Broken Arrow

him.

'So,' Robert continued, turning to her; he'd looked more comfortable facing death than he did right now. 'What's your name?'

'Me?' She hesitated for a second or two. 'Do you know it's been so long since anyone asked me that? It's Adele.'

Robert stuck out his hand. 'Well then, Adele. Pleased to meet you.'

She smiled. 'And I'm so very pleased to meet you, Robert… The Hooded Man.'

CHAPTER TWO

So much had changed, and yet so much remained the same.

Take this place they now called home, for example. The castle itself still looked the same, on the outside at any rate. But inside things were definitely different. Instead of a barracks for an army, this was now a headquarters for the fledgling constabulary they'd built up over the past year and a half. Ever since they'd kicked that Frenchmen's arse; just a handful of them against his entire militia. Robert had killed the self-styled Sheriff of Nottingham himself, while the rest of the men had mounted a covert attack on the castle.

The castle doubled as a home for Robert and those closest to him. Like Mary, the woman who'd coaxed him out of the forest, who'd taught him to love again after his own wife and son had died from the virus. Like his second-in-command, Jack, a former wrestler from the US who had come to Sherwood to join Robert's fight against injustice.

And it served as a home to him, Mark, the boy who'd had to grow up way too quickly: a former scavenger on the streets who finally found a new family. He'd first met Robert at one of the make-shift markets on the outskirts of Sherwood, and soon after the man had saved his life — just like he had so many others. He and Mary had taken on the mantle of adoptive parents, loving and protective. But like all good parents, they also set the rules — some of which Mark completely disagreed with.

Like the one about his training. He was ready, but Robert kept putting him off.

'You need to face your fears properly first.'

As Mark walked down the East Terrace, towards the Middle Bailey, memories flooded back to him of the first time he came to this place. Bundled into a truck, hands tied, then deposited down in the caves beneath the castle — which now held all of De Falaise's modern weapons (as Robert often said, 'His way is not our way.'). There he'd been tortured, used to lure Robert from Sherwood. Mark looked down at the stump of a finger, all that was left of the digit that evil psychopath Tanek had cut off and sent to Robert. The stump ached sometimes, especially in winter, and he even felt it there wiggling occasionally. Phantom pains they called it. The mind not letting go of the past.

Mark shook his head and walked towards the Bailey where Robert's men — his 'Sherwood Rangers' — were being put through their paces. Swordplay (techniques mainly gleaned from books: 'You can find out everything about anything from books,' Mary had said); archery; hand-to-hand combat. It was all going on down there. In lighter moments Mark couldn't help comparing their training ground to something out of an old James Bond movie.

Jack would just love that, he thought to himself, knowing the big man's fondness for old films.

Mark watched as arrows thudded into round, painted targets; as men tackled each other with wrestling moves Jack had imparted, and martial arts skills either taught by Robert or passed down from Reverend Tate's time. The holy man had returned to the village formerly known as Hope, along with Gwen, who he'd known from before his time in Sherwood. They'd left right after Gwen had given birth, in spite of Mary's concerns about letting them go. Gwen had wanted to put the failed community of Hope back together, in memory of her beloved Clive — who the Sheriff's men had so brutally killed. Tate had gone with her, arguing that the people out there needed spiritual guidance much more than they all did. Mark wondered though how much it had to do with Robert's personal thoughts about faith.

Not that Tate had been the only member of their family they'd said goodbye to. Bill had also gone off to start again after constantly butting heads with Robert. The outspoken local hadn't agreed about the gun situation at all, especially when it came time for him to relinquish his canon of a shotgun. 'He's daft as a brush,' Bill had told Mary. 'Judas Priest! With them weapons rusting away down in the caves we can really make a difference, an' what's Robert want to use? Bloody swords and sticks!' Last Mark heard Bill was back running markets, up the coast this time. He was doing all right, too, by the sounds of things. Oh, Robert kept tabs on him all right — just in case he needed help. He was still very fond of the man who'd once been his second, even though he was too proud to admit it.

Arriving at the top of the steps, Mark suddenly had a flashback to when the Bailey had been used as a staging ground for De Falaise's executions. The men below were clanking swords together — swords which, along with other ancient weapons, had either been gathered from various museums or made on the grounds by their budding blacksmith, Faraday (who also shoed horses and gave the men riding lessons). Robert and his Rangers shunned the jeeps, tanks and motorbikes left behind, not only because fuel was becoming a rare commodity, but, again, because they represented a different time. They'd rely on other defences to protect the castle, like the projects some of the men skilled in woodwork had been drafted into. Robert promised they'd be as effective as anything modern weaponry could offer.

Now in Mark's mind the training session was replaced by the wooden structure that mad Frenchman had made, a gallows.

Of all the times Mark had come close to death, that had been the worst. The feel of the rope cutting into his neck, the agonising wait for De Falaise to give the signal for them to be dropped; how helpless he'd felt…

The Hooded Man had intervened, of course. Or more accurately Mary dressed as The Hooded Man, walking in through the gates down there. That had taken some guts, switching places with Robert because she knew he'd be killed. It had proved distraction enough for the rest of Robert's forces to attack, but it could all have ended so differently.

Phantom pains… Just phantom pains…

Robert told him once what De Falaise had said right before he'd killed the man, ramming arrows into his throat and eyes, breaking them off. 'It is only just beginning, mon ami.' What he'd meant was anyone's guess, but in a sense he'd been right. As they'd begun their policing of the region, Robert had discovered just how hard it was to keep the peace. Even though people came every day to join his ranks, volunteers like the new recruits below, he still only had a limited supply of men to draw on — and now they were widening their protection to surrounding cities like Sheffield, Doncaster, Leeds, Manchester… things were even tighter.

Which was one of the reasons Mark couldn't understand Robert's decision.

'You're just not ready yet,' he'd told him when he asked again.

'I'm almost fifteen, not that much younger than Lee and his friends.' Mark was referring to the group from St Mark's School down south, who'd showed up a while back asking Robert for help in defeating some bad guys they called The Snatchers. He'd eventually loaned them some Rangers, in spite of being stretched so thinly. 'I'm not a kid anymore… I haven't been for a long time.'

'That's not what I'm talking about. You're simply not prepared, Mark.'

'After everything I've been through? You're joking.'

'It's because of everything you've been through. You need time, son.'

'You mean like you're taking?'

Robert had flinched and Mark regretted it as soon as the words had tumbled out of his mouth. It had never been Robert's intention to run this operation; he'd never imagined he'd have to organise patrols or help squads on this scale when he gathered together his band of men in Sherwood. Hell, he'd taken enough convincing to get involved, even after saving Mark's and Bill's hides. By doing so, Mark knew he'd exorcised some of the demons from his past. But once that had been done he'd spent more time in his office than he had on the streets. When it came right down to it, the responsibility rested on Robert's shoulders alone. And it wasn't fair to criticise him for that.