by Paul Kane
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 well guarded and 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, and 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 wall 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 reach
ed 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, thumbs 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; he 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.
“Jesus,” Jack whispered. “You traitorous –”
“I did it for my Elaine,” protested Mills. “They’re going to kill her. And... and your plan, it’s never going to work in a million years.”
Jack huffed. “You think so?”
“I know so. They’ll be expecting something... De Falaise will murder the hostages.”
“Weren’t...” croaked Robert, then coughed. He turned to the man again. “Weren’t you listening earlier? He’ll murder them anyway.”
Mills shook his head, not willing to accept the truth. The next stage was lashing out again. “It’s your fault they took her in the first place! All this is your fault. It’s you he wants! If only you’d left them well enough alone to do what they wanted.”
“You’d have been even further up shit creek, pal,” argued Jack, then looked over at Tate. “Sorry, Rev.”
The holy man wasn’t really listening, he was too fixated on the scene before him.
Robert rolled off Mills, and rubbed his windpipe. The man didn’t try to get up, didn’t even try to escape. Jack and the others came and grabbed hold of him, dragging him away from Robert. “Don’t hurt him,” their leader managed.
“Hurt him? I know what I’d do, given half a chance,” Jack told Robert.
“He was just scared for someone he loves.”
Another snort. Then Jack told them to take Mills away and put a guard on him. He knew too much about what they were planning for them to just let him go.
Tate came fully inside, leaning heavily on his stick, and waited for Robert to look up. “If...” Robert coughed. “If that’s an... an example of support in the villages, we don’t stand a chance.”
“You don’t believe what he said, do you?”
“Trying to assuage your guilt, Reverend?” Robert said in broken words, massaging his throat.
“Guilt?”
“About persuading me to do this – setting all this in motion.” Robert coughed again.
“It wasn’t me who persuaded you, Robert.”
He fixed Tate with a stare. “People are probably going to die because of me. You do know that, don’t you? Maybe even Mark.”
“And how many live today because of you, answer me that? How many of the men out there have a purpose now?”
“I’ll probably get them killed as well.”
“It’s their choice to follow you. Their decision. In a broken world like this, you should feel proud of that.”
There was someone else at the flap of the tent, a female face, and Robert looked past Tate, locking eyes with Mary. “I just saw that man Mills being taken away and...” She rushed over and knelt down beside Robert. “You’re hurt.”
He waved a hand to let her know he was okay, aware of the half-smile on Tate’s face. “Remember what I said, Robert,” said the Reverend, then left.
Mary watched him go. “What’s he talking about? What went on here?”
But Robert didn’t answer her, because he didn’t quite understand it himself.
It was somehow connected to a dream he’d been having before he felt Mills’ hands at his throat, that much he did know.
Though whether good or evil had won this particular battle, he couldn’t really say.
THE KNOCK ROUSED him from his slumber.
He saw a shape almost on top of him – looming over. Hands were reaching down. It brought back flashes of the dream he’d been having. A struggle of some kind, a fight with the Hooded Man. They’d had each other by the neck, each fighting to squeeze the life out of the other.
But this was no man – it was the woman from Hope. His doll. And she wasn’t trying to strangle him, he saw that now. No, she was shaking him, rousing him even further from his sleep. Pointing to the door.
Or was that just a cover for what she’d really been about? It was unlike her to be so animated, certainly in the bedroom.
De Falaise looked at her suspiciously. Then he rose, pushing her to one side.
“Oui, oui... I am coming,” he shouted, pulling on his gown as he marched over to the door. “This really had better be good.”
Tanek was standing there. “It is.”
For the briefest of seconds De Falaise noted the bigger man’s interest in what was beyond him: the body of the naked woman on the bed. That made him feel good, the fact that even his right hand wanted what he owned. Perhaps he would hold onto her just that little bit longer – especially if she was becoming more... responsive.
“So?”
“A boy,” Tanek said simply.
“What?” De
Falaise rubbed his tired eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“Javier recognised him when we brought the new prisoners through.”
De Falaise frowned. “As who?”
“One of Hood’s gang.”
The Frenchman beamed from ear to ear. “Really? You are sure? Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I will be with you.”
De Falaise closed the door and clapped his hands. “Did you hear that, mon cherie? It would appear that we have an added bargaining chip.” He began to put on his clothes, looking up only once or twice at the woman. She was leaning against the headrest, knees pulled up close. She regarded him with an odd expression, somewhere between defeated and catatonic.
“I will return,” he promised her. Then he exited the room and closed the door behind him.
GWEN CLUTCHED HER knees, pulling them even tighter to her body.
She’d been so near to grabbing him, a fiery strength rising in her. She could have done it, and done it easily – but the knock at the door had thrown her into panic.
In an instant she had altered her stance, from attacker to concerned ‘companion,’ rousing him. Had he bought it? There was no way of telling, but the news about the boy had probably chased any immediate thoughts about her from his mind. The very idea that they’d stumbled upon one of the Hooded Man’s gang, and completely by accident, was nearly enough to make the Frenchman dance a jig on the spot.
Gwen knew which boy Tanek had been talking about, as well. It had to be the young kid with the tousled blond hair. Good God, what on Earth would that maniac do to try and get information out of him? Let Tanek loose? Would he do that?
Of course he would – the man had no scruples.
It was at that point, as she imagined Luke or Sally in his place, Gwen began to cry. She’d never cried for herself in all the time she’d been at the castle, but she did then.
Because she knew in her heart that she had failed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
