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

by Cornelius Flynn

  Chapter 11

  The shadows at the edge of the wood flicker across the two pale-skinned figures.

  “Too many questions were asked. Questions to which there were no satisfactory answers.”

  “And why is that?” The second asks.

  “It seems that someone didn’t do enough research about Mister William Gracie. He’s obviously not what he seems to be and rather than beating him, it might have been better were he simply killed.”

  “I can see the sense in that, but what is it about him that’s causing the issues?”

  “His disappearance. His ability to move around the town unnoticed. The unusual construction of his house, since we’ve still not been able to find his method of exit from it.” The first speaker leans back against an oak tree. “When he was chosen as the scapegoat for this operation it was assumed that he was what he appeared to be: an incomer that would look like an outside agent who’d wormed his way into their confidences and then struck.”

  “Can we not turn these other features of his to our advantage? After all, what ordinary ‘fop’ would have such a strangely constructed house, and an unseen method of quitting it when necessary?”

  “That’s a valid point. I’m sure their agents have noticed that. Emotions are running high owing to the attachment of members of the family to Mister Gracie, but I’m sure we can bring them round to our way of thinking.”

  Later that day a meeting is arranged to which the abbot and the marshal are invited.

  It takes a little persuasion for them to attend owing to the stand-off within the temple grounds when they were forced to hand over their prisoner to Captain John Yovvan.

  “Lord Abbot, marshal, please be seated.” Charles indicates chairs nearby.

  “The prince is not to attend this meeting?” The marshal asks.

  “No. He’s asked me to take care of these matters, since that’s what I’m employed for.” He leans forward. “We have things to discuss, the first of which must be the situation regarding Mister William Gracie.”

  “You mean the way they beat him to a pulp?” The captain asks.

  “They did?” The abbot turns to the Marshal.

  “No, Lord Abbot, we did not.”

  He remains standing, his hand reaching for a scabbard that isn’t there.

  “We apprehended him in the Fountain Square, and he reacted violently. Three of my men were seriously injured during his capture. We simply took him back to the temple and questioned him. I believe we were making progress about who his co-conspirators might be, but it was cut short.”

  “Fortunately so for Mister Gracie.” The captain’s eyes meet the marshal’s.

  “As I recall, captain, the last time we met you were threatening to have a crossbow bolt put through my throat.” He bristles.

  “I can assure you, marshal, that it was no threat.”

  “Perhaps you would care to settle our differences like gentlemen?”

  “If I thought you were one, I’d be inclined to accept.”

  The marshal stands to leave but the abbot rests his hand on his arm.

  “Gentlemen, we’re all supposed to be on the same side here. Please keep your tempers in check. Now, Mister Bracken, I understand you wish to share our intelligence on the matter of the threat to the temple.”

  “It seems wise to pool our resources.” Charles nods to the marshal. “I believe that was originally suggested at our first meeting?”

  The marshal sits, his face still contorted in anger.

  “The Lord Abbot has instructed us to comply with your wishes.”

  He removes a document pouch from his waist and unrolls the waxed leather covering on the table to reveal several sheets of vellum, containing neatly written notes.

  “I had one of our scribes copy the information we have, in so far as it relates to this attack.”

  The spymaster examines the documents.

  “My thanks. Please, give me a minute to read through this and I’ll see how it fits in with what we already know. Then we can discuss a way forward.”

  Later in the gently falling snow, a procession emerges from the castle gates.

  Seven servants, their families and belongings are escorted from the premises down to the Market Square by a dozen guards.

  John Yovvan leads them out. “I’m truly sorry, but we have no choice. This comes from the council.”

  He tries to reassure them. “Once Prince Llewellyn’s back on his feet, I’ll see what we can do to sort this mess out. I’m sure we can get your jobs back, but we can’t have anyone with links outside Gwynedd in the castle.”

  “But we’ve worked here for years. It’s all we’ve ever done...”

  Several women stand sobbing by the market stalls in a tight huddle. All their worldly possessions packed on the small handcart they’ve been pulling behind themselves.

  The eldest of them rests her hand on his arm.

  “Where are we to go, John?” Tears trickle down over her freezing red cheeks.

  He briefly looks her in the eye and turns away, his face flushing.

  Barking orders to his men, they march back up the cobbled street towards the castle gates, leaving the homeless servants to fade into the swirling snow behind.

  A tavern door opens and the other three Ravens enter, in animated conversation.

  “He was just some crazy old man that they’ve picked as their druid.” Lightning laughs, the lamplight in the room making her dusky skin look darker than normal.

  “What do you mean picked? It’s not like they vote for them you know. I think you have to be trained for the job, go to a college or something.” Wildcat stretches and yawns.

  “Well, maybe they should have retired him then. I think the old man is past it. Did you hear some of that stuff he was coming out with?”

  Lightning drops her pack into the corner by the bench and kicks it underneath.

  “Can we talk about something else?” Filippo asks, shaking his head.

  “I’m sure that we can.” Gwen approaches them.

  “Thanks for the door, that made it much easier to get back.” Wildcat stretches again as she moves to the bench.

  “I’ve been saving this to discuss with you.” Lightning looks at the others and motions for them to approach. “With all of you.”

  She reaches into a large pouch hanging from her belt and withdraws something lumpy, wrapped in cloth. Laying it on the table, she slowly peels back the covering to reveal a withered hand, holding a black, tallow candle.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Gwen sniffs it.

  She nods. “I found it in the house while we were rescuing them from the fire. Someone really wanted them dead. I’ve never seen one of these used for that before, normally it’s a thief’s tool.”

  Wildcat leans forward to examine the object. “What is it? I’ve not seen one of those, what does it do?” She rests her fingers on it, touching the wax of the black candle and prodding the thumb.

  “It is called a Hand of Glory.” Gwen squeezes her lips together. “It’s evil and not easy to acquire. Foul magic created from the hand of a dead murderer.” She shudders.

  “Eww!” Wildcat snatches her hand back, wiping it on Filippo’s sleeve.

  “You have to find one, perform certain rituals, and acquire other rare items.” Lightning points to the wick. “Once lit, it’s flame burns black and sends everyone in the home into a deep sleep, allowing the thief to rob them with ease and retire. It seems that those who didn’t want the girl and her family to speak to us, really didn’t want them to speak to us.”

  Filippo’s mouth falls open. “So they rendered them all unconscious with this, set their home on fire, then left them to burn to death? How could anyone do such a thing?”

  “Obviously whoever is framing our dear Piper has no qualms about killing innocents, or consorting with evil spirits.” Gwen folds her arms.

  “I suppose we’d better find the real attackers then?” Filippo leans back, his eyes still on the
distasteful object.

  “Did you have something in mind?” Wildcat pauses and looks around the room. “Where’s Piper? Isn’t it a bit early to have turned in for the night?”

  “He’s not here.” Gwen sighs heavily. “He was being his usual pigheaded, arrogant, stubborn self and not listening to reason, which is why he’s currently chained up in the castle dungeon.”

  All the chatter ceases. “Are you serious?” Filippo stops, halfway through removing the huge sword from his back.

  “Yes, I’m serious. Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do for him. More subtle methods are required.” She steps towards the kitchen. “I’m sure our associates at the castle will be up to the job, I just hope they haven’t hurt him too much already. You can collect him once they send him out.”

  “But he heals really quickly.” Lightning frowns. “Won’t they notice that?”

  “Not if they have him chained in iron…”

  Prince David sits by his brother’s bedside, deep in thought.

  He’s sent the healers from the room and ordered the Lady Bronwyn to her bed for some much-needed rest, after assuring her that he’ll sit with her husband and fetch her if he should stir. His mind is troubled.

  “I just wasn’t cut out for this, Llewellyn.” He speaks in a low voice to his unconscious brother. “You were the strong one. You were the one they trained to be king. These are your advisors I’m working with, not mine. I don’t know them. I can’t tell good advice from bad. I try to go with my conscience which is why I’m feeling so bad now.”

  He shuffles closer and takes his brother’s hand in both of his.

  “I wish you’d wake up and be well again. I’m going to make a complete mess of everything. Elena is enjoying prancing around being the Lady of the Castle, but I just feel lost.”

  He rubs the cold hand with his own. “I’m doing my best, Llewellyn, really I am but I’m not happy. We had a meeting today and they decided we should clear out anyone who had links to the ‘old ways’ and make sure only people loyal to you and the temple stay within our walls.”

  He takes a deep breath and sighs.

  “I watched them leave, taking their families with them.” His voice chokes. “We threw them out into the snow, Llewellyn. We treated them like criminals. It just doesn’t seem right, no matter what your advisors might tell me. Please, wake up soon, brother, we need you.”

  A tear rolls down one cheek as David attempts to control his feelings, and be the strong leader that he knows he is not.

  Bronwyn stands listening in the archway that leads to her private chambers and wishes she could rush in and comfort him, but she won’t intrude on his privacy.

  The three guards sit round the table in the cellars enjoying their supper at the start of shift, served up by the maid.

  “Get plenty of that stew down you.” She says. “I know it’s only leftovers, but it’s good leftovers. That’s venison, that is. I made it for the higher-ups earlier and we had some left so I saved it for you boys.”

  “It’s really good too!” The corporal licks his lips. “Wish we got to eat like this every night.”

  She carves slices of freshly baked bread off the loaf and smears them thickly with warmed butter.

  “I’ve some mulled wine left too, if you boys’d like that?”

  General grunts of approval and nods meet this question, their mouths full of rich food and sweet bread.

  She smiles and returns to the main fire in the side room where she grabs a pot of wine, with the usual herbs and spices inserted to warm the belly on a cold winter’s night.

  Well, mostly the usual ones.

  She decants it into a large heated stoneware jug and brings it to the guards’ table in the corridor.

  “You mind if I join you?” She asks.

  They all shake their heads, smiling and enjoying the quality food.

  She sets four stoneware mugs on the table, pouring the hot wine into each and passing them along.

  She takes a sip from her own mug. “Oh, that’s nice. I were fairly chilled to the bone getting the firewood in before. I can feel that warming me right down to me toes.”

  She lifts the shawl off the back of her chair and wraps it round her shoulders, sighing happily.

  The guards mop up the delicious stew with the bread and wash it down with hot mulled wine, smiles of satisfaction spreading across their faces, giving profuse thanks to the kitchen maid.

  Piper is lying battered, bruised, and still bleeding from his wounds, on a straw palette in the cell, bemoaning his fate.

  “Well, you’ve got yourself into a fine mess this time, haven’t you?” he mutters.

  The flickering visible through the gap at the bottom of the door is the only light available now. Even though his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, the fact that they’re almost swollen shut isn’t helping him to see any way out of his predicament.

  “How’m I supposed to get out of this one?”

  He carefully moves his arms feeling the restriction of the iron chains and manacles about them, knowing that his body’s regenerative capabilities can’t take effect while he’s bound this way.

  “I wonder if this is the normal treatment for prisoners in this place?” He muses to himself. “Maybe they bind up everybody in iron. Perhaps I’m not receiving special treatment because they think I’m a demon who tried to murder the prince.”

  He shakes his head then groans and winces at the discovery that moving it that far, and that fast, brought sharp spikes of pain to his temples.

  “You should’ve seen the trap, old boy. Stupid. Very stupid. I mean, what’s wrong with you? You’ve been around for centuries and avoided more danger in your life than a hundred normal people would see in theirs and you walk into a trap?”

  He pauses. “I wonder if Bronwyn knew — she did look surprised. I suppose it’d be hard for her to fake. I don’t think she has a deceitful bone in her body. Somehow, somebody set me up and I’d love to know who, if I ever get these damned chains off.”

  He frowns and winces once more.

  “I hope nobody does anything stupid to get me out of here. I’m pretty sure Gwen won’t let them.” He thinks a moment. “Well, reasonably sure anyway. By the goddess, I hurt.”

  He relaxes onto the pallet as best as he can under the circumstances and waits to see if some sweet unconsciousness will overtake him.

  Sometime later, he awakens and hears a groaning noise in the room, quickly realising that it’s coming from his own throat again, except this time it’s no hangover.

  “Oh, sweet oblivion, how do I miss thee!” He mutters to himself as he hears the key being turned in the lock and the bolts being drawn back.

  Light floods in through the open door causing his already painful eyes to water in the sudden brightness. Someone approaches his bed carrying a lantern.

  He tries to cover his face with his manacled hands.

  “Be still.” A female voice.

  There are no women guards, and no women jailers. He’s fairly certain they won’t allow him visitors, and equally sure that no one would want to visit him anyway.

  A soft hand rests on his forearm and pushes his arms back down to his sides where they hold his manacles and work on them with something. In a short time the iron hoop is removed from his right wrist and not long thereafter from his left. The female, who he cannot see, then repeats this with the ones around his ankles.

  He moves his hands together and rubs his chafed wrists, wincing at the pain that shoots through them.

  “Come, we must get you to your feet.”

  He’s not at all keen on this idea, after feeling how much it hurts to simply move his arms, but she uses her hands behind his shoulders to lift him to a sitting position. Her voice sounds familiar.

  “Drink this.” She holds a cup to his mouth.

  The cold liquid is welcome, but it stings as it passes over his cracked, bruised lips. It’s the first nourishment of any kind he’s received since his capture
so he ignores the pain and sucks it in, swallowing quickly.

  “Slow down, you’re drinking it too fast. Take sips. We have lots of time.”

  He stops gulping and tries to comply, his head still thumping. The pallet creaks as she sits beside him after he’s emptied the cup.

  “Now, we just need to take care of one more thing, and we can get you out of here.”

  He nods, sits still and waits.

  She leans in close and gently kisses him.

  He tries to pull back, not having any urge for what she seems to be offering, but she shushes him and continues. Her hands slipping around the back of his head to keep his lips on hers, so soft and warm. The sweet smell of meadow grass rises from her and reaches his nostrils.

  A cool sensation spreads out from his mouth, over his cheeks, into his head. The throbbing pain begins to ease, and he finally realises it’s a healing magic.

  He relaxes, abandoning himself to the sweet taste of her kiss.

  “I still think we should just go in there and break him out. I’m sure the three of us could take all the guards and have him rescued in no time.” Wildcat mutters.

  “Yes, and a lot of innocent men would die in the process.” Lightning replies. “Gwen says they have it in hand. We just have to collect him.”

  “Have you noticed how it’s always water tunnels and how they’re usually not very clean? Do I look like I spend my time in dirty water, or enjoy doing so?”

  Filippo stops just ahead of them and motions for them to be quiet.

  They all melt backwards into the shadows as two guards pass them, deep in conversation, about an amorous encounter one of them had the previous evening. Once they hear their guttural laughter retreat into the next street, they continue.

  “This is it.” He points to the gully outside the castle walls.

  “Are you sure this is the right one?” Lightning peers into the darkness.

  He climbs down, removes a piece of rag tied to one of the bars of the gate blocking the entrance and waves it at them.

  “Yes, this does seem to be the place.” Wildcat sighs and rolls her eyes.