The Doomsday Code

CHAPTER 64

1194, Nottingham

John stared with utter bemusement at the people in the marketplace. They respectfully made a pathway for his escort of soldiers and the two dozen carts and wagons containing his baggage and essential royal staff of servants.

‘I do believe they’re … uhh … they’re cheering for me,’ he uttered to Becks.

She rode on horseback beside him, side-saddle rather than astride. Dressed in fine linens that fluttered lightly and gracefully. ‘Yes, my lord, it appears they are.’

‘That makes a rather pleasant change,’ he murmured, self-consciously waggling a limp hand back at the people. They roared approval at the simple gesture.

Leaving Oxford hadn’t been quite so pleasant. John had felt compelled, for his own safety, to hide in one of the wagons while his escort of soldiers had had to push and shove the angry crowd aside to allow the column through the main gate. He’d heard jeering and cursing, he’d heard swords being unsheathed, and the thumps and bangs of fists and booted feet against the wooden trap of his wagon.

‘It seems your friend has won them round for me.’

Becks nodded. ‘Yes. He has been very effective.’

He smiled and nodded at the people. ‘And they are staying put … even though they must have heard by now that Richard’s army approaches.’

Becks nodded as she rode in silence. She offered him a faint smile, the slightest curl of her lips.

John felt his heavy heart lift. For the first time in years he actually felt … liked. These people could have abandoned Nottingham to its fate. They could surely leave and find shelter elsewhere, in other towns, villages. But they’d decided to stay. Prepared to show the king that they actually approved of John’s stewardship while he’d been away on his foolish crusading, bankrupting them all.

He noticed the market stalls were well stocked. A good summer’s crop that had managed to be harvested without the disruption of roving gangs of bandits and villains, leaving smouldering fields and dead farm workers in their wake. The people certainly looked better fed than those in Oxford — not all pallid skin drawn up against hard-edged bones and dressed in rags, but people who looked well. People from better, happier times.

That at least was some comfort.

If Richard wanted to besiege this town, then he was going to have a hard time of it. The walls were good, the town’s position a strong one. There appeared to be good supplies of food within and a population that appeared willing to make a stand for him.

But the Grail?

Has he found it yet?

John’s heart skipped anxiously at the thought. There’d be no need for any kind of a stand, a battle, a siege, no need for any of that nonsense if that curious young man, Liam De Connor, had managed to successfully track down the bandits and get back what they’d taken.

He could hand it over to his brother and then beg his brother’s forgiveness for losing the Grail. Beg his forgiveness for failing to find that ransom money for two long years. He could beg, and publicly stoop to kiss his brother’s hand and, perhaps, that and the safe return of the Grail would be enough to appease him. There’d be a beating with a cane later, of course. Away from public eyes.

Royalty can never afford to be seen as frail … just as mortal as any common man.

Richard would delight at that: stripping him, beating him, having him beg and plead like a pitiful dog. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done that to him. But Richard would have his precious Grail with all its precious Templar secrets and be in a good mood. He’d be distracted into thinking about future insane campaigns in faraway lands, now that he had his holy relic.

And John would get to keep a head on his shoulders.

He glanced up at the sturdy keep in front of them, at the centre of Nottingham. Hoping to catch sight of his new sheriff riding out to greet them on horseback. Hoping to see a sign, a smile and a small nod — a gesture from him to assure him that all was well, that he could relax once again.

That he has the Grail.

‘No welcome,’ uttered John. ‘Is no one at home?’

He could see the bobbing of helmeted heads between crenellations. The castle appeared to be garrisoned still. But a greeting party on horseback should have emerged by now, out of mere courtesy.

‘I wonder where the sheriff is?’

‘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.