King's Army Page 2

  Desperate to get her gran off the streets during that first chaotic night, Hayley had taken her, the Lord Chamberlain and Herne to the place she knew best – her old estate in north London. On the way there they had worked out the story she could tell the neighbours about why they’d been away and who the curious old gentleman in the old-fashioned suit with them was – a distant relative from abroad, maybe – but in the end they didn’t need it. No one cared; everyone was too busy dealing with their own problems – homes smashed up by family members who’d turned berserker, friends who were missing, relatives they couldn’t contact. Their old flat was yet to be cleaned and reassigned, and Gran still had a spare key in her handbag. The Lord Chamberlain took one look at their small, bare flat and for the first time he began to appreciate how strange the world of palaces and secret underground bases must have been for Hayley.

  “You forgot my tea again, dear,” said Gran as she watched LC come into the living room empty-handed.

  “I regret to say we are experiencing another power cut, ma’am,” said LC, picking up the blanket that had fallen to the floor and laying it back over her knees.

  “Ooh, hark at you with your airs and graces. ‘Ma’am’. You silly billy.” Gran hooted with laughter and pulled the blanket higher with quivering hands.

  LC reminded himself to tell Hayley what he had observed: her grandmother was becoming weaker. With little else to occupy his time, LC had taken to noting down the amount of time she spent asleep – as he suspected, it was increasing. Her “memory moments”, as he called her absent-minded episodes, were also more frequent. She had started to become distressed for no reason and even snapped at him from time to time. In some ways he was pleased Hayley had not been there to see her gran’s deterioration over the last week.

  His thoughts turned to Dover – he knew there was no sense in worrying about it, but he prayed twice a day for her safe return. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing another brave youngster.

  “It’s on the blink again, Lawrence,” she sighed, passing him the TV remote control.

  Lawrence was Hayley’s grandfather, LC had learned. But he didn’t correct Gran. Rather he made a show of trying the buttons on the remote, knowing that it wouldn’t work. Even when the flat had power, the television stations no longer transmitted, except for the occasional “official broadcast” from the new regime.

  “I’ll call an engineer to come and take a look,” he replied with a reassuring smile.

  Back in the kitchen, LC was just about to remove the beans from the microwave and force himself to eat them cold when the machine suddenly sprang back into life.

  “Ha! I should think so too.”

  “Hayley’s on the telly!” Gran called from the other room.

  LC chuckled and shook his head as he marvelled at the bowl going round inside the microwave.

  “Of course she is, Mrs Hicks…”

  But when he walked back into the living room, what he saw on the television made him drop his beans all over the carpet in surprise. An old school photo of Hayley was on the screen. A caption read “Hayley Hicks, 14, wanted for hostile acts against the Crown”.

  An announcer spoke in a serious tone: “If you have information on the whereabouts of the suspect, alert your Community Earl at once. God save King Richard.”

  Gran was beaming with pride.

  “My little Hales on the telly. Hasn’t she done well?”

  In truth, Hayley wasn’t doing very well at all. On the first night after her narrow escape in Dover she had been sheltered by one of the families from the aborted crossing. Viking patrols had hammered on the doors of every house in the town searching for her. She had hidden in a concealed cellar all night, praying they wouldn’t find her – she couldn’t bear to think what they would do to the family upstairs if they did. After that, she had trekked for two days and nights through the snow across Kent, heading for London. With only herself for company for hours on end, her thoughts turned to Alfie. Sometimes she laughed when she remembered him – the idea that the best friend she’d ever known had been an actual king seemed ridiculous now. But it wasn’t, it was real and the pain of his loss still stabbed at her chest like a knife. The worst part was that she’d never had the chance to say goodbye, never got to tell him what he meant to her.

  Was that why she always kept herself so busy these days, to stop herself thinking about Alfie? She recalled how, a couple of weeks after the Viking invasion, with the weather showing no sign of improving and all but the most essential movement outside banned, people had begun to accept that things were not going to go back to normal. Buried under thick drifts of snow, schools and offices were not going to reopen, supermarkets were not going to be restocked, buses and trains would not be running again. This was their life now. Some, driven by hunger, volunteered to work for the regime, keeping order on the streets and enforcing curfews, in exchange for extra food and clean water.

  Others took greater advantage of the situation, robbing from those weaker than them or relishing the chance to exercise power as one of the new “Community Earls”, who each commanded a handful of berserkers. When Hayley saw who had become the earl on their estate she knew she needed to keep a low profile. Her old enemy Dean Barron, whose family had run the newsagent, clearly loved his new status. He’d found an abandoned Rolls Royce somewhere and must have kept a personal petrol supply for himself too, because he would drive it round the estate, stopping to shout orders at anyone he found on the street, threatening to set his berserkers on them if they dared to disobey him. Hayley was astonished, and briefly amused, to see that his chief berserker was Turpin, one of the agents who had finally caught her and her gran just before the Raven Banner’s magic swept over the country, transforming him into a slobbering, muscle-bound freak. But Hayley knew that if Dean saw she was back, she would be in trouble – there was no way he would have forgiven her for stealing (and wrecking) his car on the day of Alfie’s coronation.

  So she had agreed with LC to keep her presence a secret. She would only go out at night, using the fire escape to reach the street unseen and sticking to the quiet alleyways and rat runs where she used to play as a little girl. One industry that was thriving in the new Dark-Age Britain was the black market as people pawned every treasured relic of their old lives for a few tins of food. At first Hayley would just bargain for what she could afford, then hurry home. But before long she couldn’t resist messing with Dean’s berserker patrols, setting booby traps for them, stealing their weapons, letting the air out of his car tyres – that one really made him mad. The more nights Hayley spent outside, the more like-minded people she met – people from all walks of life, all ages and backgrounds, but who all had one thing in common: they hated Lock’s regime and they wanted to do something about it. The others began to follow her lead, sabotaging Viking checkpoints and tagging walls with anti-Viking graffiti. She thought LC wouldn’t approve, but he surprised her by encouraging her activities, within reason; she was not to risk being captured.

  “What you have started, Miss Hicks, is called the ‘Resistance’. It’s what many brave French people did during the Nazi occupation in the War,” he had told her.

  “Yeah, but it’s kind of lame at the moment. It’s not like we’re going to free the country by annoying Dean Barron,” Hayley had replied.

  “Mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow,” LC had said, forcing a smile.

  When Chief Yeoman Seabrook made contact late one night, it seemed that the Resistance might indeed be ready to grow. Hayley jumped at the chance to do something bigger – to actually get some people out of the country and to safety. Once the outside world heard the truth about what was happening, surely they would send help. LC had taken much more persuading – a little local sabotage was one thing, but a mission miles from home and across the sea? That was another level entirely. In the end, however, he could see that Hayley would not be discouraged.

  Now as she stood on the south shore of the River Thames, she wished she had
just stayed home. Poor, brave Chief Yeoman Seabrook was presumed dead and she was far from out of trouble herself. She pulled her coat tighter against the harsh blizzard that was blowing upriver and prodded her toes against the exposed ice. The river had not frozen solid like this since the impromptu “frost fair” of 1814, when Londoners partied on the Thames for days and someone even walked an elephant across – or so the stories said. But then the current Defender, King George the Third, had driven out the Frost Giant that had caused it, and the river thawed. Sadly this didn’t stop people thinking the king was mad – a “perception curse” placed on him by a powerful sorcerer, the French Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte.

  Hayley decided that the ice seemed thick enough to support her weight, and crossing here was sure to be less risky than trying to make it over one of the bridges nearer the city centre. But if she fell through, there would be no one to pull her out. And then there was the small matter of exactly how to get across. She could try to walk, but that might take hours; she’d be sure to be spotted. It wasn’t like she’d packed ice skates – not that she’d have known how to use them anyway. Foraging through the wreckage of a nearby café, she found a large solid metal tray. Any food left in the kitchens had long since been scavenged by someone else, but she also pocketed a hammer and a screwdriver she found under the counter. Back at the river, she placed the tray on to the ice and lay down on it. Then she took out the tools she had found and, holding one in each hand, dug them into the ice and pulled herself forward. At first she just slid from side to side like an ungainly duck caught out by a sudden freeze. But the further she pulled herself from the shore, the smoother the ice became and the faster she began to move. Soon she found a rhythm with her improvised oars and was zipping across the river like the funny-looking luge riders she remembered watching on TV during the last Winter Olympics. She was so happy it was working that she even momentarily forgot that if anyone spotted her out here then she could find herself captured by some very angry Vikings. For a few minutes it was just her, the scraping sound of the tray against the ice and the rushing of the wind in her ears. She was actually having fun. Right up to the moment she clipped a rock on the far shore, flew off the ice … and landed in the berserker’s lap.

  A berserker, Hayley had come to realize over the last few months, could be almost more of a threat than a draugar. The original undead Vikings might be a little smarter and much fiercer, but if you saw them they tended to be on their way somewhere else, under orders from their lord Guthrum, no doubt to put down some local revolt. But the berserkers, unless they were under the command of a Community Earl, would tend to hang around causing trouble, chasing people for fun, sometimes biting them to see if they tasted better than the rotten meat they scavenged for on the streets. If they didn’t accidentally kill you with their oversized fists, they would certainly make enough noise to attract attention, and then you’d really be in trouble. So when she looked up from her crash-landing on the shoreline to see the purple-tattooed face of a drooling blonde berserker with a rotten fish’s tail hanging from her mouth, glaring down at her, she knew it was bad news. The berserker roared into Hayley’s face, the sour stench of her breath worse than anything she had smelled before. Hayley rolled off, grabbed her metal tray and slammed it into the startled berserker’s face. That bought her enough time to get to her feet, but the shore was uneven and covered with ice, and she stumbled badly as she made for the nearest staircase that led up to the embankment. Luckily the berserker was no better at keeping her balance and lost her footing completely, tumbling on to the river ice with a crack. Hayley looked back to see that the berserker had broken through the surface and was now thrashing around, howling as the freezing water rose up to her waist. Hayley got up and made for the steps. But then she stopped and looked back at the pitiful sight. If she left the berserker like that she would drown and, although she didn’t look like it right now, that poor creature was probably someone’s wife or sister or mum. Finding a length of rope, Hayley tied it round a post and threw the other end to the berserker, until the dumb thing realized it might help her, grabbed on to it and started to heave herself out of the water. Satisfied, Hayley climbed the steps to the street, unaware that she had just saved the life of former Prime Minister Vanessa Thorn.

  The Lord Chamberlain couldn’t sleep. Something had clearly gone badly wrong with the mission. What could have happened? Were the refugee families safe? What about Hayley and Chief Yeoman Seabrook? He tried to console himself with the fact that the regime was broadcasting Hayley’s face, so at least that must mean they had not captured her.

  A click from the hall. A door handle, turning slowly.

  LC sat up in bed. Was it Hayley? Or had someone told the authorities that Hayley had been staying at the flat?

  Low, grunting noises, coming from the kitchen. Definitely not Hayley. Edging along the hallway, he leaned into her gran’s room and grabbed the walking stick that was resting by the door. It wouldn’t be much use against a berserker goon, much less a Viking draugar, but if this was to be the end he would go down fighting.

  LC could see a shadow moving in the kitchen at the end of the hall. He stepped in and swung the stick around the corner at head height, but it bounced off the wall and he dropped it.

  “Not exactly the welcome home I’d hoped for, LC.”

  The old man looked down to see Hayley crouching by Herne, tickling the dog’s belly as he snuffled and grunted with pleasure.

  Later, after Hayley had checked on her gran and made sure the curtains were drawn in every room, she collapsed on the sofa next to LC and told him everything that had happened. They agreed that Seabrook’s sacrifice would be properly honoured once Lock’s grim reign had been brought to an end, though neither admitted how unlikely it now felt that that would ever happen. Herne trotted in and put his head gently on Hayley’s knees.

  “He’s looking thin,” said Hayley, stroking his ribs.

  “Still off his food, I’m afraid,” said LC.

  “I’ll head down to the market later, after the patrols have passed through. I can swap the microwave for a couple of weeks’ grub.”

  “No great loss.”

  “She’s getting worse, isn’t she?”

  “Your grandmother? Alas, I fear she is. I have kept a record if you would like to review it?”

  Hayley took it and scanned the tightly written notes, sniffing back tears. She’d made it all the way back here without losing it; she wasn’t going to start blubbing now. LC was fidgeting with his cuffs.

  “I don’t need a hug, LC; don’t worry.”

  “Actually, I was going to offer to leave the room while you composed yourself.”

  She laughed, closed the book and laid back, her toes rubbing Herne’s neck as he settled at her feet.

  A siren was wailing. Hayley opened her eyes and realized she’d slept straight through till morning. The Lord Chamberlain was dressed and peering through the frost-covered window down at the street below. Hayley rubbed her eyes and joined him.

  “What’s going on?”

  Outside the block of flats Dean Barron was ordering about a team of berserkers. Bizarrely, they’d cleared a large space in the snow and were arranging trestle tables into long rows, and covering them with plates and cups. Nearby others were hanging bunting from the lamp posts.

  “It seems,” said a puzzled LC, “that we are to have a street party.”

  The siren stopped and Dean unhooked a loudhailer from his belt.

  “Residents!” he yelled through a high-pitched whine of feedback. “You are hereby ordered to attend the celebrations to mark the glorious Coronation Day of His Royal Majesty, King Richard the Fourth. Attendance is compulsory. You have ten minutes.”

  “Not so tight!” Richard snapped.

  He was standing in the candlelit antechamber of Westminster Abbey preparing for his coronation while the draugar servant, very much the meek runt of the undead Viking litter, fussed around him, adjusting the heavy, crimson royal ro
bes with bony fingers.

  “What are you, brain dead?” muttered Richard, loosening his stiff collar.

  “Technically he no longer has a brain,” said Lord Protector Lock, marching in and shaking the snow from his coat. He inspected the new young king and bowed respectfully. “You look just the part, Majesty,” he said.

  Richard sighed. He knew Lock was lying. Gone were the days when Richard’s looks turned heads. The truth was he looked awful – pale and drawn. The urge to scratch his face was maddening; dragon scales itched beneath his skin like infected boils. They’d had to cover them with thick make-up today, which only made Richard look even more waxy and ill.

  Lock gave a thin smile and shooed the Viking servant away, taking over with the robes. “It’s quite a crowd out there; bigger than for your brother by far. Street parties are being thrown up and down the country. Your subjects are ready to witness the glory of their new king,” he said.

  “Mind my back!” Richard hissed as Lock tightened the robes.

  The dragon’s wings now formed a permanent bump between Richard’s shoulder blades, giving him a hunchbacked appearance. Like the scales on his face, the monstrous wings felt like they were just under the skin, coiled and ready to burst out whenever he got angry.

  “Apologies, Majesty.” Lock said, putting the finishing touches to the robes. “There. You are ready.”

  The Viking servant shuffled over carrying a full-length mirror. But Richard, wincing with pain, stood as upright as he could and pushed the mirror away without looking at his reflection.