by Paul Kane
Robert raised his head at that. “Is that what you came to tell me?”
“No.” Mary dawdled at the entrance, not wanting to come too far in, but not wanting to be outside either. “I came back to wish you luck.”
“Thanks...” He looked up at her properly now. “Mary, listen, when I said I’m not sure you should have come back I meant... I know you can take care of yourself and everything, I just wouldn’t like to see something... I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“Like it has with Mark, you mean?”
He didn’t answer.
“That’s sweet, but I make my own decisions in life. You’re about to go and get yourself captured or killed. Why shouldn’t the rest of us? Why shouldn’t I? Give me a reason, Robert.”
“Because –” He started too forcefully, too hastily, then took an age to finish the sentence. “Because... I care about you.”
“Yes. I know. We’re friends, right?” Mary sighed. “That was quite some speech you gave out there, you know? You certainly have a way of rallying the troops.”
“I just wanted them to know how... how much I’ve come to think of them.”
“As for that little trick with the voice throwing; pretty nifty. Then appearing in the middle of them –”
“You were watching?”
“A-huh,” she admitted. “I’ve been watching all day, saw you set the rope up – just like you’ve been teaching them. When you asked if anyone had seen you leave the tent; I did. I saw you Robert. I wasn’t preoccupied.”
Robert got to his feet.
“One day you’ll be a legend, Robert Stokes. One day stories will be written about you, just like they wrote about him.”
“Him?”
“You know who I mean. Your... predecessor.”
“Oh.”
Read to me, Dad... Read some more...
Mary came a little more into the tent, hands behind her back. “I didn’t just come here to wish you luck,” she admitted at last.
“No?” He got up and moved forwards.
“No. I came to give you this...” She brought her hands out where he could see them, and she was holding one of the broadswords from her home. “You may as well look the part.”
“I... I can’t take that,” said Robert.
“Yes you can. They might not let you keep it, but you never know. They might not even see it as a threat.”
“One hell of a hunting knife, though,” Robert said, with a lightness of tone that had been absent during the rest of the conversation. “Thank you.”
“No need. Just take that stupid hood off and let me see you.”
Robert pulled it back. “I meant what I said, you know. About another time and place...”
“I know.” Mary smiled weakly. “But this is the only one we have.”
He opened his arms and she walked into them. They held each other and both knew that this might be the last time they saw one another alive. Mary kissed him on the cheek. It felt like the end of everything, and in a very real sense it was. By that time tomorrow everything would have changed.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Mary whispered it back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE TWO MEN remained like that for some time...
Hands at each other’s throats, neither one willing to give ground. This was the final fight, their only real fight in fact, and both men were desperate to win. The Hooded Man because he saw it as his mission to rid the world of this new infection; the Frenchman because he needed to pluck this thorn from his side before he could rule completely.
Tighter and tighter they grasped each other, spinning in the dreamscape – the fire on the water raging higher all around them.
Then one of them removed a hand. It was the Frenchman, reaching down, grabbing a hidden knife and bringing it up. It was too quick for the Hooded Man to block and he looked down, eyes wide, as the blade slid into him. It pierced his stomach, slipping through flesh and into him almost up to the hilt. He gave a cry and coughed up blood, his grip on his opponent’s throat weakening.
Neither of them said a word; they didn’t have to. It was obvious what had happened. The darkness had triumphed, winning out overall.
The time of the hero had almost passed.
And the Hooded Man would pass just as quickly into the arms of death.
DE FALAISE HAD woken with a smile on his face.
He couldn’t remember all of the dream but he recalled the ending, recalled sliding the knife into Hood’s gut and killing him.
Au revoir, he said to himself, you’ve proved a worthy adversary, but it is time for this whole affair to draw to a close.
The Frenchman looked over and saw the woman from Hope lying there, asleep. He contemplated waking her so that he could begin the morning by celebrating, but he had so much – too much – to do. There would be time later, when he’d dealt with his enemy. All the time in the world, in fact; perhaps even time for a change. When she’d been getting dressed the last time, he’d noticed his plaything was putting on weight. He was obviously feeding her too well.
He’d got to bed late last night, after overseeing the last few hours of construction himself: the culmination of two days’ labour. The men had worked hard, but then so they should have; they were doing it for their Sheriff. The platform and gallows were crude but sturdy. Six in a row, so they could get through the executions as fast as possible, regardless of whether Hood showed up – though De Falaise was positive he would come. The platform, located out on the grass where Middle Bailey had once been, was high, punctuated by trap doors that could be released by a single lever. That idea had been his, and he’d explained in great detail how it could be achieved, muttering afterwards about the shortcomings of the British school system when it came to carpentry and woodwork.
What a sight it all was when it was finished, much better than simply hanging bodies over the sides of the rocks. This had style, flair – panache, as his people would say. It would be a spectacle; just one of the things that he would be remembered for. De Falaise had even appointed an official photographer, a soldier named Jennings who had an interest in such things and could develop film as well as take the actual photographs.
His inspiration had been the photos down in the basement of the castle, depicting all those different eras. One day, he realised, people would look back and remember what he had done here and applaud him for having the vision and bravery to pull it off. They would cheer his achievements, bringing Britain together again – perhaps even under a different name? Yes, something more fitting like... like Falaisia. That had a certain ring to it.
But he was taking small steps: towards a much larger goal. The only thing standing in his way was Hood and his malcontents. Once they were out of the way he could rule this region however he wanted. Build his army up even more, spread out and conquer from this one, fortified base.
It was his right, and his destiny.
One day, those who came after him would look to his lead in governing their own lands. Just as he’d drawn from the past to establish his empire.
He’d left the woman and gotten into the outfit he’d handpicked for the day’s proceedings – the red dress uniform adorned with medals and topped off with a ceremonial sword. Ignoring the new guard on duty outside his room, De Falaise made his way down into the basement one last time. He had examined the history of this castle and its surrounding areas frequently, but only today did he feel like he was making a contribution to the museum. He would have his men erect some kind of memorial to his achievements before too long, continuing on the story of Nottingham and its castle.
De Falaise paused to examine the model of the place he now called home. He bent and placed both hands on the glass cabinet.
“You are not just living history, De Falaise, you are making it,” he said to himself.
Next he made his way upwards through the castle and onto the roof, putting on his sunglasses as he went. He walked across to where R
einhart was camped out. He’d been up there for two days straight, watching the city – if not with his sniper’s scope, then with the binoculars De Falaise had left him. The Dutchman was like a machine, never complaining, never faltering. Just watching, ever vigilant.
“Anything to report?” De Falaise asked.
Reinhart shook his head. “No unusual activity at all.”
“And our scouts in the city?”
“Checking in as usual – once every half-hour.”
“Good, good. We will begin the executions within the hour. If you see any sign of the Hooded Man...”
“I will let you know, my Lord,” Reinhart promised, holding up his walkie-talkie.
So that was that. It only remained for them to ready the prisoners, roust them and get the first batch onto the platform. De Falaise would allow most of his men to watch; those who were not busy patrolling the walls, that was. It would serve as both example and, he hoped, entertainment. There was so little on TV these days.
As for the Hooded Man...
De Falaise would await his presence with eager anticipation.
GWEN FELT DE Falaise shift about in bed first thing, then heard him laughing as he woke. His dreams had obviously amused him. He’d been restless prior to that, though, just like he had been the night she missed her opportunity to kill him. She hadn’t been able to find the right moment since.
She’d feigned sleep in the hopes that he would leave her alone, knowing that nine times out of ten he’d do whatever he damned well pleased, not giving a toss whether Gwen was awake or not. This was the tenth time, obviously, because he got up and got dressed, barely making a sound. If he had tried something then she might well have reached for the knife now under her pillow, ramming it into his throat as he groped her. He was clearly waiting until after the day’s events for that particular ‘delight.’
Not that she had any intentions of still being here then.
Not that she had any intentions of still being alive. Her plan was simple. Free the prisoners, kill De Falaise. Yes, she was aware she was just one woman. Yes, the odds were impossibly against her, but still she had to try.
She couldn’t leave that young boy to his fate. Hopefully, he could lead them all back to his hideout where they’d be safe (if you can get them past that nutjob on the roof with the sniper’s rifle – don’t forget about him, Gwen).
They had to make a run for it, at least. They’d be dead anyway if they stayed here.
She was surprised, given his heritage, De Falaise hadn’t insisted on a guillotine. But then, they’d executed the nobility that way, hadn’t they? And that’s what De Falaise aspired to be. Hanging was for peasants and criminals. Today, it would be used to put an end to the lives of people like she’d known in Hope, who just wanted to get on with their existence from day to day; just wanted to forget about the horrors that had befallen them during the Cull.
You’re thinking too far ahead, Gwen, she told herself. First things first... the guard.
She got up off the bed, grabbing her robe. She didn’t have too long before she’d be expected to join De Falaise at the ceremony, wearing yet another ornate dress he’d picked out. Gwen had other ideas. She slipped on the silk, hastily fastening the dressing gown with the belt around the middle, and made her way to the door. Controlling her breathing again, she took hold of the handle and turned it, opening the door a crack.
There was the guard, sitting opposite and to the right: a yobbish-looking youth today with a scar across his jawline. He didn’t appear to notice the door opening – obviously the perfect choice for a guard – so she had to cough to get his attention. Now he looked up, then stood, raising his rifle as he did so.
“E-excuse me...” she said in a low voice.
“What are you doing out? It’s not time for you to come out yet. The boss will go spare.”
“I-I don’t want to come out. I want you to come in.” Gwen let the door open a bit further, hoping she’d read this one as well as the shy boy. The thug in front of her was a different kettle of fish – no virgin, and probably cut from the same cloth as De Falaise.
Well then, let’s give him what he wants, shall we?
“You what?”
She crooked her finger. “I said I want you to come in, pass the time a little.”
He licked his lips. “I-I can’t. The boss would kill me. He was bad enough when I forgot to tell him about...” The soldier realised he’d said too much and shut up.
“About?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Is that why you pulled guard duty?” A blink of the eyes told her it was. “Can’t be much fun, playing nursemaid.”
“Isn’t.”
“Bet you’d rather be out there getting ready for the executions.”
He nodded, grinning.
Oh, you’re a piece of work. I might enjoy this after all.
“De Falaise has left me all alone, he’s too distracted with the preparations. Didn’t even have time to see to my needs. A woman has needs, you know.” As before, she let her gown fall open a little way and she saw his eyes flash downwards. Unlike the other guard, though, they stayed there. It made her feel sick, but she knew it was just a means to an end. “What’s your name?”
“Jace,” he told her, eyes still cast downwards.
“That’s a nice name, I like it. Why don’t you come inside for a minute or two, so we can talk properly? Doesn’t have to be long. No one will know. You can keep an eye on me much better from in here.”
Jace looked left and right. “All right,” he finally said.
She allowed him in and his eyes lit up when he saw the unmade bed. “I’ve heard what they say about you,” he told her.
Gwen smiled, getting more and more into the part with each passing second. “And what do they say?”
“That you let him do things. All kinds of things to you.”
She closed her eyes slowly and opened them again. “What would you like to do to me, Jace?”
His cheeks were glowing bright red, but there was none of the hesitation of the other soldier. Jace planted a kiss on her; rough, without any feeling. Gwen tolerated it, putting her arms around him, more in an effort to lead him to the bed than anything else. They inched their way across with her guiding him, until the backs of his legs hit the mattress. Gwen pushed him onto it, climbing on top.
Jace lay back, rifle still in his grip, so she bent down to kiss him again. Her robe fell open even more and his eyes were glued to her breasts. “That’s right,” she said seductively. “You get a good look...” Gwen bent further down, and while he was distracted she snaked her hand under the pillow and brought out the knife. She held it against his neck and, for a second or two, he didn’t even realise what was going on. “Move and I’ll slit your throat. I mean it!”
With her other hand she reached down and relieved him of the rifle.
She rose from the bed, putting the knife in her pocket and training the weapon on Jace. “Now, stand up and get undressed.”
Jace still seemed bewildered, as if he couldn’t quite understand how the situation had gone from one thing to the other.
“Fucking well get undressed!” she hissed, jabbing the barrel of the rifle in his direction. “Lose the sidearm first.” Jace scrambled to his feet. With fumbling hands he undid the belt of his holster. “Slowly,” Gwen warned him. He dropped it to the floor with a clunk, then began to take off his clothes. “All of them...” Gwen ordered, then laughed as he took off his boxers. “I don’t know how you were expecting to do anything with that maggot.”
“You fucking bitch!”
Gwen hefted the rifle and hit Jace squarely in the face with its butt, and with enough force to knock the beret from his head. He collapsed onto the bed, unconscious.
Quickly, Gwen took off her robe and began to get dressed in the uniform. It was loose in places, but would disguise her well enough to get to the caves. She tucked her auburn hair up into the beret, strapped on the holster – hid
ing the sharpened knife away in a front pocket of the combat trousers. Then she left Jace behind, opened the door a crack again to check that nobody was around, and slipped out.
Gwen was already on the ground level, so only had to make a bolt for the exit to get outside. Rifle over her shoulder, she skirted the building, keeping her head down and praying that nobody would notice her. Thankfully everyone was busy today, men dashing to and fro, and hardly anyone gave her a second glance. Once she was on the other side of the castle, she saw she was too late.
The prisoners were already being led out from the caves under heavy guard – up the steps and into the light, hands shackled in front of them, shielding their eyes from the brightness. Gwen scanned the line as the soldiers forced them up at gunpoint, but she saw no sign of the boy.
Dammit, I waited too long...
What she did see, however, at the end of the line, was Javier. A thinner, more defeated-looking version of the Mexican, with a large plaster over one ear. But it was him. She’d never forget that face. What was he doing out of his makeshift cell? He was in uniform, too, but didn’t look to be giving orders. If anything, he was just milling around observing what was going on. He didn’t even appear to be armed.
Gwen ground her teeth. There was no way she could take on all the guards and free the prisoners, much to her regret – it would just get them killed all the quicker – but the temptation of taking some kind of revenge on Javier was simply too much to resist. Head down again, she made her way across to the far end of the line, striding confidently as if she belonged there.
Coming up behind Javier, she took the pistol out of its holster.
“Hello, Major,” she whispered, jamming her weapon into his ribs.
“Who –”
“Quiet...” she growled. “Let the soldiers go on ahead, you’re coming with me. We have unfinished business.”
As the string of people and soldiers headed off in front, she steered Javier to the side and then marched him back down into the caves.
