De Falaise walked to the very edge of the platform, Tanek joining him.
Several men ran out of the buildings at the gatehouse, clambering to undo the huge doors.
“Come on, come on!” De Falaise said under his breath.
The doors opened wide and the Hooded Man stood there, a dark figure in the shadows. He took one step forward, then another. The men at the gate watched him pass.
In spite of the fact the Hooded Man had his bow slung over his back and a sword at his hip, the men there did nothing to take them. They’d been told not to interfere with the visitor, so they didn’t. It wasn’t as if the man could do anything with such antiquated weapons anyway, not before being gunned down.
The Hooded Man strode up the pathway, his gait confident, his head bowed so that they still couldn’t make out much of his features.
He began up the incline, and as he did so De Falaise’s men at the rear of the crowd ran to the edge and trained their guns on him. The Hooded Man gave the war memorial on his right a glance, then continued up the snaking path, until finally he reached the summit – steps led up to the East Terrace on his left, the crowd and the platform on his right.
“So,” shouted De Falaise, holstering his radio, “you finally came.”
The Hooded Man moved forwards, still with dozens of guns trained on him. One false move and he’d be torn to pieces, with no forest to cover him or swallow him up this time. Now he was on De Falaise’s home turf.
A strange thing happened as he walked towards the crowd. To begin with, the nearest few people moved aside – they didn’t really have much of a choice, as the man was coming no matter what. It caused a ripple effect, and soon another path had been created for him up towards the platform. Like a human Red Sea, the people – soldiers and prisoners alike – parted almost as one, creating a safe passageway for him.
The Hooded Man walked through them, looking neither left nor right. But the people stared. If there was to be anything worthy of record today, then it was this – something Jennings also recognised as he snapped off several pictures of the event. De Falaise glared across at him and he lowered the camera slowly.
“Sorry.”
“Take as many as you like when I kill him,” said the Sheriff.
The Hooded Man was almost at the steps to the platform. He paused there, looking up slightly at the wooden construction. At Mark, slumping in his noose; it was the only thing keeping the boy on his feet.
“Do you like my new little toy?” De Falaise asked.
In a low voice, the Hooded Man replied: “Every pantomime villain needs a stage.”
De Falaise pouted. “Why do you not come up onto my stage, then, and participate in the production?”
The Hooded Man accepted this invitation, but drew out the act, taking one step at a time. For De Falaise, the wait was agonising, and he nearly ordered Tanek to put a bolt through the man’s head immediately. But he wasn’t quite finished with Hood yet – not after everything he’d put him through. For one thing, he needed to see his face; needed to look into his eyes. If he was to let some of these peasants go today to tell the tale, he wanted them to spread the word about the death of Hood. How the Sheriff of Nottingham –
of Britain, by Christ!
– humiliated him first, then shot him... no, wait, slit his throat... no, perhaps strangled him? De Falaise realised he’d given absolutely no thought whatsoever as to how he would actually finish this. How he would see an end to the Hooded Man, who was still wearing that damned piece of clothing even now: his trademark, his mask. Then he remembered the sabre hanging from his hip. It mirrored Hood’s own sword, one which he would never get to use. That was a good way – with Jennings documenting proceedings for posterity.
De Falaise realised that up until now the Hooded Man had stolen most of his thunder. Walking through the streets of Nottingham, only letting himself be seen when he wanted to, that business at the gates, even the crack about pantomime villains. But he would have the last laugh. He would win, just like he always won.
“Good. And now, I think it is time,” De Falaise began. “Time that we all saw what the Hooded Man looked like. Time to see that he is not a legend at all, far from it. He is just a man. Just a man.”
The two faced each other on the platform, just metres apart. De Falaise stepped forwards, hands raised. His enemy had been covered, not only by the men near the platform, but also Tanek with his crossbow and Reinhart above, since Hood had come into the grounds. He felt safe enough approaching his enemy. But before De Falaise could get close enough to do the deed himself, his rival reached up and grasped the sides of the hood.
It fell back, revealing more delicate features than De Falaise had been expecting. Much more delicate – beautiful, in fact. Full lips, chiselled cheekbones, and the deepest hazel eyes he’d ever seen. As the hood dropped a length of long, dark hair fell with it, trailing down the back.
De Falaise removed his sunglasses slowly and dropped them on the platform.
The girl stared at him and said: “I hear you have a problem with strong women?”
The Sheriff looked at Tanek, as if expecting answers from him. “What is this?”
But before anyone could reply, and just as he was turning back to face the woman who had pretended to be Hood – who surely couldn’t be Hood? – the first gunshots were already being fired.
I
T HAD BEEN
their signal to move.
Seeing Robert through the binoculars, approaching the gates, knocking on them – knowing most of the eyes at the castle would be on the Hooded Man at the other end of the wall, it was their opportunity to make a break for it. Though Granger had serious doubts about whether Tate would be able to make the short sprint across the street to the Trip to Jerusalem pub; then, skirting the sides of the buildings through the Brewhouse Yard, before breaking cover so that they could gain entrance at the barred door of the caves. It was fortified now, Granger knew, men posted on guard round the clock. But they had the element of surprise on their side.
That had been part of the plan Robert outlined, inspired by Mark’s hidden incursions into the towns and cities. To use the buildings of Nottingham to hide their own journey – going through them rather than around them. “The quickest way between two points has always been a straight line,” Robert had told them. “Like an arrowhead passing through a target.”
The teams had entered during the night, silently picking off or capturing the lookouts placed around the city and leaving some of their men behind to answer the radio check-ins. They’d reported no activity, every half-hour, while the rest of them had made their way through the buildings that hid them. It was just like being back in the forest, except it was concrete and stone now masking their presence rather than wood and foliage. The same principles applied, though. And that psychotic on the roof of the castle, who would definitely be on the case today, wouldn’t see them coming – hopefully – until it was too late.
For his part, Robert had entered the city alone. He would wait until it was time and then make his appearance, at which point they would make their move.
It was risky, crossing the street and heading towards Brewhouse Yard, but worth it if they could get into the castle that way.
Tate had surprised them all, moving pretty sprightly for a man with a stick. Now that would be used as a weapon, the only weapon he would carry, in fact. It was his choice.
Granger wondered if he would have felt better using a rifle at this stage of the operation, but understood the reasons why Robert suggested bows and arrows – so as not to tip off the rest of the soldiers inside the castle too early.
The barred door usually had about three guards on it, but when his group reached the edge of the rock and Granger grabbed a quick look around the corner, he saw that number had tripled today. De Falaise was obviously taking no chances with security – and who could blame him? Granger held up his fingers to show how many guards there were.
The only thing they had in their favour was that to all intents and purposes, none of Robert’s men had joined him on his lonely walk up to the castle. As far as anyone knew, he was all alone.
“When we do this,” Granger whispered, “we have to do it quickly. We can’t afford to have any gunfire alerting the rest of them.”
The men nodded. He felt like he was finally in charge again, at least of his squadron. It was payback time for Ennis and the other Jackals. “Ready?”
More nods.
“Wait a moment,” Tate said, gripping his arm. Granger thought there was something wrong, or someone had seen them, but then the Reverend closed his eyes and said a prayer. He finished it by crossing himself.
“Nice to know we have the big guns on our side,” said Granger, smiling.
“Always, my son,” Tate told him. “Always.”
Granger slipped an arrow into his bow. “Right, let’s do it.” He came out from hiding, loosing the arrow as he ran. It hit the first of the guards, a man he actually recognised now as he approached, as Oaksey – a nasty piece of work. It caught him in the shoulder, though Granger had been aiming lower, and he went spinning back into another guard. Meanwhile, the men behind Granger were all letting off their arrows as well, with varying degrees of success. Some found their homes in legs or sides, others in upper arms. Only one guard fell right away, an arrow in his throat.
None of them had a chance to fire back. They didn’t even have the opportunity to raise their rifles. Now those who were wounded were too preoccupied to think about their guns, crying out in pain at the wounds the arrows had inflicted.
Well, that was a piece of cake, thought Granger, but the extra guards weren’t the only security measure De Falaise had added. There was a flash of a muzzle from inside the barred door. The bullets howled past Granger, taking down a man to his right, killing him outright.
“Get down!” Granger called back, but they were sitting ducks out in the open. Lying down, they couldn’t shoot back with their bows and arrows. Not that they had to anymore. Shots had been fired, the cat was out of the bag, and his men drew their pistols, primed their own rifles – firing back at the door in the cave. Their own bullets sparked off the rocks protecting the men inside, none of them hitting their targets.
Shit!
Granger tried to wriggle backwards, but enemy fire chipped away at the floor around him.
We’re going to die out here.
So much for having the Big Guy on their side. Just like before, there was nobody who would help Granger except himself.
Even here at the end, when he was a part of this, whatever it was, miles away from his home, he was going to die alone.
J
ACK PEERED OUT
of the window.
He’d been looking out long before Robbie broke cover, mainly because there was nothing else to do while he was stuck here. They’d entered the building from the rear, as it was directly opposite the metal gates at the side of the castle, and afforded a view of what was happening in the grounds too. Jack had seen the preparations for the hangings, seen the prisoners being led out on the grass, followed by De Falaise and the man he knew as Tanek, dragging Mark up onto the platform. The kid looked as white as milk, hardly surprising after what he’d been through. But, as if that wasn’t enough, they were now fixing to put his neck in a noose.
Jack had almost charged out there with his team right then. Even if he hadn’t had the handful of fighters with him, he probably would have done it anyway. He felt like he could just rip down those metal side gates and take on the whole of De Falaise’s army single-handed at that moment.
But he had to wait for Robbie, had to do this the way they’d discussed. The kid meant more to him than any of them – and vice versa, Jack suspected. He had to give Robbie the chance to act. So what was keeping him?
Finally, just as the six people – including Mark – were about to be executed, Robert appeared. Hood drawn as usual, he’d made his way coolly to the main castle gates. Jack had watched, anxiously, as De Falaise countered the order to hang them, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“Here’s where all the fun begins, guys,” Jack said over his shoulder to his team. But as he kept watching, waiting for his cue, he could tell something wasn’t quite right. It was to do with Robbie’s walk, his height. In fact, the more closely Jack looked, the more convinced he became that it wasn’t his leader down there after all, but an impostor.
The question was:
Who?
The mystery was cleared up when the person in the hood stepped up onto the platform and revealed her face.
Jack let out a sharp breath. “Mary? What the blazes is she doing in there?” As far as he knew she was with one of the other strike teams about to hit the front wall of the castle, or at least that had been the strategy. When had that changed, and how come Robbie hadn’t informed the rest of them?
Where the devil was he, anyway?
The sound of gunfire broke into his thoughts. Mary or Robbie, it made little difference to the plan – it was still a distraction. What could mess it up completely would be if their men were already being shot at, as appeared to be happening somewhere.
“Time to kick the bad guys’ butts,” he shouted and opened the door. The men behind Jack covered him with a hail of bullets and arrows, as he ran and tossed two grenades at the barricade. The explosion blew the metal inwards, buckling it and causing the side gates to swing back on their hinges. Jack ran towards them, staff in hand. Two soldiers with rifles were firing at him through the smoke, but he dropped to the ground, rolled, and came up sharply – jabbing with his staff to catch one in the face, then swinging it around and knocking the legs out from under the other.
“You’ve just been Jack-Hammered!” he said to the felled soldiers. Then he rose and led his team into the grounds of the castle.
A
T THE SAME
time as all this was going on, three more teams were making their assault on the castle from the front, springing from buildings adjacent to the wall.