“I’m Jessie Morton, Good Sir. Who might you be?” I dropped him a little curtsy that showed off a couple of my attributes.
“I am Henry Trent, nephew of Roger Trent, owner of The Glass Gryphon. My uncle sent me to meet you and escort you through the Village to the shop. Are you ready to go?”
I knew I should get my bag from the car and settle in with Debby, but this seemed a good opportunity to meet Roger again and go over my responsibilities as an apprentice. You had to be careful in the Village, or the craftsman you served would have you running errands and picking up his laundry from the lovely washer women instead of learning the craft. Since I’m already working on my dissertation, which I hope will become a book someday, my research here has become very important to me. I’ve titled my dissertation “Proliferation of Renaissance Crafts in Modern Times.”
I’ve already apprenticed with a Gullah basket weaver at Wicked Weaves and Master Archer Simmons at The Feathered Shaft. This time it’s glassblowing. Who knows what it will be next summer? I’ve talked to a few other Craft Guild members, including The Hands of Time clock shop and Pope’s Pots pottery. I’m ready for anything.
Especially if a good-looking man comes along with the project. It can’t hurt. “Lead on, Good Sir.”
Henry swept me another elegant bow, then took my hand and laid it on his forearm as we started walking through Renaissance Village.
The Village is situated where the Myrtle Beach Air Force Base was before it closed down. Most of the shops have living quarters above them for the full-time merchants. The rest of the space is filled with part-timers like me, about three hundred of them at any given time.
Unlike most Renaissance faires, this one goes on every day except Christmas. It’s open from morning to evening seven days a week with the King’s Feast held at the castle every Sunday night. Hundreds of thousands of visitors come through the main gate every year to be delighted and swept back in time with Shakespeare walking the cobblestone streets reciting odes, King Arthur retrieving Excalibur from the stone every two hours, and fantasy creatures ready to have their picture taken. The experience is nonstop fun, excitement, and good food. Adventure Land, the parent company, says it will be so, and it is.
“How was your trip to the Village, My Lady?” Henry asked as we walked past the first fountain toward the hatchet-throwing contest.
“It went well, thank you. How is your uncle?” The monks were chanting in the Monastery Bakery, usually a good sign because it meant they were baking instead of getting into various kinds of trouble. Their bread is to die for, but their quasi religion of the Brotherhood of the Sheaf is a little strange.
“My uncle is quite well. I am here visiting him because I am opening another shop for him outside the Village.” Henry smiled at me, his big blue eyes crinkling at the corners. I love men with crinkly eyes.
We were passing the elegant houses on Squire’s Lane, which are eclipsed only by the sight of the castle rising above Mirror Lake, where the pirates live. There was loud laughter from Peter’s Pub, a favorite of Village residents after hours. It was a good crowd for a Monday.
Lady Godiva rode by with her bodysuit and butt-length blond wig. I didn’t have to look closely to see that Arlene, the last Lady Godiva, had been replaced. Everything here was transitory. People came and went all the time. Even shops and restaurants changed from time to time. Nothing like a real Renaissance village, where the same families lived and died for generations.
“Hail to thee, Mistress Jessica!” Alex, one of Robin Hood’s Merry Men (and a former summer love) walked by us quickly. “I see you have selected a new gentleman friend.”
I knew this was a jab at the many years I had been coming to the Village and seemed to find a new love interest each time. I wanted to set that rumor to rest before he spread it everywhere. “I’m working with Henry and Roger during the Halloween season. That’s it.”
Alex laughed, nearly unsettling his forest green hat from his blond head. “Of course, Good Lady. Who would think otherwise?”
I was about to protest when Henry swept me into his arms and planted his mouth on mine. It was only an instant before he set me back on my feet. All right. I said he was interesting. But not that interesting. At least not within the first twenty minutes of meeting him.
I was about to wipe the grin from both their faces when someone behind me cleared their throat. I didn’t have to look. It was Chase, of course. He might not have been there to greet me in the first hour, when I didn’t do anything but look for him. But he managed to be there for the split second I got into trouble. Why do things like this always happen to me?
All four of us stood there like time really had stopped, as they say in the ads for the Village. I guess Alex and Henry were waiting to see what would happen next. It suddenly occurred to me that Henry may have been in the Village long enough to know about me and Chase. Had he seen Chase coming as I spoke to Alex and purposely tried to break us up? I didn’t want to judge him right away, but my relationship with Chase could be on the line.
Without hesitating (any further), I hauled back and slapped Henry. His head jerked back, and he looked at me with real hurt in his eyes. “Sorry, My Lady. I could not resist your tempting lips a moment longer.”
I glared at Alex. He laughed, and trotted off toward Sherwood Forest. I turned my attention back to Henry who was still standing there. “I’ll meet you and your uncle at The Glass Gryphon shortly. Please give him my regards while I take care of another matter.”
Henry bowed, seemingly chastened, but the evil little smile on his face told me otherwise. “I will take your message to my uncle.” He nodded at Chase. “Good day to you, Bailiff.”
When we were finally alone (except for the hundreds of visitors, wandering knaves, and a few serfs), I turned to Chase. “Hi, there.”
“Hi.” He was staring at me in an un-Chaselike way. Normally he’d be running up, throwing me in the air (not a small task, since I’m six feet tall and not at all waiflike). There was no big grin on his handsome face, no big kiss coming my way.
I couldn’t decide which course would be better. You know how sometimes when you defend yourself it makes you seem guiltier than when you keep your mouth shut? I didn’t know which way to go with this. No matter what, it was only a stupid kiss. How upset could he be?
Before I could really ascertain if he was upset or not, a varlet, now dressed all in black instead of varlet brown, came running up breathlessly. “Bailiff! It’s happened again! Except this time it’s Death.”
Chase frowned. “What are you talking about, Lonnie? Did another visitor collapse?”
“No. It’s Death. Really.”
“You mean another one died?”
“No. Really, Chase. Death died.”
“I think he’s talking about Ross.” I pushed into the conversation before I had to hit either one of them. “You know, the tall guy with the scythe.”
Chase glanced at me like he’d forgotten I was there. “Oh, yeah. Where is he?”
“In the Village Square. One minute he was threatening a few visitors and telling them he’d take their souls, and the next minute, boom! He was on the cobblestones for the count.”
“Let’s go,” Chase said.
“Me, too.” I started running after him. “Have visitors died in the Village? How did I miss that?”
“Too busy, I guess,” Chase returned as we cut through the alleyway between Squire’s Lane and Harriet’s Hat House. “Too busy to watch CNN, or call anyone.”
“CNN was down here covering visitor deaths?” How did I miss that?
“Yep.” Lonnie’s little ratlike face twisted up as we ran across the cobblestones. “That’s why I left Sir Latte’s Beanery. Chase needs all the help he can get.”
“So what killed them? It was probably the heat, right? Lots of visitors wear those heavy clothes and get heat stroke during the summer.” I looked from Chase to Lonnie.
“We don’t know for sure yet,” Chase finally
answered.
A large crowd of visitors and residents had gathered near the Good Luck Fountain right in the middle of the Village Square. I stayed with Chase, almost having to push Lonnie out of the way, as we broke through the crowd to take a look at the man on the ground.
Ross’s black robe had fallen open around his bony body, but his hood covered his face. The scythe lay beside him, not far from his reach. There was blood everywhere and something sticking out of his chest. Everyone was whispering around us as Chase knelt beside the giant’s form.
“Call the police,” Chase said finally. “He’s dead. And I don’t think it’s heat stroke.”
A Corpse for Yew Page 28