Hooded Man (56 page)

Swinging down from their steeds, the pair walked them down an overgrown trail, marked out by fences, and left them with plenty of hay inside the abandoned and rundown ‘Forest Table’ – once a thriving eating place for visitors to Sherwood. They walked on into the middle of the Visitor’s Centre, with its focal point: the peeling statue of two legendary figures battling it out with staffs. “Reminds me of the night we met Jack. Remember?” said Mark.

Robert did. He’d assumed – wrongly, as it turned out – that Jack had been sent into the woods to assassinate him. He was actually auditioning, as he called it (Jack and his movies!) for the role of the man in front of them. One of the old Hood’s most faithful companions. It had worked out similarly this time around as well, Robert had to agree. He didn’t know now what he’d do without the hulking American by his side.

Robert lit a couple of torches, then led Mark inside a big building off to their left, forcing open a stiff door. As they stepped inside, Mark could see through into a deserted shop on his right. It looked like a cave filled with ancient treasure. Cobwebs covered everything: from toy bows and swords to hats with feathers in them; from mugs and plates to pens, badges and notebooks. Ahead of them, though, was an exhibition – which, via winding corridors, told the history of the original Hooded Man. Robert took them past another statue of that man, in a more familiar pose, about to loose an arrow. This, too, was covered in cobwebs. As they ventured further inside, there were more representations, including one of the Sheriff of Nottingham in full panto villain mode, rubbing his chin.

“What are we doing here?” asked Mark. “It’s all a bit creepy.”

Robert knew what he meant: the parallels were too close for comfort. But there was a purpose, as he showed him soon enough. Behind the wooden walls of the displays, Robert had hidden an entire arsenal of weapons. Dotted throughout the exhibition were dozens of real bows and swords, bolas made from twine and rocks, and quivers bristling with arrows, even spare clothes. It was his own private stash.

“The stock room we passed on the way in was far too obvious, and at any rate, I didn’t want them all in one place,” he explained. “I came back a while ago. Thought I’d leave all this in case of an emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

Robert shrugged. “It wouldn’t be an emergency if I knew.”

The boy was studying his features in the light from the burning torches. “You’ve never really considered that castle your home, have you?” Once again, he had to hand it to him – the fount of all knowledge. “Is that why you left this lot, because you thought you’d be back one day?”

Robert didn’t answer that. “I just wanted to show someone. Not even Mary knows.”

Mark gave Robert a hand concealing the weapons again, then they made their way up and through the final winding corridor. Before they came to the exit, both of them paused. In a display on their right, behind cracked and smeared glass, an arrow was embedded in some earth. “‘And where this arrow is taken up,’” read Mark, “‘There shall my grave be.’”

Robert pushed him out by the shoulder. “Not yet, you don’t.”

T
HE PAIR HEADED
deep into the forest, with Robert preferring to make a new camp rather than seeking out an old one.

He’d noticed a change in himself almost as soon as he’d entered the place. His body had relaxed, but was still coiled and ready to attack if provoked; just like it had been when he’d first moved here. His mind was more balanced than it had been in a long time. Robert had seen Sherwood in all seasons, so the bare trees were not a shock to him – they only added to the beauty of the place on this winter’s day, especially with the sprinkling of snow on them.

When they’d found the right spot – somewhere that was hard to locate if an intruder might be looking for it, but gave them a clear 360º view of the area – they set up their camp. “Your base camp should be the safest location in your territory,” Robert said.

“This is all so cool,” Mark told him. “Do you know how often I wished you’d teach me all this stuff when we were here before?”

Robert gave a half smile. “Well now I am, so pay attention.”

He went through how to make a lean-to, using branches for poles and whatever foliage they could find – not easy at this time of year – then how to make a bed out of moss.

“Okay, time to go hunting,” announced Robert. Nothing big at first; a couple of hares, which they staked out near a warren. “Rabbits and hares don’t hibernate in the winter,” Robert explained in hushed tones, “but fortunately for us they become slower and less active to conserve energy. So they’re easier to catch when they’re rattled. Now keep well out of sight. Always let them come out into the open – then deliver your surprise.”

Mark had grumbled a little about preying on such easy targets but, as Robert informed him, when you lived out here, sometimes meat was in short supply. You took what you could find. Besides which, hare was tasty.

When they returned to camp, Robert taught him how to make a fire, tucking away the lighter and forcing Mark to use the traditional method, rubbing sticks together. When the boy had built up a sweat, Robert chuckled and finally showed him how to use a bow.

That night they cooked the animals over a spit and talked more about their time together here before. Most of the stories started, “Do you remember...” and Robert was surprised by how many ended with them both laughing. It had been a trying period, out here waiting to be discovered or killed by De Falaise’s troops, but it was also, in some ways, a happy time. With each moment that passed that evening, Robert was more convinced he’d done the right thing by bringing Mark here.

As the fire died down a little, Robert caught Mark resting against his backpack and looking at his missing finger, lost in thought. “You still think about what happened back then, don’t you?”

“Don’t you?” Mark said, tossing aside a piece of bone he’d picked clean and taking a swig of the water they’d boiled down from snow.

Robert nodded. “It takes a while to come to terms with our demons, whatever shape they take.”

“Is this about facing your fear again?”

“Sort of. Only sometimes we get to face it in the flesh.” Robert poked the fire, then jabbed a finger at it. “That was one of mine.”

“Yeah, I remember what happened when the Mexican used those incendiary grenades. It sent you almost to pieces.”

Robert stared directly at him. “It made me weak, that fear.”

“Some folk might say it made you human,” Mark countered.

“Being human can get you killed.”

“Or save you. Are you ever going to tell me why it frightens you so much?”

His house on fire, the men in yellow suits cooking his wife and son, dead upstairs in the bedroom. His dog, Max, limping out, fur alight...

Robert ignored the question, and rolled onto his back, looking up into the night sky. “The stars seem so much clearer out here. Everything’s clear, in fact. No distractions.”

“You’re going to have to open up someday,” he heard Mark comment. “To me, Mary. Maybe even Reverend Tate.”

“What I’m doing now,” Robert broke in, totally off topic, “with you, I mean. Someone else did the same with me. His name was Eric Meadows. He showed me the ropes.”

“I don’t underst –”

“And do you know the most important thing, the first thing I learned from him?” Robert couldn’t see Mark shaking his head, but he supposed he was. “To keep my mouth shut and listen.” He rolled back onto his side, resting his head against his hand and looking past the fire at Mark. “He was older than me, more experienced. So I listened.”

Mark looked down into the fire. “And was there ever a time when you were able to help him?”

Like most of Mark’s questions, this caught him off guard, but his mind supplied an answer. Another memory, not buried, just forgotten until now. Of Robert and Eric being called to a fight in a bar, where two twenty-somethings had decided to kick off over a girl who looked like she wanted nothing to do with either of them. By the time they’d arrived, the men were smashing bottles and throwing punches, so Eric had been the first to wade in. What he hadn’t spotted was that one of the guys had mates in the corner, who came at Eric and were about to glass him when Robert stepped in. Several years down the line from the first collar he’d made, and he was a different officer. Confident, though not a risk-taker (because he had a wife to return to and they were planning on starting a family soon), but able to assess a situation like this and turn it to his advantage.

Robert had kicked the glass out of the attacker’s hand, then followed up with a punch that sent him to the floor. Technically not the done thing, but Robert wasn’t about to play nice in this situation. He’d been ready to tackle the others as well, but when the fighters heard sirens outside – Eric and Robert’s backup – they’d fled the pub. Eric had cuffed the two original trouble-makers, leaving Robert to handle his. So he had no idea whether his mentor knew he’d probably saved his skin that night. Neither of them said anything to each other – it was all in a day’s work for Her Majesty’s Constabulary – though Robert often wondered if he realised the favour had been returned.

But that wasn’t what Mark had asked, was it? Had Robert been able to help him? Truly
help
him? Where was he when Eric had been injured at that football match? Robert couldn’t even remember now. On holiday? Seconded to one of the CID units? He hadn’t been able to help Eric when it came to the real crunch, had he? Only postponed the inevitable.

“Never let them put you behind one of those. You stay out there, young Stokes. Stay where you can make a difference and leave all that to the paper pushers.”

Was that what this was all about? Did he need to get back out there for Eric, do something for the man even though he was probably dead by now? Robert had absolutely no idea what his blood group was, but he had to be pushing seventy even if he had survived.

Robert realised that long minutes had passed and he hadn’t said a word in reply to Mark. “I’m... I’m sorry. Just remembering something.”

“About when you were able to help this Eric guy?” asked Mark, looking up at him.

“I think in my own way I’m helping him right now,” Robert replied, not even attempting to explain. He wasn’t sure he understood himself.

The fire was really dropping now, so they said their goodnights and retreated to their lean-tos. Robert faster than Mark, if anything. Not to get out of the cold, but to do what he’d come here to do all along: sleep.

And hope that the forest would find it in its heart to speak to him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
T FIRST HE
thought one of the sparks from the fire must have caused it.

Set this whole portion of the forest alight. Robert felt dreadful; how could he have done this to his beloved home? The bark was on fire, the branches and twigs. It was a good thing there were no leaves; they would only have added to the conflagration. He looked around, frantically trying to find something to douse the flames with. If they’d been closer to the lake at Rufford, then –

But they weren’t. Robert had chosen this spot intentionally to be away from the locations he’d lived in alone, when he’d first come here. The locations he’d been drawn to so he could while away the rest of his time and die; be with his late wife and child. To run away from...

From the blaze.

But he was wasting time now, thinking about all that. He should be waking Mark, getting him to help put out this fire. Robert couldn’t see the boy’s lean-to anywhere – couldn’t see his own, for that matter. Perhaps they’d both been burnt away? If that was the case, was Mark all right?

A sudden wave of heat forced Robert to shield his face. He tottered backwards. Then, through the shimmering air, he saw a figure caught in the midst of the licking flames. Blinking, he tried to make out the features, but they were unclear. Once, he would have held back, no matter what – not even attempted to go into the heart of this inferno. Now Robert braced himself and, head down, rushed in to get closer to the figure. It was about Mark’s height, could easily be him. Robert hoped not, because even now whoever it was was catching light, going up like the forest around them.

“Hold on,” Robert shouted. “I’m coming.” He was aware that he must be cooking as well, but had to push through, had to save Mark. He’d lost too much to the fire already, he wasn’t about to lose the closest thing he had to a son as well.

Robert broke through into a clearing, the flames raging around him but not touching this section of the forest. In fact the only thing on fire was the figure directly ahead of him. Robert sucked in air, coughing, then refocused. He soon realised his mistake. This wasn’t Mark at all; nothing like him. There, not ten feet away from him, was his old enemy: De Falaise.

Yes, he was on fire – the yellow and red rippling over him, but apparently not eating him up. Robert was shocked. The last time he’d seen this man, he’d killed him, and a blaze had played around them that day too. There was evidence of Robert’s attack: De Falaise no longer had eyes – and even though he was opening and closing his mouth, the Frenchman couldn’t speak (Robert having shoved an arrow as far down his throat as he could ram it). The arrow that had penetrated his heart – like a stake finishing off a vampire – was missing, but the hole was plainly there. De Falaise was saying something, but it was so faint Robert couldn’t make it out.