Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
From the Author
The Wrong Scapegoat
A Ravens of the Morrigan Novel
by
Cornelius Flynn
Ninestanes Media
1. Edition, 2021
© 2015 Cornelius Flynn.
All rights reserved.
Ninestanes Media
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Prologue
(An alternate Upper Gwynedd, c. 1450 )
Hurrying down the major road from the castle in response to the alarm call, Captain John Yovvan meets a small group of guards leading a mount along the snowy street.
“Prince Llewellyn! Are you certain?”
He rushes to the makeshift wood and canvas structure they are dragging behind the sturdy pony. The man lying there wears the pelt of a white warg around his shoulders.
Everyone knew the tale of how the prince hunted the pack down, with his friends, two winters ago.
Only Llewellyn still wears that fur.
His face is cold, and he’s not moving.
“Get him warm, and make sure the healers are there. There’ll be hell to pay if he dies, and we could have saved him. Move it!”
The four soldiers, guarding their precious burden, speed to the castle.
John jogs, as quickly as he dares in the treacherous snow, towards where they told him they’d found the prince. His eyes flick around, examining the alleyways and rooftops on his route, looking for any sign of the assailants.
Minutes later, arriving at the scene, he sees the duty sergeant talking to a trade council leader, the slowly falling flakes easing a little now.
“Sergeant! A word, please.”
“Yes, sir!” He trots smartly over to the captain, waving the council man back to the others.
“Have we caught any of them yet? Do we know how many there were?” He delivers his questions in a sharp staccato.
“They were gone when we arrived, sir. Footprints in the snow when we got here show that there must have been a bunch of them, but we’ve not been able to track them.” He points to the flattened drifts. “Too disturbed because everyone come out to see what was happening. I’ve sent for a dog, but I don’t think it’ll be able to do much in this.”
“And his bodyguards are all dead?”
Llewellyn’s personal guards were hand-picked, the best swordsmen in the town, and all devoted to him.
“Yes, sir. Looks like it was fast, and they’d no chance to defend themselves. Three of them didn’t even get their weapons out afore they died, and the last one’s blade’s clean.”
The sergeant shuffles his feet, glancing down at the snow.
“You’ve searched the area?”
“My men are still looking. The alarm got everyone out of their beds, sir, and all the streets are full of footprints from our own folks.”
John glances at the bodies and the bloody snow. “Everyone’s trampled all over this. Didn’t you try keep them back?”
The sergeant waves his arms at the onlookers. “We didn’t have a chance to, sir, they all got here afore we did. The first two guards secured the area, in case anyone come back to finish the job. When more of us got here, we pushed the crowds further out.”
“Have you moved the bodies at all?”
He turns and points at the bloody scene behind him. “They’s exactly where we found them, sir.”
The captain looks at the footprints and deep ruts left by the wooden frame. “Loading the prince onto that contraption has really torn everything up. Did you discover anything useful before you moved him?”
“Only this, sir.” He reaches into a pocket inside his jerkin and places something metallic in his captain’s hands.
John looks at the item and moves it closer to a lamp to see it’s a brooch, ripped from a piece of clothing, part of the material still hanging from the pin.
“Where did you find this?” His eyes flick to the sergeant’s.
“In Prince Llewellyn’s clenched fist, sir.”
The captain’s wife bustles in as the first kitchen maid arrives from the other direction, responding to the alarm bells.
“Ah, Lindy. Someone’s been attacked in the town. No details yet, but they’ve woken all the off-duty soldiers. We need boiling water on, and broth if you have any?”
“Right away, madam.” The girl bobs a curtsy as she trots to the fire and opens the grate to draw more air through the smouldering logs.
“I’ll send someone to fetch water, while you set that blazing. When the others arrive, organise them. It’s going to be a long night.”
She strides down the steps to the well, looking for the next available girl.
The servant loads logs into a fireplace so large she can stand upright in it.
Stepping back, she checks she’s alone and places her hand on the wall, closing her eyes. Her body shakes briefly and jerks as energy travels up her arm into the stone, spreading out across it in a flash of aquamarine light.
She stays this way a few moments longer, her face rapt with attention, before turning back towards the fire, and opening her eyes thoughtfully as she hears the other girls arriving.
Power is such a fickle concept.
Can anyone truly hold it for any amount of time? Will history remember them? Is that how you should judge the depth of someone’s influence — after they’re dead? That’s why genuine power can only belong to the Immortals, the gods, and memory.
In this instance, the power, albeit temporary based on human lifespan, is being cajoled into existence, rather than grasped by brute force.
Manipulation is too insubstantial a word for these machinations.
No, true power comes to those who’ve worked hard and are not afraid to soil their hands — or are willing to pay for someone else’s hands to be soiled in their stead.
That is how assassins make their living, and live well on it, being the best at their trade.
Because many are greedy for power — and yet greatly desire clean hands.
Chapter 1
The constant thumping in his head is the first thing he notices as he slowly regains consciousness — that and the low moaning inside the room.
He realises, blinking his eyes in the dim light, that he’s probably the source of both noises. Reaching up to rub his thudding temples, he stops himself from groaning quite so loudly.
The banging is getting worse and, in his befuddled state, it takes time to realise that it’s coming from outside his head.
Perhaps, one of his neighbours is beating a carpet against the side of his house, although that doesn’t make sense, does it, this early?
Whatever it is, he hates it. This isn’t how he prefers to wake up in the morning after what, even by his
standards, was a fairly heavy session down at the Boar’s Head with his friends.
He admits to being a little fuzzy about who was there, but he’s certain that they were a good crowd, and worth the excessive consumption that’s given him this mother of all splitting headaches.
The thumping is intensifying now. In fact, it sounds as though someone is beating the dust out of a carpet they’ve hung on his front door. That simply wouldn’t do. He’d have to get out of bed to see what on earth was going on.
Up at dawn? Who’d believe that he’d been up at dawn?
It was a long time since he’d bothered to rise that early for anything.
“Are you sure he’s in, sir?” The young, pimply-faced soldier asks, holding his spear like a shovel.
“Of course I’m sure he’s in, do you think I’m an idiot?” He pushes the boy away from the door. “And don’t call me sir, I’m a sergeant. I work for a living!”
He strides forward, shouldering aside the other soldiers who’d been knocking on it, and thumps it with his fist.
“Open up! I know you’re in there, don’t make me break this door down!” He bangs harder with the side of his fist.
“Did you try the windows yet?” He asked the two guards standing by him.
“Not yet, sarge, we thought we’d just try knocking first.”
“Give me strength!” The sergeant puts both his hands on the door and leans forward in exasperation. “We’re supposed to be here to arrest him, not to ask if he’d like a nice cup of mead. Did nobody explain that to you?”
“Sorry sarge. Never had to arrest anyone who was locked inside a house before. Normally I do the drunks at chucking out time. They’re pretty easy, you just wait ‘til one of them takes a swing at somebody and falls over, then you grab him.”
The sergeant stares at the guard’s guileless face for a few moments trying to decide if he’s attempting to be humorous and realises that, in fact, he really is that dumb. He sighs again.
“Fine. Fine. I’ll explain it, using little words.” He turns to face the gathered soldiers. “The man inside is wanted for questioning by the captain. It’s our job to take him to the castle so they can talk to him. We don’t want to give him time to run away, so they don’t get to talk to him. This means that we have to enter his house as quickly as possible and persuade him to come with us, by any means necessary.”
He takes a deep breath and screams in their faces. “Does anybody not understand that, now?”
A few of them take a step back as a general shuffling of feet and shaking of heads greet his question.
“Right then, shall we see what we can do about that, without wasting any more damned time?”
The pounding from downstairs continues.
His head still throbs. It is still only just after dawn, although he’s certain he hasn’t asked anyone to get him up this early. He supposes he’s going to have to do something about this.
The floor boards chill his feet as he swings his legs out of the bed and sits up. For a moment the room sways and his stomach churns in protest.
“Not now. No time to throw up. Need to find out why I’m awake.”
He pushes his arms down on the bed, straightens his back and takes a deep breath — holding it for a few moments.
He wonders why, after all these years, no one’s created a hangover cure that actually works.
Finally feeling that his stomach is under control, he shuffles to the edge of the bed and wriggles his toes as he moves his head backwards and forwardstrying to ease the tension in his shoulders.
The thudding downstairs continues.
Grasping the bedpost he pulls himself to his feet, and wobbles uncertainly over to the dresser where a basin of water awaits.
He splashes it on his face, and yells when it hits him.
“Oh, ye gods, that’s cold!” He grabs a cloth,rubbing the freezing water away.
Thoughts about lighting the fire in the room are crossing his mind when, once again, the thumping and shouting outside intrudes on his befuddled brain.
“Open this door, in the name of the prince!”
The sergeant swings his leg back and kicks hard, unfortunately catching one of the iron studs on the solid oak door.
The expletives that escape his lips at this moment don’t bear repeating. The youngest of the guards present looks a little embarrassed by it all.
“That’s enough of this messing about.” He’s still favouring his right foot as he turns and issues new orders.
“You two, watch the windows and make sure he doesn’t climb through any of them. Jock, you take the new boy with you and go round the back so he can’t nip out. The rest of you spread around the place and watch for any movement.”
“Sarge?” The beefy guard with the bulbous purple nose shuffles his feet.
“Why are you still here, Jock? I thought you’d be able to set a good example.”
“Yes, sarge, but…” The man rubs his nose and looks around at the others for help.
The sergeant yells, interrupting him. “Get round the back of the house so he can’t escape!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you sarge,” his head drops a little, his eyes staring at the floor, “there ain’t no back.”
He’s about to yell again and stops, thinking about what he just heard.
“What do you mean there’s no back? It’s a house, course it has a back.”
“Not this one.” Jock shakes his head and points. “See? He’s built it in the side of the cliff. It never had no back, it’s just sort of set in the rock.”
The sergeant walks round and looks down the side of the house to see the truth of the matter.
“So that means that this door and these windows are the only way in and out then?”
“That’s the way I see it.” Jock replies. “If he’s in there, he ain’t going nowhere.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure he’s in there. Seems he drank a lot last night and staggered home in the early hours. No way he’ll have slept that off yet.”
He looks around and sees materials stacked nearby, ready for a small construction project.
“Jock, Davy. Grab a rock each and start banging on that door with it, we’ll see if we can get his attention.”
While they follow his instructions, the sergeant backs up far enough to be able to see all the windows clearly and yells again.
“I told you, open up in the name of the prince or there’s gonna be trouble!”
He motions to the two guards on the right side of the house.
“You two with the crossbows, load them up and be ready for any problems.”
Still shivering from the cold water, the occupant of the house staggers over to his bed and grabs a thick woollen blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders.
He looks at the fireplace wistfully, hoping for a spark of warmth within it, but it’s cold and dead.
Then, he remembers staggering into the room, throwing off his clothes, and clambering into bed without giving a single thought to stoking the fire, to keep it burning overnight.
“You really need to lay off the heavy stuff, old boy.” He mumbles.
The thumping, banging and shouting once again distract him from his reverie.
He staggers to the window to find out what’s going on.
Lifting the latch he peers through the gap, opening it as little as necessary on this cold winter’s day. If he’s honest, he couldn’t move it much further owing to the iron bars on the outside.
“I say,” he calls down “do you think you chaps could keep it down a bit, some of us are still trying to sleep.”
He shudders in the freezing draught and tightens his grip on the blanket.
“Open up, in the name of the prince!” Comes the reply.
He leans a little further to peer through the gap. “Joshua, is that you down there? What on earth are you doing?”
“We have orders to take you to the castle for questioning, now get down here and open thi
s door.” The sergeant kicks it again.
“I’d love to oblige, old chap, but since you’ve woken me so unceremoniously at such an early hour, I’m afraid I need to obey a call of nature first. I’m sure we can have a little chat after that. How does that sound?”
“This is not a joke!” The sergeant shouts back up. “Now get this door open and come with us before we have to break it down.”
“Well, that’s not very friendly. I was simply trying to -”
He jumps back from the window as a quarrel strikes the stone jamb and ricochets into the room.
“Goodness! You could put someone’s eye out with one of those. Do be more careful down there.”
He’s gratified to hear the sergeant yelling at his men and pulls the window closed. Latching it tightly against the biting winter wind, he staggers back into the room in search of somewhere to take a leak.
After a few moments, he remembers why the thing he seeks is called a ‘gazunder’ by the general populous.
Dragging it out, he kneels to ensure his aim is accurate and relaxes into a stream of golden relief.
“Alright which one of you two idiots fired that?” The sergeant yells stamping his way through the snow to where the two shivering crossbow men stand.
“I should have known it would be you, Dick.” He realises who’d fired. “Dick by name and Dick by nature as I’ve always said. If it wasn’t for the respect that I have for your parents I’d have you out of this job, you useless idiot!”
He slaps the crossbow out of his hands and points at the lower floor of the house. “Go and see if you can get one of those windows open so we can go in.”
Dick hangs his head and shuffles towards the house as the Sergeant shouts.
“Herb, give him a hand. Get one of those open. I swear, I’m gonna thump him one of these days.”
He turns to face Jock. “Now I know I can trust you to hold that thing and not let loose without provocation, can’t I?”
“You certainly can, sarge. Nobody ever accused me of shooting too early.” He winks.
The Wrong Scapegoat: A Mythic Fantasy Novel (Ravens of the Morrigan) Page 1