Post by davidc on Feb 26, 2012 23:54:53 GMT
There are some aspects of this I'm not sure about. I know it fits in general and where it will go from here but how do people feel generally about it in terms of interest and desire to read on?
England
The four people blocking the exit from the bridge were a strange sight.
Their basic clothing seemed to be normal, jeans and winter jackets for both the three men and one woman, but over the top they wore a short, purple, tabard surcote bearing the coat of arms of Carlisle, the city Sergei and Ciara were trying to enter.
The weaponry they were displaying seemed to match the tabards. All four wore a sword, but two also carried crossbows.
Yet Sergei’s past experiences had taught him to look beyond the obvious and, as he scanned the area behind the roadblock, he was sure he spotted the muzzle of a machine gun protruding from a hole in the side of a lorry that formed part of a chicane, a hundred yards or so behind the barriers that now confronted him.
More than ever, he regretted Ciara’s insistence that he abandon his guns before they left the farm.
The grin on the face of the man who was now approaching their Land Rover did nothing to reassure him, though it seemed entirely aimed at Ciara, who had stepped out of the vehicle.
“Welcome, Sister!” the man proclaimed. He glanced at Sergei. “And to your companion. Are you well?”
Ciara’s unrestrained smile in return would have melted stone. “We are well, thank you. We are on a mission to bring communication and communion to those God has spared from this great trial. Will you let us enter and talk to those here?”
“Communication we’ve got, and bread and wine too, but whether you’ll find anyone wanting to take communion is another matter, Sister. Either way, you’ll have to talk to the Duke first.”
“I meant communion in the sense of togetherness, rather than as a religious rite,” she corrected. “I am not allowed to deliver the Eucharist. But we will be happy to talk to whoever is in charge here.”
The man’s grin faded but he retained a smile and nodded to her as he pulled a small radio from under his tunic then walked away as he spoke into it.
He stood by the wall of the bridge talking on the radio for a couple of minutes before he returned. “His Grace says to bring you in, but leave your Land Rover here. He’ll talk to you first. He might want to ask the Russian some questions later but our technical expert will have a chat with him while you’re with the boss.”
“Then you know who we are?” Ciara asked.
“We’d heard about him some time ago,” the man replied, gesturing towards Sergei, “but nothing for a while. The description of both him and the army Land Rover fitted, so I guessed who he was. Last we knew, though, he was with another bloke, not a nun.”
“His friend died,” Ciara explained, careful not to mention either the cause or that Sergei had also been ill. “We met up later and travelling together seemed a sensible way to spread both the word of God and of men.”
The man laughed out loud. “That it would. I’m Vincent, Sergeant-at-arms, by the way. I’ll arrange an escort to take you both where you’re going.”
The four escorts were dressed and armed in similar fashion to the sentries at the bridge and directed their visitors on the short walk to Carlisle castle. There, one led Ciara towards the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment museum while the others steered Sergei to an older part of the castle, from the top of which rose a complex communications mast.
Sergei and his escorts entered through a massive wooden door, into a proportionately spacious vestibule. They crossed the chamber, their footsteps echoing from the stone walls, and passed through a smaller but equally solid door and into a narrow passage. The door thudded shut behind them and Sergei had taken only three more steps when a massive blow to his back sent him staggering forward and down onto his knees.
Another blow, this time to his head, felled him and through the haze of pain and disorientation he felt his hands being pulled behind him and tied.
He fought to get to his knees but a bag was pulled down over his head, his senses reeled and he fell, unconsciousness.
Meanwhile, Ciara’s guide led her through the museum halls, lined and filled with an impressive array of weapons and uniforms, then stopped before an office door. He rapped hard on the thick wood then tilted his head to watch the Perspex boxes above it. After a moment, the light behind a red No Entry sign went out and a green Enter one beside it lit up. The man opened the door and gestured for Ciara to go in.
“Duke Edward Carlysle, Duke of Cumberland, Sir. Sister Ciara, to visit Your Grace,” he announced.
A tall, heavily built man with close-cropped grey hair had risen from a huge leather chair and was making his way around an imposing wooden desk to greet her.
His voice was deep and loud. “Sister! Come in, come in!” He pointed to a leather sofa. “Please, sit down. Let me arrange some refreshment for you. Would you care for tea, or water perhaps?”
Ciara sat and nodded her thanks. “A cup of tea would be most welcome. Thank you.”
“Richards!” He bellowed; unnecessarily since the man was still standing by the open door. “A pot of tea, if you please, and two cups.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Richards answered, and then started to close the door.
“And all the makings, Richards. And biscuits. Yes, biscuits I think.”
Richards smiled. “Yes sir. For your guest only, I take it, sir? The Duchess did say …”
The Duke growled. “Damn it, Richards, Just fetch the damn biscuits!”
Richards sighed, rather theatrically Ciara thought.
“As Your Grace commands.” Then he left, shaking his head sadly.
Ciara discreetly cleared her throat to suppress a giggle. “I take it the Duchess does not approve of you eating biscuits, Your Grace?” she asked, having picked up immediately on the form of address used by her former guide.
Duke Edward grunted. “Gout, and high blood pressure. Me, not her. She means well, but she’s set Richards as my bloody watchdog. Says I won’t last a year as King if I don’t take care of myself.”
Ciara’s mouth dropped open. “Did you say, King?”
Duke Edward’s eyes gleamed and his frame shook as he chuckled. “We’ve been making investigations around the country. Did hear that some of The Family made it to Balmoral, so we sent an expedition. Wanted to restore some leadership to the country, do you see? Only one left alive there turned out to be Harry’s boy, George. Unfortunately there was a misunderstanding. Battle between his men and mine and the lad was killed.” The corners of the old man’s mouth twitched. “As far as we can tell that leaves me as first in line of succession.”
Ciara had managed to close her mouth but her eyes were wide. “Were you there?”
The Duke shook his head. “Might not have happened if I had been but I was laid up, suffering with my foot, so the Duchess went. I didn’t see the need, could have just sent the men, but she insisted that if they were going to approach The Family one of us should be there. Made sense I suppose. Not that it helped in the end.”
“So now you are the king?”
“Unless anyone with greater claim shows up, I am next in line, but I’m not King yet. To do it properly, there are formalities to be gone through, a Coronation to be held. You turning up here is a miracle in itself, Sister. The Church has always been a big part of the ceremony. The King is defender of faiths, do you see? Used to be of the faith but especially now I don’t believe we could limit it; the King has got to be ruler and protector of everyone if we’re going to pull the country back together again. Without leadership nothing is going to happen, and it has to, otherwise we are all done for.”
“But, I couldn’t officiate at a coronation!” Ciara protested.
“Why not? Much as I’m in line for the throne, you might, by default, be the new Pope! You’re certainly the only official member of any church that I’ve heard about, apart from some madman over Edinburgh way who was setting fire to places.”
“But I’m neither qualified nor allowed by the church to do such things!”
The Duke puffed impatiently. “Who says so? Where in the bible does it say a woman can’t be a priest, can’t marry people, or conduct other rites? The Anglicans and Jews allowed women to perform those functions, Catholics and Muslims didn’t. They’re rules set long ago by people who decided that was the way they wanted it and who had the power to make it stick. They’re not God’s laws. If you are the senior, or only, representative of your church, you can make whatever rules you like, Sister. Besides, a coronation isn’t really a religious ceremony as such, it’s a state one, and the religious representatives are there to give it weight with their followers. I suppose I could simply declare myself King if it came to it, but a ceremony as near to the old ones as we can get would lend it more credibility.”
Ciara’s face was pale, her brow furrowed. Despite still being sat on the sofa, she felt like she had been spun around and left staggering. “Even so, Your Grace, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I know nothing of such affairs.”
Edward laughed. “Plenty of time for you learn what you need, my dear, and what we can’t find out, we’ll make up to suit ourselves. Desperate times demand desperate measures, do you see?”
There was a knock at the door and Duke Edward strode back to his desk, glanced briefly at a small monitor and then pressed a button next to it. Richards entered backwards, pushing the door open with his backside. The silver tray he carried contained an ornate silver teapot, matching containers for milk and sugar, a pair of exquisitely fine porcelain cups, and a plate with a large selection of biscuits. He placed the tray on a table beside the sofa and then left without comment.
He was dressed as he had been when Ciara first saw him, smarter under his tabard than most, but she noticed, he had dispensed with his sword.
The Duke returned to stand in front of Ciara, glanced at the tray and smiled. “Good man! He’s got out the best crockery. Obviously recognises you as an important guest.” He paused and his smile turned playful. “Shall I be mother, or will you be Mother Superior?”
“I think you better pour, if you will, please. This has all been so unexpected I’d probably spill it.”
Ciara sipped at her tea, taking the welcome opportunity to gather her thoughts. While she was still suspicious at how conveniently the one person with greater apparent claim to the throne had been killed, ‘due to a misunderstanding’, she could not blame the Duke for that, for he hadn’t been there. How innocent the Duchess was in the matter she might never know, though perhaps such thoughts were unwarranted and unworthy. Nevertheless, the idea of the restoration of a Monarchy which could restore order and direct a rebuilding of society seemed a reasonable aim for someone of the Duke’s standing and, despite his somewhat loud nature, she was actually starting to like him. He had slumped down into an armchair opposite the sofa and was, she now realised, watching her drinking in both tea and new ideas. She decided on a comparatively simple question about something that had been puzzling her, and which might be easier to take in than the big issues.
“Your Grace,” she began, “may I ask why all your men are dressed and armed as they are?”
“Ah! I was wondering when you’d ask that!” He paused to put down his cup and then sat back. “After people started to recover from the initial shock of the deaths, we had quite a few who became paranoid and armed themselves from whatever sources they could find. I quickly gathered a small band of the more reasonable ones and brought them together here. But as that band grew and we began to assume authority, seeing them walking around in groups in military uniform and with guns, made some of the townspeople afraid that I was setting up as a dictator. Very useful people began to leave the city at a time when we really needed them. I’ve been a benefactor of the museum here for many years, was colonel of the Regiment at one time, and walking through it, thinking on how I’d just received news of a raid by Border Reivers, made me realise how we were reverting, and were going to have to revert, to the ways of centuries past, do you see?
“It was obvious that anyone in authority had to show some symbols of that authority, but the guns frightened people, so I came up with the idea of a uniform that would symbolise that they were of the city, and The Duchess suggested normal clothes behind that to show they were just like other people underneath, and arms that would emphasise their role while not being as threatening to most folk as guns. Vincent, my Sergeant-at-Arms, objected that some trouble makers they might come up against could well be better armed than his men, so we compromised and they carry pistols out of sight under their surcotes. The ones at the bridge and other entry points around the city have quick access to other modern arms too, and there is an armoury here for the rest of the Watch, of course. We had an attempted raid by those damn Reivers led by Kerr, from Otterburn, who’d obviously been spying on what was going on and thought our lads with swords would be easy pickings. They soon set them right on that! Vincent was a soldier until the rest of his unit died and he’s trained his new troops well. He runs them on a tight leash too, allows no abuse of their position in the town. I’m glad he decided to join us.
“We’ve done a lot of work in the city. With so few people left, there was no way we could clear out all the bodies or crashed and abandoned vehicles, but we’ve cleaned up the streets in this area, cleared the main roads and some public places, like the cathedral, medical centre and a couple of inns. Some trades people have resumed work and a market is running once a week, on the lawns at the front of the castle; there aren’t many stalls yet but people are starting to come. The men-at-arms patrol the habitable areas so people feel safer. We aren’t too strict with things like drunkenness but if anyone gets seriously out of order the Watch deals with them. I run a court once a month to settle disputes too. It’s working here, but we have to spread the control nation-wide, or within a generation the country will be a lawless wasteland. We might even be seen as ripe for invasion, if somebody elsewhere establishes control more quickly and decides to spread their empire.”
“Invasion? Surely not!” Ciara objected. “With so few people left everywhere and so many resources to choose from where they are, why would anyone even think of invading another country? And where would they get the soldiers to do it?”
The Duke studied Ciara intensely for a moment, then smiled and nodded as if having made a decision about something. “Read your history, Sister. There are always men like Kerr who will find others who will follow them, to obtain power or easy spoils or for the adventure, rather than being farmers or tradesmen; The Vikings and Danes weren’t overcrowded in their own lands but they came here. It has always been that way, and if the people you are invading are few, widely spread and disorganised, then you don’t need many predators in a group for them to establish their control over a new hunting ground.”
Ciara slumped. It seemed only days ago that her main concern was keeping the goats from eating her cabbages, now here she was discussing a coronation and defence of the realm with a man who could be the future king of England, and maybe Scotland and Wales too, she realised. If he tried, would it lead to another war between the nations? Would history be forever forced to repeat itself? Could men never live in peace?
*
Sergei gradually recovered consciousness in what seemed like total darkness. The bag had been removed from his head but the room in which he was a captive was unlit and had no windows.
His head, back and shoulders ached and he shuddered in the cold. When he tried to move, he realised that his hands were fastened above him. Feeling the wrist of one hand with the fingers of the other he found that he was in manacles chained to the wall. All his weight had been hanging on the metal cuffs and he struggled to his feet and worked his fingers to restore the circulation.
His feet were icy cold and, curling his toes, he felt the stone slabs of the floor beneath his bare skin. He was still wearing a shirt and trousers but he could also feel rough stone rubbing against his sore back.
He had come into a castle so he must be in a dungeon, he decided, but why anyone would have attacked him and brought him here he had no idea.
He tried to call out, but his mouth and throat were dry and he could do no more than croak.
For a few minutes he moved his limbs, tested the strength of the manacles and chains, tried to exercise to generate some warmth. Then he breathed deeply and attempted to relax while he thought through what had happened.
He was still pondering when he heard the heavy clunk of a lock being turned and bolts being drawn, somewhere to his left. The door opened allowing light to flood into the room. Shocked by the brightness, he screwed his eyes tightly shut and turned his head away.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs down from the door into the dungeon and Sergei gradually opened his eyes and looked round to see his captors. Three men stood behind a woman who was clearly in charge. Her long, straight, raven hair hung down her back, almost to her waist. A tightly fitted black blouse and trousers over high-heeled boots emphasised her figure. Her hands were covered by black leather gloves and braced on her hips. As she looked at him her eyes gleamed in anticipation and she smiled, but there was no warmth or humour in the curve of her lips, only a cruel joy at his helplessness.
“So, the spy is awake,” she sneered.
She half turned her head to the left. “Duncan, light the brazier,” she commanded.
As Sergei watched, at first in confusion and then in horror, one of the men approached a brazier of coals, from which protruded several metal rods. He picked up a blow torch from the floor, lit it and applied the roaring blue flame to the fuel.
The woman pulled a knife from behind her, stepped forward and sliced open Sergei’s shirt, then reversed the blade in her hand, pushed it down the front of his trousers and ripped them open too. She stepped back, tossed the knife to one of the men and ordered, “Finish it. Strip him.”
The man stepped forward to comply, nodding as he replied, “yes, Duchess.”
*
After the Duke had talked with Ciara for over an hour, he suggested that she might like to take a look at the cathedral. He told her that while she was doing that he would arrange for accommodation for her and that later she should dine with him and the Duchess. He would also arrange for Richards to visit the library, to find relevant references on coronation ceremonies, and have the books taken to her room.
“Thank you,” she replied, “but what about Sergei, will he be staying here too?”
The Duke’s mouth twitched again. “I should imagine he’s a bit preoccupied at the moment, Sister, but don’t worry, he’ll be taken care of appropriately.”
The walk to the cathedral did not take long and, as the Duke had said, it was clear of bodies or anything other than neatly parked cars. The ubiquitous odour of decay was there, but definitely less intense than in many smaller places through which she and Sergei had passed.
Ciara was accompanied by a female member of the Watch, armed with a sword and crossbow similar to the ones carried by the guards at the bridge. She was polite enough when Ciara spoke to her but didn’t volunteer any conversation and Ciara began to feel that she was being escorted rather than simply guided. On the way, they passed three other people heading towards the castle, all of whom smiled and nodded to them and one of whom wished them, ‘Good afternoon’.
The Cathedral was smaller than many she had visited but still impressive and, despite it being empty except for herself and her guard, Ciara immediately felt comfortable and secure there. She knelt before the altar and cross, with their magnificent stained glass windows behind, and prayed silently for some time, while the Watchwoman sat in one of the pews by the door and watched her.
After finishing her devotions, Ciara stood and began to look around. If this was where the Duke wanted to become King, then he could hardly have chosen a more notable location. To be part of such a ceremony, in this place, should be a joy. Yet, she was troubled. If the Duke had truly secured his place in the line of succession by means of an act of murder, could she in all conscience be a part of such a ceremony? But if he didn’t know it was murder, whatever he might suspect, and if he, and eventually she, genuinely believed that whatever had happened his taking his place on the throne was the only way to promote the greater good of the people of England, should she not lend whatever gravitas her presence might to that purpose? She needed to talk with him, and to pray for guidance, far more before she could be sure, she decided. In the meantime, there was no reason why she should not study the procedures involved and what her part in them might be, in case it became clear that such a part was acceptable and constructive.
She wandered towards the side chambers and the Watchwoman rose and followed her. Eventually Ciara decided she had seen enough for the time being. She knelt and prayed for a few minutes more then turned to leave the cathedral and her guard fell in place beside her. Ciara stopped and smiled at the woman. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
The woman frowned and hesitated but eventually conceded, “It’s Mary.”
“Thank you, Mary. Do you know how many people there are in Carlisle now, or who visit here?”
“There’s about fifty live here, that we know of, including the people at the castle. About a dozen more come in regularly to work here or trade at the market.”
“I don’t understand; what do you mean, ‘Fifty, ‘that you know of’?”
“We think there might be a few more living in other areas of the city but who don’t make themselves known. We sometimes see people at a distance or who see us and run off, but we don’t know if they’re living here or just coming to scavenge.”
“I see. Thank you. I don’t think that sort of number would be a problem for a service here, do you?”
Mary frowned and shook her head but didn’t answer. Ciara didn’t think she had given the woman any reason to be suspicious or wary of her, but Mary clearly was. Perhaps it was simply that she was a stranger, or perhaps it was because she was being treated well by the Duke. No matter, she chided herself, trust takes time. She could only be herself and hope that people would come to accept her for what she was.
“Do you know where I’m going to be sleeping, Mary, and what has happened to the Land Rover Sergei and I came in? I’d like to get my bag if possible.”
“They’re preparing a room in the castle for you. I’ll find out about your bag.” She pulled a radio from under her tabard and talked to a control room for a few minutes then said, “Your Land Rover’s been brought up to the castle. What’s your bag look like?”
Ciara described her holdall and Mary conveyed it to control. “They said they’ll get it taken to your room for you,” Mary told her.
“Thank you. Do you know where Sergei is going to be staying? I’d like to make sure he gets his things too.”
Mary snorted. “He’ll get his all right. But he’s staying in a different part of the castle.”
“I see. Well, hopefully I’ll get a chance to catch up with him later; he’s probably in his element, talking to your communications people about radios.”
“Oh, he’ll be talking plenty. They’ll make sure of that!” Mary said.
The words seemed simple enough, but something about the tone made Ciara shudder and her interest in what Sergei was doing began to turn to concern. But that was surely nonsense, she reasoned. Why should she be worried for Sergei when she was being treated as a guest of the Duke? Her logic seemed right to her but still the nagging doubt would not go away and without her realising it her pace quickened as she headed back towards the castle.
*
Sergei’s belly bounced against the dungeon wall and he cried out as the duchess’s fist slammed into his right kidney.
“I’ll ask again,” she hissed. “What organisation are you working for? GRU? SVR? Something else?” Then she struck again before he had chance to answer.
Sergei screamed. Tears ran down his cheeks, he lost control of his bladder and a hissing stream poured out against the wall..
“Shit!” the duchess swore and jumped back to avoid the splashes from the urine.
One of the men laughed, coarsely. “Not yet, ma’am, but there will be.”
The other men joined the mockery and the Duchess shot them a look that instantly silenced them.
She stepped into the spreading pool and spoke close to Sergei’s ear. “You are going to tell me, Spy, I promise you. I’m only just getting started. Once those irons get hot you’ll realise that I’ve been gentle with you so far. Why not save yourself the pain and start talking before we have to get to that, hmmm?”
“But I tell you,” Sergei sobbed. “I not work for anybody. I am radio man. Please, I not spy. Why do you say this? Why do you do this to me?”
“Liar” she screamed, and then hit him yet again. “You’ve been travelling around Scotland finding out about all their settlements and now you’ve come to England to do the same here. You pretend to help by setting up communications for them but what you’re really doing is setting all their frequencies and networks so that you and your friends can monitor them. I don’t know if you know what your masters’ plans are, but if you do I’ll find out, and then you’ll tell me everything you know about those plans. You are mine, Spy, for as long as it takes. Nobody is coming to rescue you. Until I am satisfied, you will suffer and you will scream until you talk. You will not spy on the countries I will rule!” And then she hit him again.
Behind her the men exchanged meaningful looks. They said nothing, but her claim to the countries ‘she’ would rule did not escape them. They knew they were already supporting her directly in things about which the Duke had no knowledge. They had seen the depths of her ruthlessness at Balmoral. Giving her their allegiance might be a gamble, but each, unknown to the others, had been beguiled by hints of rewards to come. She could be a cruel and harsh mistress, and they all knew that the line between her favour and her fury was a narrow one, but all believed the potential prize was worth the risk. None knew how she really saw them.
“Fasten his legs,” she ordered.
Bain pulled two lengths of rope from a ring on the wall and threw one to Rogers. Each then tied one around one of Sergei’s ankles and, pulling his legs apart in the process, fastened it to a ring mounted low on the wall.
The Duchess strode to the brazier, lifted a thickly padded glove from a rack below it and slipped it on over her right hand. Grasping the outer end of a rod, she pulled it from the fire and examined the yellow-glowing tip. Satisfied, she moved close behind Sergei and leaned her full body length against him. Raising the near molten metal up beside his face so that he could both see it and feel the heat, she asked, “One last chance. Who do you work for?”
“No, no, please, do not do this, I do not work for anyone,” he pleaded. “I cannot tell you because I do not.”
The Duchess sighed, pushed herself away from him and then lowered the rod and pressed it against the outside of his right ankle.
Steel and skin hissed and crackled. The stench of burning flesh seared everyone’s nostrils. Sergei’s whole body stiffened and then started to jerk as pain flashed along his nerves, those in bone instantly taking up the message as the outer ones were destroyed. His lungs desperately pulled in air in gasping pants. Then a scream tore from his throat, reverberating through the low-ceilinged chamber, filling it with an unholy din not heard there for centuries. Sergei thrashed as much as his bonds would allow but he could not escape the piercing agony, until merciful blackness descended on his mind to blank it out, and his body slumped, dangling limp in his chains.
His torturer snorted in frustration, tossed the rod back into the coals then strode towards the door, beckoning for the others to follow. Stepping aside before she left the room, she allowed Duncan and Bain to precede her up the stairs and pulled Rogers close to her.
“Phil, give him a few minutes then bring him round. Give him water and talk to him. Sympathise with him.” She grinned. “Tell him what a bitch I am. You are going to be his friend. What he won’t tell me, he might eventually tell you.” She winked at him, and patted his face. “I know it doesn’t come naturally, Phil, but try to be nice.”
Rogers chuckled. “Whatever you say, Duchess.”
She leant forward and whispered in his ear. “It better be, Philip, always, if you want to please me. Now, I have to go and put on a dress, so that I can have dinner with the Duke and talk to the nun about the coronation.” She paused, and then muttered breathily; “Think about me, if you like, Phil, stripping off this leather, sliding into skimpy silk underwear and a long, soft dress.” Then she kissed his ear before quickly following the others up the stairs.
Rogers breathed in hard, closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head and tried to ignore his stiffening erection. Telling the Russian what a bitch the woman was would be no lie, but he knew that while there was even the faintest chance of him doing more than merely imagining her in that underwear, she owned him body and soul. Besides, she knew far too much about his actions in the north of Scotland, both during the battle and with that maid afterwards, for him not to obey her, whatever she might order him to do.
A moan and shudder from Sergei brought his concentration back to his job. She wanted him to be the Russian’s friend. He could do that. Not too much at first, of course, but if eventually he could extract the information the Duchess wanted, who knew what the rewards might be? For now, he needed to fetch some fresh water to loosen his new friend’s tongue.
England
The four people blocking the exit from the bridge were a strange sight.
Their basic clothing seemed to be normal, jeans and winter jackets for both the three men and one woman, but over the top they wore a short, purple, tabard surcote bearing the coat of arms of Carlisle, the city Sergei and Ciara were trying to enter.
The weaponry they were displaying seemed to match the tabards. All four wore a sword, but two also carried crossbows.
Yet Sergei’s past experiences had taught him to look beyond the obvious and, as he scanned the area behind the roadblock, he was sure he spotted the muzzle of a machine gun protruding from a hole in the side of a lorry that formed part of a chicane, a hundred yards or so behind the barriers that now confronted him.
More than ever, he regretted Ciara’s insistence that he abandon his guns before they left the farm.
The grin on the face of the man who was now approaching their Land Rover did nothing to reassure him, though it seemed entirely aimed at Ciara, who had stepped out of the vehicle.
“Welcome, Sister!” the man proclaimed. He glanced at Sergei. “And to your companion. Are you well?”
Ciara’s unrestrained smile in return would have melted stone. “We are well, thank you. We are on a mission to bring communication and communion to those God has spared from this great trial. Will you let us enter and talk to those here?”
“Communication we’ve got, and bread and wine too, but whether you’ll find anyone wanting to take communion is another matter, Sister. Either way, you’ll have to talk to the Duke first.”
“I meant communion in the sense of togetherness, rather than as a religious rite,” she corrected. “I am not allowed to deliver the Eucharist. But we will be happy to talk to whoever is in charge here.”
The man’s grin faded but he retained a smile and nodded to her as he pulled a small radio from under his tunic then walked away as he spoke into it.
He stood by the wall of the bridge talking on the radio for a couple of minutes before he returned. “His Grace says to bring you in, but leave your Land Rover here. He’ll talk to you first. He might want to ask the Russian some questions later but our technical expert will have a chat with him while you’re with the boss.”
“Then you know who we are?” Ciara asked.
“We’d heard about him some time ago,” the man replied, gesturing towards Sergei, “but nothing for a while. The description of both him and the army Land Rover fitted, so I guessed who he was. Last we knew, though, he was with another bloke, not a nun.”
“His friend died,” Ciara explained, careful not to mention either the cause or that Sergei had also been ill. “We met up later and travelling together seemed a sensible way to spread both the word of God and of men.”
The man laughed out loud. “That it would. I’m Vincent, Sergeant-at-arms, by the way. I’ll arrange an escort to take you both where you’re going.”
The four escorts were dressed and armed in similar fashion to the sentries at the bridge and directed their visitors on the short walk to Carlisle castle. There, one led Ciara towards the Kings Own Royal Border Regiment museum while the others steered Sergei to an older part of the castle, from the top of which rose a complex communications mast.
Sergei and his escorts entered through a massive wooden door, into a proportionately spacious vestibule. They crossed the chamber, their footsteps echoing from the stone walls, and passed through a smaller but equally solid door and into a narrow passage. The door thudded shut behind them and Sergei had taken only three more steps when a massive blow to his back sent him staggering forward and down onto his knees.
Another blow, this time to his head, felled him and through the haze of pain and disorientation he felt his hands being pulled behind him and tied.
He fought to get to his knees but a bag was pulled down over his head, his senses reeled and he fell, unconsciousness.
Meanwhile, Ciara’s guide led her through the museum halls, lined and filled with an impressive array of weapons and uniforms, then stopped before an office door. He rapped hard on the thick wood then tilted his head to watch the Perspex boxes above it. After a moment, the light behind a red No Entry sign went out and a green Enter one beside it lit up. The man opened the door and gestured for Ciara to go in.
“Duke Edward Carlysle, Duke of Cumberland, Sir. Sister Ciara, to visit Your Grace,” he announced.
A tall, heavily built man with close-cropped grey hair had risen from a huge leather chair and was making his way around an imposing wooden desk to greet her.
His voice was deep and loud. “Sister! Come in, come in!” He pointed to a leather sofa. “Please, sit down. Let me arrange some refreshment for you. Would you care for tea, or water perhaps?”
Ciara sat and nodded her thanks. “A cup of tea would be most welcome. Thank you.”
“Richards!” He bellowed; unnecessarily since the man was still standing by the open door. “A pot of tea, if you please, and two cups.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Richards answered, and then started to close the door.
“And all the makings, Richards. And biscuits. Yes, biscuits I think.”
Richards smiled. “Yes sir. For your guest only, I take it, sir? The Duchess did say …”
The Duke growled. “Damn it, Richards, Just fetch the damn biscuits!”
Richards sighed, rather theatrically Ciara thought.
“As Your Grace commands.” Then he left, shaking his head sadly.
Ciara discreetly cleared her throat to suppress a giggle. “I take it the Duchess does not approve of you eating biscuits, Your Grace?” she asked, having picked up immediately on the form of address used by her former guide.
Duke Edward grunted. “Gout, and high blood pressure. Me, not her. She means well, but she’s set Richards as my bloody watchdog. Says I won’t last a year as King if I don’t take care of myself.”
Ciara’s mouth dropped open. “Did you say, King?”
Duke Edward’s eyes gleamed and his frame shook as he chuckled. “We’ve been making investigations around the country. Did hear that some of The Family made it to Balmoral, so we sent an expedition. Wanted to restore some leadership to the country, do you see? Only one left alive there turned out to be Harry’s boy, George. Unfortunately there was a misunderstanding. Battle between his men and mine and the lad was killed.” The corners of the old man’s mouth twitched. “As far as we can tell that leaves me as first in line of succession.”
Ciara had managed to close her mouth but her eyes were wide. “Were you there?”
The Duke shook his head. “Might not have happened if I had been but I was laid up, suffering with my foot, so the Duchess went. I didn’t see the need, could have just sent the men, but she insisted that if they were going to approach The Family one of us should be there. Made sense I suppose. Not that it helped in the end.”
“So now you are the king?”
“Unless anyone with greater claim shows up, I am next in line, but I’m not King yet. To do it properly, there are formalities to be gone through, a Coronation to be held. You turning up here is a miracle in itself, Sister. The Church has always been a big part of the ceremony. The King is defender of faiths, do you see? Used to be of the faith but especially now I don’t believe we could limit it; the King has got to be ruler and protector of everyone if we’re going to pull the country back together again. Without leadership nothing is going to happen, and it has to, otherwise we are all done for.”
“But, I couldn’t officiate at a coronation!” Ciara protested.
“Why not? Much as I’m in line for the throne, you might, by default, be the new Pope! You’re certainly the only official member of any church that I’ve heard about, apart from some madman over Edinburgh way who was setting fire to places.”
“But I’m neither qualified nor allowed by the church to do such things!”
The Duke puffed impatiently. “Who says so? Where in the bible does it say a woman can’t be a priest, can’t marry people, or conduct other rites? The Anglicans and Jews allowed women to perform those functions, Catholics and Muslims didn’t. They’re rules set long ago by people who decided that was the way they wanted it and who had the power to make it stick. They’re not God’s laws. If you are the senior, or only, representative of your church, you can make whatever rules you like, Sister. Besides, a coronation isn’t really a religious ceremony as such, it’s a state one, and the religious representatives are there to give it weight with their followers. I suppose I could simply declare myself King if it came to it, but a ceremony as near to the old ones as we can get would lend it more credibility.”
Ciara’s face was pale, her brow furrowed. Despite still being sat on the sofa, she felt like she had been spun around and left staggering. “Even so, Your Grace, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I know nothing of such affairs.”
Edward laughed. “Plenty of time for you learn what you need, my dear, and what we can’t find out, we’ll make up to suit ourselves. Desperate times demand desperate measures, do you see?”
There was a knock at the door and Duke Edward strode back to his desk, glanced briefly at a small monitor and then pressed a button next to it. Richards entered backwards, pushing the door open with his backside. The silver tray he carried contained an ornate silver teapot, matching containers for milk and sugar, a pair of exquisitely fine porcelain cups, and a plate with a large selection of biscuits. He placed the tray on a table beside the sofa and then left without comment.
He was dressed as he had been when Ciara first saw him, smarter under his tabard than most, but she noticed, he had dispensed with his sword.
The Duke returned to stand in front of Ciara, glanced at the tray and smiled. “Good man! He’s got out the best crockery. Obviously recognises you as an important guest.” He paused and his smile turned playful. “Shall I be mother, or will you be Mother Superior?”
“I think you better pour, if you will, please. This has all been so unexpected I’d probably spill it.”
Ciara sipped at her tea, taking the welcome opportunity to gather her thoughts. While she was still suspicious at how conveniently the one person with greater apparent claim to the throne had been killed, ‘due to a misunderstanding’, she could not blame the Duke for that, for he hadn’t been there. How innocent the Duchess was in the matter she might never know, though perhaps such thoughts were unwarranted and unworthy. Nevertheless, the idea of the restoration of a Monarchy which could restore order and direct a rebuilding of society seemed a reasonable aim for someone of the Duke’s standing and, despite his somewhat loud nature, she was actually starting to like him. He had slumped down into an armchair opposite the sofa and was, she now realised, watching her drinking in both tea and new ideas. She decided on a comparatively simple question about something that had been puzzling her, and which might be easier to take in than the big issues.
“Your Grace,” she began, “may I ask why all your men are dressed and armed as they are?”
“Ah! I was wondering when you’d ask that!” He paused to put down his cup and then sat back. “After people started to recover from the initial shock of the deaths, we had quite a few who became paranoid and armed themselves from whatever sources they could find. I quickly gathered a small band of the more reasonable ones and brought them together here. But as that band grew and we began to assume authority, seeing them walking around in groups in military uniform and with guns, made some of the townspeople afraid that I was setting up as a dictator. Very useful people began to leave the city at a time when we really needed them. I’ve been a benefactor of the museum here for many years, was colonel of the Regiment at one time, and walking through it, thinking on how I’d just received news of a raid by Border Reivers, made me realise how we were reverting, and were going to have to revert, to the ways of centuries past, do you see?
“It was obvious that anyone in authority had to show some symbols of that authority, but the guns frightened people, so I came up with the idea of a uniform that would symbolise that they were of the city, and The Duchess suggested normal clothes behind that to show they were just like other people underneath, and arms that would emphasise their role while not being as threatening to most folk as guns. Vincent, my Sergeant-at-Arms, objected that some trouble makers they might come up against could well be better armed than his men, so we compromised and they carry pistols out of sight under their surcotes. The ones at the bridge and other entry points around the city have quick access to other modern arms too, and there is an armoury here for the rest of the Watch, of course. We had an attempted raid by those damn Reivers led by Kerr, from Otterburn, who’d obviously been spying on what was going on and thought our lads with swords would be easy pickings. They soon set them right on that! Vincent was a soldier until the rest of his unit died and he’s trained his new troops well. He runs them on a tight leash too, allows no abuse of their position in the town. I’m glad he decided to join us.
“We’ve done a lot of work in the city. With so few people left, there was no way we could clear out all the bodies or crashed and abandoned vehicles, but we’ve cleaned up the streets in this area, cleared the main roads and some public places, like the cathedral, medical centre and a couple of inns. Some trades people have resumed work and a market is running once a week, on the lawns at the front of the castle; there aren’t many stalls yet but people are starting to come. The men-at-arms patrol the habitable areas so people feel safer. We aren’t too strict with things like drunkenness but if anyone gets seriously out of order the Watch deals with them. I run a court once a month to settle disputes too. It’s working here, but we have to spread the control nation-wide, or within a generation the country will be a lawless wasteland. We might even be seen as ripe for invasion, if somebody elsewhere establishes control more quickly and decides to spread their empire.”
“Invasion? Surely not!” Ciara objected. “With so few people left everywhere and so many resources to choose from where they are, why would anyone even think of invading another country? And where would they get the soldiers to do it?”
The Duke studied Ciara intensely for a moment, then smiled and nodded as if having made a decision about something. “Read your history, Sister. There are always men like Kerr who will find others who will follow them, to obtain power or easy spoils or for the adventure, rather than being farmers or tradesmen; The Vikings and Danes weren’t overcrowded in their own lands but they came here. It has always been that way, and if the people you are invading are few, widely spread and disorganised, then you don’t need many predators in a group for them to establish their control over a new hunting ground.”
Ciara slumped. It seemed only days ago that her main concern was keeping the goats from eating her cabbages, now here she was discussing a coronation and defence of the realm with a man who could be the future king of England, and maybe Scotland and Wales too, she realised. If he tried, would it lead to another war between the nations? Would history be forever forced to repeat itself? Could men never live in peace?
*
Sergei gradually recovered consciousness in what seemed like total darkness. The bag had been removed from his head but the room in which he was a captive was unlit and had no windows.
His head, back and shoulders ached and he shuddered in the cold. When he tried to move, he realised that his hands were fastened above him. Feeling the wrist of one hand with the fingers of the other he found that he was in manacles chained to the wall. All his weight had been hanging on the metal cuffs and he struggled to his feet and worked his fingers to restore the circulation.
His feet were icy cold and, curling his toes, he felt the stone slabs of the floor beneath his bare skin. He was still wearing a shirt and trousers but he could also feel rough stone rubbing against his sore back.
He had come into a castle so he must be in a dungeon, he decided, but why anyone would have attacked him and brought him here he had no idea.
He tried to call out, but his mouth and throat were dry and he could do no more than croak.
For a few minutes he moved his limbs, tested the strength of the manacles and chains, tried to exercise to generate some warmth. Then he breathed deeply and attempted to relax while he thought through what had happened.
He was still pondering when he heard the heavy clunk of a lock being turned and bolts being drawn, somewhere to his left. The door opened allowing light to flood into the room. Shocked by the brightness, he screwed his eyes tightly shut and turned his head away.
Footsteps clattered on the stairs down from the door into the dungeon and Sergei gradually opened his eyes and looked round to see his captors. Three men stood behind a woman who was clearly in charge. Her long, straight, raven hair hung down her back, almost to her waist. A tightly fitted black blouse and trousers over high-heeled boots emphasised her figure. Her hands were covered by black leather gloves and braced on her hips. As she looked at him her eyes gleamed in anticipation and she smiled, but there was no warmth or humour in the curve of her lips, only a cruel joy at his helplessness.
“So, the spy is awake,” she sneered.
She half turned her head to the left. “Duncan, light the brazier,” she commanded.
As Sergei watched, at first in confusion and then in horror, one of the men approached a brazier of coals, from which protruded several metal rods. He picked up a blow torch from the floor, lit it and applied the roaring blue flame to the fuel.
The woman pulled a knife from behind her, stepped forward and sliced open Sergei’s shirt, then reversed the blade in her hand, pushed it down the front of his trousers and ripped them open too. She stepped back, tossed the knife to one of the men and ordered, “Finish it. Strip him.”
The man stepped forward to comply, nodding as he replied, “yes, Duchess.”
*
After the Duke had talked with Ciara for over an hour, he suggested that she might like to take a look at the cathedral. He told her that while she was doing that he would arrange for accommodation for her and that later she should dine with him and the Duchess. He would also arrange for Richards to visit the library, to find relevant references on coronation ceremonies, and have the books taken to her room.
“Thank you,” she replied, “but what about Sergei, will he be staying here too?”
The Duke’s mouth twitched again. “I should imagine he’s a bit preoccupied at the moment, Sister, but don’t worry, he’ll be taken care of appropriately.”
The walk to the cathedral did not take long and, as the Duke had said, it was clear of bodies or anything other than neatly parked cars. The ubiquitous odour of decay was there, but definitely less intense than in many smaller places through which she and Sergei had passed.
Ciara was accompanied by a female member of the Watch, armed with a sword and crossbow similar to the ones carried by the guards at the bridge. She was polite enough when Ciara spoke to her but didn’t volunteer any conversation and Ciara began to feel that she was being escorted rather than simply guided. On the way, they passed three other people heading towards the castle, all of whom smiled and nodded to them and one of whom wished them, ‘Good afternoon’.
The Cathedral was smaller than many she had visited but still impressive and, despite it being empty except for herself and her guard, Ciara immediately felt comfortable and secure there. She knelt before the altar and cross, with their magnificent stained glass windows behind, and prayed silently for some time, while the Watchwoman sat in one of the pews by the door and watched her.
After finishing her devotions, Ciara stood and began to look around. If this was where the Duke wanted to become King, then he could hardly have chosen a more notable location. To be part of such a ceremony, in this place, should be a joy. Yet, she was troubled. If the Duke had truly secured his place in the line of succession by means of an act of murder, could she in all conscience be a part of such a ceremony? But if he didn’t know it was murder, whatever he might suspect, and if he, and eventually she, genuinely believed that whatever had happened his taking his place on the throne was the only way to promote the greater good of the people of England, should she not lend whatever gravitas her presence might to that purpose? She needed to talk with him, and to pray for guidance, far more before she could be sure, she decided. In the meantime, there was no reason why she should not study the procedures involved and what her part in them might be, in case it became clear that such a part was acceptable and constructive.
She wandered towards the side chambers and the Watchwoman rose and followed her. Eventually Ciara decided she had seen enough for the time being. She knelt and prayed for a few minutes more then turned to leave the cathedral and her guard fell in place beside her. Ciara stopped and smiled at the woman. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
The woman frowned and hesitated but eventually conceded, “It’s Mary.”
“Thank you, Mary. Do you know how many people there are in Carlisle now, or who visit here?”
“There’s about fifty live here, that we know of, including the people at the castle. About a dozen more come in regularly to work here or trade at the market.”
“I don’t understand; what do you mean, ‘Fifty, ‘that you know of’?”
“We think there might be a few more living in other areas of the city but who don’t make themselves known. We sometimes see people at a distance or who see us and run off, but we don’t know if they’re living here or just coming to scavenge.”
“I see. Thank you. I don’t think that sort of number would be a problem for a service here, do you?”
Mary frowned and shook her head but didn’t answer. Ciara didn’t think she had given the woman any reason to be suspicious or wary of her, but Mary clearly was. Perhaps it was simply that she was a stranger, or perhaps it was because she was being treated well by the Duke. No matter, she chided herself, trust takes time. She could only be herself and hope that people would come to accept her for what she was.
“Do you know where I’m going to be sleeping, Mary, and what has happened to the Land Rover Sergei and I came in? I’d like to get my bag if possible.”
“They’re preparing a room in the castle for you. I’ll find out about your bag.” She pulled a radio from under her tabard and talked to a control room for a few minutes then said, “Your Land Rover’s been brought up to the castle. What’s your bag look like?”
Ciara described her holdall and Mary conveyed it to control. “They said they’ll get it taken to your room for you,” Mary told her.
“Thank you. Do you know where Sergei is going to be staying? I’d like to make sure he gets his things too.”
Mary snorted. “He’ll get his all right. But he’s staying in a different part of the castle.”
“I see. Well, hopefully I’ll get a chance to catch up with him later; he’s probably in his element, talking to your communications people about radios.”
“Oh, he’ll be talking plenty. They’ll make sure of that!” Mary said.
The words seemed simple enough, but something about the tone made Ciara shudder and her interest in what Sergei was doing began to turn to concern. But that was surely nonsense, she reasoned. Why should she be worried for Sergei when she was being treated as a guest of the Duke? Her logic seemed right to her but still the nagging doubt would not go away and without her realising it her pace quickened as she headed back towards the castle.
*
Sergei’s belly bounced against the dungeon wall and he cried out as the duchess’s fist slammed into his right kidney.
“I’ll ask again,” she hissed. “What organisation are you working for? GRU? SVR? Something else?” Then she struck again before he had chance to answer.
Sergei screamed. Tears ran down his cheeks, he lost control of his bladder and a hissing stream poured out against the wall..
“Shit!” the duchess swore and jumped back to avoid the splashes from the urine.
One of the men laughed, coarsely. “Not yet, ma’am, but there will be.”
The other men joined the mockery and the Duchess shot them a look that instantly silenced them.
She stepped into the spreading pool and spoke close to Sergei’s ear. “You are going to tell me, Spy, I promise you. I’m only just getting started. Once those irons get hot you’ll realise that I’ve been gentle with you so far. Why not save yourself the pain and start talking before we have to get to that, hmmm?”
“But I tell you,” Sergei sobbed. “I not work for anybody. I am radio man. Please, I not spy. Why do you say this? Why do you do this to me?”
“Liar” she screamed, and then hit him yet again. “You’ve been travelling around Scotland finding out about all their settlements and now you’ve come to England to do the same here. You pretend to help by setting up communications for them but what you’re really doing is setting all their frequencies and networks so that you and your friends can monitor them. I don’t know if you know what your masters’ plans are, but if you do I’ll find out, and then you’ll tell me everything you know about those plans. You are mine, Spy, for as long as it takes. Nobody is coming to rescue you. Until I am satisfied, you will suffer and you will scream until you talk. You will not spy on the countries I will rule!” And then she hit him again.
Behind her the men exchanged meaningful looks. They said nothing, but her claim to the countries ‘she’ would rule did not escape them. They knew they were already supporting her directly in things about which the Duke had no knowledge. They had seen the depths of her ruthlessness at Balmoral. Giving her their allegiance might be a gamble, but each, unknown to the others, had been beguiled by hints of rewards to come. She could be a cruel and harsh mistress, and they all knew that the line between her favour and her fury was a narrow one, but all believed the potential prize was worth the risk. None knew how she really saw them.
“Fasten his legs,” she ordered.
Bain pulled two lengths of rope from a ring on the wall and threw one to Rogers. Each then tied one around one of Sergei’s ankles and, pulling his legs apart in the process, fastened it to a ring mounted low on the wall.
The Duchess strode to the brazier, lifted a thickly padded glove from a rack below it and slipped it on over her right hand. Grasping the outer end of a rod, she pulled it from the fire and examined the yellow-glowing tip. Satisfied, she moved close behind Sergei and leaned her full body length against him. Raising the near molten metal up beside his face so that he could both see it and feel the heat, she asked, “One last chance. Who do you work for?”
“No, no, please, do not do this, I do not work for anyone,” he pleaded. “I cannot tell you because I do not.”
The Duchess sighed, pushed herself away from him and then lowered the rod and pressed it against the outside of his right ankle.
Steel and skin hissed and crackled. The stench of burning flesh seared everyone’s nostrils. Sergei’s whole body stiffened and then started to jerk as pain flashed along his nerves, those in bone instantly taking up the message as the outer ones were destroyed. His lungs desperately pulled in air in gasping pants. Then a scream tore from his throat, reverberating through the low-ceilinged chamber, filling it with an unholy din not heard there for centuries. Sergei thrashed as much as his bonds would allow but he could not escape the piercing agony, until merciful blackness descended on his mind to blank it out, and his body slumped, dangling limp in his chains.
His torturer snorted in frustration, tossed the rod back into the coals then strode towards the door, beckoning for the others to follow. Stepping aside before she left the room, she allowed Duncan and Bain to precede her up the stairs and pulled Rogers close to her.
“Phil, give him a few minutes then bring him round. Give him water and talk to him. Sympathise with him.” She grinned. “Tell him what a bitch I am. You are going to be his friend. What he won’t tell me, he might eventually tell you.” She winked at him, and patted his face. “I know it doesn’t come naturally, Phil, but try to be nice.”
Rogers chuckled. “Whatever you say, Duchess.”
She leant forward and whispered in his ear. “It better be, Philip, always, if you want to please me. Now, I have to go and put on a dress, so that I can have dinner with the Duke and talk to the nun about the coronation.” She paused, and then muttered breathily; “Think about me, if you like, Phil, stripping off this leather, sliding into skimpy silk underwear and a long, soft dress.” Then she kissed his ear before quickly following the others up the stairs.
Rogers breathed in hard, closed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head and tried to ignore his stiffening erection. Telling the Russian what a bitch the woman was would be no lie, but he knew that while there was even the faintest chance of him doing more than merely imagining her in that underwear, she owned him body and soul. Besides, she knew far too much about his actions in the north of Scotland, both during the battle and with that maid afterwards, for him not to obey her, whatever she might order him to do.
A moan and shudder from Sergei brought his concentration back to his job. She wanted him to be the Russian’s friend. He could do that. Not too much at first, of course, but if eventually he could extract the information the Duchess wanted, who knew what the rewards might be? For now, he needed to fetch some fresh water to loosen his new friend’s tongue.