‘Why did you come to England?’ Jasper asked.
‘To look for my brother,’ Mark said. ‘Since Christopher and I had both survived, we thought it logical that Paul and his family might have survived too.’
‘And to take them back to New Zealand,’ Steven added.
‘That’s not possible,’ Jasper said. ‘They’re needed here.’
‘That’s for them to decide.’
‘It’s not!’ Damian yelled. ‘They belong to His Lordship.’
‘And I suppose His Lordship is your father?’ Mark asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘In that case, I want to see him.’
‘He won’t see you. He’s nominated us to do the interrogation,’ said Damian, full of importance.
‘We want to speak to the organ grinder, not his monkeys,’ Steven said contemptuously. Damian jumped to his feet in rage and began waving his pistol wildly in the air.
‘The interrogation is finished,’ Jasper said abruptly, before the situation could deteriorate further.
Mark stood up. ‘If you’re adamant that Paul and his family will not be allowed to leave Haver, and that we can’t speak with your father, I want to meet with my brother. Then Steven and I will leave and head straight back to New Zealand,’ he said.
This time it was Jasper who raised his pistol. ‘Sit down.’ The menace in Jasper’s voice was such that Mark slumped back onto the stool. ‘Whether you leave Haver or not is no longer your decision. The moment you ignored the sign to keep out of the park you became His Lordship’s property.’
‘I’m nobody’s property,’ Steven said defiantly.
‘Oh yes you are,’ Jasper said with finality, ‘and now you’re both going back to your cell. To await’, he added with emphasis, ‘His Lordship’s decision as to your future.’
‘And with any luck,’ Damian added with relish, ‘he may well decide that one of you, at least, will go to the block.’
Jasper stood up and motioned Mark and Steven to precede him out of the room.
‘Can we have our rucksack, please?’ Mark asked.
Jasper shook his head.
‘At least my photographs then?’
Jasper shook his head again.
28
‘The block, what did he mean by the block?’ Steven asked once the cell door had been slammed shut and locked behind them.
‘He means death by beheading.’
Steven laughed nervously. ‘You’re joking.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. You’d better hope Jasper has more influence with his father than Damian does.’
They sat in the cell for the rest of the day. No one came to feed them and they rationed the small quantity of beer that remained.
‘I’m starving,’ Steven said after the family groups had returned from their day’s labours and begun filing towards the Great Hall for their evening meal.
‘Here, eat this,’ Mark said, handing him the envelope that had contained the note left for them at Doning Hill Rise.
‘I’m not that hungry.’
Mark began to rip up and chew the note that had been inside the envelope. ‘My guess is that if they search us and find this note, Paul will be in a lot of strife. He may have ignored me, but I won’t get him into trouble.’
Steven followed suit and ate the envelope.
Despite their hunger, they fell asleep more easily than the previous night. The droning noise in the depths of the tower below helped them to drift off.
Steven was shaking Mark gently. ‘Wake up,’ he whispered. ‘Listen.’ It was two o’clock in the morning.
The strange background drone, which had lulled them to sleep earlier, was still there, but in the stone tower beneath them they could hear a new noise — an intermittent dull thud as if the stonework was being tapped. For what seemed an age the noise continued, coming gradually closer, moving up the stone staircase towards them. Eventually they heard the bolts of the grille in the cell door being slid back.
A series of dull thuds followed as items were passed through the grille and fell to the floor. Then the grille squeaked shut and the bolts slid back into their fastenings. The shuffling, tapping noise slowly receded as Mark scrambled to the door and groped around in the darkness. He found what felt like an apple, some bread and a small piece of cheese.
‘Who are you?’ he called after their unknown visitor. There was no reply.
Throughout the next day they languished in the cell. By late afternoon the last of the beer was finished; they were both hungry and thirsty. They felt dirty and depressed, and the unfamiliar stubble on their faces itched, adding to their discomfort.
At two the following morning they heard the strange tapping sound moving up the staircase towards them, and again the grille squeaked open and items thudded to the floor.
‘Who’s there?’ Mark asked. Again there was no reply. He felt around on the floor and found another apple, more bread and a piece of dry but sweet cake.
‘We’ve got no water,’ he called after their mysterious benefactor. ‘We’re desperate for water. Can you help us?’ There was no reply.
Two hours later they heard the tapping noise yet again, but this time it was much slower and seemed to take forever to reach the cell door. The grille opened but nothing fell to the floor. In the darkness Mark located a hand holding a glass bottle.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’ Still no reply. He took the bottle, squeezing the hand to signal his thanks.
‘Who do you think it was?’ Steven asked when they could hear the tapping sound no more.
‘I’ve no idea. Other than it was a woman. The hand had an engagement ring and a wedding ring.’
‘Why wouldn’t she speak?’
‘Maybe she’s frightened. If we don’t know who she is, we can’t give her away.’
Mark and Steven languished in the cell for the second day since their interrogation. They eked out the contents of the water bottle through the day. They had just finished the last precious drops when they heard the clattering of footsteps climbing the tower staircase. The chimes of the tower clock told them it was five in the afternoon.
The door opened and Diana walked in, labouring under the weight of two buckets of water, her sister Susan trailing behind with a bundle of clothes. They were followed by Jasper and Damian, who was nervously holding his pistol at the ready. Relieved at the sight of the water, Steven took the empty bottle and dipped it into one of the buckets.
‘Where did you get this bottle?’ Jasper demanded as he seized it.
‘It’s just an empty bottle, we found it in the corner of the room,’ Mark said smoothly. To emphasise the fact they’d had nothing to drink he leaned over one of the buckets, dipped his head in, and began to drink. Taking the cue, Steven followed suit.
‘You were told to clear out the room!’ Damian yelled at Diana. A look of alarm crossed her face. Jasper waved her aside dismissively and she hurried out.
‘Don’t drink all the water! You need a wash — you both stink,’ Jasper said. ‘And you’ll be pleased to know His Lordship has decided to spare your lives.’
‘More’s the pity,’ Damian sneered.
Jasper gave his brother an irritable glance. ‘You’ll join the rest of your family for dinner this evening in the Great Hall. His Lordship will formally announce that you are joining the community.’
Steven shrugged his shoulders. ‘Assuming we decide to stay.’
‘You’re staying — you’ve got no choice,’ Jasper said.
‘Well, he does,’ Damian sniggered. ‘He can always go to the block.’
‘Now get cleaned up and changed into these clothes,’ Jasper said, motioning to Susan to step forward. She obediently placed the clothes on the floor, together with soap and towels. Then she bowed low to Jasper and Damian and left the room.
Steven picked up a tunic from the top of the pile and fingered it with disdain; it was the same shapeless grey top worn by the majority of the commu
nity. ‘I’ll keep my own clothes, thanks.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Mark said quickly, before another argument could develop. ‘He’s right, you stink, and you need a change of clothing.’ He gave his son a look that told him to keep quiet.
‘That’s better,’ Jasper said. ‘About time you Kiwis learned some sense. Now strip off.’
Jasper and Damian watched while Mark and Steven stripped. As Damian continued to stare intently at their naked bodies, Jasper picked up their dirty clothes and searched the pockets. Satisfied, he walked to the door and motioned to Damian it was time to leave. ‘Now get cleaned up,’ he said to Mark and Steven. ‘We’ll be back for you in an hour.’
Jasper left the room, taking the empty bottle with him. As soon as Damian had joined him, the key turned in the lock and footsteps retreated down the stone staircase.
‘Now I don’t know what we’re going to find tonight,’ Mark said as he began to wash himself, ‘but can we just agree on one thing? Not to be antagonistic!’ Steven nodded sheepishly and Mark continued, ‘Let’s keep it cool, play the game and find out what’s really going on here.’
At ten minutes to six, Jasper and Damian arrived. It was not until they’d descended the staircase and were standing in the central arch beneath Cromwell’s Tower that Mark realised both brothers had their firearms safely buckled in their holsters.
Jasper read Mark’s thoughts. ‘Let me show you something,’ he said.
He led them into Lawn Court, insisting once again that they walk on the gravel path along the perimeter, and past the building known as the Queen’s Stable, which had been converted into an accommodation wing. At the far corner of the courtyard he led them through a gateway into yet another courtyard — Stable Court.
‘If you try to leave the park,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘they will be sent after you.’ He pointed to a pack of large dogs chained up at the other end of the courtyard. The dogs began snarling and yelping, straining at their chains to attack.
‘Quiet!’ Damian yelled and the dogs cowered back against the wall. ‘They’re mine,’ he explained proudly. ‘I’ve trained them to hunt down humans. No one has ever escaped from the park.’
‘To be more precise, no one has ever escaped and lived,’ Jasper corrected him.
They walked through the gateway back into Lawn Court.
‘Of course, you’d have to get past him first,’ Damian said, pointing to a figure at the top of the West Tower. Mark guessed that it was probably one of Jasper and Damian’s younger twin brothers.
‘Both the twins are crack shots,’ Jasper said.
The dogs chained to the stone wall in Stable Court began barking again. Any thoughts of an immediate escape evaporated.
29
Mark and Steven were led under Cromwell’s Tower, across Flag Court, through the entranceway to the oldest part of Haver House, and into the Great Hall. It was a huge room with a decorative plasterwork ceiling and oak-panelled walls. A massive stone fireplace was set in the far wall, and despite the summer weather a fire was burning in the grate to heat pots of water.
They entered through a doorway set in a gigantic carved medieval wooden screen, which dominated the northern end of the room, stretching as it did the width of the room and from floor to ceiling. The upper portion housed the Minstrel Gallery where, in times past, musicians had played to entertain diners. Running the full length of the main part of the hall were two huge wooden refectory tables, three times the size of a normal table. Wooden benches stood along both sides of the tables.
At the left-hand table, at the end furthest from the doorway where Steven and Mark had entered, sat Duncan Steed, his brother Cameron and sister Jennifer, together with the rest of their family. Like everyone in the hall, their hats had been placed on the benches beside them. The red hair that was their family trait shone in the glow of the nearby fire.
At the nearer end of the same long table sat Susan and Diana Morgan and the other members of their family. Like all their cousins, they sported trademark Chatfield high cheekbones and full, sensual lips. However, their features were much sharper than those of their cousins. Though the younger women were attractive, Susan and Diana’s features had become pinched with age and hard labour.
At the right-hand table, at the end furthest from the screen, sat Adam and Warren Dalton with their families. The Dalton family were mostly short in stature. As children, their Steed cousins had been nicknamed Ginger Nut, Irish and Red, Warren had been labelled Shorty and poor Adam, Stumpy — an unfortunate choice given the motor accident that had subsequently damaged his leg.
At the other end, and nearest the door through which Mark and Steven had entered the hall, sat the smallest group: Mark’s brother Paul and his family. Seeing each family segregated in this manner, it occurred to Mark there was no need for the various hats; each family group, though they all had variations on the Chatfield features, was quite distinctive.
On a raised dais at the far end of the hall stood a table running across the width of the room. Unlike the bare wooden refectory tables, it boasted a white tablecloth and vases of flowers. Five carved chairs stood behind the table, looking out over the hall. The centre chair was elaborately carved and could only be described as a throne. Aunt Margaret’s daughter Allison was already seated on the far right-hand side of the table, her tiny frame dwarfed by the huge chair in which she sat.
Jasper pointed out two empty places on the bench opposite Paul and indicated that Steven and Mark were to sit down. Then he and Damian moved to the top table where they sat down on the two large chairs either side of the throne.
‘Hi,’ Steven said, waving cheerfully to everyone in the hall. His relations stared back at him, astonished that he’d spoken.
‘You do not speak until His Lordship is seated!’ Jasper barked.
‘Is that right?’ Steven challenged as he sat down.
Mark touched his son’s arm and pointed up at the Minstrel Gallery. Greg, one of Nigel’s twin sons, rose from his chair and raised his rifle. Steven took the point.
No one spoke, and though there were baskets of bread and fruit on the tables, no one touched the food. Mark saw that many of the adults had one sleeve of their tunics rolled up. Their arms displayed scars. Some, like his brother Paul, had the number 1 burnt into the flesh, while others had both 1 and 2.
Mark nodded at his brother, but Paul glanced nervously sideways as if he was afraid to be seen communicating. Mark noticed for the first time that his brother had developed a nervous twitch. Several times a minute his head would jerk involuntarily to one side as if he were shaking it in disagreement with whatever was going on around him.
Nothing was happening; everyone sat impassively, waiting for His Lordship to arrive. With everyone safely in the Great Hall, Nigel’s other twin son Miles had left his sentry position at the top of the West Tower and walked in to join his brothers, taking the seat at the opposite end of the table from Allison. Mark noticed that both Greg and Miles had adopted the same shoulder-length hair as their brothers. The athletic-looking Miles wore a full beard and was the best looking of the brothers. His overweight twin Greg had only managed to nurture a few tufts of hair that sprouted unevenly from his chin.
Steven passed the time pulling faces at the young children on the other side of the table, trying to make them laugh. His cousin Cheryl looked at him hard, mouthing an almost imperceptible, ‘Please don’t.’ There was no mistaking the terror in her eyes; they were imploring him not to get her children into trouble.
He’d met Cheryl during his one and only trip to the UK. She had been a fun-loving woman who laughed a lot and wore plunging necklines showing off her voluptuous breasts. Now she, like several other members of the community, was suffering from tooth decay. Conscious of her rotting teeth, she rarely smiled. But the biggest change was in her dress. The grey tunics the female members of the community wore were not exactly flattering, but they had a neckline. Yet Cheryl had a row of safety pins that pulled the two s
ides of her tunic together all the way up to her neck.
Meanwhile, Mark was taking the opportunity to conduct a census. Despite the difficulties he and Steven were experiencing, he hadn’t forgotten the main purpose of their voyage to England.
The survival of the human race depended upon a broad gene pool. Four generations of the Chatfield dynasty were present in the hall. Aunt Margaret alone represented the first generation, the only survivor of Claude and Cora’s eleven children. The second generation consisted of Mark, his brother Paul and their first cousins, mostly now in their forties and fifties. Mark was the eldest cousin by only a few months and Aunt Margaret’s daughter Allison, now sitting at the table on the dais, was the youngest at thirty-eight.
The third generation comprised Steven and his cousins — young adults who ranged in age, he calculated, from early teens to their mid-thirties. Finally there was the fourth generation — the children of Steven’s cousins, who were babies to children, he guessed, of about seven years of age.
It was the first time Mark had ever seen so many of the Chatfield dynasty assembled in one place. What struck him immediately was the shortage of males in the third and fourth generations. It was a similar situation to that at Gulf Harbour.
The Morgan branch of the family was almost exclusively female. His cousins Susan and Diana had produced seven daughters between them, and only one of Diana’s daughters, Penny, had produced a son, a little boy called Lee, whom Mark now recognised as the child who had carried Damian’s bowling-bag.
Duncan and Cameron Steed and their sister Jennifer had, between them, produced six daughters and only one son. Mark noticed that Duncan’s son Fergus was not present. He realised he had not seen him since they came to Haver.
Of the Dalton branch of the family, only Adam had produced sons — two, Robert and Luke, who by now must be aged thirteen and fourteen respectively. Both boys, like their father, were short and as a result looked even younger. In fact Luke, with his angelic appearance, looked very much younger than his brother, who tended to scowl and look serious even when he was enjoying himself. Warren and Allison had again produced girls — two each. There were four babies at the table, but in their nondescript grey tunics Mark had no idea what gender they were.
Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1) Page 17
