Finally there was Paul’s family of two daughters and a son. Bridget had a son and a daughter, while Cheryl had produced two sons and a daughter. Again, Mark was concerned that Paul’s son Mathew, like Fergus, wasn’t at the table.
Only Nigel Chatfield had bucked the trend. He’d produced four sons. But, despite Nigel’s success in producing male heirs, the third generation, which formed the principal gene pool, consisted of nineteen females and only eight males. Furthermore, if both Fergus and Mathew were no longer alive there were only six males in the third generation, four of whom were brothers. One way or the other, prospects for the future looked precarious.
Eventually, Adam Dalton’s slightly built son Luke stood up, lifted a horn to his lips and sounded a long fanfare. Everyone stood, including Allison and the Chatfield brothers at the top table. Steven was the last to stand and only did so after his father had vigorously prompted him. Mark had only stood himself when his brother mouthed a desperate ‘please’ in his direction. It was the first word Paul had addressed to him since his arrival at Haver.
As the fanfare reached its exalted climax, Nigel strode in, resplendent in a crimson velvet tunic and his ill-fitting wig. Everyone, with the exception of Steven and Mark, bowed to him. Mark fought to choke back his laughter. Steven was less successful. All eyes in the room focused on him.
‘Sit,’ Nigel commanded gruffly and everyone sat down. Steven reached for the bread but his action brought a shake of the head from Paul. Nigel remained standing, hands on hips, towering above the assembled throng. ‘It would seem’, he said, ‘that our unsophisticated cousins from the colonies …’ he paused and waited for the ripple of polite laughter to die down, ‘need to be taught some manners. Paul Grey.’
Paul stood up and bowed.
‘Paul Grey, who the hell’s Paul Grey?’ Mark asked out loud.
His brother looked at him, alarmed, and shook his head, imploring him with his sunken eyes to say no more. The twitch increased.
‘Paul Grey,’ Nigel repeated, ‘it appears you need to teach your brother Mark Grey — and his son — some manners, and the sooner the better.’
Mark jumped to his feet. ‘My name’s Mark Chatfield, my brother’s name is Paul Chatfield, and don’t you forget it, you overweight buffoon,’ he shouted, jabbing his finger at Nigel.
Paul’s jaw dropped and he looked accusingly at his brother, which only caused Mark to say angrily, ‘And you should know better than to put up with this nonsense.’
Nigel’s face turned red with rage. He looked as if he was about to explode. The silence was sinister, and then slowly a chant began at the other end of the adjacent refectory table.
‘Treadmill, treadmill,’ the Steed family chanted.
Gradually the chant spread through the remainder of the hall, as the Morgan and Dalton families joined in the chant.
‘Treadmill, treadmill, treadmill.’
The noise grew louder and louder as fists were banged on the long wooden tables in time with the chant. The sound resonated through the hall. Only Paul and his family did not join the chant. They sat stone-faced, staring accusingly at Mark.
Steven laughed. Then he quoted his father’s words from earlier in the day, ‘Don’t be antagonistic. Keep it cool, play the game, learn what’s going on here.’
Mark sat back down on the bench. ‘Well, bloody nonsense,’ he said in his own defence. Neither of them saw Jasper and Damian leave the top table. The two brothers marched down the hall and grabbed Mark from behind.
‘Take your hands off me,’ he protested as he was hauled off.
‘Leave him alone,’ Steven threatened, jumping to his feet and trying to make himself heard above the din of the chant.
‘Sit down!’ Damian shouted.
Steven grabbed Damian, pulled him away from his father and felled him with a single blow to the jaw. Instantly the chanting stopped. Damian looked up from the floor, touched his lip and looked in horror at the blood on his fingers. Jasper released Mark and took a step towards Steven.
‘Come on,’ Steven invited him.
Mark glanced up at the Minstrel Gallery. Greg had his rifle trained in their direction.
‘Brand him!’ Nigel hollered from the top table.
Damian rose from the floor. Both Jasper and Damian were reluctant to approach Steven again.
‘Help my sons!’ Nigel bellowed. No one moved. ‘Or else!’ he bellowed again.
Suddenly, Mark and Steven were grabbed from behind. Despite a struggle, neither could resist the force of numbers. Once secure, they were dragged down the hall towards the fireplace. Hanging beside the fireplace were three branding irons, numbered 1, 2 and 3. Smiling, Damian took the branding iron numbered 1 and thrust it deep into the glowing embers.
‘Don’t you dare,’ warned Mark, who was still being restrained by his cousins.
‘Shut up or you’ll get branded as well,’ Jasper threatened.
Paul gestured to his brother not to argue. Finally, Damian took the branding iron, which was now glowing red, and walked menacingly towards Steven. Jasper ripped the shirt from Steven’s back.
‘Not you!’ Nigel bellowed at Damian from the dais.
Everyone turned and looked towards Nigel.
‘Paul Grey can brand him.’
‘No!’ Paul screamed. The pain in his voice rang out as if the branding iron had scorched his own flesh.
‘Brand him, or else!’ bellowed Nigel.
Smiling, Damian handed the branding iron to Paul. Paul, his head jerking sideways with nerves, looked at Steven, who simply nodded.
The smell of burning flesh permeated the Great Hall. Tears were streaming down Paul’s and Mark’s faces. Steven gritted his teeth, fixed his eyes on Damian and didn’t utter a sound.
‘Now take them both to the treadmill,’ Nigel said. ‘They can do two weeks’ punishment. And you go with them, Paul Grey. Tell them the rules, or they’ll both have three strikes before you know it.’
30
The redheaded Steed brothers Duncan and Cameron forced Mark’s arms up behind his back and frogmarched him out of the Great Hall, with Paul trailing behind. It took longer to secure Steven, but eventually the much shorter and lighter Dalton cousins Adam and Warren forced him out of the hall, with Damian and Jasper following.
Mark was marched across the courtyard towards Cromwell’s Tower, but instead of going to the door that led to the prison cell, the party stopped at a door on the opposite side of the tower.
‘Now please don’t make any more trouble,’ Paul said to his brother as he swung open the heavy door. Duncan and Cameron warily released their prisoner and they all walked through the doorway into the room beyond.
‘Good news, the Greys are taking over,’ Duncan called as they entered.
‘About time too,’ panted a voice in reply.
At last Mark understood what the strange rhythmic noise was that he and Steven had heard from their cell two floors above. In the middle of the room stood a huge treadmill, twice Mark’s height, driving a belt with leather buckets attached. The buckets lifted water from the reservoirs beneath Flag Court and disappeared up through the ceiling above their heads. Duncan’s son, Fergus, was walking slowly on the protruding slats, his weight keeping the drum revolving. The twenty-nine-year old was tall and broad shouldered. Determined to preserve some individuality in spite of the grey tunics, he wore his hair in a distinctive red Mohawk.
‘If you think I’m going to go on that you’ve got another think coming,’ Mark said.
‘We don’t care who goes on it,’ Duncan said, scratching his ginger beard, ‘so long as it’s a Grey and not a Steed.’
‘And if someone doesn’t get on here smartish, I’m going to step off. You all know what that means,’ yelled Fergus impatiently.
‘All right,’ Paul said quickly. He walked over and stood beside the treadmill. Fergus stepped off as Paul stepped on; the treadmill continued turning.
‘Why did you volunteer to drive the treadmill?’
Mark asked Paul, once the Steed family had left.
‘The completion of your punishment is the responsibility of all members of our family, and if you can’t or won’t serve your punishment, the rest of the family will have to complete it for you. Those are the rules.’
‘All right. I’ll take over, but while I drive the damn thing, you’ve got to tell me what the hell is going on here.’
Mark stepped onto the treadmill.
‘Before I tell you what’s going on,’ Paul said, ‘I’ll check what’s happened to Steven — he should be here by now. Whatever you do, though, don’t let the treadmill stop. By the way, it’s really good to have you here.’ Paul patted his brother affectionately on the back. By the time Mark had forced down the lump in his throat and was able to reply, Paul had left the Punishment Room.
Adam and Warren had marched Steven halfway across Flag Court before Damian struck him from behind with a length of timber. ‘Go back and get your dinner,’ he ordered Adam and Warren as Steven slumped onto the flagstones. ‘Now!’ shouted Jasper when they hesitated. As Adam limped away, followed by a reluctant Warren, Damian and Jasper waded into Steven with their boots. Damian in particular was venting his anger at having been humiliated by Steven in front of the community. Steven, who was only half-conscious, did the best he could to defend his head with his arms, but despite his efforts the occasional boot got through and his face was soon covered with blood. He was in no state to get to his feet and fight back.
It was only when Damian and Jasper saw the Steed family emerge from Cromwell’s Tower that they stopped the beating.
‘Go back to the hall and have your dinner,’ Jasper panted.
Duncan, Cameron and Fergus stood their ground.
‘Go on,’ yelled Damian, who was keen to continue with the beating.
‘Did your father give you permission to do this?’ Duncan asked.
‘Does he even know about it?’ Fergus demanded, thrusting his head forward. His eyes were bulging from their sockets. Together with the fiery Mohawk they gave him a threatening air.
‘Come on,’ Jasper said to Damian. ‘Let’s go and finish our dinner.’ Damian opened his mouth to argue the point, but as the Steed family continued to stand their ground he finally nodded. As they walked away, Fergus bent down beside Steven, alarmed at how much blood was soaking into the cracks between the flagstones.
‘Leave him!’ Jasper shouted back.
Fergus looked up. ‘Or else,’ threatened Damian, who had stopped and was drawing his pistol.
Fergus stood up slowly and with his father and uncle followed the two brothers back towards the Great Hall. As they neared the door Jasper turned to the Steed family and said menacingly. ‘Say anything about this to His Lordship and you’ll all be back on that treadmill. Understand?’
Steven was still lying prone on the flagstones when Paul found him. As he crouched beside his nephew, his daughter Cheryl emerged from the Great Hall.
‘What happened?’
‘Damian and Jasper, I expect,’ Paul answered, checking his nephew’s pulse before adding, ‘At least he’s still alive.’
‘Only just, by the look of it,’ Cheryl said, looking down, shocked at her cousin’s appearance.
‘Let’s get him into our quarters.’
‘Should we move him in that state?’
‘We can’t leave him here.’
Somehow they lifted Steven between them and struggled with him under Cromwell’s Tower, past the closed door of the Punishment Room and into Lawn Court. Paul was relieved his brother couldn’t see them from his position on the treadmill. If Mark had known of Steven’s condition he would have jumped off the treadmill, precipitating a fresh set of problems.
They staggered through the door of their quarters into the room that served as their lounge, and laid Steven on the couch. He moaned with pain and tried to open his eyes, but they were too puffed up. He tried to speak, but his swollen lips and his tongue, which had been ripped as it was kicked against his teeth, refused to function. He lapsed back into unconsciousness.
‘Clean him up and give him a little water when he comes around,’ Paul said. ‘And ask Allison to have a look at him.’
‘What if His Lordship finds out?’
‘You’ve got to ask her. She’s the only one with nursing experience.’
Cheryl had already drawn a small bowl of water from the sink and was gingerly wiping away the blood from Steven’s face as her father left the room.
‘Where’s Steven?’ Mark asked as Paul opened the door of the Punishment Room.
‘He’s having his wounds dressed. I’m sorry I had to brand him, but it would have been a lot worse had Damian administered the punishment.’
‘I understand,’ Mark said grimly.
‘Do you want me to take over?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘We’ll let Steven rest tonight,’ Paul said.
‘What time do we stop operating this contraption?’
‘We don’t stop. It has to be driven twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.’
‘What?’ Mark exclaimed, stepping back from the treadmill. Paul sprinted across the room and jumped on, scrambling up the planks to prevent it stopping. Seeing his brother’s alarm, Mark stood behind him again. ‘All right, all right, I take the point. I won’t let it stop again.’ As Mark climbed back on, he glanced over his shoulder and added, ‘And once Steven has had his wound dressed you can get him back in here to help. After all, he was the one who caused all the trouble.’
‘No, it was you who caused the trouble.’
Mark didn’t respond to the accusation. ‘What’s all this nonsense about changing our name to Grey?’
‘Nigel decided there could only be one family named Chatfield, and that we would be named Grey after our mother.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘I didn’t have much choice.’
They lapsed into an uneasy silence.
‘It’s going to be hard to keep this treadmill going without Steven doing his turn,’ Mark grumbled after a while.
‘We’ll manage. You and I can drive it until two in the morning. Bridget can take over from two till three, Cheryl from three till four, and the children can keep it going from four till breakfast time.’
‘The children! Surely you’re not putting the children on this thing?’
‘We don’t have any option. We have to keep it turning.’
Mark suddenly felt guilty. Because of his outburst, Steven had been branded, and now the whole family was being punished.
‘I’ll keep it turning by myself.’
‘You’re going to need some rest. You’ll have to keep it going for twelve hours straight, from six o’clock tomorrow morning until we return from the gardens tomorrow evening.’
‘How long is this going on?’
‘Punishment periods are a week long. Since both you and Steven have been punished, that means two weeks. Unless of course one of the other families steps out of line and we get relieved. We’ll keep our eye on them, and if they break any rules we’ll report them. With any luck we’ll be out of here well before our two weeks are up.’
‘You mean you’re going to snitch on the other families?’
‘Damn right I am. Why do you think we’re in here now? If the Steeds hadn’t called for the treadmill, I might have been able to plead with His Lordship for clemency.’
‘Sounds like divide and rule to me,’ Mark said, a hint of recrimination in his voice. Paul didn’t respond, and after a short silence Mark asked, ‘What happens if at the end of the punishment period you haven’t managed to inform on one of the other families?’
‘If that happens Damian and Jasper stage a foxhunt.’
‘A foxhunt?’
‘Each of the four families selects a representative to be their fox. They set off together from the West Gate, and a few minutes later the Chatfield brothers follow, each with one of Damian’s tracker dogs. The family of the first fox caught does t
he next week’s treadmill duty. It’s usually me who gets caught first.’
Mark chuckled. ‘You mean you can’t run faster than the Morgan girls?’
‘It’s always Theresa who’s the Morgan fox and Miles who tracks her. I think they have an arrangement.’
‘What do you mean — an arrangement?’
‘Two teenagers, what do you think? Let’s put it like this: Theresa’s never lost a foxhunt yet.’
‘Why don’t you send Mathew — he’s a good runner?’
There was no answer. When Mark looked over his shoulder he saw the tears streaming down Paul’s face. The involuntary twitch seemed even more pronounced. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He must have been right; his nephew was dead. After further silence, he added, ‘When you’re ready, tell me what happened to Mathew. In the meantime, tell me how you all came to be in this state. Tell me everything.’
Before Paul could respond, Cheryl arrived with bread, cheese and beer. ‘So at least we get fed in here?’ Mark said, glancing over his shoulder at his niece.
‘Oh yes, Uncle Mark,’ Cheryl said, exposing her rotting teeth. ‘They even give you extra food to keep your strength up when you’re on the treadmill.’
‘Steven will probably volunteer for treadmill duty to get the extra grub,’ Mark muttered.
Paul had regained his composure. ‘How is Steven?’ he asked Cheryl.
‘He’ll live. Allison’s agreed to have a look at him.’
‘Tell him to get over here and do his turn on the treadmill,’ Mark said, his back to them.
Cheryl opened her mouth, intent on scolding her uncle for his callousness. Before she could get the words out, Paul whispered in her ear, ‘He doesn’t know.’
‘He’s asleep,’ she said hurriedly.
‘He can rest tonight,’ Paul said firmly.
‘What are the shifts, Dad?’
Paul told her.
Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1) Page 18
