‘Up ahead!’ Liam shouted. Sitting across the bouncing rump of the horse, his voice warbled like a songbird. ‘That’s him!’
The cart ahead of them was rattling along the narrow track, wheels wobbling and straining as they careered over the humps of tree roots. In the back of the cart, tethered faggots of firewood and several sacks of apples rattled and rolled around as Locke kicked and cajoled the rear of his horse to pick up the pace.
They closed on him quickly. Even their weary-looking old horse, all bones and hide and ready for the butcher’s cleaver, was making better progress than the wide-axled cart down what was barely more than a winding footpath.
Locke must have heard them approaching and turned to look over his shoulder. It took him all of a second to realize the cart was too slow. He reined in the horse, reached round into the back of the cart, grabbed a small dark wooden box, no bigger than a hatbox, and leapt off the seat on to the track.
‘He’s bolting!’
Bob nodded. ‘Get off here,’ he grunted. ‘I will pursue him.’
Liam slid clumsily off the back of the horse, the still raw soles of his feet jabbing him painfully as they settled on sharp stones. Bob kicked his heels and clattered off down the footpath, turning the horse left into the trees where Locke had disappeared moments before. Liam listened to the receding thud of hooves and the occasional crack of a dried branch, echoing back through the wood as Bob gave chase.
He made his way slowly down the path towards the abandoned cart, yelping and grimacing at each sharp stone, each fir cone he stepped on. Finally he drew up beside it. The horse eyed him irritably as if even he knew this was no track for a cart. It snorted, flaring its nostrils.
‘Easy there,’ said Liam. He pulled himself on to the back of the cart and allowed himself to collapse, exhausted, among the apples that had spilled out across the flatbed.
CHAPTER 65
1194, Sherwood Forest, Nottinghamshire
Bob steered the horse through the woods, deftly ducking the low swoop of branches. Up ahead he could hear Locke scrambling his way over fallen branches that cracked noisily under his feet. Making far too much noise to hope to evade him.
He caught a glimpse of Locke up ahead. The man was making pitifully slow progress, the wooden box tucked under one tired arm, pushing his way through a tight bush of brambles with the other.
‘Cease running!’ Bob called out. ‘You will not escape!’
Locke stopped and turned. His eyes widened at the sight of Bob calmly steering the horse as it picked its way through the undergrowth towards him.
Locke seemed to realize he was wasting his time. He slumped down on to a small boulder, winded and spent. Bob swung his leg over the horse, dropped heavily down to the ground and approached him.
‘I presume you want this?’ said Locke, holding the box out.
Bob reached out his one hand for the box. He placed it on the ground, lifted a small metal clasp and opened the lid. He stared at the contents in silence for a moment before closing the lid.
‘Who are you people … really?’ asked Locke between laboured gasps.
Bob’s grey eyes studied him silently.
‘You’re just a dumb robot, aren’t you? Inside all that skin, blood and bones … a dumb robot? Just like my war-surplus mech — a machine under orders.’
‘I have mission priorities,’ said Bob drily.
‘And what do you know about what’s in there?’ Locke said, nodding at the box.
Bob was silent.
‘Right …’ Locke nodded. ‘Not much … uh?’
‘The item known as the Holy Grail may contain sensitive information about the agency. That is why we seek to obtain it and decode its contents.’
Locke laughed, a wheezy and dry cackle. ‘Is that it? Is that
Bob’s eyes narrowed. ‘Explain.’
‘That,’ he said, nodding at the box, still struggling for breath, ‘that … contains something far more important. Your secret agency is nothing compared to this … it’s a speck of dust compared to this!’
‘Explain.’
‘It’s our future … it’s
‘What?’
Locke shook his head. ‘That’s just it … We don’t know.
‘Your mission priorities are in conflict with mine,’ replied Bob.
‘What? What the hell kind of priorities are more important than knowing what’s going to happen?’
‘Mission priorities: Retrieve the Grail. Decode the Grail. Correct contaminated history. Locate and terminate potential contaminants.’
Locke looked up at him. ‘
‘Correct,’ said Bob, pulling his sword out of its scabbard. ‘Your presence in this time represents too much of a risk to the timeline.’
Locke’s eyes followed the dull glint of the sword’s edge. ‘Look … I have no modern technology artefacts on me. I’m just one man on my own. You
Bob silently appraised him.
‘Please! Just let me go … What could I say that anyone would believe anyway? I’d just be considered a madman! A village fool!’
Some small part of Bob’s brain registered the growing desperation in Locke’s voice … a desperate desire not to die — to live longer. The small part of his brain could understand that animal instinct. Even sympathize with it.
‘Get up,’ said Bob.
Locke clambered slowly to his feet.
Bob raised his one good arm and pointed into the woods with the tip of the blade. ‘You must run in that direction.’
Locke looked confused.
‘Run in that direction. You must leave the county of Nottingham immediately. Any attempt to influence historical events will be picked up by us and we will return to kill you. Is this clear?’
Locke nodded. ‘Yes … yes, of course.’
‘Then proceed.’
‘Go? Now?’
‘Immediately.’
Locke stepped away from Bob, cautious backwards steps at first, then, a few yards from him, he turned tail and began to run.
Bob silently watched him pick up the pace as he ducked and scrambled through the undergrowth. Certain now that the man wasn’t going to dare look back again, he pulled the sword back over his shoulder, poised for the
