Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Green

  The rider dismounted and handed his hat to Adam Dalton. The removal of the hat revealed a mass of tightly curled white hair. Adam took the hat and bowed low. Then he limped off towards the stables, leading the horse.

  As soon as the rider had taken off his gloves, Damian stepped forward and spoke rapidly while pointing energetically towards the tower where Mark and Steven were imprisoned. The portly, white-haired horseman looked up towards the window of the tower and for the first time Mark saw his face. It was Damian and Jasper’s father — Nigel Chatfield. The white hair was a badly fitting wig perched on top of Nigel’s bald head. Mark couldn’t help but laugh out loud at the sight.

  Nigel and his sons heard the laughter. Instantly, Jasper lifted his rifle. Mark dropped to the floor beside Steven a second before the window above their heads shattered, causing a shower of glass that narrowly missed them.

  27

  It was almost dark when Mark and Steven heard noises outside their prison door. The door opened and they saw Jasper and Damian, rifles in hand, standing outside. Jasper motioned to someone standing in the shadows to enter. The figure stepped forward obediently, carrying a bucket of water and a basket of food. It was Susan’s sister.

  ‘Diana!’ Mark exclaimed. ‘How are you?’ Diana looked at him but didn’t reply. She was in her early fifties, sharp-featured, straight-backed and tall. Her movements were jerky and forceful as if she was in a great hurry. Like her sister’s, her grey hair was tied back with the regulation grey scarf.

  ‘You won’t be allowed to talk to other members of the community until you’ve been processed,’ Jasper barked.

  Diana put the bucket on the floor and handed Steven the basket of food.

  ‘Is this all we’re going to get to eat?’ he complained, lifting a chunk of bread from the basket.

  Diana looked at him in alarm.

  ‘Think yourself lucky you’ve got that,’ snapped Damian from the other side of the doorway. He gestured to Diana to leave, and locked the door behind her.

  ‘Good old Diana,’ Mark said when he found a wedge of cheese secreted beneath the pile of bread.

  Steven bolted a slice of bread and the chunk of cheese his father had broken off for him, before taking the two mugs from the basket and filling them from the bucket. ‘Perhaps they like us after all,’ he said once he’d taken a mouthful. ‘This tastes like beer.’ He handed the other mug to his father.

  ‘It is beer. A sign the water quality in the reservoirs isn’t too good. In medieval times they brewed beer to overcome the problem. In fact it was the boiling of the water as part of the beer-making process that was important, not the beer itself.’ They ate in silence for a few minutes before Mark continued. ‘I can’t understand my cousins — or my brother. What’s going on here? Why don’t they stand up for themselves?’

  Steven was equally bewildered. ‘Maybe we’ll learn more when we’re “processed”. Whatever that means.’

  After they’d finished their meal, they picked up the shards of glass sent scattering from the window when Jasper had fired the gun, and used them to bore peepholes in the window shutters. By the time the moon had risen, they could look out the windows of all three exterior walls of their prison. Cutting the peepholes had been a small step, but at least they felt they were doing something constructive.

  They hid the shards of glass on top of the shutters before settling down on the hard wooden floor, determined to get some sleep. They’d been given no mattresses or blankets and they found it impossible to relax.

  The clock on the tower above them chimed every quarter hour. At eleven o’clock sharp they heard the clanging of wood and metal as the great door in the West Tower was closed. A little later they heard the barking of dogs from the park beyond the walls. A pair of owls called to one another far in the distance. There were few human sounds and they concluded that most of the community must be asleep.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Steven asked suddenly.

  ‘What noise?’ Mark was grumpy; Steven had startled him when at last he’d almost drifted off to sleep.

  ‘It sounds like a machine of some sort, and I think I can hear running water.’

  Mark strained to hear and finally he could discern the noise too, a slow, squeaking, rhythmic sound echoing from somewhere in the tower beneath them.

  ‘I don’t know what it is,’ he said finally. They both listened to the sound for what seemed an age until, aided by its hypnotic drone, they drifted off to sleep.

  They awoke the next morning feeling cold, stiff and dirty. It was only five-thirty but it was already light and a cock was crowing close by. Hearing the sounds of the community stirring, they went to their peepholes in the shutters to investigate.

  Slowly the drab grey figures emerged from the buildings surrounding Lawn Court and walked around the perimeter gravel path. Each of the family groups emerged from a different part of the complex, and although the groups talked among themselves they didn’t speak to members of the other families.

  All of them wore the same grey tunics, the only difference between the groups being their hats. Duncan Steed’s family wore tradesmen’s caps, Diana Morgan’s family wore grey headscarves, his brother Paul’s family wore pointed straw hats, and Adam Dalton’s family wore cloth caps known as cheese-cutters and favoured by agricultural workers in times past. Even the gaggle of children who filed along behind each of the family groups wore the same headgear as their parents.

  After completing their tour around the gravel perimeter paths of Lawn Court, the four family groups disappeared from view beneath Cromwell’s Tower, before reappearing in Flag Court beyond. Steven and Mark moved quickly to the peepholes on the other side of their cell to follow their progress.

  ‘Probably going for breakfast in the Great Hall,’ Mark said as he watched the last of the families disappear through the doorway on the opposite side of Flag Court.

  ‘Well, let’s hope they’re not too long bringing ours.’

  An hour later they heard more noises in the courtyard and scrambled back to their peepholes. Paul and his family headed out through the West Gate carrying spades and rakes. The diminutive Adam Dalton limped out into the park, leading a horse coupled to a massive cart. The cart was too heavy for the horse, and the rest of the Dalton family, including the children, were pushing the cart from behind.

  Later in the morning they saw Diana and others of the Morgan family scurrying in and out of the buildings surrounding Flag Court, while Duncan Steed and his brother Cameron recommenced work on the guttering.

  ‘Oh, thank God for that,’ Mark said, as he watched two figures entering Flag Court. Steven peered through his peephole and saw a young woman pushing an old white-haired lady in a wheelchair. The old lady wore the familiar grey tunic of the community; the younger woman, who was short and petite, a bright, ruby-coloured gown.

  ‘Who’s the lady in the wheelchair?’ Steven asked.

  ‘My Aunt Margaret, your great aunt. Last time I saw her she was walking. Obviously her arthritis is worse.’

  ‘Who’s the good-looking woman?’ Despite being some distance away Steven could see the woman in question was well-groomed, her dark hair cut short with a neat fringe.

  ‘Aunt Margaret’s daughter — my cousin Allison.’

  ‘Judging by her clothes, she’s obviously a member of the aristocracy.’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Mark agreed.

  It had gone eleven o’clock before Damian and Jasper walked into Flag Court. The two brothers glanced up at the tower, but seemed unaware their progress was being monitored.

  Steven smiled. ‘You don’t think Damian could be a cross-dresser, do you?’ If anything the brothers were even more extravagantly dressed than they’d been the day before. Their Tudor tunics were bright crimson and trimmed with fine white silk. Once again Damian was wearing tights. The rifles had gone, but around their waist they wore belts supporting holsters and pistols. A small child in a grey tunic struggled behind them carrying a leather bag.
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  They disappeared from view beneath the tower and Mark and Steven moved to the window shutters on the other side of their cell. A few seconds later the brothers emerged into Lawn Court and walked cockily down the central flagstone path, laughing and chatting to one another. The child, meanwhile, went around the perimeter gravel path with the bag, travelling as fast as his tiny legs would carry him.

  The brothers reached the end of the lawn and turned. Damian screamed at the child to hurry up, and finally, half tripping-over in his haste, the boy placed the bag on the turf and bowed low to the two brothers. Damian yelled at him again and cuffed him on the side of the head.

  ‘Soon as I get the chance, I’m going to give that bastard Damian a real pasting,’ Steven growled angrily.

  The child picked himself up, opened the bag and placed its contents on the lawn. Then he bowed again.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Mark exclaimed. ‘Everyone else is working and those two clowns are going to play bowls!’

  The game of bowls finished at twelve-thirty, but it was another two hours before footsteps echoed up the stone staircase towards their prison cell.

  ‘Food at last,’ Steven said as the cell door was unlocked.

  He was disappointed, however. Damian and Jasper stood outside the door, their pistols drawn, and motioned to Steven and Mark to precede them down the stone stairs.

  Jasper led the way across Flag Court, the volatile Damian walking behind, pistol at the ready.

  ‘Any rules we need to know about?’ Steven asked sarcastically. ‘Like which flagstones we’re allowed to walk on?’

  His father cast him a warning glance.

  ‘Only rule you need to know’, Damian snarled from behind them, ‘is that you don’t speak until you’re spoken to.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘I said, you don’t speak until you’re spoken to!’ Damian shouted.

  ‘But you did speak to me.’

  Before the situation could deteriorate further, they passed through the doorway of the large building at the far side of Flag Court. Jasper stopped, unlocked a door and motioned Mark and Steven to enter the small room beyond.

  ‘Sit,’ Jasper commanded, pointing to two wooden stools in front of a table. Damian and Jasper sat on chairs at the other side. Jasper had an air of fixed arrogance while Damian appeared to be in a state of constant agitation. While the brothers’ Tudor tunics had initially seemed ridiculous, the medieval setting was beginning to dissipate that impression.

  Jasper laid his pistol on the table beside a notepad and pen and fingered his moustache as he weighed up his two cousins with a look of contempt. The rucksack Steven had carried into the park was also on the table. Damian fiddled nervously with his pistol with one hand and his goatee beard with the other.

  ‘We have some questions,’ Jasper said.

  ‘Good, we have some questions too,’ Steven countered.

  ‘You were told not to speak until you were spoken to,’ Damian yelled, waving the pistol and eager, it seemed, to pursue his earlier argument with Steven.

  ‘But you did speak to me,’ Steven said, equally keen.

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ Mark said impatiently, determined to diffuse what he considered was a dangerous situation developing between two headstrong young men.

  ‘Quite right,’ Jasper agreed.

  ‘We’ll be happy to answer questions,’ Mark continued, ‘but first, I need the first-aid kit from my rucksack to dress Steven’s wound. And we also need a meal.’

  ‘You’ll eat when we say!’ Damian shouted.

  ‘No food, no answers!’ Steven shouted back.

  Damian jumped to his feet and pointed his gun at Steven’s head. He was shaking with rage. ‘If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll shoot you!’

  ‘You won’t shoot anyone,’ Mark said quietly. ‘If you shoot him, or me for that matter, you’ll be in big trouble. There are questions your father wants answered and if we’re dead they’re not going to be.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you hadn’t eaten,’ Jasper lied, obviously unwilling to prolong an argument that might result in a loss of face. ‘I’ll arrange a meal and then we’ll start again.’

  Mark nodded. His hands were gripping his knees so tightly he could feel the pain. He’d called their bluff, but with Damian’s pistol still pointing at Steven’s head he still wasn’t sure it had paid off.

  Jasper gestured to his brother to lower his pistol. Then he undid the rucksack, took out the first-aid kit and threw it contemptuously across the table to Mark. Glowering at Steven, he stood and, taking the rucksack with him, beckoned his brother to follow him out of the room.

  It was only when Jasper and Damian had left that Mark released the grip on his knees. As the key turned in the lock he turned to Steven and said angrily, ‘Stop antagonising Damian! He’s a loose cannon. If you keep riling him, he’ll shoot you. Maybe both of us, if it comes to that.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Steven said sheepishly.

  ‘Just remember in future.’

  Mark took gauze and antiseptic cream from the first-aid kit and began cleaning his son’s arm. As he finished dressing the wound, the door was unlocked and sharp-featured Diana came in carrying a large tray. Her orders had obviously been to feed them well. The tray was piled high with buttered bread, cheeses, cold meat, fruit, nuts, two mugs and a huge jug of amber liquid.

  ‘Thanks.’ Steven helped himself to two slices of bread, slapped a slice of meat between them, and dug his teeth in. Diana stared at him impassively and didn’t respond as she hurried from the room.

  Steven poured the drinks while Mark helped himself to food. ‘Beer again,’ he said.

  They were both hungry and for some minutes they concentrated on devouring the contents of the tray. Eventually Mark took a swig of beer. ‘Be careful,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t drink too much.’

  Steven had already downed half a pint and was acquiring a taste for it. ‘Why?’

  ‘The malting gets used two or three times. What we had last night was probably the third brewing. This is almost certainly the first brewing, potent stuff. It’ll make you drunk.’ Then he added after a pause, ‘And it will loosen your tongue.’

  Steven raised an eyebrow and nodded. It occurred to them both simultaneously that they hadn’t discussed their ‘processing’, and had therefore not agreed what stance they were going to take. Were they to put all their cards on the table, or play them close to their chest?

  ‘I think …’ Mark began. But before they could decide on a strategy, the door opened and the Chatfield brothers walked in. They sat down on the other side of the table. When they laid their pistols on the table Mark guessed that Jasper at least was determined to be less confrontational.

  ‘I hope you enjoyed your meal,’ Jasper began. The words were hollow and lacked sincerity. Mark nodded. ‘Now we have a few questions,’ he continued, glancing down at a list. ‘How did you find us here?’

  Mark thought of the note from Paul that was still in his pocket, and the sentence that read, ‘Don’t tell them you found this note.’

  ‘We were coming up Seal Hollow Road when we saw the smoke from the direction of the park,’ he lied.

  ‘What did you think of the state of Sevenoaks town?’

  Mark didn’t want the two brothers to know where he and Steven had been; in particular he didn’t want them going to Lodge Road and finding their rifles. ‘We never got as far as the town,’ he lied. ‘We came along the Seal Road from Borough Green and turned up Seal Hollow Road.’

  Damian wasn’t satisfied. ‘Why didn’t you continue along to St John’s and go up the main road?’ he asked, jutting out his chin.

  ‘What’s it to you which way we went?’ Steven interrupted.

  ‘We ask the questions!’ Damian shrieked.

  For once Mark welcomed his son’s antagonism; it gave him time to think. ‘Seal Hollow Road is the shortest route to town but, as I say, we never got to the town. How is Sevenoaks, by the way?’ he
continued, and added by way of explanation, ‘On our way down from Gillingham we noticed a lot of towns had suffered from fires. Has Sevenoaks been damaged?’

  Mark was at once both pleased and annoyed with himself. Asking the question about Sevenoaks town had apparently satisfied Jasper that they hadn’t reached the town centre. However, in the process of fabricating the lie, he had let slip where they had landed in England.

  Jasper seized on the new information. ‘The Medway! What’s the name of your yacht?’

  ‘Osprey,’ Steven said quickly, fearful his father might give Archangel’s name away.

  ‘Where’s the rest of your gear?’ Jasper asked, pointing at the rucksack.

  ‘That’s all we carried down from Gillingham.’

  ‘What! No guns or ammunition?’ Damian asked incredulously.

  ‘We didn’t need guns,’ Mark said. ‘I thought the only people likely to be alive were my brother Paul and his family.’

  ‘And he was hardly going to shoot them, was he?’ Steven quipped dryly, repeating the words his father had used a few days earlier.

  Jasper was suspicious. ‘There’s not much in this rucksack.’

  ‘It was all we needed to do a quick reconnoitre and get back to our yacht,’ Mark added. ‘We travelled light.’

  ‘You say you travelled light, yet you’ve got photographs in here,’ said Jasper, taking Mark’s wallet of photographs from the rucksack and flicking through them.

  ‘I always carry photographs of my family.’ Mark held out his hand to receive them, but Jasper ignored him and put the wallet back in the rucksack.

  An intense session of questioning followed. Jasper was keen to gather as much information about New Zealand as possible. He wanted to know precisely who had survived and how the Gulf Harbour community operated. Mark and Steven told the truth; they were proud of what they had achieved and were keen to compare their experiences with what had happened in England. However, despite Mark’s attempts to probe into the operation of Haver, neither Jasper nor Damian were forthcoming.