Bill raised his hand. 'I've come this far,' he said. 'An' there's Mark to think about.'
'I'm not mad about the first bit,' Mary told him honestly, and in fact she hated it with a passion. Robert was just going to hand himself over to them, with no guarantees of his survival. When she could see he was waiting for her to say something else, she tacked on: 'But you know I'll stand by you.'
He nodded, satisfied. 'Granger, how about you?'
The young man looked unsure at first. 'If you'd asked me that question not long ago, I'd have said no. But being here, being a part of this… It has to be a yes, don't it? Besides, I have a score to settle with the Frenchman.'
A show of hands was called for, and though some of the men were reluctant at first, all of them supported Robert and his idea. Mary could see the pride in him, the fact that he'd inspired them, brought them together. He'd set an example, as every good leader should, whether he realised it or not.
'Thank you,' he said to them. 'Thank you all.'
'Mills,' asked Jack of their guest, 'do you think there might be support in the villages for this?'
'I'm sure there would be. We all want the people we care about back.'
It brought it home again to Mary when he said those words that while she'd been hiding herself away from everything in the farmhouse, the world had carried on turning, people had found each other, cultivated new relationships, tried to rebuild what they'd lost – for good or for bad. It was what had happened in the forest thanks to Robert: a small, but determined band who would not bow to dictatorship.
'Then it's settled,' Tate said, 'we have until the weekend, everyone.'
A few days. Not long to properly plan what Robert had in mind.
Are you sure about this, Moo-Moo? Are you sure about him?
Mary couldn't answer, because she didn't know.
But something had brought her here. One thing Mary was certain of was that she still had a part to play in this story.
A very important part.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The dreamscape, the arena – and a challenge now accepted.
Here, Robert and De Falaise faced off against each other. No preamble this time. No symbolic nonsense or veiled meanings, just raw hatred and a sense that this was all building to a climactic head.
Though they had never met in the flesh, they felt like they knew each other inside out. Villain and hero, though each would disagree with those descriptions, they circled each other. Stripped of weapons, they had only their hands to attack with… which they did, De Falaise coming in fast and low, Robert blocking his punches.
They fought, growing closer and closer, arms and hands a tangle, until they were at each other's throats. Each looked into the other's eyes, recognising the fury there, reflected back. Could one exist without the other?
De Falaise tightened his grip on The Hooded Man's throat, and Robert did the same. They were choking the life out of each other at the same time, with the same force. At this rate they would cancel each other out.
Still they continued, both hoping that their opponent would show a chink in their armour, offer up a hint of weakness.
Who would win? Who would lose?
It was a question that would soon be answered…
She could tell by his breathing that he was asleep. In the darkness of the small hours she listened to the sound, guttural at times as he began to snore. The very noise caused her stomach to do somersaults. She felt like she was going to be sick, in fact. And not for the first time since she arrived here.
Like all those other times, however, Gwen had fought the sensation. Fought all sensation, all feeling, all awareness. She'd made the decision very early on that if she allowed herself to be conscious of what was happening to her, she might just go stark, staring mad. Like if she thought about what had happened to Clive back in Hope, when that murderer Javier had put a bullet in his head. Gwen felt the nausea rising again, and swallowed to try and halt its progress. It was little comfort to her that the man was now being held down in the caves after failing De Falaise; as far as she was concerned, if he'd been stripped of his skin and then made to roll around in vinegar it wouldn't begin to make up for what he had done.
Javier had handed her over to the disgusting man with yellow teeth lying by her side.
'You had better not try anything like you did with me back there. He likes his women to be seen and not heard. Compliant, if you know what I mean, Senora,' Javier had explained on the drive back to the castle.
Oh, she'd complied all right. Not because she feared what might happen to her if she didn't – though the thought of being handed over to that animal they called Tanek far from appealed to her – but because she was biding her time until she could have her revenge.
That time had almost come, necessitated by the fact that De Falaise was becoming bored with his possession.
'She is beautiful, that is not in question – it is why I have kept her around for so long, non? But it is as though she is not really here at all,' she'd heard him tell Tanek one time. 'She is somewhere else entirely.'
That was true. Gwen had shut herself off, retreating to the darkest corners of her mind when the Frenchman wanted his 'fun'. Switching off as he dressed her up in those ridiculous costumes, while he pretended to be some kind of time traveller, an historical conqueror who'd taken over this land and its women. She'd had to pretend herself while he did this; pretend she was some place safe – with Clive.
'I'll avenge your death,' she'd tell him. 'I promise.'
'I know you will, sweetheart, I know.'
Javier would get his in time, but she was closer to the man who'd given the orders right now, the man who'd orchestrated this whole affair. She'd begin at the top and work her way down. To that end she'd waited, patiently and silently – so silent he believed that her spirit was crushed. Little realising that she was lulling him into a false sense of security.
It happened bit by bit, leaving her alone in the room for ten minutes to begin with (possibly testing her at first to see what she would do), with no guard inside or even on the door. She'd done nothing, sometimes not even moved between the time he left and the time he got back. He'd begun to spend the night with her after doing what he needed to, the exhaustion of his efforts causing him to fall asleep. Again, at first he would doze very lightly, then when nothing untoward happened he'd eventually relaxed more fully.
In addition, Gwen had kept her eyes and ears open on her tours round the castle. De Falaise no longer kept her under lock and key, knowing that the place was so well guarded she could never possibly escape. And no one really noticed her anyway as she drifted through rooms, along corridors; all they saw was De Falaise's broken play thing. No threat to anyone. As long as she was back in the room when De Falaise was in the mood, there wasn't a problem – and she knew his routines well enough by now.
The soldiers who brought her food barely acknowledged her. They just left the plate, picked it up again half an hour later; unless, of course, De Falaise wanted to dine with her – which again involved a change of outfits and a small banquet on a wooden table. Many of the men didn't even want to be here – she'd got that from listening as well – let alone scrutinised what she was doing with her meals.
So, yesterday, she'd decided to take a gamble. Gwen had hidden her knife, hoping against hope that the soldier wouldn't take a blind bit of notice when he came to retrieve her tray.
She held her breath as he picked it up. Gwen tried to act casually as he bent and grabbed it, but she overdid it, and he caught her looking at him as he turned around.
'What?' he asked. 'What's wrong with you?'
Gwen didn't reply, hadn't spoken for so long, in fact, she was frightened her vocal chords might have seized up.
'I asked you a question.' The soldier didn't look much more than about eighteen, she surmised. Had probably never had a woman, either in the pre-virus world or in this one. Thinking fast, she got up and went over to him, letting the loose robe she was wearing open just a fraction too much. His eyes flicked down to the curve of her
