Time Riders: The Doomsday Code (37 page)

‘It seems your friend has won them round for me.’

Becks nodded. ‘Yes. He has been very effective.’

He smiled and nodded at the people. ‘And they are staying put … even though they must have heard by now that Richard’s army approaches.’

Becks nodded as she rode in silence. She offered him a faint smile, the slightest curl of her lips.

John felt his heavy heart lift. For the first time in years he actually felt …
liked
. These people could have abandoned Nottingham to its fate. They could surely leave and find shelter elsewhere, in other towns, villages. But they’d decided to stay. Prepared to show the king that they actually approved of
John’s
stewardship while he’d been away on his foolish crusading, bankrupting them all.

He noticed the market stalls were well stocked. A good summer’s crop that had managed to be harvested without the disruption of roving gangs of bandits and villains, leaving smouldering fields and dead farm workers in their wake. The people certainly looked better fed than those in Oxford – not all pallid skin drawn up against hard-edged bones and dressed in rags, but people who looked well. People from better, happier times.

That at least was some comfort.

If Richard wanted to besiege this town, then he was going to have a hard time of it. The walls were good, the town’s position a strong one. There appeared to be good supplies of food within and a population that appeared willing to make a stand for him.

But the Grail?

Has he found it yet?

John’s heart skipped anxiously at the thought. There’d be no need for any kind of a stand, a battle, a siege, no need for any of that nonsense if that curious young man,
Liam De Connor
, had managed to successfully track down the bandits and get back what they’d taken.

He could hand it over to his brother and then beg his brother’s forgiveness for losing the Grail. Beg his forgiveness for failing to find that ransom money for two long years. He could beg, and publicly stoop to kiss his brother’s hand and, perhaps, that and the safe return of the Grail would be enough to appease him. There’d be a beating with a cane later, of course. Away from public eyes.

Royalty can never afford to be seen as frail … just as mortal as any common man.

Richard would delight at that: stripping him, beating him, having him beg and plead like a pitiful dog. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that to him. But Richard would have his precious Grail with all its precious Templar secrets and be in a good mood. He’d be distracted into thinking about future insane campaigns in faraway lands, now that he had his holy relic.

And John would get to keep a head on his shoulders.

He glanced up at the sturdy keep in front of them, at the centre of Nottingham. Hoping to catch sight of his new sheriff riding out to greet them on horseback. Hoping to see a sign, a smile and a small nod – a gesture from him to assure him that all was well, that he could relax once again.

That he has the Grail.

‘No welcome,’ uttered John. ‘Is no one at home?’

He could see the bobbing of helmeted heads between crenellations. The castle appeared to be garrisoned still. But a greeting party on horseback should have emerged by now, out of mere courtesy.

‘I wonder where the sheriff is?’

‘Up ahead!’ Liam shouted. Sitting across the bouncing rump of the horse, his voice warbled like a songbird. ‘That’s him!’

The cart ahead of them was rattling along the narrow track, wheels wobbling and straining as they careered over the humps of tree roots. In the back of the cart, tethered faggots of firewood and several sacks of apples rattled and rolled around as Locke kicked and cajoled the rear of his horse to pick up the pace.

They closed on him quickly. Even their weary-looking old horse, all bones and hide and ready for the butcher’s cleaver, was making better progress than the wide-axled cart down what was barely more than a winding footpath.

Locke must have heard them approaching and turned to look over his shoulder. It took him all of a second to realize the cart was too slow. He reined in the horse, reached round into the back of the cart, grabbed a small dark wooden box, no bigger than a hatbox, and leapt off the seat on to the track.

‘He’s bolting!’

Bob nodded. ‘Get off here,’ he grunted. ‘I will pursue him.’

Liam slid clumsily off the back of the horse, the still raw soles of his feet jabbing him painfully as they settled on sharp stones. Bob kicked his heels and clattered off down the footpath, turning the horse left into the trees where Locke had disappeared moments before. Liam listened to the receding thud of hooves and the occasional crack of a dried branch, echoing back through the wood as Bob gave chase.

He made his way slowly down the path towards the abandoned cart, yelping and grimacing at each sharp stone, each fir cone he stepped on. Finally he drew up beside it. The horse eyed him irritably as if even he knew this was no track for a cart. It snorted, flaring its nostrils.

‘Easy there,’ said Liam. He pulled himself on to the back of the cart and allowed himself to collapse, exhausted, among the apples that had spilled out across the flatbed.

Bob steered the horse through the woods, deftly ducking the low swoop of branches. Up ahead he could hear Locke scrambling his way over fallen branches that cracked noisily under his feet. Making far too much noise to hope to evade him.

He caught a glimpse of Locke up ahead. The man was making pitifully slow progress, the wooden box tucked under one tired arm, pushing his way through a tight bush of brambles with the other.

‘Cease running!’ Bob called out. ‘You will not escape!’

Locke stopped and turned. His eyes widened at the sight of Bob calmly steering the horse as it picked its way through the undergrowth towards him.

Locke seemed to realize he was wasting his time. He slumped down on to a small boulder, winded and spent. Bob swung his leg over the horse, dropped heavily down to the ground and approached him.

‘I presume you want this?’ said Locke, holding the box out.

Bob reached out his one hand for the box. He placed it on the ground, lifted a small metal clasp and opened the lid. He stared at the contents in silence for a moment before closing the lid.

‘Who are you people … really?’ asked Locke between laboured gasps.

Bob’s grey eyes studied him silently.

‘You’re just a dumb robot, aren’t you? Inside all that skin, blood and bones … a dumb robot? Just like my war-surplus mech – a machine under orders.’

‘I have mission priorities,’ said Bob drily.

‘And what do you know about what’s in there?’ Locke said, nodding at the box.

Bob was silent.

‘Right …’ Locke nodded. ‘Not much … uh?’

‘The item known as the Holy Grail may contain sensitive information about the agency. That is why we seek to obtain it and decode its contents.’

Locke laughed, a wheezy and dry cackle. ‘Is that it? Is that
all
you think might be in there? Something that might expose your little agency?’ He shook his head and laughed some more. ‘You really have no goddamn idea … do you?’

Bob’s eyes narrowed. ‘Explain.’

‘That,’ he said, nodding at the box, still struggling for breath, ‘that … contains something far more important. Your secret agency is nothing compared to this … it’s a speck of dust compared to this!’

‘Explain.’

‘It’s our future … it’s
everyone’s
future. Don’t you know this? There’s a door that opens in 2070 … a door that opens on something that –’

‘What?’

Locke shook his head. ‘That’s just it … We don’t know.
No one knows!
That’s why I was sent back. To find out – to decode it. To find out and in some way to get a warning through to everyone in my time. So that they can
prepare
themselves!’ Locke spat phlegm on to the forest floor. ‘Good God, you have to help me! You have to help me get the key off King Richard and –’

‘Your mission priorities are in conflict with mine,’ replied Bob.

‘What? What the hell kind of priorities are more important than knowing what’s going to happen?’

‘Mission priorities: Retrieve the Grail. Decode the Grail. Correct contaminated history. Locate and terminate potential contaminants.’

Locke looked up at him. ‘
Terminate potential contaminants?
Oh, I see. I get it … You have to kill me?’

‘Correct,’ said Bob, pulling his sword out of its scabbard. ‘Your presence in this time represents too much of a risk to the timeline.’

Locke’s eyes followed the dull glint of the sword’s edge. ‘Look … I have no modern technology artefacts on me. I’m just one man on my own. You
could
let me go. You
could
let me just walk out of here … You see, I
don’t want
to go back to 2070! I really don’t!’

Bob silently appraised him.

‘Please! Just let me go … What could I say that anyone would believe anyway? I’d just be considered a madman! A village fool!’

Some small part of Bob’s brain registered the growing desperation in Locke’s voice … a desperate desire not to die – to live longer. The small part of his brain could understand that animal instinct. Even sympathize with it.

‘Get up,’ said Bob.

Locke clambered slowly to his feet.

Bob raised his one good arm and pointed into the woods with the tip of the blade. ‘You must run in that direction.’

Locke looked confused.

‘Run in that direction. You must leave the county of Nottingham immediately. Any attempt to influence historical events will be picked up by us and we will return to kill you. Is this clear?’

Locke nodded. ‘Yes … yes, of course.’

‘Then proceed.’

‘Go? Now?’

‘Immediately.’

Locke stepped away from Bob, cautious backwards steps at first, then, a few yards from him, he turned tail and began to run.

Bob silently watched him pick up the pace as he ducked and scrambled through the undergrowth. Certain now that the man wasn’t going to dare look back again, he pulled the sword back over his shoulder, poised for the briefest moment as he calculated speed and trajectory, then flung the blade forward.

It whistled through the air, one complete cartwheel hilt over tip, ending with the tip facing forward once more just as it made contact with the soft fleshy space between Locke’s shoulder-blades. He tumbled forward, and kicked once on the ground.

A moment later Bob stood over the man’s body and retrieved his sword, wiping the blood off on Locke’s clothing. His silicon mind quietly ticked off the lowest of his list of mission priorities. His animal mind begrudgingly murmured approval of the small mercy he’d given to Locke, letting him believe he was going to live. Death came without any warning … and quickly.

A small mercy at least.

He wasn’t sure if he’d actually fallen asleep. He must have because all of a sudden he was looking up at an evening sky, free of overlapping branches and leaves, and the cart’s wheels were creaking easily along a rutted track. He sat up and turned to see Bob’s wide shoulders swaying in the driver’s seat.

‘Did you get him?’

Bob turned and looked at him. ‘Locke is no longer a contamination issue.’

‘What? You mean he –?’

‘I managed to acquire what we were after,’ Bob interrupted. He pulled some sackcloth aside to reveal a small dark wooden box. The lid was decorated with the faint lines of a geometric pattern carved a long time ago and attached by old iron hinges.

‘Bob! Is this really it? Is this the Holy Grail? Did you open it?’

Bob played his best grin. The kind that would give small children nightmares. ‘I believe it contains what we have been looking for.’

Liam reached out for the box, touching the wooden grain lightly with his fingertips, the faint lines of the carving on the lid. The oddest sensation. He felt a tingle of energy course through his hands. He felt the fine downy hairs on his arms raise, and a shudder of something – fear? excitement? – ripple through his body.

Inside this is the Holy Grail, Liam. The
Holy Grail.

The very thing sought by figures of legend, King Arthur and his knights of the round table. A relic thought to be a cup of Christ, a chalice … or just a myth, a metaphor. But here it was, in the back of a bouncing cart full of rolling apples.

Carefully, reverentially, he eased the lid slowly open … half expecting the sky above to crack open and reveal a God ready to smite him with a bolt of lightning for daring to consider himself worthy enough look upon his very words.

Inside the small box he saw a threadbare canvas bag, a drawstring at the top pulling it tight and closed. The canvas bag rested on a shallow bed of coins, stamped with the face of King Henry II, Richard and John’s father. Liam guessed that was some of the money Locke’s bandits had managed to rob from tax collectors and merchants foolish enough to travel the forest tracks of Nottingham during the last two years.

Carefully, he lifted out the canvas bag and loosened the drawstring to look down inside.

He could see the handle of a wooden scroll spindle and the frayed edges of yellowing parchment wrapped tightly round it. He felt an almost overpowering urge to pull it out of the bag and unroll the parchment, but the cart was rolling and bucking as the wheels rode up and down ruts in the track. A bump and it could tear in his hands.

He stared at the frayed edges curled round the spindle. Somewhere on those pages of parchment the word
Pandora
was written. A message, a warning that – if Maddy was right – someone wanted them, specifically them, to know about.