Blood Bond (3 page)

Fifteen minutes later, Greg Chatfied entered the room through the door behind the dais. Diana noticed with foreboding that he was dressed in one of his finest Tudor tunics, taken from a store of costumes left at Haver after the filming of a period drama there before the pandemic. Whenever anything significant was to be announced, Nigel and his sons always dressed up. She had already noticed the lectern standing at the front of the dais — a sure sign that Nigel would be delivering one of his lectures. But at least none of his sons was standing guard in the Minstrel Gallery with a machine gun.

‘Stand,' Greg snapped.

The community scrambled to their feet and stood facing the front. They gasped as Nigel, carrying a sheaf of papers and flanked by Jasper and Damian, strode onto the dais. The three were also dressed in their best Tudor finery, Damian in yellow tights and a plumed hat.

But it was not the tights or the hat that had caused the gasp. It was the sight of the tiny figure of Mary-Claire being tugged along by Nigel, on a lead attached to a studded dog collar around her neck.

Damian drew his pistol and pointed it towards the body of the hall. The sounds of indignation died quickly. Only Cheryl's crying broke the silence.

‘Stop that snivelling,' yelled Nigel. Cheryl fought to hold back her tears, muffling her sobs with her hands clasped across her face. ‘Sit down. Morgans, serve the meal,' Nigel commanded.

Paul took Cheryl's hand across the table. ‘Mary-Claire will be all right. It'll take more than Nigel to break her spirit.' Cheryl, the sound of her crying drowned out by the agitated conversation that had engulfed the hall, only sobbed harder.

Up on the dais, Nigel jerked the lead, forcing Mary-Claire to the floor. Then he kicked her forward with his foot until she was sprawled on the dais in full view of her relatives. The disgust and anger in the hall reached a crescendo.

‘Keep the noise down,' yelled Jasper. Both he and Greg took their pistols from their holsters and placed them on the table. All three brothers were ready for trouble.

While Susan and Theresa served the community their breakfast of porridge, bread and jam at the refectory table, Diana carried covered dishes of scrambled eggs, bacon and hash browns to the dais, taking care not to trip over Mary-Claire. As was the custom, she placed the dishes on the table before Nigel and his sons, bowed and began to back away.

‘Stop,' Nigel barked abruptly.

Obediently she halted, wondering what had caused his displeasure this time. She had ensured there were no drips on the side of the dishes — she knew how much he hated that. The place settings had been laid out perfectly, the position of every knife, fork and spoon carefully measured with special rods that had been manufactured by Duncan to ensure that all the spacings were identical.

Nigel lifted his fork and jabbed it at Diana. ‘Here, taste the food.'

‘What's wrong with the food?' she said angrily, before she could control her temper.

‘What's wrong with the food —
Your Lordship
,' he corrected her. Her face fell. In her anger she had forgotten the correct form of
address. She waited for a further reprimand, expecting her and her family to be sentenced to a week on the treadmill in the Punishment Room, used to pump water from the reservoirs beneath Flag Court to the header tanks that supplied Haver House. With the death of Melanie, she wondered how the family would manage to man the treadmill twenty-four hours a day as well as do all the cooking for the community and keep house for Nigel and his sons.

‘Remember your manners,' Damian sneered.

‘Sorry, Sir Damian,' she said quickly, keen to appease her cousin by at least using the required form of address for his son.

Nigel glared at Damian. He didn't need any help in keeping his subjects under control. He handed the fork to Diana. ‘Sample the food.'

She took the fork, scooped up some egg and put it in her mouth.

‘It's fine … Your Lordship.'

Nigel, seemingly satisfied, waved his hand to dismiss her. She began to back away. ‘What about Mary-Claire — shall I bring her some food?'

‘She can eat later,' Nigel said gruffly.

As Diana retreated, Jasper leant over and whispered in his father's ear.

‘On second thoughts,' Nigel called after her, ‘bring me two bowls for Mary-Claire,' he said.

Diana hurried away to do his bidding, meeting Susan in the kitchen.

‘What's going on?' Susan asked.

‘I'm not sure. Maybe the bastard thinks we might try to poison him.'

Susan's eyes lit up. ‘Not a bad idea,' she said.

Diana disagreed. Since she had been imprisoned at Haver, and especially since Melanie's death, she had imagined Nigel dying many deaths. She had discounted poisoning; it would be too swift. Even an hour or two writhing in unimaginable pain would not atone for the death of her daughter.

Diana returned to the dais with two bowls, as well as an additional
knife, fork and spoon. ‘Your Lordship,' she said, bowing and placing the items on the table before him.

‘She won't need these,' Nigel said, grabbing the cutlery and throwing it on the floor. The ringing of the falling items alerted the rest of the community to the drama unfolding at the top table. The Great Hall quietened. Jasper spooned food from each of the serving dishes into one of the bowls, while Damian poured water from the crystal pitcher into the other.

At least Mary-Claire would get a decent meal for a change, Diana thought. While she and her family regularly surreptitiously helped themselves to a portion of the Chatfield's breakfast before serving up — something the other members of the community always suspected and envied, but could never prove — she knew the other members of the community often went hungry.

‘Right,' Nigel snapped, taking the bowls from his sons and handing them to Diana. ‘Put them down there.' He pointed to a spot at the far corner of the table.

Diana placed the bowls on the floor and Mary-Claire scampered towards them, straining at the leash.

Damian stood and peered over the table at her. ‘Don't you dare use your fingers,' he threatened.

The rest of the community watched as the starving Mary-Claire gobbled up her breakfast and lapped water from the bowl like a dog. They ate the remainder of their meal in silence. Already mentally shattered by the death of their relatives, they now harboured fresh anger towards Nigel and his sons.

 

At the conclusion of the meal Nigel stood, lifted his notes and moved toward the lectern. He yanked on the lead, forcing Mary-Claire to scramble to her feet and hurry after him.

‘Sit,' he commanded as he reached the lectern. Like an obedient dog she crouched down beside him, rubbing her neck where the collar was digging into her skin.

Cheryl was crying again, trying hard to stifle her sobs. Everyone sitting at the long refectory table looked at Duncan, who remained seated, staring downwards. Diana coughed loudly. He looked
sheepishly at her as she glowered at him, as if daring him to remain seated. Reluctantly, he rose from the wooden bench.

Nigel looked up momentarily and saw Duncan standing. ‘Sit down,' he snapped, continuing to shuffle his papers. Duncan meekly obeyed.

Determined the carefully prepared submission that she and the other senior members of the community had worked on until two o'clock that morning should be delivered regardless, Diana jumped to her feet. ‘Your Lordship—'

‘Sit,' he said, without looking up.

Diana remained on her feet. Damian lifted his pistol from the table. Undeterred, but gripping the edges of the table to stop her hands shaking, she continued. ‘We do, of course, appreciate your need—'

‘Appreciate, appreciate,' interrupted Nigel. ‘The only thing you need to
appreciate
is that if you, or anyone else, disobey my orders, this dog will get the beating of its life.' To emphasise the point, he jerked the lead so fiercely that Mary-Claire toppled onto her side and began coughing, the collar momentarily choking her.

Cheryl looked across at Diana. ‘Sit down!' she yelled at her aunt. This time Diana capitulated. Damian laid his pistol back on the table and the three brothers folded their arms and leaned back arrogantly in their chairs to await their father's performance.

Finally, it seemed, Nigel was ready to speak.

‘Haver needs to continue to function efficiently,' he began. ‘When Mark robbed this community of half its labour force, he created a major problem for us all.' The members of the community looked at one another incredulously. It wasn't only the escape that had depleted their numbers: Damian, Jasper and Greg had massacred four of their relatives. Of this Nigel had made no mention, no apology.

‘In order to compensate for Mark's actions, your working day will be extended. Lunch will be reduced to half an hour and you will not finish work until five-thirty in the evening.' A groan swept through the Great Hall.

‘Sunday will no longer be a day of rest.' There was an even louder groan, followed by angry muttering. Sunday had only ever been a
half-day of rest, but at least it had been a break.

‘Silence!' yelled Nigel. He waited until the murmuring died down before continuing. ‘The treadmill will no longer be used as a punishment for misdemeanours.'

‘He's twigged that if he wastes labour on the treadmill his service will suffer,' Diana whispered to Theresa.

‘Instead, if any of you step out of line, this dog will be punished on your behalf,' Nigel continued, jerking Mary-Claire's lead once again. Cheryl's crying grew louder. For once Nigel did not attempt to silence her; her sobs added substance to his threats. ‘Behave yourselves and she'll be OK. Misbehave and she'll get a beating.'

‘Bastard,' breathed Diana.

Paul rose to his feet. ‘Your Lordship,' he stuttered, ‘let Mary-Claire go and we'll keep the treadmill going, and work the longer hours too.'

Nigel glowered at him, annoyed by the interruption. ‘Well, since you've obviously got more energy that I realised, the work day will be extended from five-thirty until six o'clock.'

Everyone looked accusingly at Paul as he slumped back down on the bench.

‘
Really
misbehave,' Nigel sneered, ‘and I'll be choosing a new dog.' His eyes searched the hall, settling on each of the younger children. The inference was clear. Haver was short of labour. In a single stroke he had replaced the threat of executing the remaining adults under his earlier three-strikes rule with a threat to the lives of innocent children.

Diana realised other implications too. ‘Fool,' she whispered to Theresa. ‘He's just moving his major problem of population to future generations.'

It was as if Nigel could read Diana's lips. ‘Also due to the thoughtless actions of Mark,' he continued, ‘we need to re-build the Haver population. That means you women doing your job.' The females of the group looked uncomfortably at one another, wondering what was coming next. ‘Since Diana has such a high opinion of herself, she can be a
real
madam. She can run an escort agency.' Gasps rang round the room. Nigel looked directly at Diana. ‘You can choose who
to send to the staterooms when my sons and I call for service.'

Jasper and Greg grinned.

‘It'll be a chance for you women to put on your best finery,' Nigel continued. ‘A chance to get all “dolled up” — wear some make-up, to get out of those grey tunics you're always complaining about.'

Diana stared forlornly at the table, unable to look the other women in the eye. How was she going to choose who would be sent?

Nigel sneered at her bowed head. ‘I thought that would shut you up. By the way, don't bother volunteering yourself, and don't send up any of the other old hags. We need women who are going to have our babies.

‘You will also continue to oversee the operation of the kitchens and the house. The other person who has too much to say for himself — Duncan Steed — can oversee the remainder of the estate. Now the Daltons have absconded, you'll have to shuffle the Greys and Steeds between maintenance, garden and farm tasks.'

The remaining family members looked at him in astonishment. Two of the Dalton family had ‘absconded' courtesy of bullets from his sons!

‘With a smaller population,' Nigel continued, ‘and a reduced requirement for water, the treadmill no longer needs to be operated twenty-four hours a day.'

Again the members of the community looked at one another. They all knew the treadmill had been operated continuously purely as a means of punishment. Mark and Steven had discovered that ninety percent of the water pumped into the tanks above Cromwell's Tower flowed out of the overflow pipes onto the roof and back down into the reservoir below Flag Court, making it a never-ending task. Worse still, Nigel knew that they knew, yet he was selectively ignoring the fact, making out that he was doing them a favour when in fact he and his sons had exacerbated the labour shortage.

‘And finally,' Nigel said, collecting up his papers from the lectern and pointing at Mary-Claire, ‘if Mark or any of the others show their face at Haver again and any of you help them in any way — remember, I've got her. If they return and you fail to notify me immediately, she won't be the only one to die.'

An excited murmuring spread through the Great Hall. Did this mean Mark and Steven were coming back? Did Nigel know something they didn't?

‘Silence,' Nigel threatened. ‘Diana and Duncan, get this rabble back to work.' He turned to his sons. ‘Come on, we've got things to do.'

His speech complete, he strode out, dragging along the hapless Mary-Claire by her lead. Jasper, Damian and Greg scurried after him.

‘My poor little girl,' sobbed the distraught Cheryl. She fiddled nervously with the safety pins that pulled her grey tunic high on her neck, hiding the horrendous scars left by the doctors who had experimented on her following the pandemic, in a vain attempt to discover why she was immune to the disease. Her relatives rose from their seats and clustered around her.