by Paul Kane
"That's probably one of the craziest, most cockamamie notions I've ever heard in my life." This was Jack, who pushed the cap back on his head as he spoke. "But you can count me in, Robbie. I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"You know my feelings on the matter," Tate then said. "I will be by your side, Robert. And I feel sure God will, too, if that means anything to you."
Bill raised his hand. "I've come this far," he said. "An' there's Mark to think about."
"I'm not mad about the first bit," Mary told him honestly, and in fact she hated it with a passion. Robert was just going to hand himself over to them, with no guarantees of his survival. When she could see he was waiting for her to say something else, she tacked on: "But you know I'll stand by you."
He nodded, satisfied. "Granger, how about you?"
The young man looked unsure at first. "If you'd asked me that question not long ago, I'd have said no. But being here, being a part of this… It has to be a yes, don't it? Besides, I have a score to settle with the Frenchman."
A show of hands was called for, and though some of the men were reluctant at first, all of them supported Robert and his idea. Mary could see the pride in him, the fact that he'd inspired them, brought them together. He'd set an example, as every good leader should, whether he realised it or not.
"Thank you," he said to them. "Thank you all."
"Mills," asked Jack of their guest, "do you think there might be support in the villages for this?"
"I'm sure there would be. We all want the people we care about back."
It brought it home again to Mary when he said those words that while she'd been hiding herself away from everything in the farmhouse, the world had carried on turning, people had found each other, cultivated new relationships, tried to rebuild what they'd lost – for good or for bad. It was what had happened in the forest thanks to Robert: a small, but determined band who would not bow to dictatorship.
"Then it's settled," Tate said, "we have until the weekend, everyone."
A few days. Not long to properly plan what Robert had in mind.
Are you sure about this, Moo-Moo? Are you sure about him?
Mary couldn't answer, because she didn't know.
But something had brought her here. One thing Mary was certain of was that she still had a part to play in this story.
A very important part.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The dreamscape, the arena – and a challenge now accepted.
Here, Robert and De Falaise faced off against each other. No preamble this time. No symbolic nonsense or veiled meanings, just raw hatred and a sense that this was all building to a climactic head.
Though they had never met in the flesh, they felt like they knew each other inside out. Villain and hero, though each would disagree with those descriptions, they circled each other. Stripped of weapons, they had only their hands to attack with… which they did, De Falaise coming in fast and low, Robert blocking his punches.
They fought, growing closer and closer, arms and hands a tangle, until they were at each other's throats. Each looked into the other's eyes, recognising the fury there, reflected back. Could one exist without the other?
De Falaise tightened his grip on The Hooded Man's throat, and Robert did the same. They were choking the life out of each other at the same time, with the same force. At this rate they would cancel each other out.
Still they continued, both hoping that their opponent would show a chink in their armour, offer up a hint of weakness.
Who would win? Who would lose?
It was a question that would soon be answered…
She could tell by his breathing that he was asleep. In the darkness of the small hours she listened to the sound, guttural at times as he began to snore. The very noise caused her stomach to do somersaults. She felt like she was going to be sick, in fact. And not for the first time since she arrived here.
Like all those other times, however, Gwen had fought the sensation. Fought all sensation, all feeling, all awareness. She'd made the decision very early on that if she allowed herself to be conscious of what was happening to her, she might just go stark, staring mad. Like if she thought about what had happened to Clive back in Hope, when that murderer Javier had put a bullet in his head. Gwen felt the nausea rising again, and swallowed to try and halt its progress. It was little comfort to her that the man was now being held down in the caves after failing De Falaise; as far as she was concerned, if he'd been stripped of his skin and then made to roll around in vinegar it wouldn't begin to make up for what he had done.
Javier had handed her over to the disgusting man with yellow teeth lying by her side.
"You had better not try anything like you did with me back there. He likes his women to be seen and not heard. Compliant, if you know what I mean, Senora," Javier had explained on the drive back to the castle.
Oh, she'd complied all right. Not because she feared what might happen to her if she didn't – though the thought of being handed over to that animal they called Tanek far from appealed to her – but because she was biding her time until she could have her revenge.
That time had almost come, necessitated by the fact that De Falaise was becoming bored with his possession.
"She is beautiful, that is not in question – it is why I have kept her around for so long, non? But it is as though she is not really here at all," she'd heard him tell Tanek one time. "She is somewhere else entirely."
That was true. Gwen had shut herself off, retreating to the darkest corners of her mind when the Frenchman wanted his 'fun'. Switching off as he dressed her up in those ridiculous costumes, while he pretended to be some kind of time traveller, an historical conqueror who'd taken over this land and its women. She'd had to pretend herself while he did this; pretend she was some place safe – with Clive.
"I'll avenge your death," she'd tell him. "I promise."
"I know you will, sweetheart, I know."
Javier would get his in time, but she was closer to the man who'd given the orders right now, the man who'd orchestrated this whole affair. She'd begin at the top and work her way down. To that end she'd waited, patiently and silently – so silent he believed that her spirit was crushed. Little realising that she was lulling him into a false sense of security.
It happened bit by bit, leaving her alone in the room for ten minutes to begin with (possibly testing her at first to see what she would do), with no guard inside or even on the door. She'd done nothing, sometimes not even moved between the time he left and the time he got back. He'd begun to spend the night with her after doing what he needed to, the exhaustion of his efforts causing him to fall asleep. Again, at first he would doze very lightly, then when nothing untoward happened he'd eventually relaxed more fully.
In addition, Gwen had kept her eyes and ears open on her tours round the castle. De Falaise no longer kept her under lock and key, knowing that the place was so well guarded she could never possibly escape. And no one really noticed her anyway as she drifted through rooms, along corridors; all they saw was De Falaise's broken play thing. No threat to anyone. As long as she was back in the room when De Falaise was in the mood, there wasn't a problem – and she knew his routines well enough by now.
The soldiers who brought her food barely acknowledged her. They just left the plate, picked it up again half an hour later; unless, of course, De Falaise wanted to dine with her – which again involved a change of outfits and a small banquet on a wooden table. Many of the men didn't even want to be here – she'd got that from listening as well – let alone scrutinised what she was doing with her meals.
So, yesterday, she'd decided to take a gamble. Gwen had hidden her knife, hoping against hope that the soldier wouldn't take a blind bit of notice when he came to retrieve her tray.
She held her breath as he picked it up. Gwen tried to act casually as he bent and grabbed it, but she overdid it, and he caught her looking at him as he turned around.
"What?" he asked. "What
's wrong with you?"
Gwen didn't reply, hadn't spoken for so long, in fact, she was frightened her vocal chords might have seized up.
"I asked you a question." The soldier didn't look much more than about eighteen, she surmised. Had probably never had a woman, either in the pre-virus world or in this one. Thinking fast, she got up and went over to him, letting the loose robe she was wearing open just a fraction too much. His eyes flicked down to the curve of her breasts, then back up again. Smiling, she'd reached out a hand, brushing his arm with her fingertips. He looked down again, right down inside her robe. Then her hand had reached lower, brushing against his stomach. Before it could move further down, the soldier stepped back. "I… er… that's enough. You go and sit back down again and… er…" His face was crimson, his gait half slouching. "Sit back down or I'll have to report this… I…" He backed up against the door, reaching for the handle and pulling it open, desperate to get out of there. The soldier said nothing more, he just left in a hurry, probably not quite sure what had happened.
But he wouldn't report it. Gwen had bet her life on that. For a start, who would believe him? The zombie woman came on to you? Piss off! Even if they did, he wouldn't want it getting back to De Falaise or he might find himself down in those caves.
Flustered, he would return the tray to the kitchens and with a bit of luck the missing knife would go unnoticed. Gwen waited most of the afternoon for someone to come back and accuse her of hiding it, but they didn't. She then began sharpening the implement, using a rock she'd picked up on one of her 'outings'. By the time she was done, the labours focussing her attention in a way nothing had since she'd been dragged here, the blade was rough but sharp.
She'd had to hide it quickly when De Falaise returned, inside a cushion belonging to the couch she was sitting on. Her 'master' had been dressed in the garb of a general or admiral (she wasn't very good with ranks), medals splashed across his chest. It looked like a hybrid of styles, which had become the trademark of De Falaise's army, but was in keeping with his abnormal personality.
He'd looked at her strangely from the doorway, as if trying to read her mind. Then he smirked and threw a dress at her: blue silk. "Put it on. We are going for a little stroll."
At this point any normal man might have turned his back, or exited the room, but De Falaise wasn't an ordinary man. He liked to watch his plaything disrobe and put on new outfits. This was all part of the game.
His eyes traced every contour of her as she climbed into the dress, which should really have been worn with a corset beneath, though that didn't appear to bother De Falaise. "Hurry," he snarled when she was taking too long and she did as she was told. Then she joined him at the doorway, walking that zombie walk she'd perfected. Taking the part of his pet.
Putting on his sunglasses, he led her outside and along the East Terrace. "Did I ever tell you the story about King John and what he did along here?" She didn't say a word. "Non? Well, John was the brother of Richard the Lionheart, as you may know. When Richard went away to fight in the crusades, John tried to take over the country, using this as his base. He'd always had a soft spot for this castle, you understand, in fact his father had bequeathed it to him before his death. Needless to say, when Richard found out he was, how you put it, more than a little pissed off with his sibling. Having only reached Italy, he returned to see to his brother himself. That happened here in 1194. Richard got into the Outer Bailey and rounded up all the people he could find – not just soldiers, but families of the garrison, tenant farmers – and he hung them, just strung them up. John's men didn't surrender at this point, not until the archbishop threatened them with excommunication. They then abandoned John and he was put into exile. However…" De Falaise held up a finger at this point in the lecture, halting their walk, "when Richard died John returned and used the castle as his permanent residence, the only king to do so. Which brings me to the story I originally wished to relate. It was here that John hung twenty-eight Welsh boys over the side of the rocks after inviting them along for dinner. They were the sons of Welsh barons and John did it because of a disagreement with their fathers over the Magna Carta. Ah, those were the days, non? If someone disagreed with you, you hung them. If there were traitors in your midst, you simply disposed of them."
Gwen was almost certain that he had found out about the stolen knife, why else would he be giving her a speech about traitors? Was she to suffer the same fate as those poor people at Richard and John's hands? She considered running, but knew she wouldn't get twelve paces without being gunned down by one of his men. There were a good dozen in sight along this section of the castle alone.
De Falaise held out his hand for them to begin walking again down the East Terrace, towards the steps guarded by twin lions. As she reached the top she realised her mistake. The recently mowed field below had been practically cleared of vehicles and was now was filled with people, all bound, all standing with heads bowed.
"Behold, the traitors of our time," announced De Falaise. "Those who have accepted aid from our friend, The Hooded Man. Those who have shielded him from me, who conspire against my new regime."
He's insane, thought Gwen, as if only just realising it for the first time. He's completely lost his mind. Of course she'd heard about the Hooded Man, the one who had stood up to De Falaise and was rallying support to his cause – in fact she'd mentally punched the air a few times when she'd heard of his victories over the man standing next to her. But she had no idea the stakes had been raised so high. There were children down there, children just like Luke and Sally who she missed so much. Gwen's eyes settled on a boy near the front. His dirty blond hair was ruffled, the tracksuit he wore tatty and torn, and he was clutching an empty backpack like a security blanket.
Looking at the people before her she understood that De Falaise was going to kill them all. And he'd think nothing of it. In a way they were just as much his toys as she was, as they all were.
It was then she knew she had to strike that night. This monster had to be stopped.
So, once he'd had his way with her again, the thrill of the imminent executions obviously arousing him – and she'd blotted it out the same as always, retreating to that place in her head where Clive waited – Gwen lay awake and waited for him to drop off. Then she'd waited some more until he'd drifted further into sleep.
Experimentally, she eased her shoulder away from his. Gently… Gently… she told herself, struggling to keep her own breathing even. Now she moved her left foot, the one furthest away from him. If she could only slide it down and feel the floor, she could manoeuvre the rest of herself out of the bed more easily. Her heel reached the end of the mattress and she allowed it to drop slowly, anchoring herself, pulling herself, straining with her calf muscle.
Almost there… almost De Falaise rolled over with a snore, arm flailing out and landing on her. It felt like a bolt sliding across a cell door. Gwen lay stock-still. De Falaise murmured something and his right foot kicked out, twitching in his sleep.
Gwen bit her lip hard. How the hell was she going to get off the bed without waking him? And even if she did get the knife and use it, how was she going to get out of the castle, past the guards? And how would she find this hooded man?
De Falaise muttered something and rolled onto his back, withdrawing his arm. Gwen let out a long, deep breath. Then she looked across at him. His head was cocked back, neck exposed. A thought suddenly occurred to her…
Why do you even need the knife at all? You could do what you should have done a long, long time ago. You could wrap your hands around that neck and just squeeze.
There'd be less chance of him waking up before she could do the deed. All she had to do was roll over and grab him. But was she strong enough? Could she kill him before he came to his senses and fought back? It was risky to say the least.
Risky, but oh, so tempting.
Yes, I'm going to do it, she told herself, even as she was turning over, hands reaching out, ready to encircle his neck, thumb
s itching to press down on his windpipe with all her might.
He felt the hands around his neck and immediately snapped awake.
In the darkness a figure was on his chest, looking like some kind of ghastly apparition. But the pressure around his throat was real enough. He felt the hands gripping tight, and shock more than anything prevented him from fighting back.
You're going to die. If you don't do something right now, then you're going to be throttled to death!
The figure above was replaced with patches of deeper darkness that began to cloud his vision as his brain was starved of oxygen.
Do something…
He clamped his hands around his attacker's wrists and tried to pry the grip free. But he couldn't budge them.
"I'm sorry," he heard. "I have to do this."
He brought up his knee, hard. There was a grunt, but the assailant didn't shift. He did it again. This time it worked and his twisted the figure onto its side. He shook his head, clearing his vision. Bringing a knee round, he shoved it into his attacker's side, winding them. They grappled with each other for a moment, both on their sides now. Then suddenly the roles were reversed and the victim was on top. He struck out with a punch that caught his attacker across the jaw, enough to stop their struggling.
The voice came again. "I'm… I'm sorry." A whimper this time. "My Elaine… I… I had to do something."
Robert kept the man's hands pinned down as he heard voices outside the tent. Light filled the space, torches shone in. "What's going on?" asked Jack. Robert turned, though it hurt his neck to do so, and saw Tate there too – plus a couple of his other men – alerted by the sounds of the struggle. He opened his mouth to speak but found it hard to get the words out. Luckily, the man he was holding down answered their questions quickly enough.
"Dead or alive… that's what they said. The Sheriff doesn't care which," gibbered Mills, the man who'd come into the camp and told them about the raids. Only he'd withheld that one crucial piece of information.
