Jack of Ravens kots-1

by Mark Chadbourn

  As he did so, the rusty iron gate dropped down a foot from where it had been raised to the ceiling. They all started. ‘It must be on a timed release,’ Church said. ‘A drop every minute or so until it’s back in place.’

  ‘Better we do not linger, then,’ Will said, ‘lest we become three more treasures to add to this fine hoard.’

  ‘You flatter yourself, Swyfte. More dull lead than shining gold.’ Don Alanzo stood at the entrance to the chamber with three other men more brutish than the refined Spanish aristocrat. Behind them, Church could just make out another figure waiting in the shadows. The sense of threat was almost supernaturally powerful.

  Will’s hand went to his sword, but before he could draw it the three thugs raised their crossbows. Will relaxed, but Church could see him searching for a solution to the predicament. ‘Where is Rab?’ he said. And Kit?’

  ‘Poor guards for such a remarkable treasure.’ Don Alanzo could barely contain his smugness.

  In his face Church saw something that triggered a revelation. ‘You let us retrieve the skull for you.’

  ‘We have been observing your little group since you first set foot on English soil. Our spies are everywhere.’ Don Alanzo nodded and his men marched forward. They clubbed Will and Church to the floor. Tom got down willingly. The men tied Will, Church and Tom’s hands behind their backs and strapped them to a pillar as Don Alanzo retrieved the crystal skull from Will and slipped it into a leather pouch at his waist.

  The iron gate dropped another foot. Don Alanzo stooped to walk under it, where he was met by the figure that had been waiting in the shadows. Church was shocked to see it was the silver-masked spider-thing that had controlled the Redcaps in Cornwall.

  ‘Your master?’ Will asked.

  Don Alanzo swept an introductory arm towards the silent, black-robed thing. Apologies for my lack of good manners. This is Salazar, a wise and powerful man who will ensure that the rule of Rome returns to this godless land.’

  ‘He’s not human,’ Church said.

  One of the thugs aimed a hefty kick at the back of Church’s head. When his vision cleared, Don Alanzo and Salazar were already at the door. ‘And now,’ Don Alanzo said with a bow, ‘we only need to retake the Anubis Box and this business will have an end.’

  The gate dropped another foot; it was now only two feet above the ground.

  As the Spaniards left, Church saw Salazar’s blank silver mask turn directly towards him. In the movement, Church sensed a terrible note of finality.

  Will strained at his bonds as the gate fell again. ‘Do not give up hope. This rope has been tied by a child.’

  Church’s own bonds were too tight even to wriggle his hands.

  ‘Hurry!’ Tom snapped. ‘I do not wish to spend eternity with you two.’

  ‘I would prefer a beautiful woman,’ Will said. ‘Frankly, I would prefer a gap-toothed strumpet with the pox, but we are all beggars at the time of our passing.’

  He wrenched his hands free from the ropes just as the gate crashed to the flags with an echo like a tolling bell. Will jumped forward and futilely strained to lift it before turning back to Church and Tom.

  ‘Balfour will be back to free us?’ Tom said hopefully.

  ‘Rab is likely dead. Don Alanzo will have sealed the hidden door. We must not look for help from outside, friends.’

  ‘What do you suggest, then?’ Tom’s voice broke with the strain. ‘The lever to open this gate is on the other side of the gate! There’s nothing we can do!’

  ‘Then ’tis a slow death from starvation,’ Will said blithely. He prowled the perimeter of the room looking for inspiration.

  While Tom hugged his knees to contain his mounting panic, Church’s attention was drawn to a stream of water pouring through the stone ceiling. It splashed on the flags and ran into a gutter where it flowed away.

  ‘If we could prise out some of these stones we might be able to dig through the river bed,’ he said. ‘It can’t be far above our heads.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ Tom roared. ‘The waters would rush down upon us in an instant. Would you commit suicide by drowning?’

  ‘To be honest, it’s rapidly becoming an attractive prospect if it means I don’t have to listen to you any more,’ Church snapped.

  Will examined the point where the water rushed in. ‘I think you have hit on a good plan, Master Churchill.’

  ‘We hold our breath until the water has filled up this chamber, and then we should be able to swim up,’ Church said.

  ‘’Twill be an icy dip, but our limbs should stay strong until we reach the bank,’ Will noted.

  ‘You’re both mad,’ Tom raged.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Will said.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Still, desperate men lead desperate lives.’ Will searched in the depths of his cloak.

  ‘I could attack you both. Beat your brains out with this … this …’ Tom searched amongst the artefacts and randomly pulled one out. ‘This brass pig.’

  ‘We have swords,’ Church cautioned.

  ‘Though, a brass pig …’ Will mused. ‘As deaths go, the novelty would live on in history.’

  ‘If anyone ever found out,’ Church said.

  ‘Ah!’ Will plucked a small pouch from one of the many secret pockets in his cloak. Save your sword, Master Churchill. I have an easier route to a watery grave.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why, gunpowder!’

  Church glanced at Tom who was as white as the wintry streets above, but he appeared to have resigned himself to whatever Church and Will had planned.

  Will packed the gunpowder in the gap between the flags and pushed in a short fuse, also retrieved from the pouch.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a cloak like that,’ Church said. ‘Something for every occasion.’

  ‘The first thing they teach you as a spy is always to be prepared,’ Will said. ‘Actually, the first thing they teach you is to beware a woman who opens her legs before her mouth.’

  He struck his flint and lit the fuse before diving behind the pile of treasures where Church and Tom were already sheltering. Church had the briefest moment to mourn the loss of Templar wisdom and artefacts and then the blast struck him blind, deaf and dumb.

  It was followed by a torrent of water smashing into the pile of treasures. Church, Tom and Will just made it over to the railings before the full force of the deluge knocked the wind from their lungs. The water was so cold Church wondered if they really did stand a chance before hypothermia set in.

  Tom shivered uncontrollably as they climbed to the top of the gates. ‘You have killed me before my time! I should have known better than to entrust my life to two fools!’ he shouted above the deafening torrent.

  The sense of desperate claustrophobia and impending doom spiralled when the river extinguished the lamp and plunged them into darkness. Their bodies numb, they pressed their faces against the stones of the ceiling to fight for the last gasp of air. The water touched their lips, their noses, and then it was done. Church felt around for Tom and Will, then urged them both to move. They struck out for the gaping hole, feeling in the dark for its ragged edges.

  And then Church was drawing himself up through rock and mud until he felt the river’s current pulling at him. With frozen, tired limbs, he struck up and out towards what he hoped would be the bank.

  Minutes later he dragged himself out onto the snow-covered mud flat. Will broke water seconds later, but after his ordeal in the lever tunnel he had no strength left. Church waded in and dragged him out.

  ‘True Thomas,’ Will said through chattering teeth. ‘Where is he?’

  Church scanned the slow-moving water, but could see no sign. Steeling himself, his limbs shaking uncontrollably, he dived back into the river.

  It was impossible to see anything in the murky depths, so it was more by chance than design that he came across Tom’s too-still floating body. Church grabbed him and struck back to the surface.

  On th
e bank, Church gave Tom the kiss of life, pumping his lungs and massaging his heart but fearing the worst. After several moments Tom convulsed and vomited water.

  ‘You realise,’ Will said, ‘that you will now have to endure a lifetime of grumbles and moans for what you have put him through.’

  On the brink of hypothermia, they made it to the road. Marlowe stood next to the rope overhanging the drawbridge, clutching a cloth to a gash on his head.

  ‘I was afeared Don Alanzo had left you for dead,’ he said.

  ‘He may still have lest you get us to a warm fire,’ Will said. ‘What news of Rab?’

  ‘They took him,’ Marlowe said. ‘As I woke on the doorstep, I heard them in their passing. They know where the box is. They are on their way to Myddle.’

  14

  Lucia woke at first light, swathed in a gradually fading warmth and hallucinogenic memories of startling potency that already felt like the remnants of a dream. The liminal zone between the snow-covered fields and the dark recesses of Myddlewood was deserted. Nor were there even footprints to signify that anyone had been there apart from her and Niamh.

  Trying to draw some understanding from half-remembered visions, Lucia followed her own tracks back to the village. Smoke from morning fires was already rising into the chill red sky, but behind the cries of the winter birds hunting for food there was another sound that she couldn’t quite distinguish.

  On the edge of the village, the doors of Tyler’s farmhouse hung open despite the cold, and as she passed the parsonage heading towards Castle Farm House where her room was, she came across a small gathering of villagers. They were animated and tempers were fraying. John Gossage was yelling at the parson, who was attempting to calm them down.

  As she drew near, she saw a familiar figure hunched in the centre of the crowd. It was Jerzy, not wearing his mask. His white, grinning face was contorted with fear as blows and kicks rained down on him.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Lucia yelled.

  As she ran forward to intervene, a hooded figure stepped out from under the eaves of Castle Farm House and pointed an accusing finger at her.

  ‘Here she is — the witch!’ he shouted. ‘She’s come to call on the demon she’s summoned up!’

  The knot of villagers surged towards Lucia, men and women, young and old, and dragged her forward in a storm of scratching, pinching and biting. Stunned, Lucia was driven to her knees before the parson.

  ‘A witch in our midst!’ John Gossage raged. ‘She has brought the Devil to Myddle! You must act now, before it is too late for our souls!’

  The parson nodded. Take her to the churchyard. We must ask our Lord to deliver to us the truth. Bind her mouth to prevent her uttering spells.’

  ‘Leave her be! She has done nothing!’ Jerzy shrieked, but it only inflamed the villagers more.

  As Lucia was dragged towards the churchyard, her eyes locked on those of the hooded man who had branded her a witch. He smiled darkly.

  ‘Better late than never,’ Veitch said.

  15

  The coach raced across the countryside, but however much the wheels bounced over the frozen, rutted lanes of middle England or threw Church, Will and Tom around the coach’s interior, to Church it was still moving at a snail’s pace.

  To Will, used to a horse-based transport system, they were making rapid progress and he remained calm and in good spirits. But every time they stopped to feed and water the horses or to take detours to avoid bandits in the thick Midlands forests, or stopped at a roadside inn for an entire night, Church’s anxiety increased. It wasn’t just his concern for Lucia, Jerzy and Niamh, but his fear over what the Army of the Ten Billion Spiders planned to do with the Anubis Box and the crystal skull.

  Myddle was far from the main coaching routes so they were forced to buy horses once they crossed the border into Shropshire. The lanes and tracks were thick with snow and the going was hard. They came upon the village in the late afternoon when the light was growing thin and the air becoming bitter.

  Across the still fields where only the mournful sounds of birds rose up, they became aware of a commotion in the trees that clustered hard against the lane.

  ‘What is that?’ Tom strained to hear. ‘A hunt?’

  Church heard the howls of dogs and the whoops of men. Vegetation crashed.

  ‘It is too dark to see,’ Will said. ‘This is not the time of year to hunt with dogs.’

  Something broke out of the trees and lurched through the thick snow of the lane ahead. In the half-light, Church couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing, but as the figure scrambled to get into the trees on the other side he accepted it was the Mocker.

  Church urged his horse on. Jerzy shrieked and redoubled his efforts to get over a thick hedge. ‘Jerzy! It’s me!’ Church called.

  The Mocker spun in a blind panic. ‘They come! They hunt!’

  Church could hear the dogs drawing closer. The commotion in the undergrowth was loud enough to be made by ten men. Church reached down and lifted Jerzy to his saddle and then spurred his horse on, with Will and Tom riding close behind.

  ‘You should have kept your mask on, you idiot!’ Church called above the beat of the hoofs. But Jerzy only sobbed uncontrollably in response and Church felt guilty for his tone.

  The Mocker had calmed a little by the time they reached the village. Church was hesitant about entering until Jerzy’s face was covered but Will urged them on.

  ‘The box?’ he shouted to the Mocker as they rode. ‘Is it still here?’

  ‘The riders have taken it. And my mistress!’ Jerzy broke down in another bout of shrieks and sobs.

  ‘We must find the direction they took and give pursuit,’ Will said. He grabbed Jerzy’s shoulder to calm him and asked, ‘They have Lucia, too?’

  The Mocker fell silent, and then pointed one trembling finger. In the yard before Castle Farm House, Lucia hung from a makeshift gibbet, as cold as the impending night. Her clothes had been partly torn to reveal white skin covered with the marks of torture. Her black hair hung across her face. The quiet of the yard was only broken by the creak of the rope as she swung in the breeze.

  Church was frozen in his saddle, the horrific image seared on his mind. Will ran towards the body, slowing as he neared it. Lucia was dead, there was no doubt.

  Will did not turn back to the others for a long moment, and when he did, his face looked like the winter fields. ‘There will be a reckoning,’ he said grimly. Was this the work of Don Alanzo?’

  The Mocker shook his head furiously and tears welled up in his eyes. ‘The people here found out she was a witch. They said she consorted with the Devil-’ His voice caught in a juddering sob.

  ‘She doesn’t even believe in the Devil,’ Church exclaimed. ‘It’s madness. This whole country is insane.’

  ‘The whole world, brother,’ Will said quietly. ‘Europe is gripped with a fear of witches and the priests fan the flames. I fear where it will end.’ The strain of the journey finally told on his face.

  Jerzy said to Church, A stranger drove them to this. A man who speaks like you … a tattooed man …’

  Church bowed his head. He was overwhelmed by the sheer pointlessness of everything that he did. His fears crystallised into one clear certainty: things were only going to get worse.

  16

  They cut down Lucia’s body in the bitter cold, beneath hard grey clouds that promised more snow. Church tried to keep in his head the image of Lucia sitting amongst the standing stones after they had left Rome, telling him not to mourn for her when she died. But faced with the harsh reality of her limp body and cold skin, and the unnecessary circumstances of her death, it was difficult not to turn towards dark thoughts.

  Will remained cold-faced, all emotions locked tightly within. Church knew the spy had started to feel deeply for Lucia, and there was nothing Church could say to ease his pain. He couldn’t even sustain anger for the ignorant villagers, manipulated into a brutal, false reading of their religion.
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br />   ‘We should bury her,’ Church said.

  ‘The ground will be like iron,’ Will said. ‘Besides, these illiterate, superstitious peasants would never let her rest in peace if they knew the location of her grave.’

  ‘What, then? Cremation?’

  They were interrupted by a woman’s cry from a nearby house. Tom investigated, and after a moment beckoned Church to follow while Will stood guard over Lucia’s body, though all the villagers had long since hidden themselves away.

  The house smelled of woodsmoke and dried herbs. Tom led Church upstairs to a bedroom where a woman sobbed quietly. On the bed, her skin as white as the snow outside, was a girl of around seventeen. She was heavily pregnant and appeared to be sleeping though her breath was thready.

  ‘She’s dying,’ Tom whispered to Church. ‘She hasn’t woken for days. She had a fever, then slipped into unconsciousness. The birth has started and the mother knows the baby will die, too.’ Tom indicated the woman in the corner who was trying to compose herself.

  ‘What am I supposed to do about it?’ Church said sharply, but his bitterness at Lucia’s death drained away when he looked at the girl. Life was harsh, and in the absence of proper medical care, death remained close to every community. All the love and hope and dreams and art and music counted for nothing in the face of it. Where was the meaning in that, any rhyme or reason to Existence?

  ‘My Alice suffers because we allowed the witch into our village. God is punishing us,’ the woman said.

  ‘No,’ Church said. ‘That “witch” was a woman like you, like your daughter, with the same feelings, the same thoughts. What kind of God would want to bring pain or death into her life?’

  Tom caught Church’s arm, but the woman was already crying. Church knew she needed some way to make sense of her impending loss; everyone did. It was so senseless.

  As he watched over the pale girl, his thoughts flashed back to Carn Euny and the dawn celebration for Ailidh’s stillborn child. Eighteen hundred years separated the two girls, yet their concerns were the same. Hope and sadness; humanity in essence.