by Paul Kane
But all the time his mind kept flashing back to that box, to the finger – and he couldn't help wondering how Robert was.
And how it would affect them all come the morning.
By evening Jack wasn't the only one worried.
At various moments other members of his gang had gone to the tent and asked Robert if he would like something to eat, if he wanted to see how the training was going. They'd received no response. Finally, Bill had said: "To buggery with this…" and gone inside. He emerged a minute or so later with a confused expression on his face.
"What is it?" Tate asked, limping over.
"The man's gone."
"What?" Jack came to join them now. "How can he be gone? We all saw him go in there."
More of the group stopped what they were doing and came over, desperate to find out what had happened to Robert.
"Disappeared," reiterated Bill. "Bloody well vanished."
Tate looked for himself, not doubting Bill but needing to see it with his own eyes. "He's right," said the Reverend when he came out again.
"But… but where?" Jack said.
"'How the hell should I know?" said Bill. "Judas Priest! That's just effing great, that is. Eve of the big day and he's gone walkabout."
"He wouldn't do that," argued Jack.
"Wouldn't he? Perhaps what happened to Mark affected him even more than we realised…" Tate clicked his fingers. "Or he's gone off to try and rescue him alone. I do know he was having misgivings about dragging the rest of you into this."
"Is he off his head?" Granger said.
"It's been said before…" came a voice from somewhere. It was difficult to pinpoint, seeming to originate first from the left, then the right. "And to be honest, right now I'm not even sure myself."
Jack gave a grin. "Robbie."
"Where are you?" Tate shouted.
"I'm over here…" That definitely came from behind them. "Or am I here?" That was in front. The men looked first one way, then another.
When they turned back to the middle of the camp, though, there was Robert -leaning on his bow. They gazed at him, then at each other, unsure how to respond. Should they clap, as they would after a magician's trick? In the end Robert spoke up and saved them the trouble of deciding.
"Misdirection. It's the one thing we have on our side, the one thing that might help us to pull this off. While you were all busy training, not one of you noticed me slipping out, did you?"
There were mumblings, shakes of the head.
"When people are busy, they take their eye off the ball. I'm banking on that tomorrow. But I'm giving you one last chance to back out. I have to do this now, especially after…" He couldn't finish. Under his hood, they all knew the sadness that must be reflected on his face. Robert kept his 'mask' in place while he talked. "If anyone has cold feet, I wouldn't blame them."
No one said a thing, there weren't even any murmurs from the crowd.
"You're good men. You've restored my faith in human nature, something I never thought would happen. You give me a sense of hope, and I thank you for that."
Just then there was movement at the rear of the crowd. Everyone turned to see Mary standing there.
After a beat, Robert continued. "You all know the plan. You all know your roles. I know you won't let me down. If I should fall, you have to get the villagers… get Mark out. That is imperative above all else. I may not see you again, but you'll all remember what we did here in our time together, what we are about to do. And know that you have right on your side. Good hunting."
They did clap and cheer then – none of them caring whether the noise could be heard from outside the camp, possibly even outside the forest. It reminded Jack of soldiers from olden times before heading off to fight. We're about to do our Lord of the Rings thing, he thought.
Eventually the crowd broke up. The Hooded Man cast just one look back as he returned to his tent, over at Mary who was still watching him.
Then he disappeared inside.
He waited for some time, almost gave up on her – but in the end she came, as he knew she would.
Robert was sitting cross-legged on the floor, head down, hood covering his features. When Mary entered he didn't even look up, just said: "You came back, then?"
"Yes. I promised I would stand by you – that I would help in whatever way I could. I don't break my promises." There was a steely quality to her voice tonight that hadn't been there when they'd spoken yesterday. He recognised it, because he'd used it himself before.
"Actually, I'm not so sure you should have."
"You know, for a hero you really can be a wanker sometimes," she snapped.
Robert raised his head at that. "Is that what you came to tell me?"
"No." Mary dawdled at the entrance, not wanting to come too far in, but not wanting to be outside either. "I came back to wish you luck."
"Thanks…" He looked up at her properly now. "Mary, listen, when I said I'm not sure you should have come back I meant… I know you can take care of yourself and everything, I just wouldn't like to see something… I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."
"Like it has with Mark, you mean?"
He didn't answer.
"That's sweet, but I make my own decisions in life. You're about to go and get yourself captured or killed. Why shouldn't the rest of us? Why shouldn't I? Give me a reason, Robert."
"Because-" He said it a bit too forcefully, too hastily, then took an age to finish the sentence. "Because… I care about you."
"Yes. I know. We're friends, right?" Mary sighed. "That was quite some speech you gave out there, you know? You certainly have a way of rallying the troops."
"I just wanted them to know how… how much I've come to think of them."
"As for that little trick with the voice throwing; pretty nifty. Then appearing in the middle of them-"
"You were watching?"
"A-huh," she admitted. "I've been watching all day, saw you set the rope up – just like you've been teaching them. When you asked if anyone had seen you leave the tent; I did. I saw you Robert. I wasn't preoccupied."
Robert got to his feet.
"One day you'll be a legend, Robert Stokes. One day stories will be written about you, just like they wrote about him."
"Him?"
"You know who I mean. Your… predecessor."
"Oh."
Read to me Dad… Read some more…
Mary came a little more into the tent, hands behind her back. "I didn't just come here to wish you luck," she admitted at last.
"No?" He got up and moved forwards.
"No. I came to give you this…" She brought her hands out where he could see them, and she was holding one of the broadswords from her home. "You may as well look the part."
"I… I can't take that," said Robert.
"Yes you can. They might not let you keep it, but you never know. They might not even see it as a threat."
"One hell of a hunting knife, though," Robert said, with a lightness of tone that had been absent during the rest of the conversation. "Thank you."
"No need. Just take that stupid hood off and let me see you."
Robert pulled it back. "I meant what I said, you know. About another time and place…"
"I know." Mary smiled weakly. "But this is the only one we have."
He opened his arms and she walked into them. They held each other and both knew that this might be the last time they saw one another alive. Mary kissed him on the cheek. It felt like the end of everything, and in a very real sense it was. By that time tomorrow everything would have changed.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Mary whispered it back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The two men remained like that for some time…
Hands at each other's throats, neither one willing to give ground. This was the final fight, their only 'real' fight in fact, and both men were desperate to win. The Hooded Man because he saw it as his mission to rid the world of this ne
w infection; the Frenchman because he needed to pluck this thorn from his side before he could rule completely.
Tighter and tighter they grasped each other, spinning in the dreamscape – the fire on the water raging higher all around them.
Then one of them removed a hand. It was the Frenchman, reaching down, grabbing a hidden knife and bringing it up. It was too quick for The Hooded Man to block and he looked down, eyes wide, as the blade slid into him. It pierced his stomach, slipping through flesh and into him almost up to the hilt. He gave a cry and coughed up blood, his grip on his opponent's throat weakening.
Neither of them said a word; they didn't have to. It was obvious what had happened. The darkness had triumphed, winning out overall.
The time of the hero had almost passed.
And The Hooded Man would pass just as quickly into the arms of death.
De Falaise had woken with a smile on his face.
He couldn't remember all of the dream but he recalled the ending, recalled sliding the knife into Hood's gut and killing him.
Au revoir, he said to himself, you've proved a worthy adversary, but it is time for this whole affair to draw to a close.
The Frenchman looked over and saw the woman from Hope lying there, asleep. He contemplated waking her so that he could begin the morning by celebrating, but he had so much – too much to do. There would be time later, when he'd dealt with his enemy. All the time in the world, in fact; perhaps even time for a change. When she'd been getting dressed the last time he'd noticed his plaything was putting on a little bit of weight. He was obviously feeding her too well.
He'd got to bed late last night, after overseeing the last few hours of construction himself: the culmination of two days' labour. The men had worked hard, but then so they should have. They were doing it for their Sheriff. The platform and gallows were crude but sturdy. A series of six in a row so they could get through the executions as fast as possible, regardless of whether Hood showed up – though De Falaise was positive he would come. The platform, located out on the grass where Middle Bailey had once been, was high enough to accommodate the trap doors. These could be released by a single lever. That idea had been his and he'd explained in great detail how it could be achieved, muttering afterwards about the shortcomings of the British school system when it came to carpentry and woodwork.
What a sight it all was when it was finished, much better than simply hanging bodies over the sides of the rocks. This had style, flair – panache, as his people would say. It would be a spectacle; just one of the things that he would be remembered for. De Falaise had even appointed an official photographer, a soldier named Jennings who had an interest in such things and could develop film as well as take the actual photographs.
His inspiration had been the photos down in the basement of the castle, depicting all those different eras. One day, he realised, people would look back and remember what he had done here and applaud him for having the vision and bravery to pull it off. They would cheer his achievements, bringing Britain together again – perhaps even under a different name? Yes, something more fitting like… like Falaisia. That had a certain ring to it.
But he was taking small steps: towards a much larger goal. The only thing standing in his way was Hood and his malcontents. Once they were out of the way he could rule this region however he wanted. Build his army up even more, spread out and conquer from this one, fortified base.
It was his right, and his destiny.
One day those who came after him would look to his lead in governing their own lands. Just as he'd drawn from the past to establish his empire.
He'd left the woman and gotten into the outfit he'd handpicked for the day's proceedings – the red dress uniform adorned with medals and topped off with a ceremonial sword. Practically ignoring the new guard on duty outside his room De Falaise made his way down into the basement one last time. He had examined the history of this castle and its surrounding areas frequently, but only today did he feel like he was making a contribution to the museum. He would have his men erect some kind of memorial to his achievements before too long, continuing on the story of Nottingham and its castle.
De Falaise paused to examine the model of the place he now called home. Bending, he placed both hands on the glass cabinet.
"You are not just living history, De Falaise, you are making it," he said to himself.
Next he made his way upwards through the castle and onto the roof, putting on his sunglasses as he went. He walked across to where Reinhart was camped out. He'd been up there for two days straight, watching the city – if not with his sniper's scope, then with the binoculars De Falaise had left him. The Dutchman was like a machine, never complaining, never faltering. Just watching, ever vigilant.
"Anything to report?" De Falaise asked.
Reinhart shook his head. "No unusual activity at all."
"And our scouts in the city?"
"Checking in as usual – once every half-hour."
"Good, good. We will begin the executions within the hour. If you see any sign of The Hooded Man…"
"I will let you know, my Lord," Reinhart promised, holding up his walkie-talkie.
So that was that. It only remained for them to ready the prisoners, roust them and get the first batch onto the platform. De Falaise would allow most of his men to watch, those who were not busy patrolling the walls, that was. It would serve as both example and, he hoped, entertainment. There was so little on TV these days.
As for The Hooded Man…
De Falaise would await his presence with eager anticipation.
Gwen felt De Falaise shift about in bed first thing, then heard him laughing as he woke. His dreams had obviously amused him. He'd been restless prior to that, though, just like he had been the night she missed her opportunity to kill him. She hadn't been able to find the right moment since.
She'd feigned sleep in the hopes that he would leave her alone, knowing that nine times out of ten he'd do whatever he damned well pleased, not giving a toss whether Gwen was awake or not. This was the tenth time, obviously, because he got up and got dressed, barely making a sound. If he had tried something then she might well have reached for the knife now under her pillow, ramming it into his throat as he groped her. He was clearly waiting until after the day's events for that particular 'delight'.
Not that she had any intentions of still being here then.
Not that she had any intentions of still being alive. Her plan was simple. Free the prisoners, kill De Falaise. Yes, she was aware she was just one woman. Yes, the odds were impossibly against her, but still she had to try.
She couldn't leave that young boy to his fate. Hopefully, he could lead them all back to his hideout where they'd be safe (if you can get them past that nutjob on the roof with the sniper's rifle – don't forget about him, Gwen.)
They had to make a run for it, at least. They'd be dead anyway if they stayed here.
She was surprised, given his heritage, De Falaise hadn't insisted on a guillotine. But then, they'd executed the nobility that way, hadn't they – and that's what De Falaise aspired to be. Hanging was for peasants and criminals, historically speaking. Today, it would be used to put an end to the lives of people like she'd known in Hope, who just wanted to get on with their existence from day to day; just wanted to forget about the horrors that had befallen them during The Cull.
You're thinking too far ahead, Gwen, she told herself. First things first… The guard.
She got up off the bed, grabbing her robe. She didn't have too long before she'd be expected to join De Falaise at the ceremony, wearing yet another ornate dress he'd picked out. Gwen had other ideas. She slipped on the silk, hastily fastening the dressing gown with the belt around the middle, and made her way to the door. Controlling her breathing again, she took hold of the handle and turned it, opening the door a crack.
There was the guard, sitting opposite and to the right: a yobbish-looking youth today with a scar across his jawline. He didn't appe
ar to notice the door opening – obviously the perfect choice for a guard – so she had to cough to get his attention. Now he looked up, then stood, raising his rifle as he did so.
"E-Excuse me…" she said in a low voice.
"What are you doing out? It's not time for you to come out yet. The boss will go spare."
"I-I don't want to come out. I want you to come in." Gwen let the door open a bit further, hoping she'd read this one as well as the shy boy. The thug in front of her was a different kettle of fish – no virgin, and probably cut from the same cloth as De Falaise.
Well then, let's give him what he wants, shall we?
"You what?"
She crooked her finger. "I said I want you to come in, pass the time a little."
He licked his lips. "I-I can't. The boss would kill me. He was bad enough when I forgot to tell him about…" The soldier realised he'd said too much and shut up.
"About?"
"Doesn't matter."
"Is that why you pulled guard duty?" A blink of the eyes told her it was. "Can't be much fun, playing nursemaid."
"Isn't."
"Bet you'd rather be out there getting ready for the executions."
He nodded, grinning.
Oh, you're a piece of work. I might enjoy this after all.
"De Falaise has left me all alone, he's too distracted with the preparations. Didn't even have time to see to my needs. A woman has needs, you know." As before, she let her gown fall open a little way and she saw his eyes flash downwards. Unlike the other guard, though, they stayed there. It made her feel sick, but she knew it was just a means to an end. "What's your name?"
"Jace," he told her, eyes still cast downwards.
"That's a nice name, I like it. Why don't you come inside for a minute or two, so we can talk properly. Doesn't have to be long. No one will know. You can keep an eye on me much better from in here."
Jace looked left and right. "All right," he finally said.
She allowed him in and his eyes lit up when he saw the unmade bed. "I've heard what they say about you," he told her.