Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves Read online

  Copyright © 2014 James Matlack Raney

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0985835907

  ISBN 13: 9780985835903

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9858359-1-0

  1

  James Francis Morgan

  2

  Thunderbold

  3

  Lord Lindsay Morgan

  4

  A Conversation in the Kitchen

  5

  The Storm

  6

  Flight through the Forest

  7

  Eyes in the Night

  8

  The Gypsy’s Magic

  9

  London

  10

  Big Red

  11

  The King of Thieves

  12

  The Clan of the Ratt

  13

  Constable Butterstreet

  14

  Close Escapes, Rooftops, and Hidden Lairs

  15

  The King’s Secret

  16

  The Shadow Pirate

  17

  Thievin’ 101

  18

  Bartholomew Cromier

  19

  A New Plan

  20

  The Amulet of Portunes

  21

  Cornelius Darkfeather

  22

  Christmas in London

  23

  The Captain and the Constable

  24

  The Inn of the Wet Rock

  25

  Captain Dread Steele

  26

  The Constable’s Plan

  27

  Jim Morgan and the King of Thieves

  28

  The Seeker

  29

  The Hall of Keys

  30

  The Orchard of Bronze

  31

  A Standoff in the Street

  32

  The Vault of Treasures

  33

  The Battle

  34

  Escape to the Sea

  ONE

  nce there lived a boy named James Francis Morgan, who was born in a mansion that was in truth very nearly a castle on the southern coast of England not far from the town of Rye. These were the days when explorers and naval officers, and even pirates who sailed the high seas, were the greatest of all heroes, especially to young boys like James, whose father, the Lord Lindsay Morgan, happened to be one of the most famous of all of the captains in His Majesty’s navy. So famous was he that it was even rumored the King of England was a personal friend.

  Now, when he was very young, James was a wild sort of boy, running up and down the beach with his little wooden boat and little wooden sword, waging imaginary battles with pirates and scalawags so epic they could only exist in a young boy’s mind. Day after day he ran across the dunes in his bare feet, until the salty smell of the sea dwelt in his skin, and the ocean wind lived in every curl of hair on his head.

  When Jim was still too young to fully remember those spectacular adventures, his father left to sail the seas on a mysterious voyage. Though far-fetched rumors swirled about all of England, no one knew quite where the valiant captain sailed or why. But Lord Morgan said he would return in five years, no more and no less. During this time he left young James in the care his Great Aunt, Margarita Morgan - or as she insisted on being called, Dame Margarita Morgan.

  Dame Morgan, who was as round and pale as the full moon itself, wearing an enormous wig with platinum blonde curls to cover her gray, hated the ocean and anything to do with it. The very day James’s father left on his long voyage, Dame Margarita forbade James to continue his wild behavior and kept him bottled up in the house instead. She replaced his wooden ships with Latin lessons, his wooden swords with harpsichord practice, and his bare feet and wild hair with the best-dressed fashions for growing lords from the finest tailors in Paris, France. She never let him out to play with boys his own age, but kept him up all hours eating chocolates with her, listening to the latest gossip from London, and teaching him who was worth talking to and who was not.

  In short, she fashioned him into a little version of herself…which happened to be a spoiled and rotten brat.

  “Keep up, will you?” James Morgan snapped at the string of servants following him down the hill to the Morgan Manor Stables. “It simply won’t do to have me looking tousle-haired, malnourished, and dressed in the dilapidated rags of a pauper when my father arrives, will it?”

  “Of course not, Master James,” replied Molly the housemaid breathlessly, nearly tumbling down the hill as she attempted to walk and brush James’s curls simultaneously.

  “Almost finished, sire,” mumbled Melvin the tailor, needles clasped in his pursed lips, scurrying on all fours like an overly-plump squirrel, desperately adjusting the tails on James’s new riding coat as he went.

  Last came George, the cook, (the only original house cook still on staff – the other four having been sacked by James and Aunt Margarita for one offense or another) who deigned not speak at all, or even to breathe really. Instead he focused on precariously spooning custard into James’s mouth without spilling a drop on the young master’s new riding jacket.

  James often marched about the manor grounds with just such an entourage in tow from morning till night. However, this morning was a special morning, the morning when the Lord Morgan himself was set to arrive home from his long journey across the sea, and James had something special planned for the occasion.

  The moment he reached the stable doors, James’s need for his train evaporated. He smacked Molly’s brush-wielding hand aside, snatched his hat from Melvin, fitting it dashingly upon his head, and knocked the last spoonful of George’s custard away from his mouth.

  “That will be all,” James sighed, as though such a walk had been exhausting for an eleven year-old boy. “You three may go back to help the others prepare for my father’s return party – except for you.” James turned and narrowed his eyes on George, the custard meant for James’s mouth dripping down the poor cook’s face. “That custard was not nearly up to snuff! I believe I shall have you sacked. Good day.” Then James turned, a rather nasty smile stretched over his face, and strode through the stable doors, leaving the dismayed George in tears and Molly and Melvin shaking their heads in consolation.

  “Jeremiah, prepare Destroyer for me!” James announced as he strutted into the stables. Jeremiah was the Morgan’s lanky horse master and stable caretaker, and Destroyer was James’s steed. Actually, to call Destroyer a steed was perhaps a bit of stretch. In fact, to even call her a horse was bending the truth. Destroyer was a pony who was even a bit small as far as ponies go and was the most docile creature in the stables, preferring a good nibble of oats and a roll in the grass over any raiding or galloping. But from the time Aunt Margarita had let him have the pony, James had called her Destroyer, his war charger, forever envisioning himself riding into glorious battle on her back.

  “Sorry, Master James,” Jeremiah said, ambling out from one of the stalls. “But the horses are to be kep’ ’n the stable this afternoon for the welcomin’ and all. Phineus’s orders.”

  “Well, Phineus isn’t the Lord Morgan, is he?” said James, putting his hands on his hips.

  “Beggin’ the young master’s pard’n,” replied Jeremiah with a smile. “But you’re not the Lord Morgan either. He’s set to arrive in just short order, which is why, once more beggin’ the young master’s pard’n, the horses are to be left ’n the stables.”

  Now James was feeling very put off, but he knew there would be no point arguing with Jeremiah. Horses were horses no matter who sat on their backs, and Jeremiah knew more about hors
es than anyone in coastal England, which made his job sack-proof, even from Aunt Margarita. “Well, we’ll just see about that won’t we?” James stomped his foot and stormed back to the stable doorway.

  “Phineus!” James shouted at the top of his lungs toward the house. “Phineus! Phineus! Phineus!” He stomped a foot on each repetition of the old tutor’s name until he was red in the face and the poor old man finally hobbled out of the house and slowly made his way down to the stables.

  Phineus was the bushy-browed Morgan family tutor and had been for three generations. While none of the Morgan children could ever have been accused of being angels, it was whispered among the house staff that only James had pushed the poor old man so close to the brink of senility (a fact of which James was obscenely proud.)

  “What is it, Master James?” The old teacher sighed. “Your father is almost here, you’ve ignored your lessons for the day, per usual, frightened poor Yves half to death - he’s still trying to wash the stains out of his clothes by the way - and apparently had another chef sacked. What more inspirational deeds of chivalry could you possibly wish to accomplish this morning?”

  “I want to be sitting atop Destroyer when Father arrives. I’ll be taller than everyone else, and he’ll see what kind of man I’ve become in his absence.”

  James heard a choking sound a little too akin to laughter behind him, and he shot a glare over his shoulder at Jeremiah, who hid his face behind a horse’s rear end and kept right on brushing.

  “Destroyer? Your pony?” Phineus screwed up his face.

  “I’ve told you not to call her that. She’s a charger!”

  “But Master James, we’ve already worked out where everyone will be standing. It’s all been arranged -”

  “Well then rearrange it, Master Tooter!”

  “Master James, I don’t think -”

  “And you should keep right on not thinking and GET MY HORSE!” James stomped his feet again. “Or I’ll call for Auntie Margarita…and where do you think that will get you, Master Tooter?”

  A resigned sigh wheezed through Phineus’s wrinkled lips. He shook his gray head and called toward the barn: “Jeremiah, get the bloody pony.”

  “SHE’S A CHARGER!”

  After a few moments James found his pony saddled and ready for him outside the stable doors. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and leapt into the saddle – only to find himself eye to eye with Phineus and Jeremiah, who once again fell into a sudden fit of coughs behind his hand.

  “I recall myself being a bit taller,” James said to himself, looking back and forth between Phineus and Jeremiah.

  “You are taller, Master James,” Phineus said with a groan, cracking his back as though he hadn’t sat down in ages.

  “Oh, this won’t do at all!” James raged, slapping his thigh in frustration. “I don’t want to be as tall as everyone else, I need to be taller! Jeremiah, bring me Thunderbold!”

  Jeremiah stopped coughing into his hand immediately, his natural smile falling into a dark frown. “Now sir,” he said with a firm shake of his head, “there’re funny ideas and then there’re just plain stupid’ns, and that’s a stupid’n. Whether you’re on your pony or on the ground, I’m sure your father’ll be pleased to see you. But if he rides up to find you ’n a casket, I’ll be quick ’n joinin’ you ’n one beside it.”

  “Are you saying I’m stupid?” James demanded.

  “No, I’m sayin’ your idea is stupid,” Jeremiah said matter-of-factly.

  James felt his face grow hotter by the moment, but he knew he would get nowhere with Jeremiah. Instead, he turned his eyes on Phineus. “Phineus, make Jeremiah get me Thunderbold!”

  “Phineus,” Jeremiah said with a warning in his voice, “Thunderbold really is a charger. I c’n barely hold her to the reins meself. That’s a bad accident waitin’ to happen!”

  Phineus held his head as though it was about to explode, his old hands trembling almost violently. “Master James, you heard what Jeremiah just said. This is a bad accident–” Phineus halted in mid-sentence, staring out into nowhere for a long moment. Then a little shaky smile suddenly quivered its way onto the old tutor’s wrinkly face. “Jeremiah,” he said, his voice noticeably more warbly. “Get Thunderbold.”

  TWO

  hineus, did you hear what I just said?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Oh, yes, Jeremiah! I most certainly did!” Phineus’s eyes blinked open as wide as they could go and his little grin split into a crooked smile.

  “Glad to see you have finally come to your senses, old man,” James said, swinging himself off Destroyer.

  “Be it on your head!” Jeremiah growled. He stormed into the stables, shaking his head furiously.

  James could hardly contain his excitement as Jeremiah led the enormous steed from the stables. If this didn’t get his father’s attention, nothing would.

  Thunderbold was the Lord Morgan’s old war-horse, which he rode to only the most formal military events. She had once belonged to an army major, who had given her to Lord Lindsay as a gift, and Jeremiah always said that she had never lost the thirst for the thrill of battle. The bottom of her blood-red flanks stood taller than James’s head, her snorts rumbled in the morning air, and the sharp stomps of her feet drummed against the earth.

  “I need some help up!” James demanded as he snatched a riding whip off the stable wall. Phineus rushed to James’s side, waving Jeremiah over.

  “Oh, yes!” Phineus agreed a bit too eagerly. In fact, James thought the old man sounded more gleeful than he had ever been in his entire life. “Come on Jeremiah, don’t be a prune, help me lift the boy up onto his steed!” Phineus actually giggled, and with Jeremiah’s begrudging help, hoisted James onto the huge horse.

  As soon as James was in the saddle he knew this was just what he needed. He was hands taller than Jeremiah and Phineus (who was looking oddly deranged at the moment) and felt like he could see for miles from atop Thunderbold. James puffed his chest out and fixed his face into the hard, chiseled look of a lord.

  “I shall ride about the grounds, gentlemen, until my father arrives,” James announced. With slow, steady purpose he raised the riding whip high above his head, ready to lash Thunderbold’s side, as he always had to do with lazy Destroyer.

  “No!” Jeremiah shouted, seeing what was about to happen, but it was too late. James cracked the whip into Thunderbold’s flank as hard as he could.

  Thunderbold didn’t like that, not one bit.

  The mighty war-horse reared up on her powerful hind legs, neighing with the force of a storm’s gale. Jeremiah’s eyes flew wide at the sight, and Phineus snapped out of the sleepwalking madness that had temporarily possessed him. Thunderbold’s sanguine forelegs churned in the air, James clinging to her neck for dear life, crying out with a shriek that would have done an Irish banshee proud.

  “Thunderbold, no!” Jeremiah cried. But it was too late. It seemed the horse felt it had been insulted by an inferior and was not going to stand for the cheek. Thunderbold bucked and kicked as James howled like a siren atop her back. Jeremiah leapt over the fence into the riding circle to avoid being kicked in the face, landing face-first in a pile of mud and horse mess for his effort. Phineus, meanwhile, reeled backward from the thrashing mare until he tumbled backwards into a water-filled trough. James though, however terrified and shrill he was at that very moment, did somehow manage to hang on to the wild charger (a fact he would later recall with a bit of pride, mostly to make up for the distinctly unpleasant memories of his girlish screams.)

  Thunderbold stopped bucking after a particularly marvelous spin maneuver and, seemingly realizing that her rider had yet to surrender, decided to give him the ride of his life. She tore off toward the house with hooves pounding like rapid-fire cannon shots, all the while James harmonizing to the staccato beats with his most elegant falsetto scream.

  The next five minutes were something of a blur to James, though he later had a reoccurring nightmare about the incident
, which put the one-horse stampede in the following order:

  First, Thunderbold blasted over the hill between the stables and the gardens. James recalled few enough specifics, but he was positive he heard Yves the gardener scream about ten really awful curse words in one breath, sounding a bit like a startled, foul-mouthed goose. The horrified gardener dove aside in his freshly pressed party clothes into a pile of fresh mulch as Thunderbold tore past him, tromping over his just-watered rose bush and daffodil presentation, leaving only churned dirt like a tilled field in her wake.

  Second, Thunderbold careened around the corner of the manor toward the front entrance, where Dame Morgan herself was making her way out to check on the progress of the decorations. Upon seeing James hurtling toward her on Thunderbold like a terrified, weeping centaur, her face screwed into a squished-up cross between a mad bull and a pufferfish. James thought she less dove out of the way than fell over to the side, rolling and bouncing down the grassy hill in her new party dress.

  That was when James and his steed – or, rather, Thunderbold and her tagalong - came to the decorations for the homecoming. The massive banner that read “Welcome Home Lord Morgan” was stretched between two tall poles, the tables on the lawn covered in the best linens, and the servants busy topping them with trays of delicious hors d’oeuvres. The galloping duo quickly blasted through, and in the aftermath, the banner was wrapped around the servants, who were topped in the food, beside the overturned tables that covered the grass-stained linens.

  Finally, Thunderbold tore away from the house toward the thick forest that surrounded the manor grounds. Jeremiah had always told James the most frightening ghost stories of wicked nymphs, wild dryads, and magical gypsies that called the forest home. As James barreled toward the gnarled tree trunks, he imagined that if the jagged branches didn’t kill him, the ghosts and goblins would finish the job. James gripped his legs to Thunderbold’s flanks, squeezed the reins in his hands, shut his eyes tight, and waited for his short life to flash before his eyes.

  But just before the moment of impact, a commanding voice called out from James’s left, deep and forceful above even the thundering hooves, a heavy voice, as though the words it spoke could push one down or lift one up all by themselves. “Whoa, Thunderbold, hold, hold!” the voice called.