Hooded Man (49 page)

“Yeah, I kind of got that.”

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

“I see I’ve come to the right person.”

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

“I don’t follow,” said Robert, his brow furrowing.

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

“What do they spell?”

“Well, the outer five spell MRNIG.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?”

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

“Go on.”

“Those spell STAR.”

Robert shrugged. “Still not getting it.”

“Morningstar? Lucifer. The Fallen Angel.”

“Oh, God...”

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

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

“Then it’s even more serious than I thought.”

“Isn’t it serious enough?”

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

“They enjoy it?”

“They’re attempting to raise him.”

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

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

“You don’t seriously believe that.”

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

“Then what will they do?”

“Anything he tells them to. He’s their master.”

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

“I know,” replied Tate.

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

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

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

“Don’t bother to explain. I heard everything.”

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

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

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

“And you will help him?”

“I will.”

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

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

CHAPTER SIX

T
HE BLADE SWISHED
as it whipped past his ear, narrowly missing his head.

He rolled out of the way, then leapt up to avoid another stroke, beneath him this time. Landing badly, he toppled to one side – recovering just quickly enough to fall backwards when he saw the blade about to run him through. He hit the ground hard, emptying his lungs. Laying there, sucking in a deep breath, he saw a shadow fall over him.

Then the blade was at his throat.

If it had been a real sword, he’d be dead by now. As it was, all he’d suffered were a couple of splinters in his neck.

A hand reached down and he took it, felt himself being hauled to his feet. The man standing opposite Mark said nothing, merely gestured that he was ready to go again if the boy was. Mark nodded to the dark-skinned soldier, his sparring partner today. Mark didn’t know Azhar all that well, but the man wielded a sword like he’d been born with it in his hand. Jack had left Mark to do battle with him over an hour ago, and as he now watched the man spin the sword, Mark wished his tutor had at least given him a weapon to fight back with.

Azhar swung again, the wood clipping Mark’s left shoulder. He let out a yelp, hopping back out of its way. He didn’t stay there for long though, because his opponent was already moving forward, jabbing for his ribs. “Hey, watchit!” Mark cried when the tip poked him hard in the side. He had to react fast, as the wood flashed past his face. That one really would have hurt...

Azhar’s feet were a blur as he positioned himself in front of Mark, preparing to swing the sword again. Mark dived beneath the next sweep, running at Azhar to try and shove him off balance. The man easily sidestepped the boy’s attack, causing Mark to dive head-first at the ground. He came skidding to a stop on the slushy snow of the Middle Bailey field, where a pair of size-fifteen boots were waiting.

“Very impressive, kid. The old sliding on the snow manoeuvre.” Mark cast his eyes up to see Jack standing there, leaning on his staff and chuckling. He helped him to his feet, then brushed the snow roughly from the front of his jacket.

“It’s not funny,” said Mark. “And it’s not fair, either. How come he gets a sword and I don’t?”

“You think you’re always going to have a weapon to hand?” Jack shook his head. “Uh-uh. Nope. But your opponent might.”

“What if my opponent has a semi-automatic?”

“Then you learn how to dodge bullets as well as swords.”

“This is pointless.”

“If it helps, think about it like Jedi training.”

Mark moaned. “It doesn’t. I was never a big movie fan, Jack, remember? I was more into sports – which is how I ended up following your career.”

Jack smiled. “Still my number one fan, eh?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how long I have to keep doing this shit for.”

Jack clipped him around the ear. “That’s ’cause Robert’s not here, or he’d have done the same. It’s not grown up to cuss like that.”

Mark let his shoulders sag.

“Look, tell you what: Azhar, toss Mark your sword a second.”

The soldier threw his wooden sword over to the boy, who almost dropped it.

“Okay, now you’re armed. He’s not. Think you can take him?”

Mark grinned, swinging the sword to test its weight. It was payback time. He stepped into the area of combat, while Jack watched from the sidelines. Azhar hunched down low and matched Mark’s circling movements, eyes flitting from his enemy’s face to his hands. Mark swung the sword experimentally. He’d practised before with one of these, sneaked away when no one was looking to get the feel of what it was like. He’d taken on trees and fences, fancied himself as pretty good too – not in Azhar’s league, of course, but given enough time... Except Azhar didn’t have the sword anymore, did he? Now the advantage was all Mark’s.

He came at Azhar, swinging left and right. The darker-skinned man moved like a cat, making sure the sword never came within three feet of his body. Mark gripped the weapon with both hands, bringing it up in an arc which would ordinarily have caught his opponent beneath the chin – but Azhar had already leaned back. The difference between his move and the one Mark attempted earlier was that Azhar was soon upright again.

Mark showed his teeth, in an effort to put Azhar off, but there was absolutely no reaction. This made him even angrier. He swung the blade this way and that, as he figured he was bound to strike something sooner or later – an arm, a leg... a whack in the head might be nice in return for all the pokes and prods.

He hit nothing.

Mark was on his final swipe – Azhar right in front of him – when suddenly the man wasn’t there anymore. He was at Mark’s side, having dropped and slid around, and was relieving Mark of the sword, grabbing his wrists and wrenching the weapon free. In seconds Mark was again on the wrong end of the tip, which was hovering between his eyes.

There was laughter coming from somewhere. At first Mark thought it was Jack again, but it wasn’t deep enough. When Azhar stepped back Mark turned and saw Dale sitting on the steps to the East Terrace. He had his guitar with him, and was shaking his head, clapping his thigh at the sight of Mark’s defeat.

“Nice one, Marky. You had him right where he wanted you,” Dale brought his guitar around and started to play a melody, making up words on the spot.

“You try your best, put to the test,

But let’s face it now, you need a rest.

Can’t be easy, ohhh, it can’t be easy...

“Give it your all, but when you’re small,

You find out life just ain’t no ball,

Can’t be easy, ohhh, it just can’t be that easy...”

“Shut up!” shouted Mark, but Dale continued playing. Mark turned and saw that some of the other men training had stopped to listen.

“He’s just a child playing at bein’ a man,

It’s hard and he don’t know if he can.

Oh, it ain’t easy... It simply ain’t that easy...”

Mark’s eyes narrowed and he marched towards Dale. “I said shut up!” Azhar came up behind to try and stop him, but Jack put a hand on his arm. This had been a while coming and the last thing Mark needed was anyone interfering.

“What’s the problem, Marky-boy?” answered Dale, resting his guitar against the wall and standing to meet him. “It was just a joke. What’s the matter, can’t you take a –”

Mark grabbed him by the collar, swinging him around and onto the pavement between the steps and the field. He pulled back his fist, then struck Dale squarely in the face, making his nose bleed. Dale brought a couple of fingers up, touched the nostrils, and when they came away red he glared at Mark. “You little sod, look what you did.”

“Want some more?”

Dale ran forwards, dragging Mark back onto the field. They slipped, then rolled over on the snow.

“Let them work it out,” Mark heard Jack saying as they rolled past him and Azhar. “Bit of old fashioned wrestling never hurt anyone.”

On the final roll, Dale landed on top of Mark, pinning him down. He brought his fist back, ready to retaliate, when there was a cry to their left.

“Dale... Mark...” It was a female voice, too young to be Mary’s. Mark recognised it instantly. So did Dale.

“What’s going on?” asked Sophie, making her way down the steps.

“Some other time,” Dale said to Mark, tapping him on the cheek.

Mark wrenched his head away and spat back: “Any time.”

“Jack, what’s happening here? Why didn’t you break the training up when it was getting too rough?” Sophie said.

The big man held up a hand in mock surrender. “Hey there, little lady, it was nothing to do with me.”

“Wait till Mary hears about this,” she told him.

Dale was up and walking over towards her, wiping his bloody nose. Already, Sophie was pulling a tissue out of her winter coat to dab at it. “Look at you... You should know better. He’s only just starting out.”

“Yeah,” Dale replied, looking back at Mark. “I’m sorry, mate.” He grinned as he let Sophie clean up his face.

“You should go easy on him. Come on inside, let’s get you cleaned up properly.”

Mark stared in disbelief as Dale grabbed his guitar and trotted off back up the steps with Sophie. Go easy on me! Go easy? I nearly bloody well broke his nose! He got up just in time to watch the pair disappear from view.

Jack placed a hand on his shoulder. “All’s fair in love and war.” He said the words as if distracted.

Mark followed his gaze to the far end of the Bailey, where a woman with short, dark hair was walking past. It was the woman who’d arrived with Jack and Robert the other day, Adele. She’d gone off with Jack then to have a tour of the castle and its grounds, but it was Robert she’d had eyes for – much to Mary’s chagrin.