by Alex Scarrow
Behind him, the tall hooded figure silently prodded him forward with the tip of his sword and the crowd jeered as Liam stumbled and nearly fell. They made their way across the camp, the crowd parting reluctantly to let him through; he felt the soft tap of spittle on his shoulder and in his hair, and grimaced beneath his hands. The crowd was growing noisier.
‘Bloody French scum!’ a woman shouted and Liam felt something hard and sharp bounce off his back.
‘CEASE!’ boomed Bob from behind him.
The effect that had on the press of gathered people was instantaneous. An utter silence. So quiet, in fact, that Liam could hear the gentle crack of burning kindling and the bubble of simmering water from a cooking pot nearby.
They’ve never heard the Hood talk before.
Perhaps that was a mistake. He wondered if the silence would be broken by someone claiming the hooded form was some impostor. But instead the respectful silence remained, and the crowd parted before them … all the way towards Locke’s hut.
Liam led the way, doing his best to continue to look cowed, beaten and humiliated. With one last unnecessarily hard prod from behind that made him yelp, Liam stooped down through the low entrance and Bob followed behind.
The hut was lighter. Of course it was. Bob had casually demolished one side of the round wall.
He saw Locke standing, a gun aimed at them held in his shaking hands. ‘Stay where you are!’ he snapped. He glanced at Bob. ‘Where is it? What have you done with my combat unit?’
Bob pulled the hood down. No point maintaining the ruse. ‘Your combat unit has been deactivated.’
Locke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Good God … you’re a — you’re a genetic model, aren’t you?’
Bob nodded. ‘W.G. Systems combat prototype. Foetus batch WGS09-12-2056.’
‘My God!’ he uttered with a smile of admiration.
‘Lower the weapon,’ said Bob.
Locke hesitated, staring at the tip of the blade and realizing his gun wasn’t going to stop the giant standing in front of him. He slowly dropped his aim. ‘What now?’ he asked quietly.
Liam flexed his wrists and wriggled out of the loose rag binding. ‘The Grail. It’s here somewhere in the camp, isn’t it?’
Locke was silent. His face offered nothing.
‘Come on, Locke,’ said Liam. ‘We’re here for the same reason as you. We need to know what’s in it!’
‘The prophecy?’
Liam shrugged. ‘If that’s what it is. If that’s the big secret in there … then yes!’
Locke’s eyes remained on the sword.
‘Come on … Look, we’ve got the same goal, right? We can work together, so we can. There’s something coming, right? And there’s a warning about it in the Grail? Tell us where it is and maybe we can work out how to read the thing together!’
The man shook his head. ‘King Richard possesses the only way to decode the Grail.’
Liam glanced at Bob for help. But the support unit had nothing to offer at that moment. ‘We could take it back to our field office. We’ve got a powerful computer. There’s got to be a way we can use that to help us decode the thing.’
‘You have a way back!?’
‘Yes.’
‘A way back to the future?’
‘Of course! We’ve got a rendezvous — time, place and everything.’
Locke shook his head. ‘You’re lying! Apart from Waldstein, no one’s ever managed to develop a reliable return system!’
‘We have.’
‘My God,’ he whispered. ‘Good God … then you people are for real. This agency of yours …’
‘The agency is real,’ said Bob.
‘Come on, what do you say, Mr Locke?’
‘We … we need what King Richard has in his possession. We would need the grille. There is no mathematical way to decode it.’
Liam’s brow locked. ‘There must be another way. But look … it seems to me, the one thing we can’t do is allow King Richard to have both, right?’
‘Affirmative,’ said Bob.
‘History as it is says the Grail is a myth,’ continued Liam. ‘That’s how it goes. It gets lost. It becomes a myth and that’s all there is to it, no matter what secrets lie in there. It certainly doesn’t end up being found by King Richard and … and inspiring him to run off again to conquer the world on some fourth crusade or something.’
‘Information: the correct history is that King Richard attempts no more crusades. The last five years of his reign are spent attempting to re-establish royal authority in England and reclaim his lost territories in France.’
‘Right. No Grails. No more crusades. He’s all done with that.’
Locke stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully.
‘If we can work out how to decode it, we will, you and me. And if we can’t, well …’ Liam shrugged. ‘Then we make sure it stays lost. Mr Locke? What do you say to that?’
He pressed his lips together. ‘Perhaps.’
‘There is little time to delay,’ said Bob. ‘If King Richard’s forces are on the way to Nottingham — ’
‘The Grail would be safer in Nottingham Castle than out here in the woods,’ cut in Liam.
‘Affirmative.’
‘And then we can decide our next step.’
‘All right.’ Locke finally nodded. He handed the gun to Liam. ‘All right. I … I suppose, yes, I should speak to my people out there.’
‘What will you tell them?’
He looked at Bob. ‘If you wear the hood as you just did, they will believe you are the Hooded Man.’ Locke again stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I will tell them we must offer our loyalty to John. That we should prepare to leave for Nottingham.’ He stepped towards the doorway and then turned to Liam. ‘If they return to Nottingham … you do still have the authority to pardon them all, correct?’
Liam nodded. ‘Yes. Until I hear otherwise from John, I suppose I’m still the sheriff.’
Locke smiled. ‘Thank you. They’re not outlaws. They’re not bad people … they’re just hungry, desperate.’ He ducked and stepped out of the hut.
Liam let out a breath and waited until the sound of Locke’s footsteps was lost amid the babble of voices outside. ‘Well, that went better than I thought it would.’
‘Do you trust Locke?’ asked Bob.
‘He’s after the truth; that’s all. He’s after the same thing as us. And he came back here using a one-way time machine. That’s a pretty brave thing to do. Not sure I’d have the guts to do that.’
‘But do you trust him?’
‘Yes … yes, I think I do. I think we have to. It makes sense we should work together, right?’
Bob didn’t look entirely convinced. Liam nodded at the torn remnants of Bob’s arm. ‘How is it?’
‘Gone,’ replied Bob flatly.
Liam winced. ‘Well, what I mean is, how’s what’s left of it — the upper bit?’
‘The arteries are sealed. There is no additional blood loss. I will need to dress the wound to ensure no foreign matter gets into the wound and causes secondary infections.’
‘It will regrow, right? You’re not going to be stuck as a one-armed support unit forever, are you, Bob?’
Bob shook his head. ‘It will not regrow on its own. I will need to return to a growth tube for healing.’
‘Right. Well …’ he slapped Bob affectionately on the back, ‘that’ll be first thing on the “to-do” list when we get home,’ he grimaced. ‘Poor you, it always seems you have a tough time of it, each occasion we’ve gone back.’
‘That is my role.’
‘Aye, but … Ah well, I suppose I — ’
They both heard a sudden commotion: voices calling out, the sound of horses’ hooves thudding on soft ground.
‘What’s going on?’ Liam ducked down and stuck his head outside to see Locke’s people standing around bemused and motionless, watching the retreating rear of a baggage cart bounce across the lumpy ground of the camp and rattle on
to a narrow track that curved and weaved into the forest and out of sight.
Liam cursed. He stuck his head back in. ‘That slippery sod!’
‘What has happened?’
‘Locke — he’s only bleedin’ well done a runner!’
CHAPTER 63
1194, Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire
‘He won’t have left without it,’ said Liam. ‘Not without the Grail, I’m sure of it.’
Bob nodded. ‘Then we must catch him.’
Liam ducked back out through the entrance and was pushing his way through the crowd when several pairs of hands grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground.
‘An’ where ye goin’, Frenchie?’ snarled someone.
Liam heard the grate of a metal blade being unsheathed.
‘RELEASE HIM!’ Bob’s voice boomed across the clearing once again. He strode forward, his face once more covered by the hood. ‘STAND BACK!’ The crowd did so instantly, drawing back from Liam as if he carried the plague. Bob reached down with his one good hand and helped him back on to his feet.
‘We need horses,’ uttered Liam out of the side of his mouth. ‘We’ll never catch him up on foot.’
‘WHO HAS A HORSE?’
The crowd was silent.
‘Bob, tell them you’re taking me to Nottingham,’ he whispered. ‘Tell them you’re going to force me to write a pardon for them all. They’ll be free to go back to their homes.’
Bob nodded and repeated Liam’s words in his parade-ground voice. The people listened in stunned silence. As he announced they’d be free to return home, an uncertain cheer rippled through them. Uncertain, perhaps because to them it sounded too good to be true.
‘Where has Locke gone?’ asked someone.
‘I’ll tell them,’ uttered Liam to Bob. He cleared his throat. ‘Locke has gone to offer his services to King Richard!’ Some of the men in the crowd cheered at mention of the king. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to cheer him,’ Liam continued. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure Richard’s here to save you from John! He’ll come here first, I’d wager. Come here and deal with you all, before dealing with his brother!’
‘You’re lying!’ someone shouted. ‘You are John’s man!’
Others in the crowd murmured their agreement. Liam could see none of them was going to believe a single word he uttered. ‘You better tell them,’ he whispered to Bob.
‘HE IS TELLING THE TRUTH!’ barked Bob. ‘RECOMMENDATION: LEAVE THIS CAMP IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN TO YOUR HOMES! KING RICHARD IS COMING AND WILL KILL YOU ALL!’
The wood was suddenly filled with raised voices, all speaking at once.
Through the crowd, on one side of the clearing, Liam spotted a solitary malnourished horse, tied to a tree and staring listlessly out at the noise and commotion in front of it. He nudged Bob gently. ‘Over there. Do you see it?’
‘Affirmative.
‘I WILL NOW LEAVE WITH THE SHERIFF. YOU WILL ALL BE PARDONED!’
Bob led the way, dragging Liam with him by the arm. The crowd was beginning to break up into knots of people arguing with each other — some determined to stay here, some wanting to go home. An old man reached out for Bob, his hands grasping at his cape. ‘Please don’t leave! We follow you! We came here to follow you!’
Liam glanced up at Bob. He couldn’t see Bob’s eyes beneath the shadow of the hood, but a gentle tip of his head assured Liam he had an answer. ‘It is over, old man! There will be no uprising now. You must go home!’
With that he grabbed Liam by the arm again and pulled him forward through the milling crowd.
But the old man was not to be shaken off so easily. ‘You cannot leave us now! We have nothing! We have — ’ He grasped at the cape again, but this time the old man’s frail hand grasped at material further up the cape and as Bob stepped away the hood pulled back off his face and flapped down on to his shoulders.
The effect was instant. A silence once more; arguments momentarily forgotten, voices hushed and eyes growing ever wider as they stared at his face.
‘’Tis the man who was here earlier!’
‘A trick!’ someone else cried out. ‘To rescue the sheriff!’
Liam jabbed Bob in the ribs. ‘Run!’
Bob’s one good arm stretched out and snatched a longbow from the hands of a young man standing nearby. He swiped it around, smacking the heads of half a dozen of those too slow to duck. And then the pair of them were running for the horse.
Liam’s bare feet stumbled through the embers of a fire, kicking up a shower of sparks. He yelped and hopped as those nearby frantically brushed off and patted down embers on their dry rags and lank hair. Liam was still hopping and yelping as Bob tossed the longbow aside, scooped him up under his arm and a moment later hurled him over the rear of the horse. The animal bucked and complained at the sudden load deposited on its back.
Bob snapped the horse’s tether from the tree with a savage jerk and then swung a leg over. With a brutal kick of heels into its flank he startled the horse forward into the crowd, knocking aside hands reaching out to grasp the reins and wrest the horse from their control.
They clattered through the rest of the camp, the horse’s hooves kicking aside the frail wooden frames of tents and hovels, people lurching back out of their way at the last moment. Curses and stones whistling through the air at them. And then they were on the narrow forest track.
CHAPTER 64
1194, Nottingham
John stared with utter bemusement at the people in the marketplace. They respectfully made a pathway for his escort of soldiers and the two dozen carts and wagons containing his baggage and essential royal staff of servants.
‘I do believe they’re … uhh … they’re cheering for me,’ he uttered to Becks.
She rode on horseback beside him, side-saddle rather than astride. Dressed in fine linens that fluttered lightly and gracefully. ‘Yes, my lord, it appears they are.’
‘That makes a rather pleasant change,’ he murmured, self-consciously waggling a limp hand back at the people. They roared approval at the simple gesture.
Leaving Oxford hadn’t been quite so pleasant. John had felt compelled, for his own safety, to hide in one of the wagons while his escort of soldiers had had to push and shove the angry crowd aside to allow the column through the main gate. He’d heard jeering and cursing, he’d heard swords being unsheathed, and the thumps and bangs of fists and booted feet against the wooden trap of his wagon.
‘It seems your friend has won them round for me.’
Becks nodded. ‘Yes. He has been very effective.’
He smiled and nodded at the people. ‘And they are staying put … even though they must have heard by now that Richard’s army approaches.’
Becks nodded as she rode in silence. She offered him a faint smile, the slightest curl of her lips.
John felt his heavy heart lift. For the first time in years he actually felt … liked. These people could have abandoned Nottingham to its fate. They could surely leave and find shelter elsewhere, in other towns, villages. But they’d decided to stay. Prepared to show the king that they actually approved of John’s stewardship while he’d been away on his foolish crusading, bankrupting them all.
He noticed the market stalls were well stocked. A good summer’s crop that had managed to be harvested without the disruption of roving gangs of bandits and villains, leaving smouldering fields and dead farm workers in their wake. The people certainly looked better fed than those in Oxford — not all pallid skin drawn up against hard-edged bones and dressed in rags, but people who looked well. People from better, happier times.
That at least was some comfort.
If Richard wanted to besiege this town, then he was going to have a hard time of it. The walls were good, the town’s position a strong one. There appeared to be good supplies of food within and a population that appeared willing to make a stand for him.
But the Grail?
Has he found it yet?
John’s heart skipp
ed anxiously at the thought. There’d be no need for any kind of a stand, a battle, a siege, no need for any of that nonsense if that curious young man, Liam De Connor, had managed to successfully track down the bandits and get back what they’d taken.
He could hand it over to his brother and then beg his brother’s forgiveness for losing the Grail. Beg his forgiveness for failing to find that ransom money for two long years. He could beg, and publicly stoop to kiss his brother’s hand and, perhaps, that and the safe return of the Grail would be enough to appease him. There’d be a beating with a cane later, of course. Away from public eyes.
Royalty can never afford to be seen as frail … just as mortal as any common man.
Richard would delight at that: stripping him, beating him, having him beg and plead like a pitiful dog. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that to him. But Richard would have his precious Grail with all its precious Templar secrets and be in a good mood. He’d be distracted into thinking about future insane campaigns in faraway lands, now that he had his holy relic.
And John would get to keep a head on his shoulders.
He glanced up at the sturdy keep in front of them, at the centre of Nottingham. Hoping to catch sight of his new sheriff riding out to greet them on horseback. Hoping to see a sign, a smile and a small nod — a gesture from him to assure him that all was well, that he could relax once again.
That he has the Grail.
‘No welcome,’ uttered John. ‘Is no one at home?’
He could see the bobbing of helmeted heads between crenellations. The castle appeared to be garrisoned still. But a greeting party on horseback should have emerged by now, out of mere courtesy.
‘I wonder where the sheriff is?’
‘Up ahead!’ Liam shouted. Sitting across the bouncing rump of the horse, his voice warbled like a songbird. ‘That’s him!’
The cart ahead of them was rattling along the narrow track, wheels wobbling and straining as they careered over the humps of tree roots. In the back of the cart, tethered faggots of firewood and several sacks of apples rattled and rolled around as Locke kicked and cajoled the rear of his horse to pick up the pace.