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, as 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 just 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 such conflicting opinions 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, in spite of the fact 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 himself 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 risk coming 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. Although he was acutely aware of the loss of his connection to this place 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 sensed something else was wrong. It was connected with the fact that he was no longer receiving the dreams, no longer in tune with this place. He'd lost 'the magic' as the Widow had said. It was at this point Robert 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, and now felt so alien. 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, just 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. The only problem was 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, he was 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 - which contained his quiver - with an axe and knife at his belt. He had his own bow drawn, primed and aimed at Robert. For a second or two both men stood their ground, fingertips pulling back on their twines. The bows shook slightly with the pressure of each man holding the shot.
Both Robert and this newcomer had one eye closed, leaving the other open to judge the distance to their respective targets. But with that one eye they were also judging their opponent. What he might do, when he might release the projectile he was holding back.
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 firing himself.
Robert saw the arrow coming and dived out of the way, feeling the wind it carried with it brushing his ear. The other man's arrow thudded into an oak several metres behind, causing Robert to flinch. Already both bows were primed again and ready to fire.
"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 in order to avoid it, the missile whipping over his hood and sailing off into the woodland beyond. Robert's answer to this was to fire from the ground, the arrow targeted at the Native American's head. He let go of the string and it shot off towards the stranger at incredible speed. 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 fire. 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. Then the arrow carried on through that shoulder and into the wood behind, pinning Robert there.
"Dad!" screamed Mark, struggling to free himself from his bonds with no 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 virtually defenceless against this new threat.
"How?" shouted Robert. "How have you done this?"
He could tell by the look on the Native American's face that he understood the question. But he didn't tell him. 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 down 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, straight through. 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, sheltered by even darker eyebrows. "That was always my intent. This was never about him."
It was then that Robert realised 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. Not only that, 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.
That seemed like such a good idea. He was exhausted and it had been a gruelling couple of days. Yes, 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.
Chapter Twenty
She'd been gone for hours now. And while they all knew the trip to Nottingham was quite a trek, things were growing desperate at New Hope.
Not only were people sick of the periodic attacks on the walls, which had started when Tanek arrived - scared that at any moment, the Germans would just come crashing inside - their friends were dying. Graham and Andy weren't doing well at all, in spite of Jennings' best efforts. Apparently one of the bolts Andy caught had caused internal injuries that the doctor couldn't do much about. "We need to get him somewhere we can operate. Otherwise I don't think he's going to make it."
Gwen had gone to see Andy, at his request, and they'd talked: about the old days, about what had happened to New Hope, about the direction she was taking. "Y-You have to promise me," Andy said, "that you'll turn away from this course you're on."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she'd told him, avoiding his eyes.
"There's so much hatred inside you now, Gwen. This..." Andy winced, gasping in pain. "This isn't what Clive would have wanted for you."
She'd said nothing. What she'd wanted to do was get up and leave when he started talking like that, but she owed him her time. Owed him the opportunity to get whatever this problem was that he had with her off his chest. Regardless of how things were with them now, Andy had done a lot for New Hope. He'd been there with her and Clive right from the beginning, just like Darryl, just like Graham. And this might be the last chance he'd get to say his piece.
He'd reached out for her hand and she'd let him take it. "You promise me, Gwen. Don't let it eat you up inside. I'm worried about you."
"You don't need to be. I'm fine."
"No, you're not," Andy insisted. "You-"
"Listen, should go and see what's happening out there. You get some rest." Gwen removed her hand and let Andy's flop back down on the bed. "Look after him," she told Sat, the doctor's assistant, as she left. She looked back just once to see Andy staring at her. He didn't believe for one minute she was all right, but she didn't know what to do to convince him. More than ever, she felt guilty for striking him when they were interrogating the prisoner. And, in a way, Andy had been right; they'd gotten nothing more out of the man, even after she'd gone back again.