CHAPTER FOUR
I
T WAS AMAZING
to think how, over the last year especially, this place had become like a home to him.
The Reverend Tate even had a place where he would go to pray, a quiet place he’d blessed himself down in the Lower Bailey. He was there now, talking to God; thanking Him for the new day, for keeping his friends safe, and asking Him to keep a watchful eye on them. Especially Robert, who never seemed to take a bit of notice when Tate told him to be careful. And asking the Lord to look after His humble servant, trying to bring His word to those who were building this new world.
As Tate got up, relying more heavily these days than ever on his stick, he began his slow, steady walk back up towards the castle, and considered the rebuilding they’d done here after the Tsar’s attack. That had been a horrible time.
While Robert and his men had been going through Hell on the battlefield, Tate, Jack, Mark and Sophie had been trying to keep invading forces out of the castle grounds – and failing miserably. If it hadn’t been for Dale arriving with more Rangers, this place would look very different. Russian troops would be guarding the walls and the gate instead of Rangers, and they’d probably all have been hunted down and killed. Tate liked to think it was the power of prayer that had helped Robert recover enough to finally defeat the Tsar.
Whichever way you cut it, they owed the Almighty a big one... two, actually, if you counted that other battle for the castle when they’d put an end to the Sheriff’s reign.
But it seemed as though no sooner had they tackled one insane dictator than another cropped up. The Widow in Scotland, for example, or the potential threat of this Dragon character across to the west. In this post-virus world, everyone was staking a claim on their own territories – and other people’s. The only thing standing in their way was people like Robert and his Rangers.
As Tate hobbled further up, joining the path, he remembered what the castle had looked like the previous year. The gardens torn up, the castle pock-marked – even a hole in the wall where Adele, De Falaise’s traitorous daughter, had left her mark.
The attack had left the castle and its grounds devastated, and their souls as well. Left them questioning if they were actually doing any good, or just fooling themselves. Luckily, God had shown them the way. Drawn more people to their cause, who wanted to join Robert’s police force. Brought folk with even more useful skills, or given them the ability to learn them, to repair the damage done.
The physical damage, that was. Spiritually, it was another matter.
Yet some of his friends and, yes, family – since that’s how Tate thought of them now – had thrived in the months after the attack. Mark and Sophie, for example, had finally acted on their feelings for each other. As if on cue, he saw the boy, walking with his new girlfriend.
Boy.
You couldn’t really describe him as that these days, he’d grown so tall. Tate could remember the first time he’d met Mark, back when Bill had been running the floating markets. He’d only come up to the holy man’s chest then, and he wasn’t exactly tall himself. Mark had also filled out somewhat since he’d started his Ranger training, working out whenever he wasn’t spending time with Sophie or practising archery and the sword. By all accounts, the youngster was turning into a pretty decent Ranger, modelling himself on Robert, of course – still going with him on those private trips to the forest.
Tate raised a hand and both of the young people waved back. They looked so happy. For Mark and Sophie, things had actually improved since the Tsar’s attack.
The same was also probably true of their older counterparts, Robert and Mary, who were closer than ever. Tate cast his mind back to their wedding the previous summer, a small affair but attended by all those who mattered. Tate had presided over the ceremony, where the old bandstand was, and everyone had clapped when he’d finally said: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Robert, you may kiss the bride.” There had been little time for a honeymoon, as a spot of trouble with a new wannabe gang in Chesterfield had required their attention, but both had gone off to tackle the problem together. Tate firmly believed that now they were fighting side by side, they couldn’t be happier.
Most residents had been left gloomy and miserable by the events, though – Jack, for one, who even now stewed about Adele and how he’d fallen for her. How he’d betrayed their whereabouts because he thought Adele would harm Mary.
Tate, too, had found it a struggle at times – having lost the place he had once called his home, and finding himself estranged from the person he’d failed so miserably to protect not once, but twice. Gwen, who’d been the Sheriff’s plaything once upon a time, snatched from the village of Hope after her partner Clive had been brutally murdered. Who’d returned to the village after the birth of her son at the castle – Clive Jr, who she still maintained was fathered by his namesake, but as he grew bore more and more of a resemblance to the Frenchman. Gwen, who’d said she never wanted anything more to do with Tate again. His own fault: assuming he knew what was best for her, sending for her because he’d thought she’d be safer at the castle, then putting her in even more danger. When he’d found out that she’d almost been assaulted by Jace, one of De Falaise’s former soldiers, Tate could scarcely forgive himself. So why should Gwen? The castle held many terrifying memories for her, and they all must have come rushing back when that thug –
The man was dead now, killed by Gwen or someone else, they hadn’t been able to determine which. The woman was certainly capable. She’d gone after the Mexican, Major Javier, the man who’d shot Clive, finishing him off during the very first fight for Nottingham Castle. But Tate had a feeling she’d had help this time. Gwen had become even harder, if that was the right word, in the time since all this happened. For the most part she’d hidden herself away in New Hope – turning the place into a veritable fortress, its inhabitants into soldiers.
Tate had only seen her once since the Tsar’s men had invaded, a few months ago when they’d held the Winter Festival at the castle – an attempt to put a smile back on the faces, not only of the people who lived here, but also those in the outlying regions. Gwen had come only because some of her own villagers had heard about it. The Festival itself – with live music from Dale – had been a roaring success. But it had been the inroads Tate had made with Gwen that proved the most successful from his point of view.
At first she still hadn’t wanted to know. In fact Tate thought, when he approached, she might just walk off, turn her back like she had when he’d tried to visit New Hope. But something about that time of year, about peace to all men and forgiveness, must have touched her heart. It was the Lord working His magic again, he suspected. No, more than suspected,
believed
. For the fact that she’d spoken to him at all must surely have been some kind of miracle.
They’d left it open, with the possibility of talking again at some point; the friendship thawing a little. She no longer sounded like she wanted to rip out his throat, anyway. Tate had planned to visit New Hope again soon after and see how the land lay, but up till now things had been so busy at the castle. He’d resolved to definitely go there within the next couple of weeks, though, as spring took hold, because there wouldn’t
ever
be a perfect time. He didn’t want to waste the opportunity he’d been given back in December. They’d rebuilt the castle, and he had to now rebuild a few bridges.
He’d talk to Robert when he returned, ask for an escort. Once he’d resolved to do it, he found he was actually looking forward to seeing Gwen again. To talking with her, and maybe, just maybe, persuading her to abandon the path of hatred and anger she was currently on.
To return her to the fold of Christ, where she might actually find tranquillity again.
"J
ESUS
H.
FUCKING
Christ!”
Gwen ducked back down as the bullet ricocheted off the wall she was hiding behind. The wall she and the other people of New Hope had built for just such a reason – to keep out intruders.
Like the men who’d shown up here today and were attacking her village. She’d sensed there was something wrong, to be honest. Every now and then spotting unusual movement in the woods flanking New Hope whenever she was on watch; fleeting glimpses of... she couldn’t tell what. Gwen had the feeling that someone was watching their little community, but it wasn’t like before. Like last year. Back then she’d felt safe, as if they were being watched over, protected. This time she just felt threatened.
These were only feelings, suspicions, so she hadn’t mentioned them to the rest of the villagers. She couldn’t be sure of anything, couldn’t prove anything. But still she had skipped out on the last couple of foraging missions for new weapons, relying instead on Graham Leicester. Once an ordinary, gentle guy who’d worked in a garden centre, Graham had, like her, been changed forever by what happened when the Sheriff’s men came to call. Now he was more soldier than agriculturalist. Gwen had seen him strip clean a Colt AR-15 machine-gun in minutes, putting the pieces back together like he was doing a jigsaw puzzle. He knew what he was looking for out there, knew what they needed to defend themselves. The weapons she’d stolen from Robert’s castle had given them a head start, but they were always searching for more.
The wall – a huge brick affair, strengthened by sheet metal on the outside – had been young Darryl Wade’s idea. Darryl, whose father had been a handyman and had passed on much of his expertise. He’d been helping Clive fix up the school when Javier and his men had –
Gwen had to keep stopping herself from thinking about that day, those painful memories. While it was true at certain times they’d given her strength, now they twisted her guts up in knots. If she didn’t have Clive Jr, son of the man she’d loved so much, she didn’t know what she might do. What those memories might drive her to. But she did, and that child was the only thing driving her these days.
She’d got her first proof that the village was being observed five hours ago, when Graham had returned from his latest foray in her jeep. He’d unexpectedly drawn fire from several locations in the woods. Andy Hobbs, another founding member of Hope, shouted for her to come quickly – which she’d done, leaving Clive Jr in the capable hands of Dr Ken Jeffreys, who’d joined them from a group in Worksop. When she got to the lookout post on the wall, shouldering her M16 rifle as she climbed the ladder, she saw why Andy was so concerned.
Flashes of light from the woods, bursts of automatic gunfire spraying the jeep Graham and his team were in. The vehicle was barrelling down a country lane barely big enough to accommodate it, and Gwen watched as Graham leaned out of the side, returning fire. Whoever was shooting at her people was dug in well, using the woodland for cover. It was only what they did themselves, the countryside concealing them from unwanted attention. Javier had been a one-off; they’d never encountered another wandering army like that here since. It crossed her mind briefly to wonder whether the shooters out there had come specifically for them.
“Unlock the gates!” Andy shouted down, pointing to the wrought iron monstrosities that were also Darryl’s brainchild.
“Wait,” Gwen said, brushing a strand of auburn hair out of her eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“We have to risk it,” he replied.
Andy was right, of course, she knew that. Graham was one of them, she’d known him almost as long as she’d known... would have known Clive. But there was still that nagging part of her wanting to keep the rest of them – wanting to keep Clive Jr – locked up behind those gates, behind these walls. Risk was a thing she had a problem with when it came to her son’s life.
“It’s Graham,” Andy said, as if that was all he needed to add.
Gwen nodded, allowing the men below to unbolt the gate.
“Get ready,” called down Andy. If this was to work, they had to open them at just the right time. The jeep had sped up and was now pelting towards the gates, trailing fire behind it. Andy held up his hand; it was shaking. “Ready...” he repeated and she heard the catch in his voice. “
Now!
” he barked, letting his hand fall.
The men below swung open the gates, just in time for the jeep to come crashing through the gap. It scraped the side of the opening and, for a second, Gwen feared it might collapse them completely. But Darryl’s handiwork was stronger than it looked. Everything held, and the doors were shut behind the jeep – bullets pinging off the metal. Gwen hoped their enemies didn’t have anything that could ram those gates down.
As she got to the bottom of the ladder, Graham was stumbling out of the jeep. He dropped his gun and fell to his knees, his khaki jumper stained red at the front. “Oh, no,” she heard Andy say behind her. “Fetch the doc.”
By now several of the residents of New Hope had emerged from their homes to see what was going on. Gwen waved to Darryl, told him to get Jeffreys, and to stay with Clive Jr. A few minutes later, the medic was examining the man’s wound.
“He’s been lucky, it went right through, just missed his lung. But he’s bleeding badly. We need to get him to my surgery, as quickly as possible. Here, keep pressure on the wound.” Four people picked up Graham, and set off down the road with him. Jeffreys turned to Gwen. “What’s the devil’s going on? Are we under attack?”
“Yes,” Gwen said.
“We’re not sure yet,” Andy broke in, looking at her.
“Tell that to Graham.”
The sound of gunfire was still echoing loudly from outside. And it wasn’t long before more lookouts confirmed there were several shooters at the back wall as well. These too were keeping out of sight, but if anyone stuck their head above the parapet, they were setting themselves up as a target. In fact, shooters had been positioned around the whole wall, it seemed – either a few men circling, or quite a number of them in fixed positions.
“We’re under siege,” Gwen stated after they’d called an emergency meeting in the Red Lion pub. Clive Jr was nearby, happily banging plastic bricks together in a playpen.