Broken Arrow

she'd built on since Robert had found her at her farm; studying from text books she and the men brought back, not to mention teaching those same skills to others. They were both tired and, more often than not, would just go to sleep at night.

She'd read about this in women's magazines and the glossies that were delivered with the weekend papers, back before the world changed. The problem pages were full of stuff about 'Honeymoon Periods' and what happens afterwards when real life intrudes. And although Mary knew this was meant to signal them being more comfortable with each other — solid couples didn't have to show affection like that all the time — she couldn't help feeling more than a little unwanted.

At the same time he was growing increasingly distant. It came to a head when he'd begun training again, working out to try and get fit; exercising muscles that had grown flabby from lack of use.

Then one day he announced he was going out with the patrol again, going out to assess the threat of the cult personally. They hadn't even discussed this and it had thrown her completely.

'Why, Robert? Why does it have to be you? And why now? Jack can-'

'I'm going, Mary. And that's that.'

They'd rowed, he'd stormed off, and he'd left without even saying goodbye. Maybe she should have been more laid back — after all, he'd been leading a band of men when she first met him, fighting De Falaise's troops. But he'd also got himself blown up that day, would probably have died if she hadn't been there to tend to his wounds. She couldn't shake that image from her mind — of him unconscious in the back of the truck, on his way to Sherwood…

He'd recovered, of course, faster really than he should have. But what if he didn't next time? What if she had to cradle his head as he died? What if she didn't even get the chance to say goodbye?

It was why she'd pulled that 'stunt', as her brother called it: drugging Robert and taking his place for the final battle with the Sheriff. She'd wanted to keep him safe, that's all. Wanted to protect the man she loved.

He can look after himself, David had told her, and she knew deep down he was right.

That didn't stop her worrying. And none of this would help them get back to how they'd been during those summer and autumn months.

Mary dried her eyes with the bed sheets, then got out and wrapped her robe around her. She'd go down and drag him back to bed if she had to, talk to him, maybe do more than that. Show him how much she'd missed him, how much she still loved him.

He'd said he was going for a drink of water, which he often did when he couldn't sleep. She knew she'd find him in the cafe probably looking out through those big windows.

Mary stopped dead in her tracks when she heard voices from inside. Two voices: one Robert's, the other a woman's. As she drew closer, keeping quiet, she saw them inside. Lit by candles, they were sitting at one of the tables. Mary realised she could have marched past with a brass band and they wouldn't have noticed, they were so wrapped up in conversation. Though try as she might, she couldn't hear what was being said.

The woman with Robert — her Robert — had her back to Mary. But she knew who it was, even without the short hair as a clue.

Right, that does it… I'm going to…

Do what, Moo-Moo, storm in there and make a fool of yourself? They're only talking.

I know, but-

But nothing. Leave it, sis.

David was right. Again. There was no way she could make her presence known that didn't look like she was spying on them. Checking up on Robert. Dammit, right now that's exactly what she was doing.

Mary watched them for a little while longer, but had to turn away when she heard Adele laughing at something Robert had just said. So happy. Just like Mary had been the night of the fete.

Feeling the tears coming again, she retreated to their bedroom where she waited. Not for Robert to come back from patrol this time, but for him to return to her. If he ever would.

Mary tried to stay awake, but eventually sheer exhaustion and all that crying took their toll. Sleep claimed her, and she never heard Robert come in, or felt him climb into bed with her.

If she had she might also have heard him tell her again softly, as he kissed her shoulder, how very much he loved her.

CHAPTER FIVE

The village had been named Hope.

But that Hope had died along with its founder. Clive Maitland had been killed defending this place against De Falaise's men, murdered by the fat Mexican, Major Javier. The Reverend Tate knew that Gwen had taken her revenge on Javier for that, shooting him just like he'd put a bullet in Clive. Although Tate could forgive her for that — many terrible things had happened in the heat of that final battle — he wasn't altogether sure The Lord would be able to without repentance. It hadn't been her place to take that life, and more than likely there would be a punishment, one way or another.

Gwen probably thought she'd served her time in purgatory, held prisoner at the castle and made to do unspeakable things at the behest of that mad Frenchman. Tate had to admire her for not going completely stark, staring mad over those months. But she would have killed De Falaise as well, given the opportunity, and was on her way to do so when Tate had been hit in the shoulder by a stray bullet.

'God will provide his own revenge.'

Tate had shouted this after her, but she'd taken no notice, headstrong as she was. She hadn't succeeded anyway, apart from stabbing De Falaise in the leg and managing to get shot herself by one of Tanek's crossbow bolts. It had been left to Robert Stokes, their leader, to end the Frenchman's reign. Tate had often wondered if The Hooded Man had actually been an unwitting part of The Almighty's plan for revenge, but almost always dismissed these thoughts. Robert was a law unto himself and still continued to be so. That man no more believed in God's overarching design than Tate believed he was the reincarnation of St Francis of Assisi.

Not that you had to believe in God to be a part of his plans. But you did have to have faith, something Robert was sorely lacking. It was one of the reasons why had Tate left the castle in the first place; the two of them were never going to see eye-to-eye on that. The holy man knew he could do more good out in the fledgling communities, as Clive had told Tate when he'd found him. The man had a vision of what Hope and other villages could be like, how the survivors of the human race might all rise again, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of The Cull. He'd had the necessary leadership qualities to draw together his own community, and if it hadn't been for Javier wrecking it that fateful day — riding in and casually shooting up the place — Clive might just have succeeded.

Of course, he might yet: through Gwen. She'd inherited a lot of Clive's determination, seemingly channelling his ability to make people listen. (It was a quality, coincidentally, Clive had also shared with Robert.) She was dead set on pursuing his dream, putting Hope back together, making a place to fit to raise their child, Clive Jr.

'I want him to grow up in a loving atmosphere, away from the city and out of the shadow of that castle,' she informed Tate, not long after the birth. The first part was fair enough, what parent doesn't want such an environment for their child? Yet Tate had to question whether the second part had more to do with the question mark hanging over the baby's origins. Did she really want to get away from the castle because some part of her recognised it was where Clive Jr had been conceived?

Robert, Mary, Jack, even Tate himself. They all suspected the truth of the matter, even if Gwen steadfastly refused to. She didn't want to hear it through the pregnancy and certainly didn't want to talk about it after her son was born. Regardless of the fact there was only a slim chance Clive was the father, Gwen was adamant he be listed as such in the new records system being initiated in Nottingham ('If we start with our own people,' Mary had suggested, 'then we can add others we find out about as and when.'). Tate couldn't blame Gwen for wanting to pretend the boy was Clive's. Who would want to think that their offspring was the product of rape? Especially by a