Blood Bond

by Green, Michael

  ‘I’m with Steven — let’s go straight to Gulf Harbour,’ Penny countered quickly.

  ‘Me too,’ Adam said. Mark knew the rolling motion of the yacht was hurting Adam’s leg and that for him, the sooner the voyage was over the better. Mark felt the situation slipping away from him. ‘What about you?’ he asked Allison, keen to redress the balance.

  She looked down at the cockpit sole. ‘I’m abstaining. I don’t want to go to Brisbane or Gulf Harbour.’ She burst into tears. ‘I want to go back to England. I’m worried about my mother.’

  Mark looked at her incredulously. How could she possibly want to go back to England — to the menace of Nigel, who’d forced her to act as his wife, when she had a new life with him in New Zealand to look forward to? Only that morning, at sunrise, Fergus and Jessica, Steven and Penny, and he and Allison had stood together in the cockpit and solemnly pledged themselves to one another in a simple form of marriage ceremony.

  For a split second he felt resentment. Did she really love him? Was the blood bond stronger than the marriage bond? Then he felt both guilty and remorseful. ‘Your mother will be fine,’ he said softly. ‘Warren and Charlene are looking after her.’

  ‘I’m for Brisbane,’ Robert said.

  ‘Me too,’ added his brother Luke. Both younger Daltons had quizzed Mark about the New Zealand survivors left behind at Gulf Harbour. As a result, they knew that awaiting their arrival were only young children and aunts they considered ancient — they were thirty-five at least! Aboard Archangel all the eligible women were spoken for. No wonder the teenagers wanted to go to Brisbane to see if there were any more Chatfields left alive.

  Brisbane had three votes, so did Gulf Harbour. The decision hung in the balance.

  ‘Brisbane it is then,’ said Jessica’s voice from the quarterberth. ‘I’m with Fergus.’

  Mark sighed with relief: there was a majority in favour of Brisbane without him having to cast his own vote. Perhaps now Steven would accept the situation without blaming him. The day was saved. Logic had prevailed.

  Mark knew they needed to find fresh blood. Of the ten family members Mark and Steven had left behind when they sailed to England in search of pandemic survivors, only two were male. Christopher had had a vasectomy, and Mark’s grandson Zach was only eleven years of age, so the New Zealand community did not contain a single fertile adult male. And of the relatives left behind in England, less than a third were male. Archangel, with her complement of eleven, carried eight males, including four adults and two teenagers.

  Mark knew the family’s survival depended on him. He had to get them safely back to New Zealand and, if he could find any other relatives who had survived the pandemic, integrate them into his community.

  4

  Mark would have been even more worried about the future survival of the Chatfield family if he knew of the events unfolding at Haver in the aftermath of his escape.

  The remnants of the Steed, Morgan, Dalton and Grey families, cowering in their quarters around Lawn Court, waited until they felt sure Nigel and his sons would not return before venturing out. Paul Grey and his daughter Cheryl raced across the lawn to where Bridget was lying. She was conscious and in pain. A practical woman, she had decided in the aftermath of the pandemic to keep her hair shorn, and the pain on her face seemed even more severe beneath her bald head. Bloodstains on her tunic showed she had been shot in the right side of her back, the bullet passing clean through her side. Another bullet had smashed into her leg behind the knee. She had lost a lot of blood, and continued bleeding as she was carried across Lawn Court to the Greys’ quarters. All her father and sister could do was press cloths on the wounds to try to stanch the flow. Allison, the only member of the community with any nursing experience, had escaped with Mark.

  Out on Lawn Court, Diana Morgan ran to the body of her daughter and sank down on her knees, staring at Melanie’s white, lifeless face. Her piercing eyes were dry, but full of hate and thoughts of revenge. She was joined by her weeping daughter Theresa, who put her arms around her mother. Diana shrugged her roughly away.

  Sobbing, Duncan and Jennifer Steed lifted their brother Cameron’s limp body and carried it to the rose garden in the western corner of the courtyard, followed by Cameron’s wailing daughters. Then they collected the bodies of Warren and Charlene Dalton and placed them beside Cameron. With the exception of Charlene’s two young daughters — who kept asking what was wrong with their mother — the Dalton family at Haver had been wiped out.

  It was left to Duncan and Jennifer, aided by the older children, to carefully remove the bushes from the rose garden and dig a large grave. They had wanted to bury the dead beside Aunt Margaret, but were too frightened to trespass onto Nigel’s bowling green again.

  It was dark by the time the grave was complete and Diana had been persuaded to allow Melanie’s body to be placed with the others. By the light of a single taper, the four bodies were lowered into one grave. Theresa recited the burial service as best she could remember and everyone, with the exception of Diana, joined in as the Lord’s Prayer was recited. They were too scared to sing hymns again, either.

  Duncan and Jennifer filled in the grave and carefully replanted the rose bushes on top of the soil, which now stood considerably proud of the lawn. Slowly the families drifted away to put the traumatised children to bed. Only Diana remained at the graveside, staring down at the ground, alone with her thoughts.

  As a result of the massacre Nigel now had only twenty-three subjects. Not only had his sons killed four of their relatives, they had also eliminated two fertile males. The all-important gene pool had been depleted.

  Not that Nigel, sitting with his sons in Haver’s ballroom, was worried about future generations. His main concerns were whether Mark and Steven Chatfield would return, and how he was he going to maintain his standard of living with so few subjects left under his control.

  ‘Don’t you dare shoot anyone else,’ he threatened his sons, glowering at them across the Boulle table. Greg and Jasper, unwilling to meet their father’s gaze, stared at the floor.

  Damian attempted to defend his actions. ‘I thought you were in danger.’

  ‘What? From women and children running away? You’d better hope Mark and Steven don’t come back and take revenge.’

  Alarm spread across the faces of Nigel’s sons. He handed them the letter that Mark had left.

  ‘Arrogant bastard,’ breathed Damian. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘Do you think they will come back?’ Greg asked, his voice revealing his anxiety. He was still in shock over his twin brother Miles’s death during Mark’s daring escape from Haver. ‘Why would Mark risk coming back?’ said Jasper scornfully. ‘He’s got what he wanted — Allison.’

  At the mention of his old lover, Nigel’s face turned red. ‘If they come back I’ll wipe out the lot of them — particularly that bitch,’ he threatened. Apparently the instruction not to harm anyone else did not apply to him.

  ‘I’m sure they won’t come back — not in the near future anyway,’ Jasper insisted.

  ‘Mark’s bluffing,’ agreed Damian, but it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself as much as his father.

  ‘Maybe, but we need an insurance policy just in case,’ Nigel said.

  Diana was still maintaining her vigil beside the rose garden grave when Damian and Greg returned to Lawn Court.

  ‘What are you doing outside your quarters?’ Damian snapped. ‘You know there’s a curfew after dark.’

  Diana didn’t answer. Greg, noticing the spade and the damp, disturbed earth shining darkly in the moonlight, guessed Diana was standing at a graveside. At least the peasants had had the sense not to dig more graves in his father’s bowling green.

  ‘You’re to ensure breakfast is served on time. Put everyone on one refectory table. Now get back inside,’ Damian ordered.

  Diana neither answered nor moved.

  ‘Do you want to join them down there?’ Greg asked, drawing h
is pistol and pointing with it at the grave. Still Diana stood her ground.

  It was only when she saw Damian reach for his gun too that she turned and slowly walked back towards her quarters. The brothers heard her sobbing. These were the first tears she’d cried since her daughter had been murdered.

  As Diana walked away, Damian gestured to Greg to follow him. Pistols in hand, they moved across Lawn Court towards the Grey family’s quarters. As they approached the building they could see Paul, Cheryl and the children through the window, sitting huddled around Bridget in the candlelight.

  Paul heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path outside the window and looked up suddenly as the door flew open and the pistol-wielding Greg and Damian burst in.

  ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, jumping to his feet, his head jerking nervously from side to side.

  The brothers didn’t answer. Greg walked across the room and grabbed Cheryl’s daughter, Mary-Claire.

  ‘No!’ Cheryl screamed as she lunged forward. Damian fired his pistol above her head and she ducked back as Paul instinctively sheltered the remaining children with his arms.

  The Chatfield brothers were out of the room in seconds. Frightened faces peered through darkened windowpanes as they watched the moonlit figures of Greg and Damian, pistols still in hand, dragging the screaming Mary-Claire across Lawn Court and through the archway beneath Cromwell’s Tower.

  Nigel’s insurance policy had been secured.

  Word that Mary-Claire had been snatched spread like wildfire through the tiny rooms on the south side of Lawn Court. Shortly after Cheryl had coaxed the remaining children upstairs and into bed, the senior members of the community made their way through the winding passages that ran like a rabbit warren through the old buildings to join Paul in his quarters.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ stuttered a downcast Paul, once he had told his cousins what had happened. His eyes seemed to have sunken even further into his thin, strained face.

  Duncan Steed slumped down onto a chair. ‘Heaven knows,’ he said, as he ran his fingers through his unruly mop of red hair.

  ‘Someone has got to confront Nigel,’ Jennifer said forcefully. ‘We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘We need to appoint a spokesperson,’ Susan Morgan said. Susan, unlike her cousin Jennifer, had lost both her smile and her plumpness during her internment at Haver.

  ‘I think Diana should be our spokesperson,’ Jennifer suggested.

  Diana Morgan was undoubtedly the best choice, retaining the bearing of the top barrister she had once been. Sharp-featured and sharp-minded, she was the one person with the intelligence to take on Nigel and his sons.

  But Diana shook her head.

  ‘Come on,’ prompted Duncan.

  Diana guessed Duncan’s main motivation was to ensure that he didn’t land the job himself. She shook her head again. ‘Nigel’s a chauvinist pig. He won’t entertain parleying with a woman.’

  Susan nodded. ‘I agree, unfortunately. It’s got to be either Duncan or Paul.’

  Paul’s twitch became even more pronounced. Everyone knew he was in no state to take on Nigel. The women looked towards Duncan.

  There was a long silence. ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he said eventually. ‘But you know what Nigel’s like. He won’t listen to me either.’

  Fearful the Chatfield brothers might return, they extinguished their single candle and sat in the dark for a further two hours, planning their strategy in hushed whispers. Despite rejecting the job of spokesperson herself and her deep grief over the death of her daughter, Diana did her best to bolster Duncan’s confidence, prompting him with suggestions of how he should confront Nigel. Although she burned with anger and yearned for retribution, she cautioned him against even mentioning the massacre. Her years as a barrister had taught her there were times when it paid to bite your tongue and await the right moment to attack.

  At ten to six the next morning, a trickle of figures sombrely and silently emerged from the buildings around Lawn Court. Few of them had managed to sleep. All wore the same drab grey tunics; the only difference between the different family groups was their hats. Eyes were red, faces white and drawn. As they passed the rose garden, many started crying. The crying continued as they passed the statute of Venus close to where Aunt Margaret was buried.

  They passed through the central arch beneath the formidable-looking Cromwell’s Tower and entered Flag Court beyond, carefully avoiding the bloodstains on the flagstones where Damian had swung the axe down onto Aunt Margaret’s neck just the previous day, before passing through the entranceway on the far side of the courtyard and into the oak-panelled Great Hall.

  Previously, two wooden refectory tables fifty feet long had been required to seat Nigel’s subjects for meals. Now, following the escape of Mark and his party and the massacre by the Chatfield brothers, the remaining members of the community would be seated at the single refectory table closest to the stone fireplace, as ordered by Damian.

  As the families filed into the room, Diana directed them to their newly designated places. As always, her movements were jerky and forceful as if she was in a great hurry. At the end of the table furthest from the Minstrel Gallery and closest to the raised dais where Nigel and his sons would sit at their own elaborately decorated table, she seated the Steed family. Duncan and Jennifer sat at the end, shuffling down the table a little as if trying to distance themselves from the dais. Beside Duncan, Diana seated his daughter Virginia, then Virginia’s thirteen-year-old daughters Amy and Beatrice and their younger sister Hazel. Virginia was a dazzling beauty, the most attractive woman at Haver. The gangly identical twins were beginning to fill out, suggesting that one day their looks would rival those of their mother. Three-yearold Hazel, with her mass of red curls, threatened to eclipse them all. Beside Jennifer, Diana seated Cameron’s bespectacled daughters, Rebecca and Kimberley.

  The next to be seated were the Greys.

  ‘Have you seen Mary-Claire?’ Cheryl asked Diana anxiously, as she was instructed to sit opposite her father.

  Diana shook her head. ‘We’ve seen no one.’

  Paul reserved a space beside him for Mary-Claire, and Cheryl took the next space. With Bridget still recovering from her gunshot wounds, Cheryl had to shepherd her nieces as well as her own sons and Charlene Dalton’s orphaned twins.

  The final places on the table, those closest to both the Minstrel Gallery and the entrance to the kitchen, were reserved for Diana’s own family, the Morgans. Susan lumbered in slowly from the kitchen, her progress slowed by her arthritic knees. She was followed by Diana’s surviving daughter Theresa, who had also been working in the kitchens since five o’clock in the morning. Like all their cousins, the Morgan family sported the trademark Chatfield high cheekbones. However, their features were much sharper than those of their relatives. Though the younger women were attractive, particularly Theresa, Susan and Diana’s features had become shrewish and pinched.

  Diana stood at the end of the table and surveyed the scene. The huge room seemed almost empty. The persistent badgering of her cousin Mark about the need to increase the population suddenly seemed desperately relevant.

  Of the senior generation seated at the table, only Duncan could make a contribution to the population. All the women were past child-bearing age and Paul had had a vasectomy.

  The next generation consisted of Virginia, Kimberley and Rebecca Steed, Cheryl and Bridget Grey, and Diana’s own daughter Theresa, all in their late twenties or early thirties. Their generation did not boast a single male still at Haver.

  Then there were twelve children in the youngest generation of whom only two — Cheryl’s sons Ruben and Harry — were male.

  That meant there were only five fertile adult males left at Haver. Diana untied her grey headscarf and sat down at the end of the table, staring ahead at the door beyond the dais, waiting for — and dreading — the arrival of the remaining four.

  5

  Fifteen minutes later, Greg Chatfi
ed entered the room through the door behind the dais. Diana noticed with foreboding that he was dressed in one of his finest Tudor tunics, taken from a store of costumes left at Haver after the filming of a period drama there before the pandemic. Whenever anything significant was to be announced, Nigel and his sons always dressed up. She had already noticed the lectern standing at the front of the dais — a sure sign that Nigel would be delivering one of his lectures. But at least none of his sons was standing guard in the Minstrel Gallery with a machine gun.

  ‘Stand,’ Greg snapped.

  The community scrambled to their feet and stood facing the front. They gasped as Nigel, carrying a sheaf of papers and flanked by Jasper and Damian, strode onto the dais. The three were also dressed in their best Tudor finery, Damian in yellow tights and a plumed hat.

  But it was not the tights or the hat that had caused the gasp. It was the sight of the tiny figure of Mary-Claire being tugged along by Nigel, on a lead attached to a studded dog collar around her neck.

  Damian drew his pistol and pointed it towards the body of the hall. The sounds of indignation died quickly. Only Cheryl’s crying broke the silence.

  ‘Stop that snivelling,’ yelled Nigel. Cheryl fought to hold back her tears, muffling her sobs with her hands clasped across her face. ‘Sit down. Morgans, serve the meal,’ Nigel commanded.

  Paul took Cheryl’s hand across the table. ‘Mary-Claire will be all right. It’ll take more than Nigel to break her spirit.’ Cheryl, the sound of her crying drowned out by the agitated conversation that had engulfed the hall, only sobbed harder.

  Up on the dais, Nigel jerked the lead, forcing Mary-Claire to the floor. Then he kicked her forward with his foot until she was sprawled on the dais in full view of her relatives. The disgust and anger in the hall reached a crescendo.