“Enough? We haven’t done anything!”
“You’ve only just returned from your last mission, Miss Hicks. By the skin of your teeth, I might add.”
“Yeah, a mission that achieved nothing! And even if we’d got a few people out, so what? It’s a drop in the ocean. It’s USELESS!”
“Shhh. Your grandmother is sleeping,” said LC.
“I don’t care. I can’t hack another day of this. We have to do something else, something … BIG!”
“And what do you suggest we do?” LC sighed, wrung the teabag out and dropped it in the bin.
“How should I know? You’re the Lord Chamberlain. You’re supposed to be the one with the clever plans, but all you do these days is mope around staring into space and making cold tea!”
“It’s ex-Lord Chamberlain, I think you’ll find. The ravens have fled, the Tower has crumbled, the king is… He’s dead.” LC muttered like he was reciting a super-depressing poem.
LC started to leave the room, but Hayley blocked his way, fighting to hold back her tears.
“So that’s that, is it? Game over. They win. We give up and sit here waiting to freeze to death?”
“Hayley, please…”
But she pulled him over to the window and flung open the curtains, pointing at the red glow on the horizon.
“See that? That’s the Raven Banner. It’s only twenty miles in that direction and without it Lock doesn’t have his berserker army, or his endless winter. Can’t we, I don’t know, tear it down or blow it up or something?”
LC scoffed and pulled the curtains closed. “Preposterous. I suppose we shall have to start calling you Hayley Fawkes from now on.” He tittered to himself, then immediately regretted it as he saw Hayley’s eyes light up.
“Guy Fawkes. Yeah … yeah! Gunpowder, treason and plot and all that November the fifth stuff.”
Hayley remembered learning about the Gunpowder Plot at school one November. A man called Guy Fawkes had famously tried to blow up Parliament way back in the year 16-something-or-other. He and his fellow plotters had smuggled barrels of gunpowder beneath the Palace of Westminster. He’d come close to pulling it off too, but was discovered at the last second. That’s why people let off fireworks on November fifth, to remember it. Gran had always loved that night, tucked up in a blanket, urging Hayley to push her wheelchair closer to the bonfire. Hayley could take it or leave it, but the fun for her was watching her grandmother’s face light up with pure joy at every bang and blast. If she found a way to blow up the Raven Banner, maybe one day they’d celebrate “Hayley Hicks Day”, in honour of the girl who gave freedom back to the UK!
“Why not, LC? Let’s blow it up!”
LC looked at her like she’d just turned cartwheels across a lawn with a “Keep Off the Grass” sign on it.
“Absolutely not. Impossible. Plots against the Crown have rarely worked in the past—”
“I’m not plotting against the Crown! Lock and Richard stole the crown and everything else. We have to take it back!”
“Even if I agreed with you… We’d never get close enough for starters. The Palace of Westminster is crawling with dead Norsemen.”
“Yeah, but I bet you know a secret way in. A tunnel or a magical portal or something.” LC’s eyes darted away from her and she pounced. “You do know a way, don’t you?”
“Stop it!” LC towered over her, trying to look commanding, but the bouncing bobble on his hat was kind of ruining the effect. “You can’t go around wrecking Britain’s greatest buildings on a whim, Hayley Hicks.”
“I just want to blow up the banner, nothing else. No one would get hurt!”
“Hayley!” Gran’s voice croaked from her bedroom.
LC gave Hayley a “told you so” look. But suddenly there was a crash from the hallway.
“GRAN!” yelled Hayley, as they both rushed to the hall.
Hayley’s gran was lying on the floor. They rushed to prop her up, but she was delirious, her skin cold and pale. There was a long gash across her forehead.
“Oh my God, Gran!” cried Hayley. “She needs a hospital!”
It took them twenty minutes to carry Gran down the stairs to the ground floor. The lift would have been faster, but the power was out. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairwell, they were both exhausted and sweating despite the cold. Nevertheless, Hayley raced straight back up to the flat and returned a few minutes later with her gran’s wheelchair. Gran moaned as they eased her into it and wrapped a blanket around her.
“We can push her to the hospital. It’s only a mile,” Hayley said.
“But the curfew,” said LC. “Berserker patrols everywhere. You’re a wanted criminal.”
“I don’t care.”
Hayley was about to push open the fire exit when LC stopped her.
“Wait!”
Dean Barron’s Rolls Royce had pulled up outside the block of flats, music thumping. The new Community Earl got out of the car and perched on its bonnet like he was starring in a hip-hop video. He was holding a chain attached to his pet berserker Turpin, who drooled and hooted along with the music.
“You can’t go, Miss Hicks, he’ll see you.”
“I have to—” Hayley said but LC stood in her way.
“It doesn’t help your gran if you’re caught. Leave this to me. Meet me at the hospital when you can sneak out.”
Before Hayley could answer, LC was through the door and pushing the wheelchair purposefully across the icy car park. Dean was busy laughing at his dancing berserker and with the awful music turned up so loud, LC thought he might be able to just walk right past—
“Oi, where do you think you’re off to?” Dean shouted at LC. But the old man kept walking. Dean leapt off the bonnet of the car, yanked Turpin’s chain and strode in front of LC, blocking his way. “Curfew. K-U-R-F-O-O. You know what that means?”
“This woman is ill. She needs a hospital.”
Dean gave the old woman a cursory glance.
“Old Mrs Hicks. Blimey, is she still alive? Go in the morning,” he sneered.
“This is an emergency, young man.”
LC tried to push the wheelchair past, but Turpin snarled and slapped a powerful hand on the back of it, making Gran groan.
“Listen to me, you mad old moron—” said Dean.
“NO, YOU LISTEN TO ME!” LC rose up to his full height and his eyes flashed with a pure anger that made even Turpin take a step back. “This woman has had a stroke and needs urgent care. You and your thugs wanted power and you’ve got it. Congratulations, the country is yours. But with that power comes a responsibility to its citizens, however young or old.”
Dean shuffled awkwardly, not wanting to meet LC’s fierce gaze.
“Now, you’re an ambitious young man, everyone can see that. Smart, as well,” LC continued.
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Just the kind of up-and-coming fellow our new masters would want to see promoted because of his excellent relations with the community.” LC smiled at Dean. “Play your cards right and you’ll come out of this a hero. Maybe get a better neighbourhood to rule over.”
Dean nodded. He could see what the old man was saying. It couldn’t hurt his prospects to do a good deed.
“Fine. You can go.” Dean said, trying to sound like he’d just had the idea himself.
“I was rather hoping you could give us a lift,” said LC, glancing over at the Rolls Royce.
Half an hour later, Hayley, hood pulled low, hurried through the crowded Accident and Emergency Department of Watford General Hospital. She’d watched with amazement as LC had talked Dean into giving him a lift. As soon as the Rolls Royce had left the car park, she was out of the door and running. There was a crowd of berserkers near the hospital entrance jumping up and down on an abandoned ambulance, but she just joined the throng of people and slipped inside.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a patient, my gran?” Hayley asked a nurse, but it was like she barely registered her
as she ran past with an armful of bandages.
The hospital was in chaos. There was light here, at least, probably from generators, but it kept going on and off like some kind of nightmare disco strobe. Desperate, Hayley turned around, unsure which way to go. A man with blood pouring down his face was being helped to a chair by his wife as she shouted for someone, anyone to help them. Patients on trollies lined the corridors. Someone shouted for water. Screams. A baby cried. Machine alarms beeped. The lights dimmed then came back on again—
A hand fell on Hayley’s shoulder.
“Miss Hicks.” It was LC. “Thank goodness you’re safe.”
“Where’s Gran?” Hayley pleaded.
“This way,” said LC, leading her down a maze of corridors filled with yet more patients.
“What’s going on here?” asked Hayley.
“I talked to a porter briefly. It’s been like this ever since the Vikings took over. There aren’t enough doctors, the nurses are overstretched, beds full, drugs running out…” LC muttered, disgusted.
“Sounds pretty normal to me,” muttered a man on crutches who had overheard them as he hobbled past.
They turned a corner to find Gran on a trolley, being attended to by a young doctor.
“Gran!” said Hayley.
But her gran’s eyelids kept fluttering and closing; she was barely awake.
The doctor took her stethoscope off Gran’s chest and turned to Hayley and LC. She looked like she hadn’t slept for days, but despite the black bags that ringed them, her eyes were kind. “Family?”
Hayley nodded for both of them. “She takes heart pills, and she has dementia. Is she going to be OK?”
“I’m sorry,” the doctor replied. “If I had an Intensive Care bed we might be able to stabilize her – for a while, at least – but even then…” She placed a hand on Hayley’s arm for a moment and smiled. “I really am sorry.”
And with that she was gone, hurrying off to the next patient. Hayley watched her go, devastated.
“Wait!” she cried. Then turned back to Gran and hugged her. “Oh, Gran.”
“I don’t know if she can hear you,” LC said.
“Shut up, LC. I can hear the girl just fine.” Gran said, her eyes flicking open.
Hayley laughed and cried at the same time, and hugged her again for the longest time. After a while, Gran’s breathing grew short.
“We’ve been through the wars, haven’t we?” Gran whispered, her voice quiet again, so low Hayley had to lean in to hear her.
“I love you, Gran.” It was all Hayley could think of saying.
“Saw one of them Vikings from the taxi…” Gran said and faltered, taking a deep breath. Hayley looked alarmed but Gran seemed to rally again. “Phoo-ee, they stink. Someone should really kick their butts.”
Hayley laughed through the tears. “That’s the spirit.”
“I’m proud of what you’re doing. You know that, petal? Your mum would have been as well.” Gran fumbled with her necklace, trying to take it off, so Hayley slipped it over her head for her. On the end of the silver chain hung a small wooden carving of a woman’s head with a fierce expression on her face. Hayley had never really looked at it before. “Zemi. That’s its name. They say it holds the spirit of our ancestors. You wear it now, love. And when I’m gone … you take me back home … back to Jamaica.”
“Don’t talk like that, Gran, you’re going to be fine. I’ll find that doctor…”
All the strength seemed to drain out of Gran. Her eyes went back to fluttering again and her breathing became shallow and came in fits and starts. LC put a hand on Hayley’s shoulder.
“I know it’s hard. But you should say goodbye now,” he whispered.
Hayley grasped her gran’s hand. It felt like a bunch of straws that could snap at any moment. “I’ll do it. I’ll take you home, I promise. You can go now, Gran. It’s OK. I love you.”
Hayley stood by the trolley and watched her gran’s face until no more breaths came. She didn’t need a doctor to tell her; she could see it clearly. Her gran was gone.
The attractive young stewardess in the lilac uniform stood in the shadow of Denver International Airport’s peaked white mountaintop roof. She smiled so wide it cracked her make-up as she gazed at all the strange people in their curious clothes and the incredibly shiny cars that carried them to and fro at such speed. In a few jerky steps, she had reached the front of the cab rank queue. But when she showed no sign of getting in, the cab driver, a balding man wearing a white T-shirt stained with that morning’s breakfast, lowered his window and raised a weary eyebrow at her.
“You getting in, or what?” he barked.
The stewardess looked down at him and smiled. Colonel Blood’s journey thus far had been a long one, through thirteen different states and twenty-two different bodies, but the thrill of travel after so long in a cell was keeping his spirits high.
“I beg your pardon, my good fellow?” said the stewardess.
“Oh, you’re a Brit, huh? Say, were you on that flight outta London I heard about on the news? Your lucky day, huh?” He jumped out and opened the rear door. “Your carriage awaits, my lady!”
“Thank ye verily, good coachman,” she said, getting in.
“No luggage, miss?” asked the driver, frowning. Something in the stiff way she moved unnerved him a little. It reminded him of a marionette. But maybe that’s just what English people are like, he thought.
“Just this,” she said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out the Scout Orb.
The cab driver stared at the golden, jewel-encrusted sphere, open-mouthed.
“That’s quite the souvenir; you must’ve been somewhere exotic. So, where to?”
“Ah yes, our mysterious destination,” she said. “One moment.”
She placed the Orb on the seat and they both watched as it slowly rotated to the right and stopped. The woman pointed in the same direction.
“What’s that way?”
“Um … the mountains?” said the perplexed driver.
“Then the mountains it is!” she declared. “On second thoughts, I do believe I would like to try driving your horseless carriage myself.”
“Come again?”
Colonel Blood’s cloud of red mist shot from the stewardess’s ears, flew round the inside of the cab, then rocketed up the startled driver’s nose. Once the screaming young woman had fled, Blood used the driver’s foot to step on the pedal and the cab jerked away from the kerb, veering across three lanes of traffic, before settling into a route north, towards Wyoming.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into them tonight,” said Tamara, stroking a mare’s nose to calm her down.
Brian and Tony were trying to help Tamara stable the horses for the night, but they were skittish, whinnying and pulling at their reins.
“Probably our friend here jumping around too much again,” said Brian, looking at Tony, who was being pulled around in circles by a lively foal.
Gwenn flapped on to the roof of the stables and let out a throaty gronk.
“Spooked by your overgrown blackbirds, more like!” cried Tony.
Inside the ranch’s kitchen, Alfie was thinking about Hayley. One minute he’d been taking a drink out of the fridge, the next his eyes had alighted on a tub of ice cream and he was back in Buckingham Palace the night he’d first taken Hayley there. Creeping through the long, dark corridors, laughing at the look of disbelief on her face as they crossed a gilded ballroom, and sitting together in the kitchens, taking a scoop each from every ice-cream tub they could find. There was so much he missed about England, and he was desperately worried about Ellie, but he realized at that moment that it was Hayley, his plain-speaking, smart, funny friend he missed most. So much that his stomach ached.
The dull drone of the TV news barely registered with Alfie, whose thoughts had strangely now jumped to Edinburgh. The dark tunnels beneath the castle, and the fiery cavern where he saw the Black Dragon before he knew the creature was really his
own brother. He could feel the heat of the rekindled volcano from below, prickly against his skin, the thick smell of smoke in his nostrils. He coughed. Smoke… A shrill alarm split the air, startling Alfie out of his daydream. Thick smoke was pouring from the oven. The dinner! Tony appeared from nowhere, hurried past Alfie and turned the oven off. Tamara burst in and heaved the oven door open, pulling out the blackened carcass of a pork belly.
“Alfie, I thought you were watching it!” she said.
Alfie held up his hands, “Sorry!”
Brian waved a towel around, silencing the smoke alarm.
“Maybe you’re more like Alfred the Great than you think,” he said, laughing.
“What, a lousy chef?” asked Tony, who was opening windows.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard the story of King Alfred and the cakes?” asked Brian.
Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. Did they make a movie out of it?”
Ignoring him, Brian continued. “He was hiding in some peasant family’s hovel while he was on the run from the Vikings, and they’d left him to watch the cakes that were cooking. But I suppose he had other things on his mind, because they burnt to a cinder. And when she came back, the peasant woman gave him an earful, king or no king…”
“I get it,” said Tony. “See, Your Alfie-ness, you take after your ancestor after all.”
But Alfie wasn’t listening. He was watching Gwenn, who had just arrived on the windowsill, hopping up and down and tapping the window with her beak.
“What is it, girl?” Alfie said, opening the window and stroking her beak.
She hopped inside and flew round the kitchen ceiling.
“Not in the house, I’ve told you, Alfie!” said Tamara, swatting the raven away.
As the smoke cleared, Tony saw something on the TV news that made his eyes bulge in their sockets and his tongue loll out.
“Wowee. Who’s that?” he purred.
Gwenn finally flew back out of the window, allowing Alfie to see what had caught Tony’s eye. It was the familiar, elegant figure of the young Queen Freya of Norway. She was being greeted at the White House by the President and First Lady. What’s she doing over here? he wondered.
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