had he come this far into the city without any of them knowing?
Reinhart watched as the man proceeded slowly up the road, bow and arrows on his back, that trademark hood of his pulled down over his face. There was something dangling at his hip as well, which glinted in the morning sunlight. It was a sword. So this was the person who had caused them so much trouble? Hardly looked like a threat at all. Why, with one bullet Reinhart could just end his life right there and then. No more problems. De Falaise would probably thank him for it.
Or would he?
The Dutchman knew his superior wanted to do that job personally. Had arranged all this just for that purpose, in fact. Quickly, he snatched up the radio and called it in.
Within seconds De Falaise had answered him back. 'You are quite sure?'
'I am,' confirmed Reinhart.
'Very well. Keep your eye out for anything else suspicious.' Reinhart heard De Falaise switch to the other channel, ordering his men at the gates not to open fire on pain of death. He was glad now he hadn't acted so rashly.
By this time Hood had reached the entranceway, passing beneath a tree briefly, then vanishing out of Reinhart's sight at the gatehouse.
But he heard the knock as The Hooded Man demanded entrance.
De Falaise gazed down the incline, towards the gatehouse.
They all heard the banging on the old doors, a fist smacking the wood.
He was aware that his free arm was still in the air, frozen at the moment of ending the six prisoners' lives. Slowly, he withdrew that arm – staying the execution for now. He had other – more pressing – things to deal with first.
Even if he hadn't just aborted the hangings, De Falaise doubted whether the order would have been obeyed. The soldier at the lever was staring down at the gate as well, along with the assembled crowd.
The banging came again.
'Sir…' A crackle over the radio reminded him he still had it in his grasp. 'Sir, should we let him in?' This was a soldier at the gate.
The Sheriff brought the radio to his lips. 'Yes, of course, you imbecile. Open the gate. This is what I have been waiting for. He is just one man, alone. He is not to be interfered with.'
De Falaise walked to the very edge of the platform, Tanek joining him.
Several men ran out of the buildings at the gatehouse, clambering to undo the huge doors.
'Come on, come on!' De Falaise said under his breath.
The doors opened wide and The Hooded Man stood there, a dark figure in the shadows. He took a step forward, then another. The men at the gate watched him pass.
In spite of the fact The Hooded Man had his bow slung over his back and a sword at his hip, the men there did nothing to take them. They'd been told not to interfere with the visitor, so they didn't. It wasn't as if the man could do anything with such antiquated weapons anyway, not before being gunned down.
The Hooded Man strode up the pathway, his gait confident, his head bowed so that they still couldn't make out much of his features.
He began up the incline, and as he did so De Falaise's men at the rear of the crowd ran to the edge and trained their guns on him. The Hooded Man gave the war memorial on his right a glance, then continued up the snaking path, until finally he reached the summit – steps that led up to the East Terrace on his left, the crowd and the platform on his right.
'So,' shouted De Falaise, holstering his radio, 'you finally came.'
The Hooded Man moved forwards, still with dozens of guns trained on him. One false move and he'd be torn to pieces, with no forest to cover him or swallow him up this time. Now he was on De Falaise's home turf.
A strange thing happened as he walked towards the crowd. To begin with, the nearest few people moved aside – they didn't really have much of a choice, as the man was coming no matter what. It caused a ripple effect, and soon another path had been created for him up towards the platform. Like a human version of the Red Sea, the people – soldiers and prisoners alike – parted almost as one, creating a safe passageway for him.
The Hooded Man walked through them, looking neither left nor right. But the people stared. If there was to be anything worthy of record today, then it was this – something Jennings also recognised as he snapped off several pictures of the event. De Falaise glared across at him and he lowered the camera slowly.
'Sorry.'
'Take as many as you like when I kill him,' said the Sheriff.
The Hooded Man was almost at the steps to the platform. He paused there, looking up slightly at the wooden construction. At Mark, slumping in his noose; it was the only thing keeping the boy on his feet.
'Do you like my new little toy?' De Falaise asked.
In a low voice, The Hooded Man replied: 'Every pantomime villain needs a stage.'
De Falaise pouted. 'Why do you not come up onto my stage, then, and participate in the production.'
The Hooded Man accepted this invitation, but drew out the act, taking one step at a time. For De Falaise, the wait was agonising, and he nearly ordered Tanek to put a bolt through the man's head immediately. But he wasn't quite finished with Hood yet – not after everything he'd put him through. For one thing he needed to see his face; needed to look into his eyes. If he was to let some of these peasants go today to tell the tale, he wanted them to spread the word about the death of Hood. How the Sheriff of Nottingham – by Christ, of Britain! – humiliated him first, then shot him… no, wait, slit his throat… no, perhaps strangle him? De Falaise realised he'd given absolutely no thought whatsoever as to how he would actually finish this. How he would see an end to The Hooded Man, who was still wearing that damned piece of clothing even now: his trademark, his mask. Then he remembered the sabre hanging from his hip. It mirrored Hood's own sword, one which he would never get to use. That was a good way – with Jennings documenting proceedings for posterity.
De Falaise realised that up until now The Hooded Man had stolen most of his thunder. Walking through the streets of Nottingham, only letting himself be seen when he wanted to, that business at the gates, even the crack about pantomime villains. But he would have the last laugh. He would win, just like he always won.
'Good. And now, I think it is time,' De Falaise began, 'time that we all saw what The Hooded Man looked like. Time to see that he is not a legend at all, far from it. He is just a man. Just a man.'
The two faced each other on the platform, just metres apart. De Falaise stepped forwards, hands raised. His enemy was being covered, not only by the men near the platform, but also Tanek with his crossbow and Reinhart above since Hood had come into the grounds. He felt safe enough approaching his enemy. But before De Falaise could get close enough to do the deed himself, his rival reached up and grasped the sides of the hood.
It fell back, revealing more delicate features than De Falaise had been expecting. Much more delicate – beautiful, in fact. Full lips, chiselled cheekbones, and the deepest hazel eyes he'd ever seen. As the hood dropped a length of long, dark hair fell with it, trailing down the back.
De Falaise removed his sunglasses slowly and dropped them on the platform.
The girl stared at him and said: 'I hear you have a problem with strong women?'
The Sheriff looked at Tanek, as if expecting answers from him. 'What is this?'
But before anyone could reply, and just as he was turning back to face the woman who had pretended to be Hood – who surely couldn't be Hood? – the first gunshots were already being fired.
It had been their signal to move.
Seeing Robert through the binoculars, approaching the gates, knocking on them – knowing most of the eyes at the castle would be on The Hooded Man at the other end of the wall, it was their opportunity to make a break for it. Though Granger had serious doubts about whether Tate would be able to make the short sprint across the street to the Trip to Jerusalem pub; then, skirting the sides of the buildings through the Brewhouse Yard, before breaking cover so that they could gain entrance at the barred door of the caves. It was fortified now, Granger knew that, men posted on guard round the clock. But they had the element of surprise on their side.
That had been part of the plan Robert outlined, inspired by Mark's hidden incursions into the towns and cities. To use the buildings of Nottingham to hide their own journey – going through them rather than around them. 'The quickest way between two points has always been a straight line,' Robert had told them. 'Like an arrowhead passing through a target.'
The teams had entered during the night, silently picking off or capturing the lookouts placed around the city
