He opened his arms and she walked into them. They held each other and both knew that this might be the last time they saw one another alive. Mary kissed him on the cheek. It felt like the end of everything, and in a very real sense it was. By that time tomorrow everything would have changed.
'I'm sorry,' he whispered.
Mary whispered it back.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The two men remained like that for some time…
Hands at each other's throats, neither one willing to give ground. This was the final fight, their only 'real' fight in fact, and both men were desperate to win. The Hooded Man because he saw it as his mission to rid the world of this new infection; the Frenchman because he needed to pluck this thorn from his side before he could rule completely.
Tighter and tighter they grasped each other, spinning in the dreamscape – the fire on the water raging higher all around them.
Then one of them removed a hand. It was the Frenchman, reaching down, grabbing a hidden knife and bringing it up. It was too quick for The Hooded Man to block and he looked down, eyes wide, as the blade slid into him. It pierced his stomach, slipping through flesh and into him almost up to the hilt. He gave a cry and coughed up blood, his grip on his opponent's throat weakening.
Neither of them said a word; they didn't have to. It was obvious what had happened. The darkness had triumphed, winning out overall.
The time of the hero had almost passed.
And The Hooded Man would pass just as quickly into the arms of death.
De Falaise had woken with a smile on his face.
He couldn't remember all of the dream but he recalled the ending, recalled sliding the knife into Hood's gut and killing him.
Au revoir, he said to himself, you've proved a worthy adversary, but it is time for this whole affair to draw to a close.
The Frenchman looked over and saw the woman from Hope lying there, asleep. He contemplated waking her so that he could begin the morning by celebrating, but he had so much – too much to do. There would be time later, when he'd dealt with his enemy. All the time in the world, in fact; perhaps even time for a change. When she'd been getting dressed the last time he'd noticed his plaything was putting on a little bit of weight. He was obviously feeding her too well.
He'd got to bed late last night, after overseeing the last few hours of construction himself: the culmination of two days' labour. The men had worked hard, but then so they should have. They were doing it for their Sheriff. The platform and gallows were crude but sturdy. A series of six in a row so they could get through the executions as fast as possible, regardless of whether Hood showed up – though De Falaise was positive he would come. The platform, located out on the grass where Middle Bailey had once been, was high enough to accommodate the trap doors. These could be released by a single lever. That idea had been his and he'd explained in great detail how it could be achieved, muttering afterwards about the shortcomings of the British school system when it came to carpentry and woodwork.
What a sight it all was when it was finished, much better than simply hanging bodies over the sides of the rocks. This had style, flair – panache, as his people would say. It would be a spectacle; just one of the things that he would be remembered for. De Falaise had even appointed an official photographer, a soldier named Jennings who had an interest in such things and could develop film as well as take the actual photographs.
His inspiration had been the photos down in the basement of the castle, depicting all those different eras. One day, he realised, people would look back and remember what he had done here and applaud him for having the vision and bravery to pull it off. They would cheer his achievements, bringing Britain together again – perhaps even under a different name? Yes, something more fitting like… like Falaisia. That had a certain ring to it.
But he was taking small steps: towards a much larger goal. The only thing standing in his way was Hood and his malcontents. Once they were out of the way he could rule this region however he wanted. Build his army up even more, spread out and conquer from this one, fortified base.
It was his right, and his destiny.
One day those who came after him would look to his lead in governing their own lands. Just as he'd drawn from the past to establish his empire.
He'd left the woman and gotten into the outfit he'd handpicked for the day's proceedings – the red dress uniform adorned with medals and topped off with a ceremonial sword. Practically ignoring the new guard on duty outside his room De Falaise made his way down into the basement one last time. He had examined the history of this castle and its surrounding areas frequently, but only today did he feel like he was making a contribution to the museum. He would have his men erect some kind of memorial to his achievements before too long, continuing on the story of Nottingham and its castle.
De Falaise paused to examine the model of the place he now called home. Bending, he placed both hands on the glass cabinet.
'You are not just living history, De Falaise, you are making it,' he said to himself.
Next he made his way upwards through the castle and onto the roof, putting on his sunglasses as he went. He walked across to where Reinhart was camped out. He'd been up there for two days straight, watching the city – if not with his sniper's scope, then with the binoculars De Falaise had left him. The Dutchman was like a machine, never complaining, never faltering. Just watching, ever vigilant.
'Anything to report?' De Falaise asked.
Reinhart shook his head. 'No unusual activity at all.'
'And our scouts in the city?'
'Checking in as usual – once every half-hour.'
'Good, good. We will begin the executions within the hour. If you see any sign of The Hooded Man…'
'I will let you know, my Lord,' Reinhart promised, holding up his walkie-talkie.
So that was that. It only remained for them to ready the prisoners, roust them and get the first batch onto the platform. De Falaise would allow most of his men to watch, those who were not busy patrolling the walls, that was. It would serve as both example and, he hoped, entertainment. There was so little on TV these days.
As for The Hooded Man…
De Falaise would await his presence with eager anticipation.
Gwen felt De Falaise shift about in bed first thing, then heard him laughing as he woke. His dreams had obviously amused him. He'd been restless prior to that, though, just like he had been the night she missed her opportunity to kill him. She hadn't been able to find the right moment since.
She'd feigned sleep in the hopes that he would leave her alone, knowing that nine times out of ten he'd do whatever he damned well pleased, not giving a toss whether Gwen was awake or not. This was the tenth time, obviously, because he got up and got dressed, barely making a sound. If he had tried something then she might well have reached for the knife now under her pillow, ramming it into his throat as he groped her. He was clearly waiting until after the day's events for that particular 'delight'.
Not that she had any intentions of still being here then.
Not that she had any intentions of still being alive. Her plan was simple. Free the prisoners, kill De Falaise. Yes, she was aware she was just one woman. Yes, the odds were impossibly against her, but still she had to try.
She couldn't leave that young boy to his fate. Hopefully, he could lead them all back to his hideout where they'd be safe (if you can get them past that nutjob on the roof with the sniper's rifle – don't forget about him, Gwen.)
They had to make a run for it, at least. They'd be dead anyway if they stayed here.
She was surprised, given his heritage, De Falaise hadn't insisted on a guillotine. But then, they'd executed the nobility that way, hadn't they – and that's what De Falaise aspired to be. Hanging was for peasants and
