From somewhere in the valley below they could hear the sound of chanting voices and a thousand feet stamping, like a great army on the march.
“It’s started,” said Alfie, nervous but excited. “Come on.”
Together they crept out through a small archway, crouching low to avoid their silhouettes appearing to anyone who might be gazing up at the lonely tower from the surrounding countryside. It was yet another swelteringly hot, cloudless night and the moon was bright. Filling the fields below the hill was an endless sea of tiny lights, as if a thousand constellations had fallen from the night sky. Beyond that was a huge white tent illuminated by powerful, restless spotlights. A long cheer erupted from the crowd beneath the blinking lights and a deafening sound filled the air.
Music.
Alfie reached up and whipped off his armour, which shrank back into the form of the Shroud Tunic lying limp across his hand. He opened his backpack and stuffed it inside along with the golden spurs. To anyone who didn’t know they would have looked just like a scruffy old T-shirt and a pair of novelty bottle openers. But in reality they were among the most important items of the United Kingdom’s priceless regalia.
“I’ve always wanted to go to Glastonbury,” Hayley said as she settled down to watch the gig.
“And here we are. Well, near enough,” replied Alfie, sitting next to her.
On stage the lead singer launched into the chorus and the crowd joined in, swaying their mobile phone lights in time. Alfie hadn’t heard of this band until earlier that day when Hayley had shown him a newspaper that said they were headlining the festival. To make up for his embarrassment he’d suggested they sneak out that night and fly to Glastonbury Tor, the name of the old church tower on the hill, which he figured would make a safe vantage point.
Neither of them had had much time off in the three months since the coronation. By day Alfie had been attending to his duties as the new King Alfred the Second of the United Kingdom, while by night he had been busy as the Defender, secretly investigating Professor Lock’s escape during his transfer to the Tower of London. From what they could tell, his treacherous old teacher had somehow turned into the Black Dragon again and overpowered his guards – even though they’d been sure his monstrous side had been destroyed during the battle in Westminster Abbey. But now the trail had gone cold, and the Lord Chamberlain seemed happy to give Alfie the night off. Not that he knew Alfie had a secret Defender outing planned with Hayley; the fussy old man would NOT have approved.
As for Hayley, she had been busy reorganizing the information-gathering and communications side of the Keep’s operation to drag it into the twenty-first century. The Lord Chamberlain wasn’t too thrilled about everything she was changing – she could tell that by the way he kept shouting, “Stop changing everything!” By contrast, Brian, the king’s bodyguard and the Defender’s armourer, and the Yeoman Warders seemed up for a little modernizing, although they weren’t that keen on Hayley’s latest idea – Thursday night “Zumba” class. She wanted to encourage the beefeaters to lose some weight. Plus if she really had to spend every night cooped up in a cold, secret underground base, she figured she might as well try to liven the place up a little – although the way everyone suddenly found some urgent errand to go and run every time the class was about to start told her that she might have her work cut out for her. But besides terrorizing the Yeoman Warders with threats of compulsory exercise, the one thing there had not been much of in the last few weeks was FUN. Tonight was all about putting that right. At least, it was supposed to be.
“What’s wrong?” asked Alfie. He could tell that Hayley was brooding about something.
“My gran. She’d love this.”
“Your grandmother likes this band?”
Hayley scowled at him with half a smile. “No. Idiot. I mean being here. Somewhere with all this history. She’s stuck in that stupid old people’s home, and I’m out having fun. It’s not right.”
“Well, I’ll ask Wyvern, but she’s only just got used to letting you hitch a lift. I’m not sure she’d be up for another freeloader—”
Hayley grabbed Alfie’s arm and twisted it behind his back.
“All right, all right! No more jokes!” promised Alfie.
Hayley released her grip. “You know, for a superhero, you’re kind of a pushover.”
Alfie rubbed his arm, regretting taking off his Defender armour so soon. “Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be on my side. I could have your head chopped off as a traitor.”
“Uh-huh.” Hayley had turned her attention back to the festival far below. The band was playing their next song.
“If it makes you feel better, I probably shouldn’t be here either,” continued Alfie. “I should be trying to see Richard.”
He hadn’t spoken to his brother for weeks. They always used to reply to each other’s messages, no matter what, but ever since the coronation Richard had become more and more distant. He never came back to the palace for weekends any more, and he’d even stopped answering Alfie’s calls.
“What’s the matter?” asked Hayley. “Little brother still annoyed about the whole humiliation-in-front-of-the-entire-world thing?”
“I did him a favour!” replied Alfie. “He has no idea how lucky he is.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t know that, does he? Anyway, he’ll come round. You’ve got that whole twin thing going on, haven’t you?”
Alfie smiled. Hayley was right. Richard couldn’t stay angry with him for ever.
“Make you a deal,” he said. “Soon as we get back, you go see your gran, I’ll go and see Rich. Bit of quality family time.”
“Deal.” Hayley listened to the crowd cheering the band. The sound of the bass drum was thumping around the hills. “This is nice, Alfie. But it’s not the same, is it?” She sighed.
“Same as what?”
“Being down there.”
Alfie jumped up, swung his backpack on to his shoulder and pulled Hayley to her feet.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Where do you think?”
Laughing, Alfie and Hayley ran down the steep, grassy hill in the dark, hand in hand.
Soon they were in the throng of the crowd, jumping up and down to the music with their hands in the air. Alfie had put a cap on, just in case, but no one here was expecting to see him; he was just another kid in a whole field of happy faces. The throbbing bass beat filled their bodies, from the soles of their feet all the way up to their beaming smiles. In that moment he was no longer King Alfie, the secret superhero, and she was no longer Hayley Hicks, the runaway from the estate. Tonight they were part of something bigger than themselves, a joyous mass of humanity dancing as one, and it felt incredible.
Alfie sensed eyes on him. A growing unease jangling at the edge of his mind. Had someone spotted him? He scanned the crowd. It was OK, everyone was facing the stage. No, wait. There. Through the heaving forest of bodies, a hooded figure standing still, wearing a long red robe. Whoever it was, they looked like a monk with a cowl and while everyone around them watched the band, this Red Robe seemed to stare back, straight at him. Alfie blinked and suddenly the figure had moved, about ten people to the right. How did they do that? Alfie was unnerved – even though he couldn't see Red Robe's face beneath the hood, he could feel the strange figure's eyes boring into him. Spotlights swept across the crowd and blink Red Robe had moved again.
“What’s wrong?” Hayley yelled in Alfie’s ear, startling him out of his trance.
“Someone’s watching me.” Alfie pointed through the crowd, but Red Robe had disappeared.
Alfie looked around. There were plenty of other people wearing costumes, silly hats, faces painted. And with the confusion of flashing lights, maybe he was just being paranoid.
“Forget it. It was nothing.”
Hayley grabbed his shoulder. “Alfie! Your backpack!”
Alfie spun round, clawing at his back, finding nothing but a loose piece of strapping – it looked like i
t had been cut. It was gone and with it, the Shroud Tunic and spurs!
“Wyvern!” gasped Alfie.
They both scanned the ground, frantic. Alfie pushed people back and crawled on his hands and feet, desperate to find his bag. “Where is it?!”
People around them had stopped dancing and started staring at them. Hayley tried to pull Alfie up. “You’re attracting attention,” she hissed.
A high-pitched whinnying pierced Alfie’s ears. He winced and held his head. It was Wyvern. She was scared, crying out. He could hear her. He jumped up and pulled Hayley back through the crowd. “This way!”
Alfie hated the noise Wyvern was making in his head, but he was sure it was her – somehow calling for help, urging him to find her. He fought to block out everything else – the music, the yells of people he was pushing past. As they broke clear of the scrum near a long line of portaloos, Hayley yanked at his arm.
“Where are you going, Alfie? We have to find your bag!”
“I can hear Wyvern – don’t ask me how. She’s calling to me. She’s close!”
Hayley’s eyes swept the dark corner of the field. People were milling about in all directions – carrying drinks, dancing in small groups, eating, heading back to their tents. Suddenly she spotted a tall man with long matted blond hair lingering near the queue for the toilets. He was looking around nervously and holding something tight under one arm – Alfie’s backpack!
“THERE! STOP!” Hayley shouted and set off at a sprint. Alfie scrambled after her.
The man heard the yell and saw Hayley bounding towards him. He shoved his way through the queue and ran. The ground was uneven and Hayley stumbled, but she was soon back on her feet, eating up the space between her and the thief. She was confident she could catch him, as long as she reached him before he made it back into the main crowd. The man gripped Alfie’s bag as he weaved his way past a guy on a unicycle and a pair of stilt-walkers. Then he stopped, turned back and kicked the unicyclist into the stilt-walkers. All three cried out and tumbled over in a heap, just as Hayley and Alfie reached them. By the time they’d dodged past the chaos of arms and legs and stilts, the thief was far ahead of them, nearing the main crowd. They were going to lose him!
But as the man looked back and grinned, the door of the very last portaloo in the row snapped open with ferocious force and smacked into him, knocking him out cold. Hayley ran up and knelt down, wrestling the backpack from the man’s limp hands. When Alfie arrived a second later, he thought he caught a glimpse of red cloth through the crack of the open portaloo door. He heard a faint POP from inside and a felt a rush of warm air pass over him.
Hayley stood up and held out the backpack to Alfie. “What would you do without me, ’eh, Alf?”
But Alfie was holding the portaloo door open, staring at the empty space inside. “How did it open like that? I thought I saw—”
“Who cares?” said Hayley, holding her nose. “Shut the door before I pass out.”
Alfie couldn’t explain what he’d just seen without sounding crazy, but he was sure that whoever Red Robe was, they’d just helped stop the thief. Alfie took the backpack from Hayley, checking inside. The Shroud Tunic and spurs were both there, safe and sound. He touched the spurs and Wyvern’s cry faded from his head, calm once more.
“That’s it. I’ve got you, girl,” whispered Alfie.
He couldn’t believe he’d come that close to losing her, not to mention his armour. He had put a thousand years of his family’s history at risk for five minutes worth of fun. His father would never have done that. As the thief slowly woke up, rubbing his head and groaning, Alfie and Hayley walked away.
“I guess we should call it a night,” said Alfie.
Hayley took a look round at the dancing crowds, the food stalls, the tents full of life and laughter. She cracked a mischievous smile. “Are you kidding? We only just got here.”
“Herne, get off me…” croaked Alfie, without opening his eyes.
His loyal Irish Wolfhound had got into the habit of creeping on to his bed in the middle of the night. Snoring erupted close to Alfie’s ear once more.
“Herne, seriously. Move!”
Alfie forced open an eye and was surprised to see two things. One, he wasn’t at home; he was propped against his backpack on the wet ground at Glastonbury. And two, it wasn’t Herne’s head lying on his chest. It was Hayley’s.
“Um … Hayley?” Alfie coughed. “Wakey, wakey.”
Hayley’s eyes flicked open and she gazed up at Alfie, smiling for a moment before she realized where she was and jumped up, embarrassed. “Whoa, sorry,” she stammered.
Alfie gave his best “no big deal” shrug even though he was blushing.
“My neck hurts. You suck as a pillow,” Hayley said, regaining her composure.
“And you snore worse than Herne,” Alfie said, stretching.
They were in the midst of a multicoloured sea of tents. Early morning mist hugged the ground.
“Wicked night though, right?” Hayley said, somehow smiling and yawning at the same time.
“Epic,” Alfie agreed. After they’d got their hands back on the backpack and the precious regalia, they’d danced, eaten dubious burritos from a van, watched some comedy, tried their hand at unicycling and then danced some more until they virtually fell asleep where they stood. “I can’t believe you got your face painted,” Alfie laughed. Hayley’s face was crisscrossed with stripes like a zebra.
“When in Rome.” Hayley shrugged. “Anyway, what time is it?”
Alfie glanced at his watch and his stomach lurched. “Oh no. We have to go. Now. I'm supposed to meet someone back at the palace.”
Alfie grabbed Hayley’s hand and marched off, looking for somewhere they could use the spurs and summon Wyvern. He pulled Hayley behind a row of shuttered catering vans.
“Cancel them!” Hayley said, looking longingly at their surroundings. “Who’s so important that you have to leave the world’s greatest party?”
Prime Minister Vanessa Thorn drummed her bright red fingernails against the ornate armrest and emitted a tut just loud enough for the footman hovering in the doorway to hear. Dressed in her trademark dark trouser suit, her jet-black hair tied in a severe bun, Thorn was sitting in the grand drawing room of Buckingham Palace facing a dark, time-stained oil painting. It was of some king or other in a tri-cornered hat astride a horse in front of his massed ranks of troops, pointing in the direction in which he wanted them to advance. Not that he’d do any fighting, she thought. In Thorn’s experience, the royals didn’t have the stomach for real work and would leave it to the poor saps around them.
Unlike the young king, Thorn had fought her way to the top against all the odds. Born to a teenaged single mum in the shadow of a defunct Welsh steelworks, she succeeded in leaving school with enough GCSEs to get herself a job on the local paper. A fast learner and hard worker, in a little over ten years she moved from small-town newspaper to national TV station and became a prime-time newsreader. But the illusion of power was not enough for Thorn – she wanted the real thing. So she moved into politics, trading her charm and fame for a place in Parliament. Her tough start in life had made her determined and resourceful. It had also made her ruthless, as her rivals for the party leadership found out soon after.
The prime minister snatched another glance at her watch and took a sip of tea, grimacing. It matched her mood, cold and sour. Her weekly audience with the king was supposed to have started twenty-five minutes ago. As usual she would brief the monarch on what her government was doing, pretend to be interested in his silly questions, and then leave as fast as possible. She hated taking up so much of her precious time on such a ridiculous tradition, especially when it meant talking to some child. A feckless boy who was yet to be on time for even one of their meetings. Among the prime minister’s advisors, the new king had earned the nickname “Alfred the Late”.
Thorn sighed and once again shuffled through the papers on her lap. Most of it was the usual
humdrum government business: the economy and taxes, new roads and hospitals. And then there was the other, more unusual stuff. Thorn’s day had begun with a five a.m. briefing deep in the bowels of Ten, Downing Street by sombre-suited security experts about their hunt for what they liked to call “Exceptional Individuals”. The prime minister had rolled her eyes at their jargon.
“You mean superheroes?” she had snapped, motioning for someone, anyone, to pour her another cup of coffee. “Let’s call it like it is.”
Standing in front of the briefing screen, Agent Fulcher nodded. She was, the prime minister decided, the most breathtakingly ugly woman she had ever seen. Not that she’d ever say that to her face, because Fulcher looked like she could crush walnuts with her bare hands. Next to her, Agent Turpin, small and oily in his neat, dark suit, smiled.
“Yes indeed, Prime Minister, sir … er, madam. Super, ahem, heroes.” Turpin grinned.
“Well, then, have you found them?”
“No,” said Fulcher.
“Yes,” said Turpin.
“Which is it?” the prime minister asked through gritted teeth.
“Sort of,” Fulcher mumbled. “Not really.”
“Shut up,” Turpin hissed under his breath to his partner.
The prime minister exhaled, long and hard. First meeting of the day and already she had a headache. The security services had been given millions of pounds in extra funding to help track down and capture these super-freaks, and this was the best they could come up with? After the “fireworks” at Westminster Abbey three months ago, the country was still in a collective mental meltdown that superheroes could even exist. Every day across Britain, new sightings of the “Defender” and the “Black Dragon” were being reported. According to Turpin and Fulcher, 99.9% were “fakes, frauds and people just seeing things”, which seemed to be true. Whoever these magical beings were, there hadn’t been a confirmed sighting since the coronation. But the prime minister was still under constant pressure to provide answers. Who were they? What kind of threat did they pose? But what really bothered Thorn was the thought that she had struggled all these years to reach the top, only to find out that, when it came to them, her power was meaningless. What good was it being prime minister if a bunch of superheroes could fly around doing whatever they pleased? She would not rest until she had hunted down and destroyed every last one of them, starting with that absurd white knight.
Dark Age Page 2