Broken Arrow

CHAPTER FIVE

The village had been named Hope.

But that Hope had died along with its founder. Clive Maitland had been killed defending this place against De Falaise's men, murdered by the fat Mexican, Major Javier. The Reverend Tate knew that Gwen had taken her revenge on Javier for that, shooting him just like he'd put a bullet in Clive. Although Tate could forgive her for that — many terrible things had happened in the heat of that final battle — he wasn't altogether sure The Lord would be able to without repentance. It hadn't been her place to take that life, and more than likely there would be a punishment, one way or another.

Gwen probably thought she'd served her time in purgatory, held prisoner at the castle and made to do unspeakable things at the behest of that mad Frenchman. Tate had to admire her for not going completely stark, staring mad over those months. But she would have killed De Falaise as well, given the opportunity, and was on her way to do so when Tate had been hit in the shoulder by a stray bullet.

"God will provide his own revenge."

Tate had shouted this after her, but she'd taken no notice, headstrong as she was. She hadn't succeeded anyway, apart from stabbing De Falaise in the leg and managing to get shot herself by one of Tanek's crossbow bolts. It had been left to Robert Stokes, their leader, to end the Frenchman's reign. Tate had often wondered if The Hooded Man had actually been an unwitting part of The Almighty's plan for revenge, but almost always dismissed these thoughts. Robert was a law unto himself and still continued to be so. That man no more believed in God's overarching design than Tate believed he was the reincarnation of St Francis of Assisi.

Not that you had to believe in God to be a part of his plans. But you did have to have faith, something Robert was sorely lacking. It was one of the reasons why had Tate left the castle in the first place; the two of them were never going to see eye-to-eye on that. The holy man knew he could do more good out in the fledgling communities, as Clive had told Tate when he'd found him. The man had a vision of what Hope and other villages could be like, how the survivors of the human race might all rise again, Phoenix-like, from the ashes of The Cull. He'd had the necessary leadership qualities to draw together his own community, and if it hadn't been for Javier wrecking it that fateful day — riding in and casually shooting up the place — Clive might just have succeeded.

Of course, he might yet: through Gwen. She'd inherited a lot of Clive's determination, seemingly channelling his ability to make people listen. (It was a quality, coincidentally, Clive had also shared with Robert.) She was dead set on pursuing his dream, putting Hope back together, making a place to fit to raise their child, Clive Jr.

"I want him to grow up in a loving atmosphere, away from the city and out of the shadow of that castle," she informed Tate, not long after the birth. The first part was fair enough, what parent doesn't want such an environment for their child? Yet Tate had to question whether the second part had more to do with the question mark hanging over the baby's origins. Did she really want to get away from the castle because some part of her recognised it was where Clive Jr had been conceived?

Robert, Mary, Jack, even Tate himself. They all suspected the truth of the matter, even if Gwen steadfastly refused to. She didn't want to hear it through the pregnancy and certainly didn't want to talk about it after her son was born. Regardless of the fact there was only a slim chance Clive was the father, Gwen was adamant he be listed as such in the new records system being initiated in Nottingham ("If we start with our own people," Mary had suggested, "then we can add others we find out about as and when."). Tate couldn't blame Gwen for wanting to pretend the boy was Clive's. Who would want to think that their offspring was the product of rape? Especially by a man whose genes, Tate suspected, had been given to him by Satan himself. He'd certainly been put on this Earth to do the Fallen Angel's bidding.

Tate always felt more than a little responsible for what had happened to Gwen. Perhaps there had been something more the holy man could have done to prevent Javier from taking her back to Nottingham. Or maybe if he hadn't tackled Javier in the first place, struggling with the man as he held the pistol… Was it as much his fault the gun had gone off and shot Clive? No, Javier was about to shoot him anyway, Tate was sure of it, that's why he'd felt compelled to intervene.

Then later, when he'd joined Robert's band, Tate should have tried harder to convince the man to mount a rescue. There again, they both knew it would have been suicide. Plus there was no way of knowing for sure Gwen was even alive.

Robert had done it for Mark, though, hadn't he? Tate would say to himself, then feel guilty for such thoughts. Mark was just a child, being held and tortured, then sentenced to execution. There had been other villagers that were going to die as well. It had been that which had forced Robert to move against De Falaise. In any event, Gwen had remained at the castle, subject to the Frenchman's sadistic whims.

For all these reasons, Tate decided to go with her when she left. It had been a tearful goodbye, but he knew he'd see everyone again. Nottingham wasn't that far from where they were heading, and he'd made the trip a few times, like when the castle had hosted a fete last summer.

He recalled now the day they left, though, and what each of his friends had said.

"Thank you for everything," had been Mary's words, giving the Reverend a kiss on the cheek.

"Gonna miss your words of wisdom. Take it easy," Jack had told him, clasping his hand and shaking it firmly.

"Are you sure you have to go?" Mark had asked. And when Tate nodded, he saw the boy's eyes moistening. Tate had rubbed his tousled blond hair and Mark had laughed.

"See you around, I s'pose," Bill had said next — and it wasn't long after that he had made tracks himself, after some disagreement or other with Robert.

Then came the man himself. The Hooded Man, who Tate had talked into leading these people. They might have had their differences, and Tate might not have agreed on some of his methods, but he knew fundamentally that Robert was a good man. And he knew he was going to miss him.

"If you ever need anything, even if it's just to talk, my son — "

"I know where you are," Robert said, fixing him with those intense eyes of his. "You look after yourself, Reverend."

"You too." He'd leaned in close so the others couldn't hear and added: "Look after them all." It was Robert's turn to nod. "You did a good job, you know," Tate said finally. And he thought then that he'd detected the slightest of smiles playing on Robert's lips.

They'd driven off in one of the jeeps De Falaise had left behind, packed with enough food and water to last them the journey, in addition to whatever items Robert's men had been able to find for the baby: nappies, bottles, jars of baby food (there were actually plenty of these kinds of stocks still left in shops and warehouses; Tate didn't like to think about why). Neither of them had known what to expect when they finally arrived, having heard nothing of the village since they'd left. When Tate had gone in search of The Hooded Man, there had only been a handful of the original members of Hope still living there. Young Darryl Wade, for example, who'd been helping Clive fix up the village hall the day Javier arrived — turning it into a school for future generations. Graham Leicester, as well, who'd been attempting to grow food in gardens and fields. But most had fled the village, fled the region, once the new Sheriff's stranglehold on the area had taken effect. Tate knew for a fact that former midwife June Taylor had done so with Gwen and Clive's adopted kids, Sally and Luke.

"They've seen enough of fighting and death," June said to Tate as she was packing up their things. She was referring, of course, to the kids having witnessed Clive's brutal demise — something they'd probably never get over as long as they lived. "After everything they've been through, even before Hope, they need some kind of stability." He'd tried to talk her out of it, saying that one day Gwen would return, he felt it in his bones, but it was a half-hearted protest at best. Deep down Tate realised June was right: Sally and Luke should be away from this place. He hoped they were living a peaceful life somewhere.

Strangely, Gwen had not asked about them when they'd both recovered after the battle. And when he'd told her anyway, she'd nodded as if taking the information in, but had been more concerned about the baby she was carrying inside her. Tate liked to think she felt the same way as him, that she wished them happiness wherever they were. It was what Clive would have wanted. But there was always that niggling feeling — and again, he hated himself for it — that she was okay with them being somewhere else, because now she had a real child that belonged to Clive. Sally and Luke must have seemed like something from another lifetime, after her trials at the castle.

They'd driven into the village and it seemed like a ghost town. Nothing much had changed in the time since Tate had been there last. The cottages still had pock-marks on the walls where the bullets had struck, and there were charred sections of road where grenades had gone off.

Gwen had parked the jeep and climbed out. Unlike Tate, this had been the first time she'd returned since Clive's death. Leaving the Reverend behind for a moment, to look after Clive Jr, she'd wandered down the street as if in a daze. When she reached the bit of the road where Clive had fallen, she'd knelt.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all, thought Tate. Like the castle, there were too many memories here. They should have sought out another village to start again, dedicated it to Clive — somewhere his ghost wasn't on every street corner.

There was a clacking sound, and Tate leaned forward in the jeep's front seat. Gwen had heard it too and was rising, pulling something out from under her jumper; something she'd tucked in her jeans without telling Tate. It was an automatic pistol, another parting gift from the previous tenant of Nottingham Castle. Gwen held the weapon like a professional, just like she had the machine gun she'd used during that last battle in the city.

"Come out, whoever you are," shouted the thin, auburn-haired woman. "I'm not messing around." The more Tate saw of Gwen like this, the more he realised how she'd changed — or rather how circumstances had changed her — and how much he didn't care for it.

Behind him, Clive Jr began to cry.

Then, at the side of one cottage, Tate spotted a figure. It was Andy Hobbs, another resident of the old Hope, standing with a hunting rifle — aiming it at Gwen's head. She'd spun on him in a heartbeat, bringing her pistol to bear.

"Gwen, no!" called Tate. But she'd already spotted who it was… and so had Andy.

"It can't be," said the man, lowering his gun. "Gwen? Is that really you?"

She began lowering her pistol, though not letting her guard down quite as quickly as Andy. Gwen approached him, eyes darting left and right. "How have you been, Andy?" Tate heard her ask.

"Never mind about that, come here." Andy went to give her a big hug, but Gwen pulled back before he could get anywhere near her. This was Andy, who'd once tended the fields, who'd sat and laughed and joked outside the local pub with Clive and Gwen on balmy summer evenings. She recognised him; she'd even said his name. But the trust was gone — maybe Gwen's trust in all men except Tate. It would take time, but she'd need people like Andy if she was really going to fulfil Clive's dream.

"Andy!" Tate called, in an effort to take the embarrassment out of the situation.

"Reverend? I can't believe it. I never thought… Well, I didn't think I'd see either of you again to be honest."

Clive Jr. was crying louder and Gwen returned to the jeep. Andy called the all clear, and other familiar faces appeared: Graham and Darryl, along with a few others Tate had never seen before. They gathered round, old friends swapping hellos, introductions being made.

"I still can't believe you're really here," Andy said again to Tate. "It's so good to see you."

"You too, my son," Tate replied, leaning on his stick.

"We heard snatches about what happened in Nottingham, but nothing concrete."

"Something about a big fight?" Darryl added.

"We figured something big must have happened because no more men came to take our food."

"We were ready for them anyway, even if they did," Andy said, holding up the rifle.

Tate grimaced. "I wouldn't have thought that was your style."

"Neither is being hit in the back of the head with a rifle butt."

"Granted," said Tate.

"So, you went off to join Hood's men?"

"Not intentionally," Tate pointed out. "But I suppose I did end up getting dragged along for the ride. That's a story for another time, though."

Gwen was standing by the jeep, cradling Clive Jr, feeding him a bottle of milk. Darryl came over and smiled at the little one. "So who's this then? He's really cute."

"This is Clive's son."

"Clive's…" Darryl frowned. "But I thought-"

"Darryl, Darryl." Tate interrupted, limping round the side of the jeep. "Enough of your questions. We've been on the road a while and there's still food and drink in the back of the jeep. Enough for a celebratory dinner, I'd suspect."

So that's how they'd spent their first night back; inside The Red Lion, filling their bellies and swapping stories about what had happened in the time since they'd all last seen each other. The remaining members of what had once been Hope had carried on with their lives, but lived in fear that the soldiers might return. That was one of the reasons why they hadn't cleaned up the place much.

"It was a reminder of what could happen again," Graham told them. "A reminder not to get taken unawares again."

"That's why when we heard your jeep… well, you know," said Andy, now feeling slightly foolish.

"De Falaise is no more," Tate assured them, nursing a brandy. "His men have been defeated, his legacy replaced by a new law in the land."

Gwen pulled a face at this and Tate caught it out of the corner of his eye. As far as she was concerned, she'd got herself out of the mess at the castle. Robert Stokes had been far too late to save her, in every sense of the word.

"Do you really think he can protect us?" asked Darryl, also seeing Gwen's expression.

Tate nodded. "I think he'll try his best."

"So what now?" asked Graham, putting his feet up on one of the tables.

It was Gwen who answered, rocking the baby in her arms. "We start again. We turn this back into the place Clive always wanted it to be. With one or two exceptions."

Graham frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It's like you said." Gwen held Clive Jr in the nook of one arm and picked up the pistol that was resting on the table in front of her. Tate raised an eyebrow, which she completely ignored. "We're never going to be taken unawares again. This time, we make sure we can defend ourselves. There are more in the jeep; rifles and pistols, plus ammo."

"What? Gwen, you stole-"

"I borrowed them from the caves," she said, cutting Tate off. "Besides, from the sound of things they won't be using them any time soon."

Many of Clive's ideas had been sound, she went on to explain, but in attempting to start again with a bunch of people skilled in various areas — Graham's knowledge of agriculture, for example; Darryl's handyman ability — he'd left out the very people who could fight off an attack like the one they'd encountered. Now, every single person in New Hope, as Gwen suggested renaming the village, would know how to fight as well. With guns, with their hands. This met with nods of approval from the folk in The Red Lion.

All except Tate.

He'd talked to her about it later, asking her if a community based on violence was what Clive would really have wanted. It certainly wasn't the 'loving atmosphere' she'd said she was looking for when they'd left the castle.

"We also need to be safe, Reverend. I don't want to be reliant on Stokes and his people."

"You'd rather create a mini army of your own, is that it?"

She shook her head. "We'll leave the outside world alone, if they'll do the same with us."

While Tate conceded that she had a point about defending themselves, he still wasn't mad on the idea of these ordinary men and women being on a state of constant alert, trained in using firearms and hand-to-hand combat. "How is it any different to what you did for Robert?" Gwen had said after she'd asked Tate to teach his self defence tactics.

"That was a war," Tate replied. "Desperate times…"

"These are still desperate times, in case you hadn't noticed. What happens if another threat comes, if another De Falaise decides to try and take over?"

He didn't have an answer. But nor would he willingly teach these people how to fight in what he saw as a time of peace. While it was true he'd taught classes before The Cull, Tate was only trying to keep people safe. So what was the difference here? He couldn't explain it; he just knew that it was wrong and it wasn't what he'd come here to do. These people needed spiritual guidance, not advice on how to disable a person using the flat of your hand. Gwen might not have any faith in Robert to police the area, but Tate at least had that.

"Suit yourself," Gwen said in the end, realising she wasn't going to talk him round.

Thankfully, the task of revitalising Hope had kept a lot of them busy, including Gwen. The first order of business had been to clean up the streets, the cottages — to make it look as good as, if not better than it had been before. Darryl was put in charge of that operation, while Graham and Andy headed up the task of planting crops in time for the coming harvest (and it had been a good one, Tate had to admit). Meanwhile some of the newer people had been sent out to look for more skilled workers who might want to boost their numbers. Gwen had gone on a number of these missions, just as Clive had done before her. Tate found out later that she'd even poached people from other villages: like their doctor Ken Jeffreys, who they'd discovered in a community near Worksop. Somehow Gwen had managed to persuade Ken to join them, leaving behind the people he'd tended to up there. "I told him we needed him more," was all Gwen would tell Tate. "It was his choice." But something told Tate that the woman hadn't taken no for an answer.

When she went away on these 'head-hunting' trips (which invariably were getting shorter and shorter), Gwen would leave Clive Jr with Tate. It showed how much she trusted the holy man, as she wouldn't let anyone else within a mile of the little one, but for Tate it always proved a difficult undertaking. Many a time he'd look down on the boy and those dark eyes would stare back. He'd shiver then, but couldn't explain why. This was only a child, after all.

But hadn't their very own Jesus Christ once been a baby just like this one, and look how he'd changed the world.

Tate shook his head; these were ridiculous thoughts. The whole next generation of infants had the capacity to change the world: for better or for worse. What made Clive Jr so special?

Yet he couldn't help thinking…

When she returned, Gwen would always go to the child and make a fuss of him. As she'd rest him on her shoulder, whispering to him, the baby would look over and find Tate again. The Reverend would smile when he saw Gwen looking, but it was pasted on. Was that one of the reasons why he'd stayed so close to New Hope? So he could keep an eye not only on the welfare of this community but also so he could watch Clive Jr?

Before they knew it, Spring and Summer were a distant memory, Autumn had come and gone, and Winter had set in. They'd celebrated Christmas, this burgeoning group of people, and Tate had led them all in carols in the renovated chapel. All except Gwen and her son.

"I won't be coming," she'd told Tate long before the celebration. "I don't feel it would be right. I don't… I'm just not that religious, especially after…" Gwen's sentence tailed off and he didn't push it.

But her actions, her attitude, troubled Tate more and more as the months crawled by.

That morning, Tate had called round to see Gwen, only to be told she was visiting Clive's grave again; a burial Tate himself had presided over, in the small graveyard behind the chapel, after Gwen had been taken to the castle. Now he returned to see Gwen and her baby, wrapped up warm against the icy chill which also bit into his leg. Clive Jr was in a pushchair, a bobble hat covering his head and thick woollen blankets tucking him in.

Gwen didn't notice Tate's approach until he was almost at the grave — not a stone one, like most of those here, or even marble, but a simple cross made by Darryl. It was all anyone had been able to manage in these times, and it was more than some poor people had been granted. He heard Gwen talking to her baby, then to the grave, before waiting — as if expecting an answer from the man buried there. It was only when she heard the crunch of snow under Tate's feet that she stopped.

"You shouldn't be out here, Reverend," she told him when she did finally look round. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that statement. Was she telling him he wasn't welcome? "It's treacherous underfoot." Gwen nodded at his stick.

"I'm not an invalid," he pointed out. Far from it; even with his disability Tate could put an able-bodied person through their paces. "I'll be all right. I'm more concerned about your welfare."

"Me?" She looked mystified. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Tate let out a sigh. "This isn't healthy, Gwen. It never has been."

"What, visiting the man I loved? Clive Jr's father?"

"That's not what I'm saying and you know it. You're not facing… certain facts."

Again, she gave him a confused look.

"Facts like-" Tate was interrupted by someone shouting from the gate. It was Andy. He was holding a different rifle to the one he'd brandished when they first arrived, one of the automatics Gwen had taken from the castle.

"Someone's coming," he yelled.

Tate and Gwen exchanged glances, then set off down the path. The holy man had nearly stumbled, but only in his haste to reach the street. He saw Gwen take out her pistol, ready to protect her child, and it didn't even seem strange this time — that's how much she'd altered. Gwen with a gun seemed like a natural thing.

They joined Andy out on New Hope's main road and he pointed. "There."

Tate squinted. There was a lone figure heading up the street on horseback. The Hood pulled down over the figure's face betrayed his identity. As if that wasn't enough, the bow and quiver on his back provided more evidence. And though you couldn't tell for sure just by that — look how Mary had fooled everybody on the day of the attack — something told Tate that this was indeed the man he'd first encountered in Sherwood Forest some time ago.

"You can put those weapons away," he told Andy and Gwen, then he hobbled up the street towards the horse.

The rider brought his steed to a halt, then climbed down. As Tate drew near, the man pulled down his hood and the Reverend saw he'd been right. It was Robert Stokes, but he looked older, more tired than he had the last time he'd seen him.

"Hello, my son. What brings you to New Hope?"

"Trouble."

"Yes, I can see that by the bruise on your face."

"Could someone fetch my horse water and hay?"

"Andy," Tate said, waving his hand for the man to approach.

Robert handed over the reins. "Much appreciated."

"I'm surprised to see you travelling alone," Gwen said by way of greeting. As she pushed the buggy towards Robert, she tucked the gun back in her jeans. "Someone of your importance, I'd have thought you'd have two or three men with you."

"I don't need any protection. I never have." There was something in his tone which said she'd hit a nerve.

"You say there's trouble, Robert," Tate said. "What kind?"

"Can we talk inside, Reverend? Somewhere a bit more private?"

"This isn't the castle," Gwen informed him. Tate balked at her rudeness. "It's my village. You can talk in my house if you're talking anywhere."

Robert nodded. "Understood. So lead the way, we've got a lot to discuss."

Robert sat down at the kitchen table while Tate put a kettle on the range.

Their visitor had taken off his bow and quiver but kept them close — and he kept the sword he always wore now at his hip, even though it stuck out behind his chair. Looking at the scene, Tate mused what a curious blend of ancient and modern it was, perhaps that was the way of the future after all?

Gwen, having placed Clive Jr in his playpen, leaned against the edge of the work surface, her arms folded. The silence was deafening, and in the end it was Gwen that broke it. "So, how are things back up at the castle?"

"Ticking over," Robert replied.

"You managing to keep on top of everything, keeping the area safe?"

"I'm working on it."

"Quite a task you've set yourself, though. And quite an ego to think you can right the wrongs of the whole world."

"Gwen, that's not fair," Tate said.

"Let her speak, Reverend. She's obviously got something on her mind."

Gwen's smile was tight. "I'm just making idle conversation."

"Those heavy duty guns you and your friend were waving around, they looked awfully familiar."

"How's Mary?" Gwen said quickly, changing the subject. "I liked Mary. She was good to me when I had Clive Jr."

"Ah yes," said Robert, glancing over at the baby. "Clive Jr."

The whistling of the kettle broke in, and moments later Tate was announcing that tea was ready.

"No cucumber sandwiches for our guest?" Gwen tutted. "I'm surprised at you."

"Look, what exactly is your problem?" Robert said.

"What's my problem? I'll tell you what my problem is-" Gwen was about to say more when Tate called for her to fetch the tea, his voice firm. When she placed the tray down on the table, the china rattled.

"You two knock yourself out," said Gwen, then she picked up Clive Jr and left the room.

Tate eased himself down on the chair opposite Robert, rubbing his temple where he felt the beginnings of a headache. "I'm sorry about that. She's been through a lot."

"We all have. It's no excuse."

"I know. I know. But, well, seeing the man you love get shot right in front of you and then… Well, I don't need to refresh your memory about what that creature did to her."

Robert shook his head. "She blames me for not coming sooner, doesn't she?"

"I think that's part of it, yes."

Tate suddenly recalled the moment Mary told them Gwen might still be alive.

"Are we finally going to do something about this Sheriff now, once and for all? Are we finally going to go in there and get those people out?"

"Like your Gwen, you mean?"

Yes, like Gwen, who he'd failed so spectacularly. Who Robert had failed, too.

"So," said Tate, drinking his tea and feeling the headache waning slightly, "are you going to tell me what this is about?"

Robert explained that they'd been tracking members of a cult, how they painted their faces like skulls and were growing in numbers. How he and his men had caught a few of them. "They're incredibly dangerous, intent on killing whoever they come across. I really need you to come back with me and-"

"Robert, I'm afraid my fighting days are over. I never really wanted them to begin in the first place. If circumstances hadn't forced me to…" Tate didn't feel like he could continue with that line of argument.

But Robert was shaking his head. "You misunderstand me, Reverend. I need your help figuring out the religious side of all this, maybe to sit in while I question the prisoners. I'm afraid I'm in over my head where all that stuff is concerned."

Tate could feel the headache building again, this time with a vengeance.

"Take this…" Robert reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I got Mary to draw it, based on our descriptions of the tattoos the men have on their foreheads. I didn't want her getting too close to any of those lunatics."

Tate put down his cup and took the paper, casting his eyes over the symbol. It was an inverted pentangle within a circle. There were markings around the outside of the ring, and at the tips of the cross: some kind of lettering. Inside the pentangle was an inverted cross. "These people are Satanists, Robert."

"Yeah, I kind of got that."

Tate tapped the paper. "This is a variation on The Sigil of Baphomet, which used to be used by the Official Church of Satan back before The Cull. The symbol of Baphomet was also used by the Knights Templar to represent Satan. It was known as The Black Goat, The Goat of Mendes, The Judas Goat, The Goat of a Thousand Young and The Scapegoat. That particular sign had a picture of a horned goat in the middle of the pentangle, whereas this has an inverted cross — which is actually the Cross of St Peter, a common mistake made by those practising this kind of thing. St Peter was crucified upside down, you see…"

"I see I've come to the right person."

"They've done something else to the symbol, though," Tate continued. "Usually there are two circles around the pentangle, and between those, at the edge of each point, there's a letter in Hebrew which, when brought together, spell LVTHN anticlockwise."

"I don't follow," said Robert, his brow furrowing.

"Leviathan, my son. The Horned One. The Devil. Here, though, the letters are reversed Latin."

"What do they spell?"

"Well, the outer five spell MRNIG."

"What the Hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Probably exactly that. Because if you look at it in conjunction with the letters around the cross as well…"

"Go on."

"Those spell STAR."

Robert shrugged. "Still not getting it."

"Morningstar? Lucifer. The Fallen Angel."

"Oh God…"

"Quite the opposite." Tate let out a long, slow breath. The headache was worsening by the second. He was about to pick up his tea again, but his hand wavered as if something had suddenly struck him. "Did you say these men were killing people?"

Robert nodded, then rubbed his bruised jaw. "It's how I got this. They were after a young woman in York, and if we hadn't been there…"

"Then it's even more serious than I thought."

"Isn't it serious enough?"

Tate gripped the side of the table with one hand, and pointed at Robert with the other. "If they're killing, sacrificing, then there can only be one reason."

"They enjoy it?"

"They're attempting to raise Him."

Robert looked at Tate sideways. "Come on! Satan? You're telling me they're trying to conjure him up or something? That's ridiculous."

"No more ridiculous than our Lord Jesus Christ coming back from the dead. They want him to appear in the flesh, Robert. After all, hasn't this world been called by many a Hell on Earth? Wouldn't He be right at home here?"

"You don't seriously believe that."

Tate held up his hand. "What I believe is irrelevant, they believe it. And they will carry on executing people until He appears."

"Then what will they do?"

"Anything He tells them to. He's their master."

There was silence for a few minutes, during which Robert looked down at the table. "They have to be stopped. Regardless of what they think is going to happen, I can't just let them carry on."

"I know," replied Tate.

He studied the Reverend. "Will you come back with me to the castle? I could really use your insight."

Tate breathed out wearily before answering. "When God calls me, I must answer."

Robert thanked him and got up, leaving the cottage to fetch his horse. They would set off immediately for Nottingham. Gwen came back into the room when she heard the door slam. She was still cradling Clive Jr in her arms.

"Don't bother to explain. I heard everything."

"You were listening?" Tate was more than a little surprised.

"Of course. I can't stand to be around that man, but I wanted to know what was going on. Seems I was right all along about another threat coming." Gwen fixed Tate with a stare. "Still think Robert and his men can protect us?"

"As I said before, my child, I know he will try."

"And you will help him?"

"I will."

"Then I wish you all the luck in the world," Gwen said, before walking out again.

"And I," whispered Tate, his eyes trailing her as she disappeared, "pray that God might deliver you from this darkness." Whether he meant the darkness of the conflicts to come, the Morningstar cult and whatever waited for him at the Castle, or the darkness inside Gwen's own soul, not even Tate knew for sure.