breasts, then back up again. Smiling, she'd reached out a hand, brushing his arm with her fingertips. He looked down again, right down inside her robe. Then her hand had reached lower, brushing against his stomach. Before it could move further down, the soldier stepped back. 'I… er… that's enough. You go and sit back down again and… er…' His face was crimson, his gait half slouching. 'Sit back down or I'll have to report this… I…' He backed up against the door, reaching for the handle and pulling it open, desperate to get out of there. The soldier said nothing more, he just left in a hurry, probably not quite sure what had happened.
But he wouldn't report it. Gwen had bet her life on that. For a start, who would believe him? The zombie woman came on to you? Piss off! Even if they did, he wouldn't want it getting back to De Falaise or he might find himself down in those caves.
Flustered, he would return the tray to the kitchens and with a bit of luck the missing knife would go unnoticed. Gwen waited most of the afternoon for someone to come back and accuse her of hiding it, but they didn't. She then began sharpening the implement, using a rock she'd picked up on one of her 'outings'. By the time she was done, the labours focussing her attention in a way nothing had since she'd been dragged here, the blade was rough but sharp.
She'd had to hide it quickly when De Falaise returned, inside a cushion belonging to the couch she was sitting on. Her 'master' had been dressed in the garb of a general or admiral (she wasn't very good with ranks), medals splashed across his chest. It looked like a hybrid of styles, which had become the trademark of De Falaise's army, but was in keeping with his abnormal personality.
He'd looked at her strangely from the doorway, as if trying to read her mind. Then he smirked and threw a dress at her: blue silk. 'Put it on. We are going for a little stroll.'
At this point any normal man might have turned his back, or exited the room, but De Falaise wasn't an ordinary man. He liked to watch his plaything disrobe and put on new outfits. This was all part of the game.
His eyes traced every contour of her as she climbed into the dress, which should really have been worn with a corset beneath, though that didn't appear to bother De Falaise. 'Hurry,' he snarled when she was taking too long and she did as she was told. Then she joined him at the doorway, walking that zombie walk she'd perfected. Taking the part of his pet.
Putting on his sunglasses, he led her outside and along the East Terrace. 'Did I ever tell you the story about King John and what he did along here?' She didn't say a word. 'Non? Well, John was the brother of Richard the Lionheart, as you may know. When Richard went away to fight in the crusades, John tried to take over the country, using this as his base. He'd always had a soft spot for this castle, you understand, in fact his father had bequeathed it to him before his death. Needless to say, when Richard found out he was, how you put it, more than a little pissed off with his sibling. Having only reached Italy, he returned to see to his brother himself. That happened here in 1194. Richard got into the Outer Bailey and rounded up all the people he could find – not just soldiers, but families of the garrison, tenant farmers – and he hung them, just strung them up. John's men didn't surrender at this point, not until the archbishop threatened them with excommunication. They then abandoned John and he was put into exile. However…' De Falaise held up a finger at this point in the lecture, halting their walk, 'when Richard died John returned and used the castle as his permanent residence, the only king to do so. Which brings me to the story I originally wished to relate. It was here that John hung twenty-eight Welsh boys over the side of the rocks after inviting them along for dinner. They were the sons of Welsh barons and John did it because of a disagreement with their fathers over the Magna Carta. Ah, those were the days, non? If someone disagreed with you, you hung them. If there were traitors in your midst, you simply disposed of them.'
Gwen was almost certain that he had found out about the stolen knife, why else would he be giving her a speech about traitors? Was she to suffer the same fate as those poor people at Richard and John's hands? She considered running, but knew she wouldn't get twelve paces without being gunned down by one of his men. There were a good dozen in sight along this section of the castle alone.
De Falaise held out his hand for them to begin walking again down the East Terrace, towards the steps guarded by twin lions. As she reached the top she realised her mistake. The recently mowed field below had been practically cleared of vehicles and was now was filled with people, all bound, all standing with heads bowed.
'Behold, the traitors of our time,' announced De Falaise. 'Those who have accepted aid from our friend, The Hooded Man. Those who have shielded him from me, who conspire against my new regime.'
He's insane, thought Gwen, as if only just realising it for the first time. He's completely lost his mind. Of course she'd heard about the Hooded Man, the one who had stood up to De Falaise and was rallying support to his cause – in fact she'd mentally punched the air a few times when she'd heard of his victories over the man standing next to her. But she had no idea the stakes had been raised so high. There were children down there, children just like Luke and Sally who she missed so much. Gwen's eyes settled on a boy near the front. His dirty blond hair was ruffled, the tracksuit he wore tatty and torn, and he was clutching an empty backpack like a security blanket.
Looking at the people before her she understood that De Falaise was going to kill them all. And he'd think nothing of it. In a way they were just as much his toys as she was, as they all were.
It was then she knew she had to strike that night. This monster had to be stopped.
So, once he'd had his way with her again, the thrill of the imminent executions obviously arousing him – and she'd blotted it out the same as always, retreating to that place in her head where Clive waited – Gwen lay awake and waited for him to drop off. Then she'd waited some more until he'd drifted further into sleep.
Experimentally, she eased her shoulder away from his. Gently… Gently… she told herself, struggling to keep her own breathing even. Now she moved her left foot, the one furthest away from him. If she could only slide it down and feel the floor, she could manoeuvre the rest of herself out of the bed more easily. Her heel reached the end of the mattress and she allowed it to drop slowly, anchoring herself, pulling herself, straining with her calf muscle.
Almost there… almost De Falaise rolled over with a snore, arm flailing out and landing on her. It felt like a bolt sliding across a cell door. Gwen lay stock-still. De Falaise murmured something and his right foot kicked out, twitching in his sleep.
Gwen bit her lip hard. How the hell was she going to get off the bed without waking him? And even if she did get the knife and use it, how was she going to get out of the castle, past the guards? And how would she find this hooded man?
De Falaise muttered something and rolled onto his back, withdrawing his arm. Gwen let out a long, deep breath. Then she looked across at him. His head was cocked back, neck exposed. A thought suddenly occurred to her…
Why do you even need the knife at all? You could do what you should have done a long, long time ago. You could wrap your hands around that neck and just squeeze.
There'd be less chance of him waking up before she could do the deed. All she had to do was roll over and grab him. But was she strong enough? Could she kill him before he came to his senses and fought back? It was risky to say the least.
Risky, but oh, so tempting.
Yes, I'm going to do it, she told herself, even as she was turning over, hands reaching out, ready to encircle his neck, thumbs itching to press down on his windpipe with all her might.
He felt the hands around his neck and immediately snapped awake.
In the darkness a figure was on his chest, looking like some kind of ghastly apparition. But the pressure around his throat was real enough. He felt the hands gripping tight, and shock more than anything prevented him from fighting back.
You're going to die. If you don't do something right now, then you're going to be throttled to death!
The figure above was replaced with patches of deeper darkness that began to cloud his vision as his brain was starved of oxygen.
Do something…
He clamped his hands around his attacker's wrists and tried to pry the grip free. But he couldn't budge them.
'I'm sorry,' he heard. 'I have to do this.'
He brought up his knee, hard. There was a grunt, but the assailant didn't shift. He did it again. This time it worked and his twisted the figure onto its side. He shook his head, clearing his vision. Bringing a knee round, he shoved it into his attacker's side, winding them. They grappled with each other for a moment, both on their sides now. Then suddenly the roles were reversed and the victim was on top. He struck out with a punch that caught his
