CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

 

ROBERT RODE LOW on his horse, trying not to think about the events that had forced him here.

But he couldn’t help it. That had always been his trouble, dwelling on things. His mind harking back to the past. In his early days at Sherwood, it had been the life he’d led with his former wife and son. Now it was the events of the last few days, and hours.

After Bill had shown up at Edinburgh Castle, freeing the other members of his captured team – rectifying Robert’s first, but not his only, major mistake of late – the resistance had soon been quashed. Once word spread through the Widow’s men about her death, it hadn’t taken long. Even the depleted Rangers on their side had been enough in the face of these thieves and yobs. Bill had already destroyed most of their heavy armaments in his initial run with the Black Shark, and though Robert had to openly disapprove of these actions – having denounced modern weaponry in all its forms – there was still a part of him that was glad they didn’t have to tackle these with bows and arrows after what he’d already gone through.

The victory had been hard won, but satisfying, leaving the way clear for the local Rangers to set up their own HQ at the castle in the future. Securing a way of life for the Scottish people which didn’t involve bowing down to that mad woman. They’d once said no-one could ever take away their freedom, but hadn’t banked on one of their own trying it. At least now the bare bones of a free Scotland – protected by a Scottish contingent of Rangers – looked more likely.

Then, when most of the fighting was over, the message had come in about Mark. That someone had broken into the castle the previous evening and taken him, leaving a handwritten note by the radio which read:

 

Hooded Man. You will come to the forest alone if you ever want to see him alive again. Send anyone else and I will kill him. I will wait for you there.

 

It had been signed simply ‘S.’

Tate had described the intruder as being Native American, which didn’t give Robert much to go on. But the very fact the holy man had been bested by him spoke volumes. Though at first glance Tate might look like he was a helpless old cripple, he could actually handle himself extremely well in a fight.

That Mark hadn’t been able to take the man, either, further emphasised that his kidnapper was a professional. Mark had been coming up in the ranks over the last twelve months. He was no longer the boy Robert had first met at an ad-hoc market three years ago; he was a fully grown man – however he might be treated sometimes by them – and had been training with the Rangers for a long time. He’d handled himself excellently during the Tsar’s invasion and had even started to have the same prophetic dreams Robert had, especially during their frequent visits to the forest he was heading towards today. He was becoming everything Robert had anticipated he would. But then he’d heard this, and it took him right back to that day when De Falaise had taken the boy. To when that bastard Tanek had cut Mark’s finger off.

In the time since, Mark had become every bit as much a son to Robert as Stevie once was, and would always be. In fact he liked to think Stevie might have grown up to be something like Mark. Obviously if the virus hadn’t happened, then Stevie would have aspired to being something other than a Ranger; but that was another life, an alternate Stevie, living happily in an alternate universe. The important thing was that Mark was his own man, and he’d chosen to follow in Robert’s footsteps. In fact, Robert liked to think that Mark might well take over this whole operation one day. But he couldn’t do that if he was dead. Robert needed Mark, probably as much as his son needed him right now.

But as much as Mark was now his son, Robert couldn’t help thinking about the Widow’s revelation – that Mary was pregnant with his baby. They’d yet to confirm or deny it, but Robert had the weirdest feeling it was true. As did Mary, going by her words when they’d found out about Mark. “You might have another child,” she’d said – not to suggest that Mark wasn’t theirs, because he was, no matter what. But Robert knew that she’d said this to remind him the Widow was right; that they might be having a baby together. And that if Robert got himself killed she’d be bringing it up alone. The Widow could just have been playing another mind game, granted, but there wasn’t time to find out one way or another.

Ultimately, weakened and wounded as he was, Mary knew Robert had to do as the message said. She hadn’t said anything more as he’d prepared to leave, other than pointing out the obvious, that it was a set up. She was worried about him; they’d almost lost each other up in Edinburgh, and hadn’t even had time to draw breath before the next crisis. Then the woman had arrived from New Hope.

Robert had conflicting feelings about that place. The last time he’d seen Gwen properly, to talk to, not simply across the way at the Winter Festival, she’d made it quite plain what she thought about him. He might as well have been to blame for leaving the woman there at the Castle while De Falaise had his way with her, although he hadn’t even known her at the time. Robert’s forces weren’t anywhere near organised or strong enough to tackle the Sheriff when Gwen was taken, but when Mark and those other villages had been taken and threatened with execution, he’d been forced to act. The simple fact was he hadn’t been able to do anything about Gwen’s situation, as rough as it had been for her, just like he couldn’t do much for the people of New Hope now. His Rangers were scattered all over the country; even letting Tate take half a dozen with him was leaving the Castle open to serious trouble. But he’d done it anyway, because of what that Shipley woman said. Because of what the Rangers should stand for: the compassion she’d spoken about.

Would Gwen show the same if Nottingham Castle came under attack and needed a return favour? Robert seriously doubted it. But then, didn’t Tate say they should always turn the other cheek?

All this and more was racing through Robert’s mind as he raced towards his former home – the one he’d retreated to after the Cull, been talked out of by Tate, and remained estranged from to this day.

When he came to the outskirts, he decided to leave his horse tethered there, rather than come in through the more obvious entrance: up through the Visitors’ Centre and into the forest that way. It was asking to walk into some kind of ambush. Robert instead entered the forest the way he had when he’d first come here: through Rufford. He was acutely aware of his lost connection to this place, but he still had tracking skills he could rely on, and his enemy had left a trail even a blind man could follow. But as Robert crept through the forest, he almost fell into the most rudimentary of traps: a concealed hole underneath him. He felt the ground slip away, just quickly enough to grab the side of the pit, scrabbling up and back onto terra firma. God, that hurt! It was a sign that his enemy had left the trail on purpose. And also proved his opposite number had the upper hand. Back in the old days, when Robert had lived here, he would have been the one setting the traps, Today, he knew he was walking right into one.

Picking himself up, Robert stumbled further into the forest that had once felt so familiar. He didn’t have far to go before he saw a figure tied to a tree, slumped against the trunk as if drugged. Or beaten. And as Robert crept closer, he saw that yes, it was Mark, head lolling, a red welt on his temple. He had no idea whether the lad was still alive or not, but knew he had to find out. Find the man responsible.

Robert crawled along, using the woodland as cover, just like he always used to do. But he didn’t feel at all confident this time. Felt that somehow the grass and trees just weren’t on his side anymore. That it was revealing snatches of him where once it had hidden his presence completely. Robert might as well have a neon sign above his head telling anyone on the vicinity that he had arrived.

Undaunted, he pressed on. He had to reach Mark, free him, ascertain what injuries he had sustained. Robert was almost at the tree when he heard a rustling to his right.

“Dad, look out!” This was Mark shouting – at least he was still alive. Robert rose and brought his bow and arrow to bear.

Standing directly opposite him was a man. Dressed in black, dark-skinned, with dark hair to match his attire. He looked more like a shadow than a man. As Tate had described him, he was Native American in appearance, had a backpack over his shoulder – containing his quiver – with an axe and knife at his belt. He had his own bow drawn, aimed at Robert. For a second or two both men stood their ground, fingertips pulling back on their twines. The bows shook slightly with tension.

Each man had one eye closed, leaving the other open to judge the distance to his target. But with that one eye each was also judging his opponent. What he might do, when he might loose his shot.

It was Robert who released his arrow first, sending it flying towards what should have been the stranger’s head. The man moved out of the way, though, allowing Robert’s arrow to embed itself in the tree just behind him.

“Impressive,” came the response, even as the stranger was shooting himself.

Robert saw the arrow coming and dived out of the way, feeling its wind brushing his ear. The other man’s arrow thudded into an oak several metres behind him, causing Robert to flinch. Already both bows were nocked again and ready to shoot.

“What do you want?” he asked, more to stall than anything, although he was genuinely curious.

There was no reply, except for the release of another arrow, again flying directly towards Robert. He flopped to the ground to avoid it, the missile whipping over his hood and sailing off into the woodland beyond. Robert’s answer was to shoot from the ground, the arrow aimed at the Native American’s head. But, again, the stranger was quicker; sidestepping this shot with ease and allowing it to disappear off into the forest.

The pair exchanged a couple more shots like this, pulling arrows from quivers and letting them loose, as Robert managed to get to his feet. Then they wound up where they’d first began; staring each other down. Both men with bows primed and aimed at the other.

Time this was ended, thought Robert, searching for a sign the Native American was going to shoot. When he found it, he released his own arrow.

Both pieces of wood and metal twirled in the distance between the men, heading directly for each other. They met almost head on, but it was the stranger’s that had the advantage while Robert’s suddenly flew way off course. The stranger’s projectile struck Robert’s left shoulder, lifting him up off his feet and back into one of the oaks he’d once considered his only true friends. The arrow carried on through the shoulder and into the wood behind, pinning Robert there.

“Dad!” screamed Mark, struggling to free himself from his bonds without success.

Robert dropped his weapon, writhing in agony. It was now that he knew exactly what had happened – somehow this man in front of him had stolen his advantage. Taken away the protection the forest once afforded him, leaving him defenceless against this new threat.

“How?” shouted Robert. “How have you done this?”

He could tell by the Native American’s face that he understood the question. But he didn’t answer. Just walked over with a satisfied smile on his face – so slight it would have been missed by the average person – and stood in front of his impaled prey.

Robert reached for his sword, but the stranger grabbed his wrist, pulling the length of metal out of its sheath and flinging it away. There was a part of Robert that wondered if it was because of his exhaustion, the burns he’d suffered at the Widow’s hands. But he’d endured more in a shorter period before – and it wasn’t just the fact that he was getting older, either. This man had taken something from him, of that Robert was certain. Not just the dreams, but the almost superhuman strength he apparently drew from this place. If he’d faced the Tsar’s men at this point and fallen in battle, there was no way he’d be getting back up to finish what he’d started. If the stranger chose to end this now, then Robert – the Hooded Man – would be dead. No two ways about it.

But that wasn’t his intent. It never had been his intent. The stranger examined the arrow, nodding. “Clean wound. You’ll live.”

“D-do what you want with me,” Robert said, breath coming in sharp gasps. “But let my boy go.”

The stranger regarded him with those dark eyes. “That was always my intent. This was never about him.”

That’s what this man had in mind all along. Like him, he was a hunter. Mark had been the bait, obviously, but this stranger had never wanted to kill either Robert or his son. Especially not the latter.

“Then what’s this about?” asked Robert.

“That is not for me to tell, but rest assured, I will free your son now I have you. There is nothing he can do to stop me, anyway.”

“Stop you from what? Who are you working with: Tanek? The Germans?” Robert’s questions went unanswered once more.

“It is time,” said the stranger, then he took something out of a pouch at his belt. He emptied the contents – which looked like tobacco – into the palm of one hand, then grabbed Robert’s chin with the other. Not again, he thought. I’m not being drugged again!

“This will help the journey pass more quickly,” the stranger told him, forcing the weed into his mouth. Robert spat the first lot back into the stranger’s face, but he just squeezed harder on his cheeks, forcing more into Robert’s mouth, clamping his mouth shut. Though he didn’t chew, Robert felt some of it slide down his throat. The weird concoction was dissolving on his tongue. In his own way, this stranger was just as much a magician as the Widow.

No, have to fight it, Have to –

But already the stuff was having an effect. The stranger’s face looked to be melting, the whole scene falling away in front of Robert. He tried to look over at Mark, but couldn’t focus.

“Sleep now,” he heard the stranger say.

It seemed like such a good idea. He was exhausted, and it had been a gruelling couple of days. Some sleep would do him the world of good.

Robert felt his eyelids closing, then there was blackness.

But there was also the total absence of dreams.