The sergeant smiles and shakes his head.
“I swear there’s not a serious thought in your head sometimes.”
“I’ve heard that said before too.” He replies, grinning.
Stamping his feet against the cold, he walks back over to the house, shouting up to the occupant to open the door, but getting no response. He turns to watch the two men at the downstairs window and wonders what’s taking them so long.
“What’s the problem over there, Herb?” He tries for a better look.
“We’re just easing these bars out of the wall, so we can get the window open. We’ll have it shortly.”
The sergeant lends his weight as they pull on the pry bar they’ve jammed against the side of the house, behind the metal rods that prevent access to the window. With a shuddering creak it comes free. They work the other end loose, dropping the heavy iron bar into the snow beneath the windowsill.
“Stand where you can cover this window when we open it, Jock.” He waves to the remaining crossbowman. “Don’t want anybody waiting behind it stabbing me or something.”
Jock nods and moves to his right to take aim. The sergeant removes the dagger from his belt and slides it up the side of the frame to flick off the latch — only there doesn’t seem to be one.
He stands back, looking at what must be standard wooden shutters with a cloth backing to keep out the cold.
“Get that pry bar in between the shutters and let’s have them open.”
He motions to Herb, and the sound of splintering wood joins the general noise of the heavy breathing and foot stamping that is going on around them.
All three of them step back, mouths hanging open.
“Jigger me!” Jock voices the thought that’s on their minds.
Behind the wooden shutters is another stone wall with no sign of any entry to the house.
“Why would somebody brick up the window?” Herb asks.
The sergeant moves in closer to the stonework.
He exhales slowly through his rounded lips. “Nobody bricked this up, Herb.”
He points to the corners.
“You can see here, the stones were carved that way. This was never a window. Why would someone have a fake window?”
Hearing the splintering wood, the occupant shakes his head.
Years ago he’d overseen the construction of this home, and one of its secrets would be out now. That didn’t bode well for the future.
Still, maybe the situation wasn’t as serious as it seemed.
He drops the blanket back onto the bed pulling on a soft cotton undershirt, with a warmer woollen shirt over the top, and sits down to add a long pair of snug-fitting cotton trousers.
He stands and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, smiling at the ridiculous figure that looks back.
His fuzzy mind is already clearing. He opens the shutter far enough to call out.
“That sounded like someone was damaging my property. I do hope you’re going to fix that, it was quite expensive.”
“You’re just making it worse for yourself. If we have to break in to get you, nobody’ll be taking you out of there gently, you know that?”
“Why on earth are you doing this? What am I supposed to have done to you? I thought we were friends.”
“You know damned well what you’ve done, Mister Gracie! You assaulted the prince. The charge’ll be murder and there’ll be hell to pay.”
He steps back from the window, his brows furrowing.
Replaying the events of the night before he can’t recall attacking the prince. Besides, he had four bodyguards, how would anyone get near him? This just doesn’t make sense.
“You seem to have me at a disadvantage, old chap.” He calls back. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t assaulted anyone, let alone the prince who, as you know, is a very dear friend of mine.” He looks around his luxurious room and sighs heavily. Leaving all this behind — again — was not going to be pleasant.
“This is your last chance — open the damned door or I’ll take an axe to it myself!”
“Good luck with that, Joshua.” He calls back down. “Some great work went into that door, I hope you have really big axes.”
He leaves the shutter slightly ajar so he can hear them and lifts the chest lid in the corner, removing the blankets inside.
He activates a mechanism to release its false bottom. Beneath lie a set of soft, dark, oiled leathers, alongside weapons stored with similar care, and a bulging oilskin bag.
Standing, and still needing the wall for support, he slips into the supple leather which has served him so well, for so long, in so many adventures.
He mutters. “I really thought I was done with this for a while.”
A sharp shaft of the dawn’s light enters through the crack in the shutter and strikes the expensive, deep mahogany bedstead.
He sighs heavily as he looks at it, and the rest of his long term possessions.
Incompetence was what annoyed Joshua Crane the most.
He realised that not everyone could be great at everything, but he required certain standards from those under his command. Though he might be only a lowly sergeant, in the wider spectrum of the town guard he was proud of his professionalism and expected the same from his men.
So far, this morning, he wasn’t getting it, and he was furious.
He wasn’t a mean-spirited man, given to taking out his moods on others but at the moment, he decided, he could happily punch some of them in the face.
“Get this damned door open!” He yells, kicking it once more, but this time using the sole of his boot rather than his toe, having already learnt the stupidity of the latter.
If he was honest, the sergeant wasn’t sure a doorway existed behind it after the issue with the window, but William had to have got in somehow.
Just then he hears the unmistakable trundle of the ram coming up the snowy, cobbled street.
He sighs. “Finally!”
Turning to all the guards around him he yells again.
“Well, don’t just stand there, bring that up here so we can get this blasted door open.”
His men prop their weapons against the walls and rush to help move the heavy cart up the slight incline to the entrance.
“Not you, Jock” he calls, “you keep that crossbow trained just in case he tries anything — I know you won’t miss.”
“That’s me, sarge, always looks ‘em in the eye as I shoot.”
He winks and takes a position where he can watch both the door and the upper window, resting his crossbow against a barrel to ease the weight of it.
It only takes a minute to drag the heavy cart up the street and move it into position ready for the final assault.
Listening to the shouted orders outside the window, William Gracie is pulling on the last of his gear — a pair of soft, weatherproof, doe-skin boots.
Standing, he stretches and crosses to the solid, four-poster bed, resting his hand on the ornately carved designs of the headboard one last time.
“I’m definitely going to have you shipped, once all this is over. You just don’t get this craftsmanship often. It’d be such a shame to lose you.”
He extends his arms again, reaching behind his neck with each and leaning over as he pulls on his elbows to loosen the last of the tension from his shoulders.
His voice is raised. “I really hope that your clods outside don’t damage anything in here.”
His gaze travels over his favourite items.
“I bet some of my nicer knick-knacks will go missing, accidentally misplaced during your searches, and turn upon a market stall later.”
He shakes his head and picks up the bag, already packed ready for him to leave.
“Thieves, the lot of them.” He mutters.
Running through a list in his mind, he makes sure that he has everything, then strides to the wardrobe.
Opening the doors wide he squats down, sliding his hands along the inside edge until he finds the mechanisms. Th
e whole panel that looked like six floorboards lifts out to reveal a ladder descending into the darkness.
Slipping his arms through the straps on the pack, he climbs down several feet and reaches back up to replace the false, weighted floor. He’s careful not to disturb the two pairs of shoes that sit loosely on it to maintain the illusion that it’s just the bottom of a wardrobe.
With a certain finality, he locks it into place and continues his climb.
The sergeant watches as Herb, who’s experienced with the mechanism, uses the iron handle to ratchet down the final leg of the Nutcracker.
The mobile battering ram’s nickname among the troops — mainly because of the height at which the tapered metal bar makes contact with the target.
“Ready to go, sarge.” He takes up his position on one side.
Three others move the ends of the rods that pass through the solid metal ram. The sergeant scoops oil from the can on the side of the cart, ladling it onto the ram’s runner so its movement will be smoother.
“Right lads. On my mark, let’s get some rhythm going. Bring her back.” He watches as they pull backwards in a rowing motion. “Ready? Make sure you got a good footing there.”
The four working the contraption stamp their feet down to ensure that the ground under is clear of snow and ice and take the best grip they can on the cobbled surface.
“Three — two — one — go!”
They heave forwards, sliding the huge metal rod until the point makes an impact with the door. An almighty boom sounds as it hits and some wood splinters.
“Better than an axe any day.” The sergeant observes. “We’ll be in there in no time boys. Bring her back again.”
The now former occupant of the house, in the tunnel to the rear of the property, hears them strike his precious front door and sighs again.
He’s still very puzzled and, although he now knows what the charges might be and why the guards are taking this so seriously, he still has no idea why it involves him.
Someone is going to pay for this inconvenience, he just has to work out who that might be.
Chapter 2
With a great cracking and splintering, the solid iron ram splits the plank in the centre of the door revealing the view inside the house.
“Yes!” Up goes the shout from the men.
“I knew the Nutcracker could do it. Herb, get her legs up, and we’ll wheel her out of there. Let’s see Mister Gracie escape from us now.” He turns to the other soldiers. “Get the pry bars and axes and widen that hole.”
Once the ram is rolled back out of the way they set to work and soon have the door shattered.
“Jock, stay out here and keep an eye on things. John, you block this doorway after we’re in and make sure nobody gets out, got that?” He watches him nod. “Right, stay in pairs and let’s search this place and find him.”
By the daylight streaming through the open door they can see that they’re in a storeroom, stairs visible at the opposite side.
“Bring those lanterns with you, boys, but keep your weapons out.”
It becomes obvious that their prey can’t be hiding downstairs so they set off upstairs to discover a spacious and well-decorated sitting room. In fact, so well-decorated that they stop to gaze at all the finery and art adorning the walls.
“Well, I’ve not seen better than this inside the castle.” The sergeant admits. “This gentleman must be stinking rich. Either that, or the best thief we’ve ever seen.”
He points to the remaining door which must lead to the bedroom they were taunted from earlier.
“This is it, boys. Let’s get that open and take him down.”
He approaches it.
“Time’s up, Mister Gracie. I told you we’d be here and I told you what was going to happen. The best thing you can do is stand still and let us take you in.” Joshua pauses, but hears no movement. “The captain wants to question you, and he’d prefer it if you were alive and undamaged, but you make life difficult for us and I’ll just take a tongue roasting from him, and you’ll be dead. Are we clear on that?”
He waits a few moments — still no response.
Nodding to the men either side of him, he grasps the door handle and pushes the door open with his foot. It hits a small side table right behind the door with a bang and sends it flying, smashing the pot that sat on it in the process.
A strong smell of fresh urine fills the air.
“Oh that was nasty. There’ll be piss all over the floor now. In we go lads.”
They rush into the room, shining lanterns around and finding it completely empty. A search of the wardrobe and under the bed shows that their quarry is no longer present.
“Where in damnation did he go?” The sergeant’s voice reveals his exasperation. “If he slipped past us as we came in there’s going to be hell to pay. Get back downstairs and bang around, see if you can find a hidden cupboard he could be in, the rest of us will do the same up here.”
An ordinary man might be worried at this point, wondering where he’s going to go from here and how to avoid capture for a crime he didn’t commit, but this isn’t the first time that William Gracie has been on the wrong side of the law.
When he had this house built, he found a natural cave below the property which could be reached from the other side of the hill.
He’d widened it and, once construction was complete, created the access from the upper floor. Only he knows it exists. Walking through that passage now, his hooded lantern providing dim light ahead of him, he ponders the situation.
His sharp mind is still slightly befuddled by the previous evening’s overconsumption of wine in the company of the prince and his bodyguards, but his natural abilities are recovering quickly. The fact that the prince has been assaulted and they’re blaming him is on his mind.
He remembers arguing with his friend about policy changes that were coming before the council and how they might give advantage to one organisation over another. He’d remonstrated with him and pointed out that perhaps he was being influenced by his young wife.
To the best of his knowledge that had started the argument.
Chuckling, he continues steadily through the passage, reaching the point where it rises up towards its original entrance.
Men are so easily influenced by those they have an emotional attachment to. Fortunately, or otherwise depending on your point of view, that’s a problem he’ll never suffer as he no longer has the capacity to love since a fateful meeting with the Mórrígan.
He reaches an apparently blank wall and stands quietly for a moment, listening.
Finally, satisfied that he hears nothing on the other side he reaches inside his leather jerkin and brings out a strange, intricately carved bone chanter and sets it to his lips. As he plays a simple melody, parts of the rock rearrange themselves and a thin passage appears, allowing him to step through into a large barn and storage area.
The rock closes behind him as it’s designed to. Replacing the instrument inside his jerkin, he strides to the stable where a sturdy hill pony awaits him.
“Good morning, Apples.” He slaps him on the neck and saddles him. “It looks like we’ll be travelling sooner than I thought. There’s trouble afoot and I, as usual, seem to be caught in the middle of it.”
He slips an unusual, bit-less bridle over the pony’s head and leads him to the front of the building, out into the early morning sunshine, latching the doors behind him.
Climbing into the saddle, he gives some thought to what he must do.
“It appears, old boy,” he addresses the pony, “that someone has been misbehaving and is trying to blame it on me. That just won’t do at all. They’ll find out soon enough that only the Piper calls the tune.”
He taps gently with his heels, as horse and rider head out to seek some answers.
The guards are still walking around inside the house tapping solid stone walls and banging wooden floors when Captain John Yovvan arrives.
“Sergeant! What t
he hell’s going on here? Where is the prisoner?” He shouts.
“Without wishing to state the obvious, sir, he’s not here.” The sergeant indicates the empty house. “He was here, when we arrived, and now he’s not.”
“What do you mean, now he’s not?”
“There’s something queer going on here, sir. He was up in the bedroom shouting down at us from the window. There was no other way out, was there?”
Looking round he points to the other guards who all nod in agreement.
“We broke the door down. We covered every inch of the place, and we didn’t find him.”
He nods his head to the doorway. “I’ve got the lads looking for a secret hiding holes or passages, but we haven’t found any yet.”
“He couldn’t just have climbed out of a window?” The captain looks at the shutters around the building.
The sergeant gestures towards the window they attacked earlier to show him what they had found.
“And they’re all like this?” The captain asks, genuinely intrigued.
“From what we’ve seen on the inside, all the downstairs ones and on the end of the house are false. They were put there to make it look like it had windows, when there were none.” The sergeant rubs his forehead. “The place is a fortress. It took quite a while to break that front door, even using the ram. I had men watching the upstairs windows and guarding the door while we searched the place. There really is nowhere he could’ve gone, but he’s not here.”
If it were some wet behind the ears guard telling him this, the captain might not have believed him.
He’s known Joshua for years and has no reason to doubt him. He does, however, now have reason to doubt his own appraisal of the man they knew as ‘William Gracie’.
“What kind of upper-class ‘fop’ has need of a place like this, and how would he have it built without anyone realising what it was?” He steps back, craning his neck upwards. “I suspect, Joshua, that this man isn’t who he seems to be.”
A very unhappy John Yovvan enters the castle, accompanied by Joshua, some time later.
The Wrong Scapegoat: A Mythic Fantasy Novel (Ravens of the Morrigan) Page 2