The cold, brisk wind howled across the rugged moorland as it threatened to steal away any traveller's breath that dared to make their way across the crude pathways that had been forged across it over hundreds of years.
Despite the wind, the weather that day was clear and bright and bore no hinderance to the dozen men and singular cart that were alone in venturing east towards a destination few would go without expressed intention.
All of the monks of The Brethren of St. Catherine had pulled their corse woollen hoods completely over their heads, shielding their faces from view as they marched towards their calling.
Even the driver of the wooden trap, pulled along by a muddied grey horse, was shielding his face from sight as they all transport their very precious cargo to where it needed to be.
A lone bell was being rung out by one of the men as they progressed, and it this which announced their presence as their journey concluded upon pulling into the stone courtyard of the big house.
Officially, it was known as Torchwood House.
Home to Sir Robert MacLeish and his wife, it was a splendid example of a atypical sixteenth century mock castle that had been purposely been made to look much older than it was.
Not that the home itself was anything less magnificent.
Adorned with turrets and towers befitting a king, its grey facade stood out against the browns and earthy greens of the Scottish Highlands.
But perhaps the most stunning feature of the façade was the golden gilded glass dome atop the biggest turret. Sticking out of it was a huge telescope, more than large enough to observe the furthest points of the night sky.
The steward of Torchwood House was not pleased to see the procession as it arrived.
"Come now Father." He cautioned. "You should know better. You're not welcome here, and especially not today. I've got no time to start old arguments."
Having just been helping the groundsman in preparing the firewood, the grey-haired scot removed his flat cap and wiped his brow.
Today was not a good day at all. Not when the whole house was preparing for the most important of visitors, the arrival of whom was only a matter of hours away.
The hooded figure he was addressing, however, paid no such heed to this unwelcoming greeting.
Holding a dark coloured wooden bō staff in one hand, identical to the ones his fellow monks were carrying, Father Angelo pulled down his hood with the other.
He was a very skinny man and completely bald.
Paying no heed to the unwelcoming reception, he took a moment to glance up at the imposing stately home that was surrounding him.
"We want only one thing." He replied as his eyes drifted back down the steward.
"Oh, aye?" The steward questioned, bracing himself. "What would that be now?"
With the upmost seriousness, the monk gave his reply.
"This house."
To his credit, the steward did not react angrily to the insolence of this response. He instead found it somewhat amusing. Turning and looking around at the home of his employer himself, he let out a low chuckle.
"You want the house?"
By now the other workers in the yard had taken note of the new arrivals and had stopped in their work in order to come over and stand behind the steward as a visual reinforcement to the fact that the religious men were not welcome.
"We will take this house." Father Angelo insisted. "You will give it to us."
"Would you like my wife while you're at it?" The steward laughed. "Or perhaps the family silverware?"
"If you won't stand aside, then we'll take it by force."
This shifted the atmosphere somewhat as the steward frowned irritably at the Father.
The other workers stood behind him had laughed along as well, but they too had sensed that the monks were not simply making idle chat. If needed, they were prepared to eject them from the property by force.
Yet, they were still monk and men of God. Overall they were not known for committing act of violence or wanted thievery. If anything, these humble, penitent followers had willingly given up any desire for earthly possessions and surely had no need for such a grand home as Torchwood House.
"By what power?" The Steward questioned, voicing these thoughts. "The hand of God?"
"No." Father Angelo replied "The Fist of Man."
With no hesitation he threw the end of his staff into the steward's abdomen. Winded, the man collapsed onto the ground, only to be stuck on the back a second later to ensure he was unable to rise back up in order to defend himself.
Stepping back as he twirled the bō expertly above his head, Father Angelo then aimed a well placed kick that landed square in the middle of the man's chest. The steward was sent flying back and landed with a thud at the feet of his fellow workers.
Then, as a signal to the others, the monk stretched out his arm and took up a fighting stance.
Behind him, all of the clocked figures unveiled themselves from the shadows of their cloaks. Underneath the humble earthy brown were robes of blood red.
Each were already holding staffs of their own, which they readied as the remaining groundsmen grabbed whatever was at hand in which they could defend themselves with.
But they were inexperienced and holding only wooden clubs or perhaps a pitchfork from the nearby stables. The fighters they were facing had been trained for most of their lives in something most of Victorian society had never even heard of before.
Martial Arts.
Moving as one, the monks advanced upon the men as they twirled their weapons around so fast they looked as though they were nothing but dark blurs.
But just before they made contact, the bōs were thrown up high into the air.
It was all a distraction, and it worked. Their opponents gazed up in awe as the heavy sticks of wood flew effortlessly over them.
Their owners followed after them a moment later.
Springing over the overwhelmed labours as though they were none existent, the scarlet robed warriors landed and caught their weapons before they even came close to touching the ground.
The fight was over very quickly.
Once all of the men had been dealt with, the monks were swift in gaining entry of the house through the servant's entrance. This took them though into the main kitchen where the terrified cook and some of the maids of the house were busy preparing lunch for the master and mistress.
Screaming and attempting to flee, they did not get far before they were grabbed and dragged away by the intruders as some of the other monks made their way through into the main part of the house.
Sir Robert MacLeish had been found in the library and was in the process of removing a book from one of the shelves when the door had suddenly burst open as two of the men had stormed in.
Before the laird had even the chance to properly turn around and address the sudden intrusion, he was struck across the face and rendered unconscious by a single blow from one of the monk's bō staffs.
Dizzying darkness greeted the steward as he came around. Aware of a pair of helping hands guiding him as he managed to sit himself up, the first thing he was aware of was that his hands had been bound by a pair of shackles.
The second thing was that he was now in the basement of the house.
He only become aware of this when the doors leading down from the courtyard where he had just been were suddenly swing open by his attackers, spilling limited sunlight down into the dank, straw covered room.
"In the name of Heaven…" He began. "My Lady?"
"Sir." She whispered back, her young face taunt with worry.
The guiding hands turned out to belong to the mistress of the house, Lady Isobel MacLeish.
Her hands were chained up too, alongside the rest of the household whom had been captured. Only the master we missing as far as the steward could see and, to his knowledge at least, the Brethren of St. Catherine had given no reason as to why this was so.
He could see two of the monks sending a large crate down the stone slope from the courtyard and into the basement.
Covered in a heavy sheet of thick fabric, there was no way telling what was inside.
A moment later, Father Angelo appeared in the open doorway as he came down into the basement and stood next to his unknown cargo.
"What's in there? What is it, what's under the canvas?" The steward demanded to know. "Father, answer me. What's in there?"
Turning to face his group of bewildered captives, Father Angelo's stern expression did not falter.
"May God forgive me."
Lifting up the sheet with a single pull, the sight of what was underneath was enough to cause those now forced to face it to scream in absolute terror.