotesques-brought up the rear.
These formed perhaps the most unnerving element of the parade, men and women that shambled and twisted like a crowd of malformed animals. Their costumes and make-up took the appearance of wild animals, stags and boar and wolves, but those performing
/their curious dance did so in unnatural ways, like cripples and hunchbacks or circus freaks, bending and twisting in a manner that could best be described as orgiastic.
Up ahead, Bond could see George draw level with the Guisers at the front of the parade as they slowed to perform some display or other, going to ground as the wild cacophony changed to a brief and steady drumbeat. Spreading out and up tothe crowd,
/the dancers spread their cloaks and crashed their swords together in unison before retreating back into the line. This was followed by a great cheer as the rest of the instruments joined in once more and the procession moved on.
In those moments Bond lost sight of his friend, and the procession carried on along the High Street, turning into Chilkwell Street and out of view.
Running to catch up with Howard, Bond strained to see through the crowd and into the parade. Where the hell was he?
Moments later the answer came, as the grotesques marched by leaving a crumpled body in their wake
"George?"
Bond ran to his friend's side as gasps from the crowd surrounded them. Beaten and bloodied, George Howard was covered in cuts and weals which had obviously been made by wooden swords. Dirty boot-prints covered the torn and dusty clothes,and a brokenPentax
/lay uselessly across his chest, which Bond was relieved to see rising and falling in an albeit shallow and ragged his friend's head, be bent close to see if they might speak.
"J-James," the barely conscious Howard whispered. "Get her... Get her back for me."
"I will, George," said Bond, "I promise."
Checking his friend's pockets, a cursory search produced an old warrant card. Retired his friend may be, but old detectives had a habit of keeping their ID, even if the word 'retired' had been stamped across it. A brief glance confirmed that Georgehad
/avoided such a brand, an act his friend would have called proper use of the ways and means act.
"I just need to borrow this," he said as his friend slipped out of consciousness. There was a crowd forming, and a couple of St John's' officers came alongside him. Giving way, Bond scooped up the broken camera, flashed the Warrant, and thenwithdrew
/from the scene.
Turning back towards Magdalene Street with a view to heading off the procession, Bond broke into a trot, stopping only when the Sword dancers hove into view once paused, looking carefully at the troupe as they circled and spiralled around each other,
/swords crashing and feet skipping in time with the tuneless beat of the band. There was, he noticed, a smattering of George Howard's blood on the shafts of the wooden staves.
The Cock 'Oss, though, was gone, and the 'white lady' along with it. Cursing, Bond scoured the parade, pausing at the great float, where he spied a large horse's skull at the feet of the golden king.
Inspecting the stern of the 'longship',he spotted a small tent barely large enough to hold more than a child. Here, he was sure, the 'white lady', Virginia Touchstone, was being held.
As the parade continued, Bond returned to his Bentley, stowed the Pentax, and then made his way to St John's Square. As the starting point for the Sunrise Fayre, he felt sure that the support vehicles would be nearby. Sure enough, with the main parade
/complete,the various performers were milling around as the next stage of the celebration was about to begin.
In close proximity Bond noticed that the sword-wielding Guisers were uniformly tall. At six feet he was a good inch or two shorter than the tallest of them, and they were all powerfully built, like security guards rather than rural folk dancers.
Clustering around the longship float, There was no opportunity to get any closer without drawing attention, and there was no sign of anyone leaving until the day's celebrations were complete. With fireworks planned for dusk, he estimated that the revellerswould
/remain in Glastonbury until eleven o'clock or even later.
That left him with only one option.
As fireworks crackled and fizzed overhead, James Bond struck from the shadows, orange light flickering across his boot-blackened face a split second before a loud explosion covered a brief grunt as his target's succumbed to a carefully executed sleeper
hold. Dragging the Guiser back into a darkened gap between two buildings, He hastily stripped the man, tying and binding him before taking up his costume and his place among the Guisers now loading up their various vehicles in readiness for departure.
Taking the opportunity to examine the parked vans and flatbeds that would carry the Fayre's equipment, Bond spotted a blue and white VW Westy, it curtains drawn and its pop-up top raised. Moving to the rear, he found another Guiser standing
close to the door as if he were on guard duty to protect the camper van's occupants from unwanted intruders.
Pulling out a cigarette, Bond lit it as he casually approached the back of the van, acknowledging the guard in silence before offering him a cigarette of his own.
"Cheers," the Guiser said with a thick south country accent, accepting a light as Bond offered to 'take over' in his a muffled approximation of the same dialect. With a grateful nod, the Guiser abandoned his post and headed off into the crowd,
leaving Bond to examine the van.
There was light inside, and Bond decided to act. Tugging the door open, he found himself face-to-face with the girl. The was alone, her make-up removed, sitting on the camper sofa with a pack of cards, playing solitaire. Looking up, Bond
noticed there was no fear or concern in her expression.
"Miss Touchstone?" He asked, flashing George's warrant card, "I'm here to take you home to your parents. Come with me..."
The shrill scream she let out caught Bond unawares. Taking a step back, he glanced toward the crowd, cursing as faces turned towards him. Backing away, he found his exit blocked as an army of Guisers, folk musicians and grotesques closed
in.
Armed only with the wooden sword that formed part of his disguise, Bond threw himself at the crowd, feinting and slashing in an effort to break out and through. After some initial confusion, during which time the unarmed among them stepped
back out of harm's way, he came face to face with the first of the Guisers. Having the advantage of training there was no fear in the man's attack, forcing Bond into a series of defensive parties as blow after blow reined upon him. Leaving himself
open to a torso strike, He feinted right, grunting as the anticipated blow cracked into his ribs, but taking the opportunity to strike his opponent straight across the temple. As the man fell to the ground Bond recovered the initiative, shoulder charging
into the next Guiser and striking him heavily as he stumbled to the floor. Ducking sideways, he then ran away from the remaining Guisers, making a beeline for a parked Morris, and with a running jump he landed heavily on the bonnet and dived into
the roof, using his momentum to slide along and down to the opposite side.
Landing in a free space, Bond gathered his energy and ran from the square, lashing out blindly as he fled, before disappearing into the shadows and catching his breath.
As the sound of footsteps giving chase drew closer, Bond removed the crow cloak, hat and mask, leaving only his hastily blackened face as evidence of his deception. Then, stepping out into the shadows he walked boldly away from his pursuers,
who soon ran past out him and into the next street, looking for a Guiser like themselves. Keeping his head down, Bond calmly walked up to the nearest front door and rang the bell, reading Howard's warrant card as he waited for an answer.
Moments later he was presenting himself to a middle-aged couple, explaining that he needed to make a telephone call on urgent police business.
