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Richard Crawford
Tuesday 4 October 2016
Sunday 31 August 2014
The Gravedigger's Precipice
The
Gravedigger's Precipice
Despite
the rain, Matthew whistled while he worked; a lilting, cheerful melody that fled
across the trimmed grass, over the stone wall and into the dark, silent trees. He'd earn a sixpence for the morning's work,
and another two pennies when the Priest had said his piece. The town would pay
for this one; he might have earned more from a grieving family, but at least he
was alone with his work and unhindered by the trouble of being social.
His
spade cut easily through the damp turf. With
practised ease he scythed through earth worms and roots, deeper and deeper,
watching out for bones and body parts: this was a well-used section of the
graveyard.
He
paid no attention to the slack body on the cart, though he did glance over to
check Bessie every now and then, each time finding her contentedly cropping
grass, also unconcerned by the rain or the company.
The
rain fell softly with a promise of spring. Matthew, by the nature of his job,
worked in all weathers and he preferred rain to ground iron-hard with frost when
every strike of the spade sent bolts of agony through his wrists and shoulders,
or the soft deadly snow with the bitter cold nipping at his heels like a pack
of wolves. He hated the heat worst of all, when the ground set like stone and
his days were filled with pain and dust and tears.
The
body lay on the cart, shrouded in a length of old hessian sacking Matthew kept
for the purpose. Not that the sight of a body, whatever its state, troubled
him, he'd buried old, young, family, friend and foe, but what had been done to
this body was not pretty, and sometimes townsfolk would come to visit the
graveyard and the sight might offend the ladies. He had a length of good dark
cloth he used on other days, other bodies; he was careful not to let family and
friends discover their lost ones beneath an old grain sack. A bit of show made
sense in other ways, a chance of a better tip and he took care to avoid making
enemies. There was no telling how grief might take some people.
It
was not just grief made locals difficult. A town this size should not keep a
gravedigger so well occupied. Some said it was being so deep in the forest
brought a darkness to the place that found its way into folks hearts. Some
whispered that it was being so far from other towns let folk so inclined bend
the law to suit their fancy, and with no one to gainsay them.
Matthew
said nothing. He saw too often what could come of a careless word.
He
worked on in an easy rhythm, stopping every so often to ease his back and check
on Bessie. The morning passed, the hole grew deeper and the neat pile of earth
to one side rose higher.
Matthew
was thinking about lunch. He'd bread and cheese on the cart, but if he waited
there'd be the last of stew at the inn, thick and tasty. It'd be quiet by then,
no one to trouble him. The bread and
cheese would keep for another day. And he'd earned a pint. He licked his lips
at the thought then, warned by some sixth sense, raised his head. A moment ago
he'd been alone, now a man was standing at the edge of the trees, just beyond
the graveyard wall.
"Blood
and bones." Matthew jerked fully upright and a shovelful of earth flew
astray. He squinted through the rain and saw the man was a stranger. "Good
day, friend."
Considering
the pleasantries attended to, he was about to turn back to his work when a blur
of motion stopped him. The man was across the stone wall in a bound. He came on
between new and tumbled gravestones. Tall and pale, his body gnarled with
muscle like roots, beneath a long overcoat; dark lank hair crept below a battered
top hat. He moved with a speed that left Matthew open-mouthed.
Before
Matthew could blink, he was standing chest deep in another man's grave staring helplessly
up at the newcomer. He clutched the spade close across his chest. "Can I
help you, sir?" he asked with a practised subservient whine. The man was
not townsfolk but Matthew had an eye for darkness.
Large
brown eyes studied him. They might be kind eyes if you did not see the
emptiness behind and the twist of cruelty on thin lips. The man turned away
without a word and walked to the cart. Matthew watched, sweat prickled and
chilled along his spine. He had a box set close by to aid him climbing out of
the hole, but he stood frozen and watched.
The
man lifted the hessian sack.
The
body beneath had lost an eye and most of the left side of his jaw, slammed to
pulp by hobnailed boots. The other side of the face retained its features,
though patched and bruised to the colour of ripe plums. The man reached a hand
to catch the slack jaw and turn the face.
Matthew knew what the corpse looked like; he watched the man's face.
Releasing
the jaw, the man tugged the sack off the stranger's body. They'd taken the
boots, belt and trousers. The shirt was bloody and ripped too bad to bother
with, but it offered little dignity. It was common practice with strangers who
died badly. Matthew had no part of it, this time. Not that he'd refuse the
chance of pickings, allowed the opportunity.
"He
was wanted." He offered, the whine unintentionally lifting his voice to a plea.
"His name's Bad Jim Moresby. There's a bounty."
The
man turned from the body, reluctantly, a tree bending before the wind. His eyes
were darker, deeper. "No," he said final as the grave.
"There's
a poster, with …" Matthew choked off the words, wished he'd never opened
his mouth. A likeness. It was not as if this hadn't happened before. A stranger
spoke out of turn, looked crosswise at the wrong man, won too often at dice or
cards. Maybe not even so much as that. The town collected a lot of bounties.
"Who
looks to claim this bounty?"
Matthew
clamped his jaw shut and struggled to breathe as briars snared tight around
him. A lie would not serve and the truth would see him dead. He'd no doubt of
it. The silence echoed, and desperation kissed his tongue to a low form of wit.
"You'd have to ask the Mayor, sir."
The
man smiled, revealing a maw of gapped brown teeth. "I'm asking you, friend."
"I
tell you, you might as well put me in the ground here and now."
"Your
choice." The man seemed to enjoy the irony.
Matthew
had stood in many men's graves. He'd not thought to dig his own. "Tis not
a fair thing you're asking."
The
man sucked on a tooth. "Perhaps not," he said. "Come on out of
there."
Hardly
able to credit his luck, Matthew reached for the box and scrambled up out of
the hole. He started forward, but the man waved him back to the edge.
"Stand
there and think a bit," said the man.
Matthew
opened his mouth to protest and snapped it closed, muddy fingers pressed across
his lips to still a tongue that already run too free. Bessie lifted her head
from the grass and turned to watch. He wondered what would happen if he ran for
her. He couldn't see that the man had any weapons.
A
glimmer of silver in the rain, the man tossed a knife with practised ease, four
other throwing knives at his belt and a longer blade. "What happens here
won't change what happens next." The man glanced back to the body, knife
twirling absently between his fingers. "That was my boy."
The
knife spun once more and stilled. The tip of the blade rested lightly in the
man's fingers, a final warning.
Matthew
stood on the edge of his grave. Rain washed the tears from his face and his
breath came in whistling gasps. A spurt of piss warmed his thigh and in the
same moment names burst between his fingers.
"Joe
Summers and Karl Leister."
Matthew
blinked and the knife was gone. The man started back through the gravestones.
Matthew
sniffed and stepped away from the grave's edge to falter at the edge of another
precipice. His eyes followed the man, weighed the darkness and made a choice. "There's
more had a part in it," he called.
The
man halted, turned back but made no comment. After a moment he smiled.
"Tell me, friend."
The
fear fell away. "Mart Whiter, Jack Spruce and Ed Forbes helped." Matthew
thought hard. "And Si Barrett."
The
man nodded once and it was done, a bargain sealed. Matthew watched him leave,
then turned back to his work, whistling.
###
Monday 25 August 2014
Do or Die
London
in the rain: a black-hearted winter morning, heavy clouds inches above the rooftops,
pissed off commuters, psycho bus drivers. Monday, 7.00am, too early for this do
or die shit.
A
black cab shoots out of a side road and cuts me off. The bike slides across wet
tarmac, neon puddles shatter and my knee smacks the side of the taxi.
"Shit." For a moment I think we're going down, but the impact bounces
me upright. Eyeball to eyeball with the girl in the back of the cab, lipstick
in one hand, phone in the other as she checks her face, mouth wide open,
caught between a scream and having a go at me for ruining her makeup. I can't
help grinning at her.
Mistake.
Next moment, the driver's door slams and the cabbie is running round to check the
damage. I glance down and see the dent. No time for this now. I stand on the
peddles, the gear's too high but somehow I get a bit of traction.
"You
cut me up, dickhead," I shout without looking back.
The
cabbie's curse follows me, but there's no way he can in this traffic. I thread
through the multi-lane snarl towards Marble Arch, dodging buses and lorries,
still grinning. But retribution is close at hand.
A
black Range Rover comes up behind me, rain glistening on the tinted windows. I
glance back to check the number plate, certain my luck can't be this bad. But
of course it is. Headlights burn across my back as the Range Rover closes in.
One
chance, twenty feet away the traffic lights at Marble Arch turn red, it's going
to hold the Range Rover for a bit and I get a moment of inspiration. Instead of
stopping I slew the bike across the road and onto the central island beneath
the Arch. Pigeons rise in clumsy flocks. A sharp left turn, back wheel sliding,
and I'm in Hyde Park, weaving through pedestrians and overtaking Boris bikes. I
look back, trying to track the Range Rover as it heads down Park Lane.
"Watch
out you idiot."
The
angry voice whips my attention back in time to swerve and avoid a head to head
collision with a Bowler-hatted man on a horse. His foot skims my shoulder and
the horse's tail stings my face. An iron shod hoof flicks out. My breath sticks
and I miss a couple of heartbeats. Then I'm out onto the road that runs through
the park and it's all under control, sort of.
A
procession of high-end cars speed through puddles, and a wall of spray leaves
me drenched and worrying about the package. It's double wrapped but if it gets
wet then I'm screwed. No time to stop and check. But the thought's in my head. Did
I wrap it well enough?
Out
the other side of the park, round the Albert Hall and I pedal flat out down to
Kensington. Another sliding turn and the bike's aquaplaning downhill into the sinister
lights of the under building car park.
I
chuck the bike in the corner. Both lifts are six floors above me and climbing.
No choice, have to take the stairs. Pissed off, I hit the door so hard it
nearly breaks my wrist. Dumb and dumber. First two flights, not so bad, by the
fifth my breathing starts to get ragged and beneath the layers I'm sweating
blood.
Reach
the eighth floor and crack the door to check the corridor. Sweat and rain drip
off my nose. Corridor looks clear, but my nerve is shot. Deep breath, I slide
through the door and make a run for it. The place is an obstacle course of plants
and display cases. I slalom between them and skin round corners. Behind me the
lift doors ping. A last burst, silent on the inch deep carpet.
With
the goal in sight, I misjudge my speed and burst through the glass doors like
I'm scoring a touchdown at Twickenham. The outer desk is unattended. I don't
know what waits on the other side of the closed office door. I slip the backpack off
and reach for the door handle. Do or die.
The
office is dark. A shuddering reflex breath and the urge to puke almost chokes
me. I cross the room on shaky legs, sliding the package free of the backpack.
It
looks good. Holding it away from me so it doesn't get wet, I rip at the wrapping
but my wet fingers slide off the plastic. The bloody thing is too well wrapped.
It takes a major effort not to rip at it like a madman.
A
corner of the plastic gives; at the last moment I look for something to dry my
hands. Nothing. Desperate, I bend to wipe them on an oriental rug. I hear
voices in the outer office. I freeze, with a mind of its own the report squirms
free of the plastic and spills to the floor. I bend to gather the pages as the
door handle turns.
"What
time is the conference call with Hong Kong?"
"Eight-thirty,
sir."
The
door opens.
"I'll
be at my desk. Buzz me when it's set up, Cora."
Frozen,
I just about resist the urge to crawl beneath the desk. I'm dead. It's time to
stand up and face the music like a man.
Cora
says, "Mr Simon is in, I think he wanted to see you …"
A
moment's silence. I hold my breath. A muffled curse and the door snicks shut.
With
shaking hands I gather the pages and place the folder on the desk. A last look,
my hand shakes as I wipe away a smudge of water.
I
walk out making like it's no big deal. She looks up at me. They call her the
Pit Bull. The scariest Executive Assistant on three continents.
After
a long moment, she looks down. A wet handprint decorates her desk. I wait,
frozen, and she winks.
Somehow
I don't faint.
###
Sunday 25 August 2013
Ghost Mate (Soul Mate Book 3)
Tommy is back on the streets, living rough in London, and he's facing a tough decision. As the ghosts take over and things get crazy, he has a last chance to take back his life, but can he take it and deny the ghosts their last chances?
Ghost Mate will be published in October.
Saturday 16 February 2013
Traitor Blood (SPOILER for the Traitor Blade series)
Traitor Blood - Chapter One (SPOILER IF READING THE TRAITOR BLADE SERIES)
Ronaldo filled a flask with his best wine and
reached to gather two beakers. He fumbled and one beaker slipped from his grasp.
It hit the tiled floor with a hollow clang. Ronaldo cursed softly and looked to
the cause of his distraction, a table at the far end of the narrow tavern where
his newest customer was waiting to be served.
The man
held a dagger, twirling it between his fingers and stabbing the blade into the
table. The thud of blade into wood was unnerving, perhaps raising a memory of
the softer sound of blade into flesh, especially when the thrust was repeated
over and over. It was not the damage to his property that upset Ronaldo, though
at this rate the table would be holed through, but years spent in a small dark
bar set on the edge of a minor seaport town in the tumultuous kingdom of
Cyrenne had given Ronaldo an exceptional instinct for danger.
The trouble
was that, in the end, such an instinct provided little protection. The men, and
sometimes women, who scared him were the ones he was least likely to offend.
There was no question of asking them to leave his establishment. This man, with
a stubble of dark hair and an ugly scar running from his chin to disappear
beneath his shirt, alerted all Ronaldo's natural caution. The glitter of the
blade in the man's hand aroused more primal instincts.
The chatter
in the bar had lessened considerably, and some customers, prone to the same
instincts as Ronaldo, had already slipped away, leaving the room near deserted.
The loss of trade was not the innkeep's greatest concern.
As he
approached the table, Ronaldo found it hard to keep his eyes from the blade. He
set down the wine and beakers carefully. Normally he would make some effort to
wipe the table but he refrained, fearing it might seem a reproach for the
splintered woodwork.
"Will
there be anything else, my lord?" Here was another thing. Despite the
man's dress and appearance, which marked him as the roughest mercenary, Ronaldo
was sure that his unsettling customer was well bred, perhaps dangerously so. The
nobility of Cyrenne often had need to leave the realm in secret and the minor
port of Farock with its mix of trading and fishing vessels was a good place to
slip away anonymously, or to enter Cyrenne unnoticed.
"Food
when my friend arrives." It was a cultured voice but the accent defied
Ronaldo's ear. Up close he saw the man was younger than he had thought.
"You
are meeting a friend, my lord, how pleasant." Ronaldo took a breath and
tried not to babble. He had no cook or serving girl at this time of day, and
nothing suitable to serve. "What refreshment will you require?" He
shuffled back half a step as the man turned a cold blue gaze upon him. A
killer's eyes, Ronaldo thought.
"Bring
us what you have, he's not fussy," said the man, smiling at some private
joke.
The smile
was nearly as disconcerting as the blade. Ronaldo was spared the need to answer
as the door, swollen from the winter rain, opened reluctantly.
A golden
haired man entered. He was dressed in leggings and a jacket of the softest grey
leather. Ronaldo could not imagine what animal had given its hide to make such
magnificent garments.
The
newcomer did not look impressed by his surroundings. He had the pale coloring
of Cyrenne or of the lands across the narrow sea, but his skin was darkened by
a dessert sun. He wore rings and a long blade with an extravagantly worked hilt
studded with jewels. In contrast to his appearance he scanned the room with a soldier's
caution and moved with a warrior's grace. Despite the contrast between the two
men, Ronaldo did not doubt that this was the expected friend.
The man
rose to greet the newcomer who approached, silent, unsmiling. The men touched
fists and embraced briefly. Watching, Ronaldo was moved by the intensity of
this greeting; he could not decide if it made him more or less anxious about
these unlikely customers.
The dark
haired man turned back to him. "Bring us the best you have," he said
softly.
Ronaldo
bowed; embarrassed by this action he glanced towards his other remaining
customers then hurried away to send out for food he might dare to serve.
###
Angelo de
Loristen sprawled in a chair and took a moment to settle his sword more
comfortably. "This is the best you can do?" he asked, looking around.
He laid a scroll and a packet of papers on the table. "You look like shit."
Edouard
ignored the comment and the scroll with the royal seal of Allesarion alongside
the dark seal of the chief magister. "You have news from home?" he
asked. The dagger was still in his hand.
With a
glance to check they would not be overheard, Angelo spoke softly, "The
army of Ettivar is gathering. By spring King William will have thirty thousand
men or more ready to cross the border."
Edouard
said nothing, but the blade flashed and stabbed deep into the wood. The table shuddered
softly with the impact. "How many men can Ferdinand raise?"
Angelo
shrugged. He indicated the packet of papers lying close to the sealed scroll,
glancing around again before he spoke. "Shamet has sent you the latest
reports, all the details."
"How
many?" Edouard asked tersely.
"Perhaps
ten thousand." Angelo plucked the dagger from the wood and laid it on the
table. "Etrives is still weak and the plague ravaged the south last
year." He gave helpless shrug.
Edouard eyed
the packet of papers but left it where it lay. He had heard enough.
There had
been no battles between the old enemies, Valderon and Ettivar, last year; the
plague had cut deep through both realms. Of the two Valderon was more greatly
weakened, her armies already depleted by losses in recent wars. It was a
devastating reversal. A few years ago Valderon had threatened to overrun Ettivar,
raiding into William's lands each summer, laying siege to important cities and
ports. All that had changed after the defeat at Ralmadre.
Edouard
knew this history too well.
He picked
up the dagger and turned it idly between his hands. "You will go home and to
join army," he said, more command than question.
Angelo
nodded. He looked around the bar, near empty now. "Your father has been
made Marechal, supreme commander alongside the Duke de Etrives. It is rumored
that Ferdinand will join them in the field."
"Old men," said Edouard.
Angelo grinned without mirth. "And you would tell them that?"
"I should think they know it well enough."
Angelo started to speak, thought better of whatever he had been going to say, and eventually said mildly, "They have experience."
"Old men," said Edouard.
Angelo grinned without mirth. "And you would tell them that?"
"I should think they know it well enough."
Angelo started to speak, thought better of whatever he had been going to say, and eventually said mildly, "They have experience."
Edouard shrugged. "And
my brothers will join them." Again it was not a question. Edouard knew that Charles, for all his distaste for martial matters, would join
the army, no knight would stand aside at such a time, and Louis and Henri, his
youngest brothers, were of an age now. The blade thudded into the wood.
After a few
moments silence, Angelo said, "You cannot return while Ferdinand
lives," He spoke harshly, hearing what had not been spoken. "And perhaps
not openly when he is dead."
"I
know. I'm not a fool."
Angelo's
lips quirked in the slightest of smiles, but he made no jibe, and all trace of
humor disappeared as he studied the other man. A tense silence fell between
them. Angelo reached for the flask and poured wine.
"When
will you leave for home?" Edouard asked.
"When
this hunt is done." Angelo indicated the scroll with its royal seal.
"I
have no need of you." Edouard paused in his stabbing and spoke more softly.
"I hunt best alone."
Angelo's
grin was sharp as broken glass. He raised his beaker. "To the hunt."
They each
emptied a beaker. Angelo poured again, carelessly, until each beaker
overflowed.
Edouard let
the beaker stand. "You'll return to Valderon now." This was spoken
with command, he continued with less certainty. "To whom will you go?"
After a
moment's hesitation Angelo said, "I have written to your father."
Edouard
nodded. It was the answer he had expected, however hard to hear. He lifted the
beaker and drank. They sat in more companionable silence for a while. The
innkeeper brought platters of cold meat and freshly baked bread. When they were
alone, Angelo indicated the papers and scroll.
"When
this is done you are to return to Allesarion," he said.
"No,
it is too dangerous," Edouard snarled.
"It is
the Queen's command."
"What
is she thinking? I cannot return." Edouard shifted, holding the dagger as
if it was hard to restrain some violent urge.
"Enough
time has passed. You will not be recognized in Allesarion."
"I
will not take that risk."
"It is
a royal command, I do not think you can refuse," said Angelo. He grinned.
"There is no chance you will be recognized. Your own father would not…"
The grin faded. "You look like a destitute warrior monk." He
hesitated. "Edouard de Chamfort is five years dead."
"Then
why should I not return to Valderon and fight against Ettivar?"
"You
know the answer as well as I," Angelo said softly.
"You
set more value on my name than skill?" Edouard gave a growl of laughter.
"There are many these past five years who would disagree."
"If
discovered you risk the accord between your father and King Ferdinand. And you
cannot kill the whole army of Ettivar," he took a breath, carefully calm.
"Your value to Valderon is to be known and to lead men. That cannot
happen." He fell silent watching Edouard, knowing he could not deny the
truth of this, and all it meant.
After a moment's
silence Edouard said, "I could kill William of Ettivar." The words fell
softly between them. "He has no son of age."
END
Friday 7 September 2012
Traitor Blade - Book Three - PUBLISHED
Traitor Blade - Book Three - the final book in the trilogy is now published.
Branded traitor and murderer, exiled from his home, Edouard must fight to regain his honor, knowing that in Valderon his family will suffer the consequences of his actions.
Branded traitor and murderer, exiled from his home, Edouard must fight to regain his honor, knowing that in Valderon his family will suffer the consequences of his actions.
Her task
completed, all Mariette wants is to return to her children and Montmercy, but
has she revealed a traitor or betrayed a lover?
As the final
battles are fought, hearts, pride and lives are truly at stake.
TB3 is published at Kindle and Smashwords.
TB3 is published at Kindle and Smashwords.
Tuesday 8 May 2012
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