Minutes pass and Piper feels his pain receding.
She leans away after giving him one last peck on the cheek.
“That was good stuff, got any more?” He chuckles.
The maid snorts. “If I gave you any more you’d pass out cold, and then we’d never get you out of here. That will have to be enough. Come on, up on your feet, let’s go.”
He protests a little until she pulls him off the pallet and makes him stand. Blood rushes away from his head and he staggers. Without her support he’s sure he’d simply fall over and smash his face on the stone floor.
With effort he steps through the door, and they reach the passage outside. His eyes are adjusting to the brightness, and he sees the three guards slumped around the table.
“You killed them all?” He asks.
“No, stupid, they’re asleep. We put something in their wine.”
He nods. “That makes more sense.”
He’d have no problem killing them, had they been involved in this plot against him, but one had to make an effort to protect the innocent. He turns towards the exit and the girl grabs his arm steering him in the opposite direction.
“I may be a bit woozy, but I’m sure we go left from my cell, not right.”
“We’re not using that exit.” She replies. “I know what I’m doing.”
In his befuddled state he simply nods and allows her to lead him deeper into the cellar. After a short time, they arrive at a blank wall at the end of the passage.
“Is this where we say the magic word, the wall opens, and we walk through?” He asks in his hazy state.
“No. We don’t use the wall and only you’re exiting this way.” She points at a grate in the floor.
He looks down at it as she illuminates it with the lamp. “It doesn’t appear to have a lock.” He crouches. “And I’m too fat to fit through the bars, which is probably why they put them there. How am I supposed to get out through that?”
He tugs ineffectually at the solid iron bars set into the stone floor. “See?”
She places the lamp next to the grate and squats down beside him, laughing.
“I believe, as someone has said many times in the past, it’s time for the Piper to call the tune.”
His head spins around to look at her, bringing with it a wave of nausea and dizziness that quickly passes. “How do you…?” He stops and stares at her closely. “You have to be-”
She nods. “Yes, Piper. Some of us don’t look that different to your own race. Now, play us a tune and get out of here!”
He smiles and reaches his hand inside his ragged cloth shirt to draw out the ornately carved, bone chanter and begins to play. He concentrates and the opening in front of him, set with the metal rods , shimmers and sparkles.
Reaching down, he grasps the bars and pulls them up through the stone, which has now taken on the consistency of soft clay.
Piper inches over the hole he’s created, lowering himself down until his bare feet make contact with the slimy stones and water below.
“I’ll put the bars back.” She helps him to the edge. “Make sure you harden the stone before you leave. We wouldn’t want them to think you were using some demonic magic to get away would we?” She laughs again.
“Thank you…” He pauses. “I know we’ve met before, but I don’t even know your name.”
“And you’ve no need to, Piper. Your friends wait at the end of the tunnel. Get out of here.”
She levers the bars back into place, pushing them through the soft stone until they’re at the right angle and holds them while he plays one more tune.
“Here he comes.” Filippo says in a hoarse whisper.
Less than a minute later, Piper emerges from the smelly water tunnel and repeats his feat with the bars at this exit, to leave no trace of his passage.
“That really is a neat trick.” Wildcat observes. “Can I borrow the flute sometime and have a go?”
“Oh yes.” Piper leans on them. “I’m always lending it to people so they can go off and be the Piper instead of me.”
“I only asked.” Grabbing his arm, she helps him up the bank of the stream assisted by Filippo lifting him from below.
“Plus,” he grits his teeth as he’s manhandled up the slope, “it’s not a flute!”
“You blow into it and it makes music.” She mutters. “I don’t see as it makes any difference what we call it.”
Filippo climbs up to join them. “Come on, let’s get back to the Tavern and clean you up.”
“Why, thank you”. Piper winces as they walk away. “I would like a nice bath to get all the stink off.”
He shakes his head and supports Piper under his shoulders with one arm as they make their way through the darkened streets to safety.
Back at the castle, the Fae serving maid returns to Piper’s cell and places the manacles carefully on the pallet then leaves the cell, locking and bolting it behind her.
Returning the keys to the corporal’s belt, she sits him upright in his chair, after similarly arranging the other two guards. She stands back, concentrates and claps sharply.
A flash of light leaves her hands and flickers across the floor, table, walls and sleeping humans. They wake up with a start and look around.
“So if you’re done with the plates, I can take those back too?” She asks as though simply continuing a conversation.
The corporal looks at her and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, girl. I think I was daydreaming there. Yes, please take them. I’ll come and let you out now.”
Gathering everything from the table she puts them onto the simple wooden tray. Her plain woollen dress swishes against the chairs as she follows the Corporal to the entrance, where he slides back the bars and allows her to exit.
She nods to the two guards outside and walks across the courtyard smiling to herself.
There’s a twinkle in her eye, as she imagines what tales they will come up with to explain the disappearance of the man they know as William Gracie.
Chapter 12
“What do you mean, he’s gone?” Captain Yovvan arrives at the prison cells to be greeted with the bad news.
“We went to check on him after midnight, and he wasn’t there. Come and see for yourself, captain.” The duty sergeant replies.
He follows the man to the cell. “It was locked and bolted?”
“Yes, Sir. Just as you see it now. I put things back the way they were to make it clear to you.”
“Are you sure you all didn’t just fall asleep, and he escaped somehow?”
“Nobody slept, sir. We were playing cards at the table when we noticed it was time to check on him. The night guards had only been on duty for three hours.”
He unlocks the door, draws back the bolts and then opens it, so they can both enter the small cell.
“Did you do this?” John Yovvan asks, pointing at the manacles lying on the straw pallet, exactly where they’d be if they still held the prisoner’s limbs.
“No, that’s how we found them. Nothing’s been disturbed. As soon as we saw he was missing, we came to get you.”
The captain kneels by the bed looking around and under it. Rising, he stamps his feet on the floor and kicks the walls.
“We already did that. It’s all solid, sir. There’s nowhere he could’ve gone.”
John shakes his head and looks around. Taking a deep breath, he pauses then lets it out slowly.
“First he disappears from his house, and we find no other way out, then he escapes from our locked cell, while manacled, and again there’s no way out. The man’s a ghost!”
Behind his back, the sergeant makes a sign of protection against the evil eye.
John re-enters the castle.
He spends more time than usual kicking the snow from his boots as he debates whether or not to wake Prince David. He knows this is important news, but also that nothing that can be done about it — the man’s vanished, and now he has to decide whether or not he believes in magic.
/> He’s certain there’s a logical explanation for what’s happened, he just can’t think of one. At all.
After pacing and muttering for a while in front of the smouldering fire in the great Hall he steels his resolve and heads toward the Prince-Regent’s private apartments.
His echoing footfalls sound deafening in the silence of the night. Straightening his belt, he marches purposefully along the upper corridor and indicates to the two guards that he wishes to enter the prince’s chambers.
They stand aside as he raps on the door with his gloved hand and waits. He’s not relishing this conversation at all.
“Do you think he will try to harm my brother?” David asks as he sits looking at John Yovvan in his chambers, rubbing his eyes.
“I can’t say, your grace. Prince Llewellyn is guarded at all times, but if he can walk through walls then why hasn’t he struck already?” His pose remains upright and respectful.
“Are we sure none of the guards would assist him?”
“I personally vetted everyone in the castle, with assistance from Mister Bracken, and any whose histories were suspect or who didn’t regularly attend the temple were removed. Only those loyal to your brother remain in the castle to guard him.”
“Have the knights been assisting you?”
“Forgive me for saying so, your grace,” John tries to relax his shoulders, “but something still doesn’t feel right about them. They’re a little too keen to assist me.”
“Too keen?” The prince yawns and scratches his armpit. “You did just lose our only suspect. Might some ‘keen-ness’ not have been helpful?”
The captain sighs. “They’re too forward in their offers of assistance. In the past they weren’t interested in any political matters within Upper Gwynedd, yet now they offer martial help and healers. At the same time, requesting constant updates are from us.”
David frowns. “Perhaps they’re simply worried that they’ll lose their source of income should anything happen to my brother?”
“That’s a possibility, sire, but since your dear wife is a strong supporter of their aims, and you attend regularly too, then I don’t see any funding being interrupted.”
The prince sighs. “Yes, Elena wants us to have a new statue dedicated within the temple grounds.”
He thinks for a moment rubbing his head and running his fingers backwards through his hair as he stretches.
“I suggest you talk to Charles about this. It’s fair to assume that you’ve turned out the whole guard, and they’re out searching for William?”
“Oh yes. All of them, including the stable hands. Runners were sent to all the gates, and we’re watching every way out of the town. If he’s still here, he won’t get away.”
The Lady Elena listens and smiles to herself, standing behind the open door to their shared bed chamber.
Early the next morning a very tired John Yovvan receives the Lord Marshal in the small room he jokingly refers to as his office, adjacent to the guard tower.
“Greetings, captain.” They shake hands. “I heard about the problem last night and came to offer my assistance.”
John sits down again, pointing the marshal to the other chair. “I see that bad news travels as quickly as ever.”
“The whole town is buzzing with it. It would be hard to miss. I just wanted to let you know that I bear you no ill will after our disagreement in the temple.”
“I suppose you are now going to tell me that had we left him in your care he wouldn’t have escaped?”
“You mean you expect me to say, I told you so?” He chuckles. “No, I’m not that petty. You kept him manacled as we suggested?”
“That we did. Manacled and locked inside a cell with ironclad fittings and solid stone walls floor and ceiling, which apparently he walked through.”
The marshal laughs. “Is that what they say?”
“So far, that appears to be what I say.” John swirls the dregs around in the bottom of his tankard. “Nothing can hold this man. A stone built house, or a stone built prison cell, he just vanishes.”
“Which is why I’ve said all along that foul sorceries must be involved. The evidence you shared from his dwelling does indicate his contact with such.” The marshal leans forward. “Tell me, had anyone ever heard of him before he turned up and became rich and influential a decade ago?”
“He carried papers from the Druidic College in Aberffraw and was obviously wealthy, why would anyone question him?” He swills the last of the weak ale around his mouth. “You really think he managed to fake his life here for ten years, just so he could hatch a plot against our prince and the state?”
“I sent messages to Aberffraw, by means available to us from the temple, and received replies this morning indicating that no one there has heard of the man.” The marshal shrugs and opens his hands. “His claims of belonging to an aristocratic family are false.”
John leans forward. “You’re certain of this?”
“Absolutely certain. The man doesn’t exist. There is no such Gracie family in Aberffraw. They own no lands thereabout. The coat of arms is false. The patents are false.”
“So we have to assume he really is a spy. I wouldn’t have believed it.” He bangs his tankard down on the table, dropping his weight back in his chair. “I’ve known the man the whole time he’s been here, and he had me fooled — completely.”
“Such is the way with the best of spies.” Marshal Percey removes a small snuff box from his pouch and offers it to the captain, who refuses. “They wouldn’t be very good at their jobs if they could be detected easily. Please, I know we got off on the wrong foot in our previous dealings, captain, but let us assist you.”
“I have to ask, marshal, why are you so keen to help? Your temple has never been so forthcoming in the past.”
“Our dear abbot is not a political animal, captain.” The marshal snorts deeply from the back of his hand and puts the box away. “The Knightly Order, however, was created for dealing with politics and intrigue, so that those called to a holier type of life might be protected from such things.”
John smiles. “I see. You get your hands dirty, so they don’t have to?”
The marshal laughs again. “Perhaps not the way I’d have put it, but concise nonetheless.”
“Very well.” John stands and offers his hand. “Let’s make a fresh start, marshal, but please, no more brutality on prisoners we wish to interview.”
He stands and accepts his hand grasping it firmly.
“We’ll do things your way to the best of our ability, captain, I assure you.”
No snow is falling, and the slightly warmer air has the cobbled streets clearing in the main thoroughfares.
The traders have been busy, although interrupted by extra security checks from the guards seeking their missing prisoner, when the first signs of trouble appear.
A large group of knights marches up to the first business by the end of the market, accompanied by monks from the Temple of the Saviour. A discussion takes place between them. The monks shake their heads and the knights approach the owner gesticulating towards the town exit.
Two of them move forward and nail a board to the man’s stall bearing the symbol of a circle intersected diagonally into quarters. He objects and tries to remove it but one quick push from the nearest soldier puts him flat on his back in the melting snow water.
The group move on to the next market stall and the process is repeated.
“What’s happening?” The glove maker asks a passing guard. “What’re they doing? Why’d no one help the trader when they struck him?”
He stops and looks back at the group of knights.
“We got new orders, Master Glover. Only them as is loyal to the prince and the temple are gonna be allowed to trade here next week.”
“Where else can they trade?”
“That’s not our problem.” The sandy haired guard replies. “We just follows orders. They’ll not be allowed into the town, and they’ll be arrested
if we finds them here.”
“What’s that mark they are putting on their stalls?”
“It shows they don’t follow the One God and aren’t welcome.”
“What of those who have permanent businesses in the town?”
The glover points to the cobbled streets with their brightly painted signs hanging outside the wooden workshops.
“They’d better hope they’ve been going to temple, or they’ll be out too.”
He watches fascinated as the knights continue with their task of marking the traders for expulsion.
The silence and beauty of his forest glade is disturbed by the sound of an approaching group.
Twigs break, branches rustle, birds take flight chattering to each other about the disturbance.
“Godwick!” The first of them arrive tumbling into the clearing. “Godwick! It’s terrible. They’re throwing us out of town. What can we do?”
The old druid rises from his cross-legged position in one smooth movement and turns to greet them.
“Calm down. Come, all of you, over here and sit down. Calm yourselves and then tell me why you’re so agitated.”
“But, it’s the town.” They all try to babble at once.
He slams the heel of his staff into the earth, sending out a shock wave in an expanding circle. Immediately all conversation ceases as they look into his bearded face.
“That’s better.” He says using a measured tone. “Now, sit down, calm yourselves, and we’ll talk.”
They comply, in awe of his presence.
Once they’re ready he speaks with them. He hears all their individual reports of what’s happened that day.
“I will do what I can, to assist you all.” He smiles as a soft, warm light fills the forest clearing. “Do not be afraid. Return to your homes, those that still have them, and help care for those that do not. I will see that this is dealt with. Trust me.”
Once they’ve left he stands in the middle of his sacred glade and stretches out his arms, planting his feet firmly into the soil of the forest floor, as he draws from it to fuel the fire of his anger.
The Wrong Scapegoat: A Mythic Fantasy Novel (Ravens of the Morrigan) Page 18