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Authors: Joyce Lavene,Jim

BOOK: Wicked Weaves
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“
You
call the police and have them arrested.” Chase finished the job and took my hand again. “These guys may seem crazy sometimes, but they were a big help last month when that little girl was lost in the Village. There are all kinds of bands and factions here. I think you know that, since Robin and his Merry Men do their little thing all the time.”
“We didn’t think you knew about it.” Alex looked around like he was violating some oath by admitting it.
“I know
everything
that goes on in the Village,” Chase assured him. “If we call the police about the monks, we’ll have to call them about the other hundred or so factions. I don’t think any of the long term residents would like that, including Robin. Everyone has their place here. It all works.”
“Except for tonight,” Alex reminded him. “They kidnapped me from Sherwood Forest and held me against my will.”
Chase shrugged. “I’m the bailiff. If you want to press charges, come to court. Right now, I’m going home. See you later.”
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough, Chase,” Alex yelled. “I’m going to tell Robin about what happened.”
“I don’t know which is scarier; men in tights or men in robes.” I looked up as one of the monks followed us outside. Alex was already on his way toward the forest. A waxing gibbous moon was beginning to rise over the Village, outlining the shapes of the houses and the towers on the castle close to where we stood.
“Chase.” The monk called his name.
“Brother Sheaf.” Chase folded his arms across his broad chest.
“You can call me Carl.” The monk shrugged and removed his hood, revealing a middle-aged, balding head. “Sorry about the craziness. But we’ve been maligned here, man. It wasn’t one of us at the smithy today. I don’t know who it was, but he must’ve taken a robe from the bakery and impersonated one of us.”
“Or he rented a monk’s robe from the costume shop.” I shook my head. “It happens, Carl. This is a tourist attraction, and we have tourists who dress up like monks.”
“Those aren’t the same as
our
robes. But I think we should put a stop to that practice anyway. Our Brotherhood is sacred. They shouldn’t rent out monk’s robes.”
“But then the dragons would demand the same treatment,” I argued. “Then it would be the fairies and the knights. Where would it end?”
He half smiled, then turned to Chase, effectively dissing me. “Seriously, man, it wasn’t one of us. I think someone should tell the police. It wasn’t fair to blame what happened to Ham on our order.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that to Detective Almond the next time I see him,” Chase promised. “But I’m serious about this kind of stuff going on in the Village, too, Carl. No more kidnappings or anything else weird. I know you don’t want Robin attacking the monastery. I know
I
don’t want that.”
“No. You’re right. We’ll write something up and tack it to a tree over there,” Carl said. “That’s the best way to get a message to them unless you happen to run into Maid Marion.”
“Okay. I’ll leave it alone for right now. But don’t let it happen again,” Chase warned. “Even Marion couldn’t save you from Robin if he gets mad.”
Carl thanked him and shook my hand before vanishing into the dark monastery/bakery again.
“Well, that was too strange.” I looked up at the moon and the mostly sleeping Village. “This place gets weirder every year.”
“That’s what I like about it. A person could live anywhere and never encounter problems like these. Sometimes it’s
really
like living in a Renaissance Faire Village with plumbing and electricity.”
“I know.” I nudged him. “It’s what I like about it, too. I’m at the college the rest of the year, and it’s so normal and boring. Not a dragon or a knight in sight.”
“I guess that’s what your brother likes about it, too.”
“I don’t think so. Tony’s just a slacker, and this is another in a long list of ways to waste his life. The next seems to be gambling it away in Las Vegas.”
We had started walking, our footsteps leading us past Squire’s Lane, where three manor houses stood. The Honey and Herb Shoppe still had a light on inside where someone was probably making candles or bottling herbs. Peter’s Pub and Harriet’s Hat House were quiet and dark. In other words, we were headed back toward the dungeon.
I felt like I needed to go back to my own little hut, but I didn’t know how to tell Chase. We walked past the Village Square, where a group of wise women were doing some kind of moon magic ritual. They were all dressed in white, thank goodness. The Village had outlawed naked rituals a few years back.
“I’m really tired. I think I’ll just head home.” We were coming up to a path that led between houses and shops. It cut off some time getting back to where I was staying.
“I’ll walk you back.” Chase didn’t argue.
I wasn’t trying to be flirty or anything, but I wished he would’ve at least tried to persuade me to go with him to the dungeon. I know it seems contrary, but a woman likes to know she’s wanted. Maybe he didn’t really want me that much. Maybe it was better to find out at that moment. Our friendship was important to me, too. I didn’t want to lose that because we didn’t make it as a couple.
I told myself that over and over as we cut through alleyways and sidestepped horse droppings the Village Drudges had missed. The Village Drunk—it’s an official cast position every year—was walking with one of the Village Fools. Chase and I talked a little, keeping our voices down as though we didn’t want anyone to hear us.
We finally reached my hut, and I was a little embarrassed, even though I had no choice in its selection. “Well, here we are. Thanks for walking with me.”
“This place used to be where they stored the push brooms and other cleanup stuff,” he remarked. “They must’ve been desperate to find housing for everyone. They need to open up some of the spaces above the shops. Harry was talking about that last week. The Village is growing in population if not in size.”
That was mundane enough to allow me to say, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Chase.”
He looked down at me for a minute, then said, “Aren’t you going to show me what you’ve done with the place?”
“I don’t think so.” I took a deep breath as I prepared for my we’re-better-off-friends speech. “Chase—”
“Jessie, don’t even think about it.”
“What? You don’t even know what I was going to say. I don’t even know what I was going to say. This whole thing is crazy. I know it can’t work out. We’d be better off—”
I would’ve finished; I swear I would’ve. But at that moment he kissed me, and the next thing I knew, we were going inside. Sometimes things work out despite my help.
 
 
The next morning was Sunday, a quiet day in the Village until noon when it opened. I left Chase sleeping in my bed, hogging up most of the room. I smiled at the way his shoulders and feet stuck out from under the sheet. I kept on smiling as I walked to Wicked Weaves. I didn’t know what it was about Chase that made me smile, and I didn’t have time to reflect on it. I was filled with renewed determination to find Joshua’s killer. I figured Sunday was as good a day as any to bring him or her to justice.
Sunday night was always the King’s Feast. It was a huge affair at the castle that usually hosted dinner for a few hundred people who sat around the inside jousting ring and ate those little chickens, potatoes, and plum pudding for dessert. At least it was the Village version of plum pudding.
The castle cook and I have a long-term disagreement on what makes up plum pudding. He seems to think it’s like bread pudding with plums in it. Of course, that’s not true. They called it plum pudding, but it was short for plump pudding. It described the round shape of the boiled pudding that was made from suet, bread crumbs, raisins, some kind of liquor, and spices. Any history buff knows that.
But the enthusiastic guests don’t seem to care. They eat everything in sight and swill hundreds of gallons of ale while they watch the best knights compete. The guests have also learned to throw their chicken bones at the knights they don’t like.
There are also fools, knaves, jugglers, and musicians, who fill the castle with activities. Everyone from the Village staff is required to participate in one way or another. One year I got stuck serving the little chickens and the next wiping the sweat from a knight’s brow. One year, I was stuck feeding grapes to the king on the throne. I’d rather wipe sweat or serve food. Royalty gets on my nerves.
I stopped at Sir Latte’s Beanery for a mocha and a muffin. As usual this time on Sunday morning, there were only a few residents lounging around and enjoying the quiet. I didn’t have to wait in line and was ready to go across the street to Wicked Weaves when I heard someone
psst
from the kitchen area.
I wasn’t sure at first if they were
pssting
me. I glanced through the doorway and saw Lonnie, Debby’s brother, beckoning me. I thought maybe he was talking to someone else, but I was the only one there. I took my muffin and my mocha, then went into the kitchen.
“I heard you’ve been asking questions about that dead guy.” Lonnie looked around the area where we were standing, but there was only us and the supply closet.
“Yeah. I want to know what happened.”
“I have something for you.” His little ratlike features screwed up and were more pronounced.
“Okay.” I’ve never been crazy about Lonnie. He kind of creeps me out. “What’ve you got?”
“I saw what happened.” He looked around again, and I swear, I expected him to twitch his whiskers. “It was a monk. He was over there by the privies with that dead guy. Only it was before he was dead.”
“A monk?”
“Yeah. They’re a strange group of guys, you know. I wouldn’t put anything past them.”
“I’m beginning to realize that. Did you actually
see
the monk kill Joshua?”
“Who?”
“The dead guy. His name was Joshua.”
Lonnie has this terrible snorty laugh that wasn’t meant to be heard by other humans. He also rubs his paws together—I mean hands. It’s really awful, and I thought it might keep me from eating my muffin that morning. “What a weird name!”
“Yeah, well, never mind his name. Did you actually see the monk kill him?”
“No. But I saw him talking to him. It was earlier that morning before you tripped over the dead guy.”
“I didn’t trip over him. I got out of the way so he didn’t fall on me.”
“Whatever. I saw what I saw. Take it or leave it.”
I thanked him and got out of the kitchen. I wanted to run back to the hut and take a shower, but there wasn’t time. I needed a notebook to keep up with everything that was going on. Somehow the monks seemed to be involved in Joshua’s death and Ham’s attack. Or someone who was dressed like a monk was involved. I knew there was a fine line between the two. The monks knew what it was, but they were the only ones.
It was a relief to get to Wicked Weaves and find Mary weaving her basket on the back steps. It was wide and flat; I couldn’t see where it would hold anything. “This is one of the first baskets slaves ever made when they brought them to America,” she explained. “It’s called a fanning basket, and slaves used it to harvest rice on the plantations. Slaves who could make baskets were very valuable back then. It meant the master didn’t have to pay for baskets. Mostly those slaves didn’t have to work as hard, either.”
I sat down beside her in the morning sun, the smell of her pipe tobacco and sweetgrass filling the air around us. It was peaceful there; no worries about monks killing people or what would happen next. “So making baskets was handed down to you?”
“That’s right. My great-great-grandmother was brought to this country as a slave from her home in Africa. She made beautiful baskets. The master kept her in the house and didn’t require her to do nothin’ except make baskets. He was afraid she might hurt her hands and not be able to make baskets anymore.”
“What was her name? What happened to her?”
“The name they give her was Sarah. But she had what we call a basket name that was the secret name she went by with her own people. That name has been lost down through the years. But we know she cut her hand one day slicing up a peach to eat. The master sold her because he was afraid her baskets wouldn’t be as good after that. She never made baskets again, at least not for the new master. They set her to picking cotton and tending the animals. She had two daughters she taught to make baskets before they were sold at seven and nine years old. She never saw them again after that.”
I couldn’t imagine what that must’ve been like. I could empathize but not really understand. I worked on my basket, thinking about Sarah and her daughters as they might have sat like we were, making fanning baskets for rice.
“You seem happy today,” Mary observed. “Somethin’ going good for you?”
“Maybe.” I grinned. “It’s Chase. He makes me smile.”
“Don’t let him go then. Those men are few between. Look! He even helps you make better baskets. I swear it looks like you’re gonna finish that one. I didn’t know if that would happen.”

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