Circe stood in the middle of the stone circle in Piedale's west field, where four ancient cursus lines converged. To one side lay a barrow, guarded by two taller monoliths. The enchantress placed her hand upon them. Once, they had been knights -- proud, vainglorious, and now forever mute stone.
"My faithful watchmen," she murmured, "how long you have stood over these mortals, frozen in folly. Shall today bring wisdom at last -- or only more sport?"

Down in the village, marquees and stalls bustled with the summer show. Each year the festivities ended with a grand pageant, born long ago of vassals paying homage to their lord. This year, however, the committee -- none other than the femme fatales of our tale -- were resolved that it would be one for the ages.

The largest tent had been transformed into a throne room of mock regalia. Tinsel and ribbon streamers fluttered in the breeze; bunting fashioned from pie-tins glinted in the sun. A red carpet led to a golden chair, upon which rested a cream gateaux fresh from Rosie's bakery.

Enter King Crispin -- or rather dragged in, half-protesting, by April and Rosie. He wore nothing but regal undergarments: oversized golden satin shorts embroidered across the rear in glittering letters, His Royal Pie-ness. A crooked marzipan crown perched on his brow, and an oversized wooden spoon served as sceptre.

Mary, the Lady Mayoress, bounded up onto a podium. Ever the wordsmith, she proclaimed:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, Queens and Custard Connoisseurs -- we gather to crown this noble numbskull, this lecherous loon: His Royal Pieness the First!"

The crowd (mainly every woman ever wronged by Crispin) cheered with glee.
Producing a jug of condensed milk she held open the rear of the boxers and poured the contents slowly inside. "Let it be known," she intoned, "that beneath his bluster flows only sweetness and shame."

Rosie and April then sat Crispin down on the throne with a resounding splunch -- the sponge squished beneath his weight, whipped cream spurting up his back. "And now, let his comeuppance commence!" said Mary, nodding approvingly.

Jenny, regaled in a tight barmaid's corset, bowed mockingly and upended a bucket of melted ice cream down the front of his golden shorts. Crispin yelped, wriggling as the cold seeped in.

Fiona and Polly, in matching frocks, curtsied and then sandwiched his head between two enormous custard pies before scampering off, squealing with laughter.

Kathy followed with a small barrel of fish. "One for old times' sake," she smirked, prising open his waistband and pouring the contents home.

Then came the cart, wheeled in by Molly, Rachel, and Daisy. The ruined cake was replaced with a lemon-curd pie, onto which Rachel shoved Crispin squarely. Molly followed with a strawberry lattice in his lap. Daisy, eyes glinting, crowned him with a double-decker butterscotch pie, grinding it into his face with an elegant twist.
One by one the cart was emptied, each pie delivered with glee: to his chest, to his belly, to the soles of his feet. At last Rachel lifted away the marzipan crown, planted a raspberry custard pie on his head, and solemnly restored the crown atop the mess.

And then Lucy appeared. She sauntered in dressed as a jester: ruffled collar, striped stockings, a black lace bra peeking from her slashed doublet.

"Your majesty," she purred, "your throne is ruined, your dignity dissolved in cream. One final trial remains."
She gestured behind the dais. The crowd gasped as the curtain dropped to reveal a vast pit, a cauldron of accumulated shames:
bubblegum mix,
cattle molasses,
whitewash,
wallpaper paste,
cowshed slop.

Without a word, Daisy and April pulled a lever. The throne tipped back. Crispin flailed, then vanished headfirst into the vat. A moment later he surfaced, slick with ooze, floundering as a fish tail slapped across his cheek.
At last he found his knees in the mire. Dripping, trembling, he raised his voice.

"Ladies I speak as your penitent, your buffoon, your fool. You have dragged me through the slime and stripped me of conceit. I wronged each of you, and you have taught me humility -- and I wear it now upon my skin as thick as this muck.
"Lucy" He faltered, lowering his eyes. "You I wronged most of all. Not because I touched you, but because I did not. I paraded my conquests, and mocked the one I could not win. I sneered at your virtue, pretended I did not want you, when in truth I did -- and still do. You were beyond me: unyielding, untamed. And so I scorned you, when I should have honoured you most."

He held up a ring, dripping slime, nearly lost from his slippery fingers.
"I kneel before you, sticky, broken, humbled -- yet ask: will you marry me?"

Gasps rang out. Mary rolled her eyes; Jenny gaped; Rosie stifled laughter.

Lucy strolled forward, hands on hips, face unreadable. She leaned so close her nose almost touched his. "A proposal in a vat of paste and bubblegum?" She plucked a soggy bit of sponge from his brow. "You really are an idiot."
She paused -- the crowd hushed. Then, with a sudden flourish, she slammed a custard pie into his face.
"But you're my idiot." And she whispered, "Yes."