The Wrong Scapegoat: A Mythic Fantasy Novel (Ravens of the Morrigan)

by Cornelius Flynn

  “You know me so well, my lord. Why, I swear it’s like you can read my mind.” A wicked grin spreads across Piper’s face.

  “Yes.” Phineas raises his eyebrows. “Isn’t it just?” He pauses for a few minutes thinking it through.

  Piper reaches for an apple, shining it on his vest and crunching it happily, as he waits to see if they’ll try to stop him hunting those who really attacked his friend, and descendant.

  “Well, to my mind,” Phineas continues, “there’s something very unusual going on here. I want to know who’s involved and what it is. We’ve heard from our contacts at the castle…”

  “Lindy?” He chews noisily.

  “Yes, Lindy. May I continue?” He watches as Piper nods and makes a motion of sealing his lips. “They planted items at your house implicating you. Not only in the attempted murder of their prince, and the actual murder of his bodyguards, but some deeper plot involving those who don’t support this new ‘Son of God’ religion.”

  “It’s hardly new. It’s been around for a thousand years now.”

  “All a matter of perspective, dear Piper. When a thousand years isn’t really a long stretch of time during one’s existence, it’s fair to call it new. Now, you do see the problems this attack might cause, don’t you?”

  “You have an idea who’s involved?” He flicks his apple core through the open window of the bower.

  “I don’t know, but I’m sure I know someone who can find out, discretely.”

  He fixes Piper with a steady stare leans forward resting his elbows on his knees and taps his fingers together. “Don’t I?”

  Chapter 8

  As the sun dawns the following morning, on the hillside above a town some thirty miles away, a brightness flickers over stone monoliths on the ridge.

  William, the Piper, steps out of nothingness into the early morning light. He checks the saddle is tight and the bridle loose before mounting and heading towards the town.

  The pony seems skittish. He pats it on the neck, speaking softly. “It’s all right, Apples. There’s no way they could have got word this far in one night. We should be fine, we just have to find the Tavern.”

  In the town below the captain has sent all the guards to their posts and once again peruses the sketch of the man they’ve been asked to look for. He doesn’t think it will be too hard to spot him, as the wicked scar down the side of his right eye should make him stand out in polite company.

  As the Piper nears the northern entrance to this new town, he notices the guards behaving strangely. Everyone is being halted and questioned. In addition, he sees them climb up onto a waggon bed and drag the hood off the face of the driver.

  “Oh cow dung!” He grumbles. “It looks like I was wrong, Apples. Some idiot must’ve told them.”

  He allows the pony to come to a standstill and seeks another way in.

  “How on earth am I supposed to perform the Task in a town full of guards who’re all searching for me?”

  The pony snorts and turns its head to look back at him.

  “If only you could talk, my faithful friend, if only you could talk.”

  He sighs heavily and guides Apples to the side of the road behind the last of the outlying barns where he dismounts and sits down for a long think.

  The guard patrol arrives back in the centre of the town and is dismissed for the afternoon, their replacements having been dropped off on the way round to take over their posts.

  They disperse slowly towards the markets and taverns.

  One of them is crossing the main square, trying to avoid stepping in the mud and dung and wishing the place was a little more upmarket, when he notices an old woman struggling with a huge sack. She drops to her knees panting and rests her arms over it then she stands again and tries to get it on her back, staggers a few steps, and drops it.

  He groans and shakes his head.

  She grabs the closed top of the sack and attempts to drag it along behind her, presumably towards her farm or wherever she might live. She slips in the mud and falls with a thump the sack landing atop her.

  “Ouch! Oh my ankle, I’ll never get this back for my goats now.”

  She begins to cry.

  “You have got to be kidding me.” He mutters.

  He watches her stand and look around for help. Listening to her sobs, he shakes his head as he walks towards her.

  “Do you perhaps need some help?” He hopes the answer will be ‘no’.

  She stands, making a show of drying her eyes and appraises him. Reaching forward, she squeezes his biceps and slaps his back.

  “A fine young strongman like you. Exactly what I need.” She indicates the sack. “I was getting low on food and a merchant was selling this sack of turnips cheap. I’m just having trouble getting back to my goats. Do you think you could help me? I’m sure I could make it worth your while.”

  She winks at him and wiggles her hips.

  He looks at her rotting teeth, wizened face, lank grey hair and bony body as he suppresses a shudder. “No payment necessary, ma’am, I’m happy to help those less fortunate than myself.”

  “Miss.” She replies, winking again. “I’m still available. Just never found the right man to stir my honeypot, since my Joe died.”

  “Sorry, … Miss.”

  “What a fine young man.” She hobbles around him. “What a fine strong young man. I bet you make your mother proud. I lost my husband in the war, you know. I’ll tell you all about it on the way to my house. It’s not far.”

  He groans again, grabs the sack and tries to lift it to his shoulders. It barely moves.

  He stands up and looks at her in disbelief. “Really?”

  She smiles and bats her eyelids at him.

  He shakes his head, braces himself and leans over managing to get it onto his back. “Are you sure this isn’t full of rocks?”

  She ignores him and continues to regale him with the tale of how heroic her man was in the war in the Eastern Marches, promising to show him the campaign ribbons and medal that he was given by the prince’s father.

  “He was a great man, the old prince. He spoke to me once you know. Looked me right in the eye and spoke to me. I was the only person from our village that he ever spoke to. That made me right famous that did.” She continued.

  Dreading the answer, he feels he has to ask anyway.

  “What did he say?”

  She stops speaking and stands still. “Pardon, young guard?”

  “I asked you, what did he say?”

  “Who?” She looks puzzled, picking a piece of corn from between what are left of her teeth.

  He sighs, shaking his head once more. “The Elder Prince. When he spoke to you.”

  “He did?” She asks, stopping to look at him.

  “Please keep moving. We’ll never get there at this speed.” He shuffles forward once more. “You said that the prince’s father once spoke to you, after looking directly at you. You were going to tell me what he said. So what did he say, miss, please?”

  She smiles, looks him in the eye and replies.

  “He looked straight at me, just me mind, and he said:” — her voice deepens — “Get out of my way, woman!” She sighs happily. “Only one from our village that he ever spoke to.”

  She begins moving again, nodding to herself.

  His groan is loud and deep, muttering to himself. “Walked right into that one, didn’t you, old boy.”

  He follows her, bent low under the weight of the sack of turnips, staggering step by step after her for what feels like an eternity until she indicates a barn door. She tells him he can drop the sack inside. He wobbles across the threshold into the barn, dropping his load on the floor and falling on top of it.

  The hag pulls the door shut behind herself and straightens up, the years dropping away from her, as she smiles at him with her now perfect teeth.

  “You’re getting old.” She laughs.

  He looks inside the sack. “I knew it — rocks.” He turns to fa
ce her. “I’m not going to say anything to you at the moment, Gwen, because I value our friendship too much.”

  She continues to laugh and strides up three steps set incongruously into the side of the barn. He stands, groaning and stretching to ease the pain, then follows her.

  She pushes the wall and a door appears, opening to reveal a wooden floor, tables, seats and the smell of fresh ale.

  Bowing, she sweeps her arm forward.

  “Welcome back to The Capra Tavern, Piper.”

  Thanking the girl for her time, he leaves the shop, pulling his hood down tightly against the cold weather.

  He is careful of his footing on the snowy cobbled street, until he eventually slips and slithers around the corner into the alleyway by the side of the stores.

  Checking once more to make sure he’s not observed, he eases down the alley.

  As he’s passing a packing crate behind the stores, there’s a sudden movement. He finds himself grasped and pulled into the shadows, a leather gloved hand over his mouth. He stands very still as a voice whispers in his ear.

  “Were you seen?”

  He shakes his head, trying to remain calm.

  The hands spin him around and push him against the wooden boards, freeing his mouth. He faces the figure in the shadows, able to make out his glittering eyes and general shape but not much else as his vision hasn’t adapted to the darkness after the glare of the snow outside.

  “Was her story plausible?”

  He nods. “From what you’ve told me, it seems that her friend did see you.”

  The other hisses through his teeth. “You’ve got enough information for me to track her down?”

  He nods again. “I’ve her name, her place of work and where she lives.”

  “And her family? How many live with her?”

  “It seems she has one younger sister and lives with both of her parents.”

  “Very well. Give me the details and it’ll all be taken care of.”

  Piper waits in a booth against the side wall of the Tavern.

  How many times has he sat here like this, or with others, inside this building which exists outside the worlds? Over the centuries he’s never been in this situation.

  It’s quite galling.

  He had a nice life back there as the prince’s friend and confidant, with a very nice house, and lovely artwork. Sighing heavily, thinking of the years of work he put into that collection, he picks up his tankard up taking a hefty sip before wiping his mouth and replacing it elsewhere, so he can run his finger around the wet circle it leaves on the varnished wood.

  Perhaps that’s what it is?

  Life is some kind of circle and it all keeps coming back to where it starts? Is the Tavern linked to the circle? Is it possible to break the circle? His stabs at the wet mark with his finger.

  Perhaps he could just go back, have a normal life and die like everyone else.

  “Thinking about killing yourself again, my dear? That really is quite an overreaction to a minor setback, is it not?”

  Gwen stands by him, he didn’t even see her arrive.

  He looks up and laughs. “Are you sure you don’t read minds?”

  “I don’t need to.” She replies pointing at the table. “I’ve experienced the moods of my customers for a long time now, Piper, and I can tell when they’re thinking stupid thoughts.”

  “Stupid? What kind of counselling is that? Aren’t you barkeepers supposed to be caring and considerate and listen to our troubles?”

  “Barkeeper?” She cuffs him hard. “Proprietor if you please.”

  He rubs the back of his head. “Not so rough, I’ve had a hard day. Some old hag made me carry two tons of stones on my back.” He grins.

  “You know the rules.” She tops up his tankard. “When you need help, you have to perform a good deed.”

  He blows a puff of air out of his lips.

  “I’m sure you get some perverse pleasure out of torturing folk who need help. Did you call the others?”

  She shakes her head. “You really don’t understand how this place works, do you Piper? I don’t call anyone. The Tavern calls them.”

  “Yes, I know.” He chuckles. “Whenever you don’t want to explain anything to the stupid humans you tell us it’s magic.” He wiggles his fingers at her.

  “That’s because it is magic, my friend. Just because you don’t understand how something works doesn’t make it untrue.”

  She pulls a cloth out of her belt and wipes away the circle of ale he’s been playing with.

  “Now stop making a mess of my tables and decide what you want to eat before the others get here.”

  The abbot calls the meeting to order and begins the discussion.

  “Brothers, you know why we’re here. The attack on the prince has raised questions and evidence has been presented, in the presence of our marshal here, that we must discuss.”

  The others in the room shuffle to find comfortable positions on the hard wooden chairs set around the refectory dining table.

  “We don’t normally become involved in matters such as this, but after hearing what’s been discovered, I felt it best to call this meeting.” He looks around the table. “All the parts of our temple are represented here. Until we decide what our response should be, I do not want this discussed with the other monks. Is that clear?”

  Murmurs of assent ripple around the table.

  “I will call upon Marshal Percey first, then Brother Michael may add what he has gleaned from his care of the prince.”

  The marshal leans forward and explains in detail to the others gathered about the evidence he has seen at the castle, where it was found and what it may mean. There are gasps from around the table.

  “Calm yourselves, my brothers.” The abbot raises his hands palm outwards towards them. “We shall discuss this after we’ve heard from our esteemed healer.”

  It is Brother Michael’s turn to explain about the prince’s injuries, mentioning his suggestion that he may also have been poisoned but the concoction used is unknown to him.

  “Why would they poison him? Why not just kill him outright?” Brother Jonas, the master of novices, is shaking his head.

  “We don’t know. None of it makes any sense at the moment. The fact is that the prince has been rendered insensible which causes problems for Upper Gwynedd, and therefore for us.”

  “If I may, Lord Abbot.” The marshal inclines his head. “I believe I have some idea what is going on.”

  The abbot nods and he continues, turning to address all present.

  “We’ve made great inroads in this land over the last thirty years or so and the true religion of our all conquering God has been accepted and embraced here.”

  He places his hands, palms downwards upon the table, and continues. “Not everyone has been happy about this. We all know how these backwards religions try to control their followers and resist change.”

  “You’re suggesting their involvement?” Brother Jonas asks.

  “I am. The countries to the north still follow the old ways, and we’ve been unable to make inroads there. This temple lies in the furthest northern reach of the lands which acknowledge the one True God. Though we’ve sent emissaries to the other states, they will not allow us to build there.”

  “Why would they trouble us here?” The abbot enquires.

  “It’s my belief, Lord Abbot, that agents of the Scots carried out this attack, supported by their followers within Gwynedd. The evidence found in the house of the head conspirator backs this up. I don’t know exactly what their aim might be, but it troubles me greatly.”

  Brother Seth, the quartermaster, raises his hand for permission to speak, which is granted.

  “But surely this matter’s political, if anything, and is about attempting to wrest control of the state, or to weaken trade ties. It’s always about gold and silver with these people.”

  “Normally, I’d agree with Brother Seth here.” Brother Michael says. “In this case howeve
r the Lord Marshal’s argument has weight.” He turns to face the abbot. “Is it not true that Prince Llewellyn was a patron of this temple?”

  “He has supported our endeavours.” The abbot nods.

  “But he also takes part in the local festivals, fertility rites and harvest celebrations, doesn’t he?” Brother Jonas asks.

  “That is also true.”

  “It has been my experience that all rulers pay lip service to local customs to keep the populace happy.” Brother Solomon says. “The prince’s wife is a devout follower of our Saviour and has assured me that her husband supports her.”

  “Might he not simply also be paying lip service to our beliefs?” Brother Seth asks.

  “I’m inclined to agree with brother Solomon here.” The abbot indicates the scribe by his side. “The prince has attended the temple at times when there was no special celebration taking place, in the company of his dear wife.”

  He looks around the table at those gathered.

  “I wouldn’t normally reveal such things but since his belief has been called into question, I require you to maintain secrecy on this matter. The prince has been a major monetary benefactor of this edifice since its inception.”

  He turns to the scribe. “I’m correct in saying that he funded the construction of much of the temple?”

  Brother Solomon nods. “I’ve kept careful accounts and can produce them should anyone doubt his support but, as our Lord Abbot here has pointed out, he wished his donations to be secret. Our good prince doesn’t seek public adulation for his actions.”

  There’s general agreement around the table that they should accept that the prince supports their endeavours, and their God.

  “Which brings me back to my earlier point.” The Marshal states. “This attack could be aimed at our expansion in this area. By incapacitating the prince they remove our major benefactor and seek, with the aid of their agents, to overthrow his family and take control.”