Reinhart could see them, but couldn’t take them all out at once – especially when he had his rifle trained on the site of the old Middle Bailey. He was only one man. Then there was the explosion, and more of the Hooded Man’s – woman’s? – men were pouring in from the side entrance. It was impossible to keep up with what was happening in so many different locations at once.
You should not be here – any of you!
Reinhart shouted inside his own head. He was used to one, two, maybe even three or four targets at once, not so many, from from so many different angles. Luckily there were men on the walls that were shooting at the other assault teams; they could hold them off for a little while.
Just then he heard something – a faint sound in the distance. He turned to see the dot on the horizon... which was reducing the distance between them fast.
And there was the distinctive sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air.
They must have been keeping low, out of my range, waiting, hiding, before rising up to let themselves be seen, Reinhart thought to himself. Clever. Very clever.
But it did mean that his targeting options were now more simple. He had to focus on the helicopter, which was obviously intended to give support to the men on the ground. They didn’t have anything they could put in the air to meet it and no one else was ready to fire on it. He couldn’t take the chance that it wasn’t armed, either.
The choice had been made for him.
Reinhart swung his rifle around. He looked through the scope to see a man in a checked shirt, with a tatty tank top pulled over it, piloting the chopper. The scope was so good that he could even see the man’s ruddy features; he’d spent a lot of time outdoors – a lot of time at Sherwood. But he wasn’t alone. In the passenger seat was another man, younger, wearing the cobbled-together uniform of De Falaise’s men, albeit slightly bloodstained. Another traitor to the cause? Something told him different. It wasn’t just the fact he had a bow and arrow with him, because many of Hood’s men were carrying those ridiculous weapons: it was something about the way he held it, something about the steely look of determination in his eyes.
This was Hood, the real one. Reinhart had never been so sure of anything in his life. He aimed at the man, then remembered De Falaise’s orders about wanting to take out his enemy himself. Were they still relevant now that chaos reigned down there?
And what about afterwards, when they’re all dead and you have to explain to De Falaise how you killed his prize? What will he do to you then?
Reinhart thought. Take down the chopper, but don’t kill them. Cause them to make an emergency landing and then radio De Falaise to let him know.
It was a plan indeed. After all, what harm could they do from this distance? Put an arrow in him? Hardly.
Reinhart smiled and closed one eye, aiming for the side of the helicopter. “Time to bring you down to earth now, birdy.”
He squeezed the trigger.
A
COUPLE MORE
shots rang out in the cave entrance. Granger saw the muzzle flash and ducked, but nothing flew past him. Raising his head slightly, he heard more bangs – saw the cave light up – and it was then that he realised the shots were on the inside.
Then there was silence.
Nothing moved in the cave entrance, no rifles poked out and took pot shots at the men spreadeagled on the ground.
“What’s happening?” shouted one of the men behind him.
“Not sure,” Granger called back. “Stay down.” He got up, keeping his bow raised in case a sudden volley was let loose – and wondering what good it would do him anyway. Then a figure appeared at the gate, a woman with auburn hair that he recognised.
“Hold your fire,” he called out.
“Gwen!” This was Tate, who was already getting up, albeit with a little difficulty, using his stick for support.
“Reverend?” came the reply.
Granger watched as the woman who had been De Falaise’s love slave worked to open the door with keys she’d taken from the felled soldiers. He motioned his men to move forwards, but still keep low.
When Tate reached the gate, Gwen had it open already. She fell into the holy man’s arms.
“My God, I can hardly believe it. Are you all right?” he asked her, but she didn’t answer. Instead she shouldered the still smoking rifle she’d used to dispatch the men laying on the floor, and pointed up the sandstone steps.
“You can get into the grounds this way – it’s pretty clear. I got rid of any soldiers you might run into between here and there, but can’t say there won’t be more once you leave the caves. They’re bound to have heard the shooting.” When Granger and the other men looked at her blankly, she said. “Look, follow me. But promise me one thing when we get there.”
“What’s that?” asked Granger before Tate could.
She looked at him. “I know you, don’t I?”
“I used to be here at the castle before –”
“Yes, I thought so.” Gwen unslung her rifle, as if to shoot him.
“Wait, wait...” Tate put himself between them. “Things have changed since Granger was in the Frenchman’s army. Unlike the Sheriff, Robert – the Hooded Man – gave him a choice. A real choice,” Tate explained to her. “Granger’s here of his own free will. He’s here to fight De Falaise. So are all these men who once served him.”
“He killed the best friend I ever had,” Granger told her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything to help you when you were here, but I’d have been killed on the spot. You know yourself that he never needs much of an excuse. But...” He shrugged. “Well, I’m here now.”
“I could have... should have been dead by now,” she said, but Granger saw her eyes soften, and the rifle lowered. “We’ll discuss this later. We’re wasting time.” Gwen turned to lead them up the steps.
“Hold on,” said Tate. “You didn’t finish what you were saying, Gwen. What did you want us to promise?”
The auburn-haired woman cast a glance over her shoulder. “To leave the Sheriff alive,” she said in a serious tone. “At least until I get to him. He’s mine!”
D
E
F
ALAISE HAD
flinched when he heard the first round of gunshots. But that was nothing compared to the explosions down below at the castle’s side gates.
The woman in front of him had used the distraction to nock an arrow and aim her bow – shooting at the soldiers closest before they could do a thing. He thought he heard her say something that sounded very much like, “Yay me.” Though some went wide, as if she hadn’t quite got the hang of it yet, most of the arrows found their mark, diminishing the numbers around the platform.
A much smaller arrow whistled past her, and when De Falaise looked he saw that Tanek had taken the shot with his crossbow. But what should have gone into her cranium missed because of the boy. Perhaps spurred on by what was happening, Mark had somehow found the strength to raise his hands, lift his head out of the noose, and then swing over to where Tanek was standing, letting go when he reached the right spot.
The lad flopped onto the larger man rather than landing gracefully, and although he spoilt Tanek’s aim, he couldn’t hang on to him. Mark slid down the length of his body – helped by a shrug from the giant himself.
Just as Tanek was about to stamp on the boy, a second man – who matched Tanek in height – leapt up onto the platform. He was carrying what appeared to be a staff in one hand.
“I’d advise against that, buddy,” said the guy in an American accent. Then he smacked Tanek across the face with a balled fist. Tanek took the blow, his face shunted to the side, though not by much. Then he hit the man wearing the cap, squarely in the chest – and he went back by a couple of steps. It was like watching a colossal clash of the titans.
Tanek raised his crossbow to take a shot at the other giant, but before he could shoot another bolt, the man lashed out with his staff, knocking the weapon to the floor. Tanek ran at him, nimble for a man of his size, and swatted the staff aside. Both fell backwards heavily onto the already creaking platform.
The other villagers waiting to be hanged, seeing now that there was a chance of escape, and a possibility that the soldier with the lever might accidentally get knocked and pull it anyway, followed Mark’s lead. Unhooking themselves with their bound hands, they leapt from their places, fleeing the scene as quickly as they could. The soldier in charge of the lever – seeing no further use for his services – hopped off the back of the platform, swiftly followed by Jennings and his camera.
Which left De Falaise facing the woman, the impostor who had started all this. In the absence of Hood, he decided to take it out on her. Afraid of strong women, indeed! She had simply thrown him momentarily...
He drew his sabre and slashed it through the air, catching her bow and sending it flying out into the panicked crowd. It was difficult to see now who was guard and who was prisoner, mixed up as they were, but every now and again there was a hint of uniform, a rifle barrel to show allegiance.
The woman, unperturbed at losing one weapon, drew her broadsword. She met De Falaise’s strike with not inconsiderable strength. The two of them came together, hilts of their respective blades sliding upwards, and he only just managed to back away before she kicked out – hoping to catch him between the legs.
De Falaise’s face soured.
“Not used to fighting a woman, are you?” she goaded him. “Used to them playing nicely, eh?”
He came at her again, the sabre swishing as it narrowly missed her. She leaned first one way, then another, countering his next swing with one of her own, before hefting the sword and almost opening up his belly.
There was a sound from above, heard even over the rage of gunfire. The
thrump-thrump-thrump
of a helicopter. It had been so long since De Falaise had heard the noise of rotor blades that he stopped what he was doing and looked. Shots rang out from the rooftop of the castle, hitting the side of the machine, but as De Falaise kept his eyes trained on the scene, someone leaned out of the side of the chopper and attempted to shoot a bow and arrow.
When he looked down again, he saw that the woman was also gazing upwards – mouth wide in surprise. He took his opportunity, to make her as ‘compliant’ as the others females he had known, to knock the fight out of her as someone should have done long ago. De Falaise gripped the handle of the sabre and punched her with the hilt, splitting her lip open with the guard of the blade.
Her cry was music to his ears. She toppled backwards, losing her grasp on her sword. De Falaise grinned wildly. Whatever else was happening around them, he was at least winning this fight...
“H
OW’S THE HEAD
?” Bill asked as they’d manoeuvred in and out of buildings, keeping low to avoid detection.
Robert let out a soft moan by way of a reply. Whatever Mary had stuck him with had left one stinker of a headache behind. The last thing he’d remembered was them hugging goodbye, then something in his shoulder – the prick of a needle.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said, as he slumped forward into her arms. But all he could think was:
Why are you doing this? Had she been a spy of De Falaise’s all along? Impossible. The Sheriff’s men had been attacking her when they arrived at the farmhouse.
Then there were no more thoughts, just dreams. The same one he’d had many times before, where he’d faced De Falaise. This time the balance was shifting, the darkness was winning.
He’d come to at some point in the early hours of that morning. Sitting up in the tent, he felt his head spin and nausea rise. What had she injected him with, that same stuff from when he’d been shot? Or something else, something stronger she’d found in the supplies?
“There was all kinds of stuff in the medical packs...”
Whatever it was, it packed more of a punch than any fist.
Robert looked down and realised that his clothes were gone again, stolen. He glanced to his right and saw the clipboard with the sketch on Mary had drawn. Him with and without his hood. It was then that he’d had the first inklings of what she was intending to do. “No... Mary, what were you thinking?”
Snatching up his bow and arrows, and the sword she’d given him, he’d staggered from the tent wearing virtually nothing. It didn’t matter, because there was nobody in the camp apart from a sleeping Mills, tied to a tree. All Robert’s men had left to put the plan –
his
plan – in motion. But they’d left without him!
He looked up at the sky and saw the first hints of light there. Whatever Mary had used had put him out for most of the night. But there was still a slim chance. Robert raced round, grabbing clothing where he could find it – spare bits of uniforms, mainly. Then, though his head was pounding fit to burst, he ran through the forest he knew so well, taking a short cut to try and reach Bill. With a bit of luck he wouldn’t have set off yet.
Robert just about made it, propelling himself from the trees just as Bill was preparing to take off. He’d waved his hands to attract the man’s attention, but when that hadn’t worked, Robert had fired an arrow across the front of the helicopter’s nose bubble. Bill had looked over, mouthing the words ‘Judas Priest!’ when he saw Robert.
“Yer supposed to be in the city,” he said as Robert climbed inside and put on the headset. “Left ages ago.”
“That was Mary,” explained Robert. “I’ll tell you about it when we get in the air.” And he had, waiting until they were well on their way.
Bill tutted. “What’s she playin’ at? Lass’ll get herself killed.”
Robert knew exactly what she was doing, and why, but he didn’t say anything. He just instructed Bill to follow the plan as if nothing had happened. They’d assess the situation when they reached Nottingham.
They came in low over the city. If all had gone well, then De Falaise’s spotters on the ground had now been replaced by theirs, but they couldn’t risk using the radios to check in case frequencies were being monitored.
“We ’aven’t been shot down yet. That’s a good sign,” Bill commented. He kept low until dawn had broken completely, then he lifted the helicopter up above the rooftops and began their run.