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

by Cornelius Flynn

  He sighs heavily, his breath a thick white cloud in the clear winter air, and pats his steed on the neck.

  “Why me, Apples?”

  He looks from the edge of the wood back towards the town.

  “It was all going so well. I can only assume that I severely irritated some god in a previous life, don’t you know?”

  He gently taps the sturdy pony with his heels, and they begin the slow descent towards the town, his mind working furiously.

  “If you have no further need of me, Lord Abbot, I shall retire for some prayer and contemplation.”

  The monk bows to his superior.

  “Certainly, Brother Alphonsus, you have discharged your duties with care as usual and the order is in good hands. May the peace of Our Lord be with you.”

  The abbot makes the sign of the cross in the air between them.

  “And also with your spirit.”

  He returns the gesture and retires from the abbot’s office, closing the door.

  Passing monks on the way who simply bow and exchange formalised greetings with him as they do every day, he returns to his room.

  He watches the smiles on their peaceful faces and thanks his Lord that he’s not like them.

  Soon he’s inside his own office and sliding the bolt into place, so those outside will believe he’s attempting to commune with their god.

  “Such weak-minded fools.” He sighs as he moves to the rear and reaches behind the books to release a latch. “How happy I am that they exist.”

  He slips back the rug to clear the heavily waxed floor and slides the bookcase away, with little effort, revealing a hidden passage. He steps through, pulling it shut behind him.

  In the months he’s been here he has walked this route many times and knows every lump, bump and nuance of the stone flagged floor, and the brick sides of the entranceway to the inner chamber.

  If the regular rank and file of the sheep outside had any brains at all, he reasons, they would have worked out that something wasn’t right about the construction of the building, but that’s why he loves them.

  Obedient, pious and imbued with as much intelligence as a rock.

  He smiles and shakes his head as he reaches the end of the passage and descends to the hidden cellar.

  Bronwyn is kneeling by the side of her husband’s bed, seemingly deep in prayer, when Elena enters and finds her.

  She rushes across the room, her skirts swishing loudly, to kneel and put her arm around her shoulder pulling her close.

  “Dear sister, I thought I would find you here.”

  “I haven’t left his side. The healers are doing what they can, but that doesn’t seem to be much.” Bronwyn’s face is stained by her tears.

  “My lady, we are doing all within our power to assist our prince. His colour is good, his breathing is steady, he simply does not wake. We can do no more for him yet.” The senior monk bows.

  She lifts her head, her eyes red from weeping, and regards the healer. “My apologies, brother, I feel so helpless. I want to do more. I want someone, anyone to do more, to help my husband.”

  Elena pulls her even closer. “Oh sweet Bronwyn, we can’t do anything to help, you and I. Unless… But no, you don’t wish to leave him, I understand.”

  Her sister-in-law looks at her. “What? You were going to say something? What was it?”

  “It’s just that you said you wanted to stay with him, but I was going to suggest you come with me.” Elena replies.

  “Come with you where? And why would coming with you help my husband?” Bronwyn’s eyes open wider, examining Elena’s face, looking for anything that might assist her husband.

  “I was going to make prayers and offerings at the temple to try to ensure a speedy recovery and ask the abbot to send a messenger to the College. It may be that we can do nothing, but surely our saviour can intervene?” Elena suggests.

  “I’ve been praying to him all morning, I don’t think he hears me.” Bronwyn’s shoulders slump.

  “But, dear sister, if we go and speak to him in his own house, bringing offerings pleasing to him, then he’ll listen?”

  She turns and lifts her eyes to the heavens outside the window.

  “He is the bringer of life, and he nurtures our existence, surely he’ll listen to us if we call upon him?”

  Her sister-in-law nods slowly. “Surely he will.”

  She stands and leans over the bed to kiss her sleeping husband on the forehead. “Be safe, my beloved, I shall return shortly and hopefully our god will hear me.”

  The two monks rise and bow to the ladies as they leave.

  The door at the far end of the subterranean room opens and two figures enter together, the upper halves of their faces covered by masks carrying the relief of a lion’s head.

  Robes rustle as they take places at the long table which dominates the middle of the room.

  A row of ladders down one side in a shadowed gallery afford another entry to this hidden chamber.

  The door opens again and a large figure enters, having to duck under the lintel and grunting, closing it behind them. They wear a similar mask to hide their features.

  The arrivals continue for a time and those already present help themselves to wine from the carafes on the table as they talk quietly.

  The leader observes all this from the heavy, wooden chair at its head, running his fingers over the carved bull motif on the armrests as he waits for everyone to arrive.

  Leaving his pony at an inn on the edge of the town William Gracie carefully travels through the back alleys in the commercial district, helping himself to the occasional article of clothing on the way.

  By the time he arrives in the square outside the castle he looks like a typical peddler who might have a stall there.

  He changes his gait, faking an inwards turn of his right foot that makes him appear to have a slight limp and drops one shoulder to alter his profile. The hood is pulled down over his eyes as he approaches the castle, planning an entry through the stable gate at the right-hand side, closer to the river.

  About to leave the cover to head towards the castle walls, he feels something small and solid bounce off his head. He stops and looks around but can see nothing, at least nothing loose that could have fallen on him.

  Setting off once more, another missile, for that’s what these must be, strikes him. He catches movement in the shadows behind the tavern that appears to be a beckoning hand.

  Reasoning that he’s already in enough trouble anyway he decides there can’t be any harm going to see what it wants.

  He enters the dark side of the stone tavern and its wooden barn, which still holds enough hay and straw for the whole winter, and sees a slim figure waiting for him.

  “What are you doing?” A female voice whispers hoarsely.

  “Me? What am I doing?” He stares at her. “Probably something that’s none of your business. Stop throwing things at me!”

  “Idiot!” She hisses at him. “You’re going to get yourself arrested, walking up to the castle like that. I know you think your disguises are excellent, but nobody else agrees with you, William!”

  “Really? You didn’t like the limp? I thought it was quite efficacious.” His brows draw together as he tries to identify the speaker.

  She grabs his hood and yanks him deeper into the side of the barn. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? I thought you had more brains than that!”

  His eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. “Lindy! What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Saving you from yourself, apparently, and especially from your stupidity.” Her frustration is evident.

  “Stupidity? I’m just trying to find out what the hell’s going on.” He yawns and rubs his head. “Admittedly, the hangover isn’t helping.”

  “The whole castle guard is on alert looking for you. They all know exactly what you look like and you decided you could limp a bit and make it past them? It’s not all the hangover. You know what I think, William?” />
  She pauses, just long enough to make him believe he can get a few words in, and continues.

  “You were feeling angry and decided to come here and find out who was framing you, and what for. Maybe you planned to punch them in the face for a while until you felt better about things. That’s what I think.”

  “I can assure you that was not my plan.” He looks insulted. “I was going to drag them down to the river and drown them repeatedly instead.”

  She laughs. “How can you drown someone repeatedly?”

  “Well, you hold them underwater until they stop breathing then bring them up. You slap them around the face, and when they start spluttering again you hold them under, and ... sort of repeat it.”

  He shrugs and smiles in his usual disarming way.

  She shakes her head. “Come over here and sits down before you do anything else, and we can try to figure a way out of this for you.”

  “I’m hurt, Lindy. I’m cut to the quick that you would think my brilliant plan to be so stupid. I shall come and sit with you but I wish to make it clear, right now, that I am doing so in protest and that you’re simply delaying my inevitable triumph.”

  He tugs on his tunic, straightening it.

  “Oh, shut up, William.” She pushes him down to sit on a bale of hay and explains the situation.

  The two women, wrapped in furs, their heads covered against the cold winter air, arrive at the temple entrance accompanied by four guards.

  “Please, wait here a moment, my ladies.” The corporal steps forward and opens the main door, looking inside.

  “Why do we wait?” Bronwyn enquires.

  “We have orders from the Prince Regent to ensure your safety, my lady. The attackers may still be in the town, and we can’t risk them hurting you or his wife.”

  He gestures to the first two guards who pass him and enter the temple checking for anything out of the ordinary as he waits with the ladies..

  “All clear, corporal. Nobody we don’t know.”

  “It’s safe for us to enter, my ladies, but we must remain with you. We’ve no choice in this matter, direct orders, so please, don’t argue.”

  He avoids their eyes, fixing his view on their feet. “We’ll not interfere with your prayers or your offerings, but we must ensure your safety.”

  “We shan’t prevent you from doing your duty, corporal. Fear not. We have come to commune with our God and I’m sure he has room for you in his temple too.”

  Elena smiles at the guard, takes her sister by the arm, and they enter together, moving towards the large altar beyond a row of carved marble pillars.

  Two of the monks recognise them, and offer to assist in their observances.

  “I’ll retire to a penitence cell and make my prayers there, dear sister, as first I fear my sins must be forgiven before our God will listen to me.”

  Elena indicates the approaching monks. “If you have no objections, I’ll leave you in the capable hands of the brothers here and join you after a time.”

  “I understand, dear Elena, you’ve been a great support to me. I can’t believe that you’ve erred much, but each of us must stand before our god with a pure heart to bask in the rays of his creation.”

  They hug briefly.

  “I’ll make my offerings and kneel in prayer. You may join me when you’re ready.”

  The lady Elena closes the door of the penitent cell and slides the wooden bolt into place.

  An image of the Saviour, the one true god, is carved in golden oak above the kneeler.

  She places an incense stick into the holder and lights it from the slow burning candle kept within the cells for just that purpose. Satisfied that it will smoke steadily for the time required, she removes a metal pronged device from her cloak and inserts it into the right-hand side of the wooden kneeler.

  She hears a click and pivots the whole carved panel backwards to reveal the hollow wall and ladder.

  Above it hangs a mask in relief, like the upper half of the face of a lion, which she puts on before descending to the cellar below.

  She takes her place in the vacant chair at the table and nods to the head of the order whose anonymity, like most others present, is assured by a simple monk’s robe and golden mask.

  She muses for a few moments about how she’s not afforded the same anonymity here, since many at the table might recognise her from her gait or her clothing or other accoutrements.

  “Since we’re all here, let us begin.”

  The head of the order rises and lifts his goblet, all the others in the room match his actions, holding their drinks high.

  His voice booms out in the enclosed space.

  “Born of stone, He is our rock.”

  The others respond in unison.

  “Astride the bull, He rides victorious.”

  They all drink, then sit ready for the business at hand.

  “Our plans are in place and now is the time for us to examine and nurture them if we are to succeed here.” The leader turns to the man at his right. “Soldier, your report for everyone present, please.”

  He stands, his rank indicated by the ceremonial lance on the rear of his chair.

  “Our agent carried out the attack as planned. I was present at the scene afterwards. He successfully killed all the bodyguards and struck down the prince. He assures me he administered the draught as required and removed the item which you requested.”

  “What of the other?” Their leader asks.

  “The scapegoat was implicated by the method prescribed in the original plan, but I can’t speak to the efficacy of this, since I wasn’t party to later events.” The Soldier replies.

  “I am sure there are others who can do so. Thank you, Soldier.”

  The head of the order indicates another at the far end of the table. “Persian, what have you to say?”

  He stands, a golden sickle adorns the rear of his chair.

  “Venerable Ordo, I attended with the guard party as ordered by the captain to arrest the one you chose to blame for these actions. They accept the evidence, and we surrounded his house to take him into custody. We were unsuccessful.”

  “Was he not there?” The head responds.

  “He was there, and then he wasn’t. I don’t know how he escaped us, but there must be a hidden passage to his home which allowed his egress.”

  “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised. Are you certain he couldn’t simply have slipped past you all?” The leader sounds unhappy.

  “As certain as I can be.” The Persian spreads his hands. “Men covered the outside of the house as we searched inside, and we didn’t find him. There was the usual talk of witchcraft and magic, but I honestly believe there’s simply a hidden way we’ve not yet uncovered.”

  “Now, that’s interesting. Why would this supposedly simple fop have such a thing built into his house? We must give more thought to this. Perhaps we’ve inadvertently chosen the wrong scapegoat.” He turns to the only woman present. “Well, my Lioness, can you report upon the state of the prince?”

  Elena rises to her feet, the rear of her chair adorned with a laurel wreath.

  “He lies unconscious, as we expected. His failure to awaken indicates the draught has been effective as anticipated. He shows no sign of stirring and the healers report they are baffled.”

  “There are no other injuries upon him? Well, at least nothing serious?” The leader asks.

  Elena shakes her head. “Just some bruising, Venerable Ordo, nothing out of the ordinary.”

  “And his wife, how is she taking this, and does she still trust you?” His questioning continues.

  “She is as a sister to me and accompanied me here today. She is making offerings and prayers to her one true god, as I suggested.” She smiles.

  “Good. Then all is as it should be. How fares the prince’s brother?” He asks her.

  “He’s been made Regent, as expected, and is open to my counsel as always.” Elena’s smile widens.

  “Thank
you. Everything is working and should soon come to fruition.”

  The leader leans back in his carved chair.

  “Why didn’t we just kill him immediately?” The question comes from a youth seated close to the entrance, at the far end of the cellar, his robe still crisp and clean.

  “My young Rook, you are fairly new to our fold, but in future please remember the protocol under which we operate before blurting out questions.” The leader raises a finger in his direction.

  “I beg your forgiveness, Venerable Ordo. I shall remember in future.” He stands and bows.

  “That’s good to know. Now, in answer to your question, it was not our intention to kill him. If he dies, our plan cannot come to fruition. Please, accept that your elders know what they are doing and let’s have no more outbursts.”

  Another of the members places his hand, palm down, on the solid wooden table and waits to be acknowledged.

  “Yes, my elder Rook, you have a question?” The leader indicates that he may speak.

  The member stands. “Are we certain that our agent wasn’t seen. If someone reports what they saw during the attack, our plan of blaming the other and claiming a group carried it out will be exposed.”

  “A valid concern, and one which can be answered by our Soldier here who employed the man, I am sure.” Their leader points to the Soldier.

  Rising to his feet, the Soldier responds.

  “The one we employed has a special gift. He assures me that he knows when someone is watching him. We’ve tested this and found it to be true. It’s uncanny. As soon as someone’s eye alights upon him, he senses it and can respond. If he says he was not seen — he was not seen.”

  “And what of the poison which he used? Can you explain why it is so efficacious for our purpose.”

  The head of the order poses the question to the Soldier.

  “The liquid was provided to us by another source and there’s no known antidote. However, it must be re-administered every two days or the subject will begin to awaken.”

  The Soldier turns to address the whole group.

  “As long as he’s under its influence he will remain unconscious and can be kept like that for quite a while, although with prolonged use his body will atrophy and death will overtake him.”