CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

ENOUGH WAS ENOUGH.

He couldn’t take any more of this, it was insane! He’d only been up there a short time, but Ceallach could smell Hood’s flesh beginning to cook. It made his stomach churn.

Not long ago, he would have gladly cheered at the death of this man. The one responsible for his band of raiders losing that haul with the truck. The one who shot arrows at Ceallach himself as he rode alongside on his motorbike, watching as Hood dispatched most of his companions. Hadn’t he himself even ordered Torradan to shoot through the roof of the van and kill Hood? But, when all was said and done, the woodsman had defeated them, pretty much single-handedly.

Ceallach had been thrown off his bike during the course of the scrap; or, more accurately, when Hood jammed his sword in the wheel. That had hurt. But afterwards, when Ceallach had dragged himself back to the vehicle to make his escape, Hood had also been the one who’d allowed him to escape. Ceallach had seen him in the smashed mirrors, preventing the guy with the shotgun from shooting.

The trip back to the castle hadn’t been easy. Knowing he was leaving so many of his friends behind stuck in his craw. But if those captured Rangers were telling the truth, then they were at least being treated humanely. Ceallach had heard in the past about Hood’s hotel prisons – sounded quite nice actually, better than some of the accommodation here.

And, after he’d returned to tell the Widow what had happened – still hurt and angry that her reputed vision hadn’t shown her what would happen – what had she offered in reply?

“Aye, I knew Hood would be waitin’.”

Just like that. Which told him one of two things. Either she couldn’t see shit, and all the voodoo bollocks they believed about her was just a crock, or she’d let them walk into a trap. Neither option made him warm to her. Why exactly would the Widow knowingly send them into an ambush? She hadn’t shared her reasons with him – simply sent Ceallach to the Vaults to be punished for answering back. Re-education, she’d called it. That had hurt more than fucking falling off the bike. Some of the stuff they did to people. He’d thought it was only reserved for their enemies, but apparently not.

Well, he’d been re-educated all right. It had definitely made him think twice, but not about questioning the Widow’s motives. More like what the fuck he was still doing here? He’d pretended the experience had done him a favour; the Widow didn’t generally try that conversion thing on people like him if they turned against her. She just had you killed; less trouble. He played along, all nice like. He knew how to do that from before, when he’d been one of Freddie Banks’ guys, pulling bank-jobs and other robberies. You did the work, you took your cut; you smiled, said thanks. That’s what he’d done after he’d finished his stint in the Vaults. The Widow usually asked to see you afterwards, to look you in the eye, check out whether you really were sorry. And he’d been scared of that, he had to admit, if not as scared as before. See, he was starting to lean more towards the opinion that she was a fake. This Widow could no more see into the future than his testicles were going to sprout wings and fly away, waving a cheery goodbye to his dick.

As it turned out, he hadn’t needed to pass the test, because that was when Hood was captured. He’d had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, he’d wanted to find him and punch him in the face. On the other, it showed that not even this man, the living legend, was immune to the Widow’s power. If only those people who’d believed Hood’s press over the past couple of years could see him now; naked and helpless as a baby while the heat roasted him.

Ceallach knew what she had in mind next. He’d known ever since they’d called him to help escort these prisoners to the Reservoirs – re-enforcements, after something had happened in the Great Hall. What the Widow had planned was something the men always talked about, but no-one could confirm. Something she’d done to men she’d been fond of, but was bored with, or who’d betrayed her. Seems she’d had designs on Hood, from what he could make out, even used that mojo of hers on him; the symbols were still painted on his glistening skin. But he’d spurned her, so now she was going to cook him.

Then eat him.

Again, Ceallach felt his stomach lurch. He’d seen some weird shit in his time at Edinburgh Castle, heard tales about so much more. But this wasn’t him. Not this. If most of the fellas here knew what was actually going down, they’d feel the same – which was why she’d only allowed a couple to remain, locking the door behind her. Ones she felt sure were loyal to her. Ceallach had only just undergone re-education, so was unlikely to want to go there again in a hurry. The other guard across the way, Artair, lived up to the name she’d given him; stone-like, unmoved by what was occurring.

Which was more than could be said for Hood’s woman. Little wonder, when the Widow had just told them she was up the duff, and now her husband was being treated like a suckling pig on a spit. The Widow was licking her lips at the prospect. Salivating.

This was too much; too much. He’d done some bad things in his time, but a line was being crossed here. Could Ceallach just stand by and watch? He had to do something. Ceallach – no, that’s the name she gave you, a Celtic name meaning war or strife; your name is Tommy Neagle, remember? Tommy gritted his teeth, knowing that he was going to regret this, but the time had come to test his theory.

The time had come to see if this bloody madwoman really could see into the future.

He turned his machine-gun on the Widow.

“Let him down,” Tommy told her. “Or I’ll shoot.”

At first he didn’t think she’d heard him. She didn’t turn or even look. Then, slowly, she shifted her gaze from the fire, and Hood, to Tommy. She frowned, perhaps thinking he’d gone insane, unable to see that the only crazy one around here was her. “And what exactly do yer think yer doin’, Ceallach?”

“Tommy,” he grumbled under his breath. Then, louder: “My name is fuckin’ Tommy! Now let him down, for God’s sake.”

“God?” The Widow didn’t move, but he saw beyond her that Hood’s wife had begun to look hopeful.

When Tommy looked back at the Widow, she’d moved closer. He raised his machine-gun higher. “Don’t move, I’m warnin’ yer!”

Then everything seemed to happen at once. The Widow leapt forward again, and Tommy fired. At the same time, Artair turned his gun on Tommy, which this was all the distraction Hood’s woman needed to strike. She spoiled Artair’s aim by grabbing the rifle and twisting, then delivering a punch across the face that any heavyweight boxer would have been proud of. But she hadn’t finished yet. With the flat of her hand, she smacked Artair squarely in the face. There was a loud crack as his nasal cartilage shattered, was driven up into the man’s brain.

That didn’t help Tommy, though. The Widow was no longer in front of him, where he’d just fired. She was off to one side, blowing something in his face. He coughed, spluttered; then attempted to move.

He couldn’t.

Fuck.

He heard the Widow laughing in his ear. “Time to meet yer God in person, Tommy.” She showed him the golden dagger; held it under his nose, in fact, to taunt him. Then it was gone, and Tommy felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his side as she slid it into him – holding his shoulder to stop him falling over. He would have screamed, except that his jaw had locked up completely. And he would have dropped to the ground, but his knees were fixed in position. Should have called me Artair, he thought, but there was no humour to it. He was dying and he knew that. Tommy felt the blade being removed, and then he saw why.

A blur in front of him, another crazed woman – this time out to save her man from his terrible fate. She grabbed hold of the Widow, and started pummelling her face. “Bet you didn’t see that coming!” shrieked Hood’s woman, her words fuelled by hatred. The Widow responded by shaking her head, wiping her nose, and lashing out with the bloodied dagger. The blood that had saved him, when everyone else had died of the virus. Tommy attempted to roll his eyes down to his belt, but Hood’s woman wasn’t looking. Thankfully, she’d thought of the same, and turned to face him, unsheathing both his claymore and his belt-knife.

Yes! thought Tommy, now actually rooting for Hood’s woman. She was only just in time to block an attack from the Widow, bringing up both weapons she’d taken and crossing them to prevent the dagger from plunging into her chest.

The Widow was still fast, but the unexpected punches had hampered her a little. More evidence, Tommy thought, that she couldn’t really predict what was about to happen.

Unless she’d been too close to this whole thing? a voice in his mind said. Maybe it had clouded her judgement? It didn’t matter now; he wouldn’t be around for much longer. But he was holding on to see who would win the grudge match between the two women.

On the face of it, that should have been obvious. The Widow had bested bigger and better opponents. But Hood’s woman was fighting with such determination and rage, he wasn’t sure. She pushed back the Widow’s lunge, kicking out at the Widow’s midriff. His former leader crumpled, taking a couple of steps backwards, but soon straightened. Hood’s woman swept the claymore around in an arc, and the Widow only narrowly avoided having her head separated from her body.

The Widow’s response was to sweep her leg up, knocking the sword from the woman’s hand and sending it spinning across the room. That left them with just knives. Both women hunkered down, trying to anticipate each other’s moves. The Widow still looked sluggish from the blows to the face, or Tommy was sure she’d have been on Hood’s woman in seconds, and her enemy wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was when they clashed, it was Hood’s lady who had the distinct advantage, her knife slashes fast and furious while the Widow seemed to be having trouble avoiding them.

Tommy watched as the Widow began to mumble something in that unknown language she’d been using before. But whatever spell she’d been trying to muster either didn’t work or she didn’t get time to finish it, because Hood’s woman brought down the knife – forcing the Widow to grab her wrist with her free hand to stop it from entering her shoulder. Hood’s woman had to do the same to avoid getting stabbed in the ribs, and the pair staggered around like this for a few moments, each looking for an opening.

It was the Widow who was losing ground, having to find her footing again and again as Hood’s woman heaved her back, but on the very last push, the Widow used her opponent’s momentum against her, dragging her around full circle and flinging her to the ground. She struck the floor hard and Tommy looked on in dismay as his knife flew out of the woman’s hand, clattering across the stone. The Widow followed up with a kick across the jaw which sent the woman’s head whipping sideways and saw her flat on her back. The Widow laughed.

“I was goin’ tae let you watch what came next, but I suppose the time’s come for doin’ what Robert couldn’t. Killing you and that little maggot inside yer. Cuttin’ all links to ma intended.” It was then that Tommy realised how completely mental the Widow was. She was still talking as if she was going to marry Hood or something, rather than eat him. The Widow held the dagger high, ready to bring it down into the woman’s stomach.

Tommy was aware that his vision was fading as his body went numb. He’d hung on for as long as he could, but it seemed that the woman’s fate was sealed. Just like his. It would have been nice to have seen his death avenged, even if Hood’s woman hadn’t known she was doing it. But everything was growing black, even though he couldn’t close his eyes.

Then something happened that made him fight for every second he had left. The Widow was just about to strike when a pair of legs appeared, wrapping themselves around her shoulders and neck. Using all the effort he could muster, Tommy raised his eyes to see that Hood had swung over using the rope and grabbed the Widow, locking her tightly between his legs.

Again, the Widow seemed shocked – and before she could think about bringing the dagger up and into Hood’s leg, he was straining on the ropes and pulling her backwards. Tommy was amazed at the resolve he was showing – perhaps there was something to the legend after all, if he could pull victory from the jaws of death like this. Or just sheer bloody-mindedness? The muscles in the man’s taut body were bulging, thighs pressing against the sides of the Widow’s head, causing her obvious pain. But he was also pulling against the ropes, his biceps fighting against the Widow’s efforts to stay put.

With a last concerted effort, gritting his teeth, Hood pulled her backwards and off her feet. Turning, she realised too late what was about to happen and again began chanting in that strange language, as if that was going to save her.

It wasn’t. Tommy watched, with a certain degree of satisfaction, as the woman was pulled onto the pyre. It seemed only fitting for a witch to be killed that way. Hood used whatever strength remained to pull his legs and feet up out of the way of the flames as they caught the Widow’s body, drowning her in a fiery sea.

Tommy was aware of banging at the door. They didn’t have long before the rest of the Widow’s men would be inside. But Hood’s woman was already climbing to her feet, limping across to the rope that held the man she loved suspended above the fire.

He didn’t see her get him down or what happened next, because Tommy’s life was pretty much at an end. But as his vision went completely and his heart stopped, he celebrated this small victory at least. The Widow, the woman who’d killed him, had been defeated.

But Tommy also knew that this was far from the end of Hood and his woman’s problems.

 

 

THE VEHICLES HAD pulled up, the driver of the largest nervously gripping the wheel.

This had been a stupid, stupid idea and was bound to fail. How on earth had he let himself get talked into it? Because the people inside there had put their lives on the line for such as him. He owed them. They all did. The least they could do was try and free them.

But Jesus, was this the wrong way to go about it. They’d never get away with it. They’d been lucky that they’d managed to get past the check-points so far, although a couple had needed taking out when they got too nosey. That, to his mind, didn’t give them much time before their subterfuge was discovered. Weren’t check-points supposed to check in every now and again? What happened when they didn’t? Was a radio screw-up blamed, or did it mean another ambush awaited them? At one of the security checks someone had mentioned radioing in, but then a guard had said that the Widow was engaged in urgent business and wouldn’t want to be disturbed. That gave him some hope, at least, that they might make it to the castle.

And they had enough captured uniforms and vehicles to make the Widow’s men think twice about firing in case they really were on the level; though reason also told him that they knew they’d been stolen a few days ago, so might be expecting such a trick. After all, Hood and his team had gone in there and never come out again. If they could be taken...

Matt Jamison could hear Bill’s voice even now, knew what he would say in reply to that. “Show some bloody backbone!” Well he was here, wasn’t he? When they’d been told of what had happened, about the Widow taking Robert’s group prisoner, he and his friends had volunteered to make up the numbers.

“I just heard from Nottingham Castle. Some kind of big push goin’ on in Wales,” Bill had explained, “so we won’t be getting any re-enforcements. But I’ve decided to mount some kind o’ rescue anyway, with the few Rangers we already have.”

“It’s suicide,” one of the traders had said, and Bill had flown at the man.

“They’d do the same for me, or for ye. They’ve put their lives on the line more times than I’ve trodden in cow dung. So if ye think I’m just going to wait around here playin’ with mysen, think again.”

Bill was right, of course. Whether or not Matt agreed with how they’d gone about scuppering that raid – he still said they should have warned the drivers – the Rangers had come to help at Bill’s request. They’d also saved lives that day, and who knows how many others, by taking those raiders into custody. Even now, they were being guarded in makeshift prisons by other volunteers from the trader community, most of whom now pledged their support for Bill.

Just like Matt had done.

It was then that Bill had told them about his scheme. In a way, Matt shouldn’t have been that surprised. The Rangers were known for their brass balls when it came to things like this – God in Heaven, how Robert and Mary could have gone to Edinburgh in the first place like that was beyond him. Asking to be killed, all of them. But they’d felt the need to do more digging, perhaps even take out the Widow quickly and quietly. That plan had failed, so what made Bill think this one would fare any better? The men at the castle were much better armed and greater in number. Bill was asking Matt and his trader friends to go up against that when most of them hadn’t seen any combat in their lives.

Again, Bill’s probable answer echoed in Matt’s head: “Then it’s about time, in’t it?” They were living in a different world these days, had been for a while. A new and dangerous world, one which Robert and his men were trying to enforce and police – as impossible as that might seem. That’s what they’d been attempting to do up here, and that’s why Matt had agreed to all this, he reminded himself. Now he was beginning to regret his decision.

Matt had swallowed when he saw all the vehicles on the grassland either side of the Esplanade; enough to win a small war, he reckoned – though Bill assured him Robert and co. had faced worse. He was waiting for things to kick off at any moment, as there was no way they could continue getting away with this. For one thing, wasn’t this damned Widow supposed to know everything that was happening in advance? A stupid rumour, but one that had started somewhere. Indeed, even as he thought it, Matt saw the Rangers in the jeeps up ahead being flagged down – those riding bikes pulling up also. They were dressed in the Widow’s tartan, had the same attire as those people telling them to halt, but they’d surely be marked at any time as impostors. Matt watched anxiously as one Ranger pointed down the convoy line; clearly trying to convey what a great catch they’d made and how full all the vehicles were with foodstuffs. If nothing else, the Widow and her lot were greedy beggars and might let them in purely because of what they could be carrying.

There was also the distinct possibility that the people in charge at the gatehouse were going to want to search the vehicles – which is what they looked like they were about to do. Matt spotted raiders heading down towards the armoured vehicles on the grass, perhaps getting ready to go out on a routine patrol, but maybe in anticipation of something else occurring? If their enemies chose to attack from both sides, then Matt and his friends would be caught in the crossfire to end all crossfires. And where the devil was Bill? Not here in the trenches, that was for sure. “Don’t ye worry,” he’d told them, “I won’t let ye get caught with ye britches down.”

Matt gripped the wheel even harder as the Widow’s men traipsed down the line of vehicles. If Bill had thought they could just waltz in here, he was dreaming. But then he saw something else.

Men, crawling underneath the vehicles in the convoy – Rangers who’d climbed out of the backs of carts and the other vehicles, making their way beneath to reach the gatehouse unseen; pausing if any of the raiders walked by.

As one of the guards passed by, Matt gave him an uneasy smile and salute. The man paused, and for a moment Matt thought he was going to ask something. He didn’t – just continued up along to the tail end of his truck. Matt watched him in the rear view banging on the side of the truck. “Open her up!” he called down to Matt.

“Well, Stacey,” he told his truck as he prepared to get out, fingers curling around the handle of his baseball bat, “this is it.”

From somewhere came the sound of a helicopter. Matt looked sideways and saw something black coming in fast and low: a beast of a thing that meant business. It was armed to the teeth with missiles, and – as it got closer – what looked like machine-guns.

It took just one of those missiles to cause complete and utter pandemonium. Detaching from the helicopter, the projectile whistled into the banks of armoured vehicles to the right of Matt and the convoy. He watched, mouth gaping, as a couple of jeeps flew up into the air with an explosion loud enough to almost deafen him.

Matt saw the guard at the back of his truck fling himself to the ground as the helicopter flew over them, so close he could have jumped up onto Stacey’s cab and hitched a ride. As it passed by, Matt caught a glimpse of the painting on the side door – a cartoon shotgun which had just gone off, the sound effect ‘Blam!’ written next to the red and yellow explosion.

“Bill,” Matt said to himself as the chopper came about on the other side of the convoy. It fired another missile into the vehicles there, taking out jeeps, tanks and bikes. It was all the distraction the Rangers near the front of the convoy needed. With practiced skill, they reached into their jeeps for bows and arrows; those riding bikes pulled out bolas which they flung at the gatehouse, causing whatever was inside them to explode on contact.

The Rangers who’d been crawling under the convoy sprang up to pick off the guards defending the entrance. Arrows were shot over the walls, followed by Rangers scrambling up them and over onto the other side like ants into a hill. Matt could do nothing but watch and marvel at the efficiency of their attack. More exploding bolas and arrows struck the Gate and suddenly it was open, free for the Ranger-manned jeeps to enter.

There was no way Matt was getting inside there with his truck, but Bill had thought of that, too, it seemed. As soon as his men had cleared the Esplanade and gatehouse, another – smaller, targeted – missile hit the entrance and expanded the opening. Matt winced at the damage, but the history of the place wouldn’t have crossed Bill’s mind. The tourist days were over for this castle, and it was time to worm out the woman who’d caused so much havoc in the region, no matter what the cost.

Matt put Stacey into gear and began to move forward. Carrying his payload into the castle, up towards the portcullis gate.

 

 

"SHOT!” BILL SAID in his rough, Derbyshire accent.

What he’d just done to the gatehouse was regrettable, especially to students of history, but he’d needed to create an opening for Matt and his truck to get inside. The Widow’s people would have no qualms about doing the same, just as the Tsar’s folk hadn’t with their own castle back home. The Widow had picked this spot because it was easy to defend, and the gate there was part of that defence. Which was why it needed to be obliterated. Thoughts of rebuilding would come afterwards, if they won – right now, all Bill could think about was taking this place back from the thieves and murderers who’d made it their home, returning the castle to its true heirs: the locals who’d had to put up with the Widow’s shenanigans for too long. Scottish people like those traders who’d chosen to fight with the Rangers today.

From his position, Bill could see his men making their way up towards the portcullis gates, in jeeps, on bikes and on foot. He could also see the number of guards on the other side, in the castle grounds. Roused by the explosions and machine-gun fire, they were flitting about: especially near the building Bill knew to be the New Barracks; arming and generally gearing themselves up to repel boarders.

There was no way of telling from up here where Robert, Mary or the other Rangers might be – if they were even still alive. That would be the job of those on the ground to ascertain. There were some good Rangers down there, all of whom had been trained to the best of their abilities. But, in Bill’s opinion, you couldn’t beat some top of the range firepower on your side. He knew what Robert would say, and if he’d been around he would have prevented Bill from using the Black Shark at all – which he’d lovingly restored after the battle Robert fought with the Tsar’s men, including re-arming her with spares from other wrecked Black Sharks that had been taken down that day, and making a number of modifications himself. But Robert wasn’t here. He’d gone and got himself and his team captured, so it was up to Bill to try and sort this muddle out. He hadn’t been able to obtain any more men or weapons from Nottingham because Jack had bloody well requisitioned all they could spare – and Bill fully intended to have words with the big, dumb lummox about that later. So what else was he supposed to do? They needed a way of taking out some of those armoured vehicles down there, and this was the only option he could think of.

The fact that he’d been dying to try this baby out in combat since he’d fixed her up was neither here nor there.

“That’s my girl,” he said, nudging the one-seater craft to one side. She handled like a dream, even better than his old Sioux or Gazelle, and she definitely packed more of a bite. In all honesty, Bill reckoned he could probably take on the whole of the Widow’s mob single-handed, decimating the castle and everyone there, if it weren’t for the fact his friends were somewhere inside.

He opened up the cannon on a group of the Widow’s men, his targeting system so precise he could put the wind up them without having to kill. The vehicles were another matter, and fair game as far as he was concerned, so he loosed another couple of missiles into what was rapidly becoming a vehicles’ graveyard, twisted metal jutting up from the ground like bones.

Something was moving to his left, and Bill manoeuvred round to see a Gepard anti-aircraft tank emerging from the smoke, massive twin guns being raised in his direction. The Germans who’d supplied all this kit had obviously thrown in a few driving lessons for the Widow’s men. The brute trundling over the green, up and onto the Esplanade itself, was the first thing he’d seen which could give him a run for his money. Both 90 calibre guns spat at once, armour-piercing rounds which could tear through the Black Shark’s torso like paper. Bill pulled back on the control stick sharply; perhaps a little too sharply, as the Black Shark protested.

“Bear with me, girl,” he said to the chopper, angling her round. The fire from the Gepard was still reaching into the sky. Fortunately the men aiming the guns were lacking in practice, and Bill had done nothing but, even if he had saved most of the live ammo he’d salvaged for just such a occasion. He fired an anti-tank missile and grinned as the laser-guided projectile found its target, giving Bill plenty of time to get clear of the blast zone. The Gepard opened up like one of those old bangers in a black and white slapstick movie.

Coming about, Bill flew over the top of the castle once more, noticing a Ranger jeep about to ram the portcullis gate, the driver inside throwing himself clear at the last moment. The vehicle slammed into the gridded obstacle, knocking through it before grinding to a standstill. The other vehicles behind drew up, Rangers climbing out of jeeps or from bikes, while Matt’s truck – too wide to get any further – was opened at the back.

A mass of men – traders and Rangers, men and women – leapt from the trailer, rushing forward through the portcullis. They’d meet the guards heading in their direction any moment, so Bill decided to even the odds a little. He sprayed a covering fire in front of the Widow’s forces, enough to make them pause. Some even fired up at the helicopter, but hit nothing. Then his troops were there, on the ground and tackling the soldiers. His lot may be outnumbered, but Bill was proud to see the guards falling first and fast, spinning round to reveal arrows in shoulders or thighs. And yes, there was Matt himself, having climbed out of the cab of his truck. He was putting his baseball bat to good use, whacking enemies as they came round one of the corners near the portcullis gate.

More had taken up positions along the wall, to shoot at his people from above. Bill wasn’t having that, and so spun the chopper around, splattering them with gunfire and causing the guards to fall back from the walls. But it was as he did so that he felt something strike the side of the Black Shark to his right. Bill craned his head to see the old cannons from the Argyle battery had been pulled around and raised up to fire at the chopper. The mixture of old and new weaponry obviously extended beyond those claymores they fought with.

Two more fired at him, one hitting the tail end of the Black Shark. “Why, you little –” began Bill, but before he could say any more, he was being fired on from the left as well, ducking heavy cannonballs. Bill attempted to dodge them, but he’d flown in too close, assuming, wrongly, that the old relics didn’t work anymore. His control panel was lighting up like a Christmas tree, emergency alarms wailing in his cockpit. “Damn and blast it,” he said, narrowly avoiding another blast from a cannon which would have downed the Black Shark there and then if it had hit.

Bill searched for a place to put her down, and quickly – only now spotting smoke from one of the reservoir buildings and wondering what it was. But he didn’t have time to dwell on that. The square next to the palace appeared to be the only open-plan area nearby to attempt an emergency landing. He dipped the nose, hopping over the War Memorial and almost catching the back end of his helicopter on the roof. His landing was rough, to say the least; only some of his gear responded when he flipped the switch.

“Easy,” he said, tapping the roof of the helicopter from the inside after he’d set her down, calming the thing like it was some kind of pet. He didn’t have much time to check on the damage, because he was already being fired on by the Widow’s men. Bill risked using his cannon: the aim was totally shot, but he hoped he could scare the gunmen enough so he could effect an escape. He pressed the trigger, but only one round went off, hitting the building in front of him and kicking dust up from the stonework.

It would have to do; he grabbed his shotgun, opened the cockpit and dived out. Rolling, he balanced on one knee and let off both barrels into the group of approaching soldiers. It scattered them, but a couple still came at him on the left. They fired and some of the gunshot sparked off the pilot’s helmet he was wearing. “Judas Priest!” he shouted. With no time to reload, Bill turned his gun around and hit one on the side of the head, sending him toppling. The other he grabbed by the collar and pulled in close, settling matters with one punch. He snatched up their machine-guns in both hands and sprayed the other guards with bullets, left and right.

Then he ran across the yard, looking for a way inside, using the wall of a building for cover. “Might as well start searchin’ while I’m ’ere,” he said to no-one in particular.

And, with that, he ducked inside the building that would take him to the castle vaults.