As Mary joined him on that sunny, but slightly chilly morning — still using a stick to get about — he thought about what he'd said, about almost losing her. Not even the castle had been safe; they both realised that now.
"When you're feeling up to it," he told her, slipping an arm around her waist, "how about we go out on a few patrols together. I know Dale would welcome the back-up. So would I."
"You old romantic," she said to him, slapping his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, feigning pain at the wound he'd received at the hands of Bohuslav. "Oh, I'm sorry, love."
"Maybe you should kiss it better."
Mary grinned. "I think that can be arranged. I wonder if the stables are free…" She took him by the hand and led him down the path.
As she did so, Robert realised that he didn't feel lost anymore. He been found, in more ways than one. He was both Robert Stokes — the man — and Robin Hood, the legend.
There were worse things in life he could be, and this woman had rescued him from that.
In a broken world, he said to himself, what more could anyone ask for?
The country had welcomed him back into her arms like a concerned mother.
One that also admonished him for ever wanting to leave. He comforted himself with the knowledge that none of this had been his idea. It had all been The Tsar's, the old Tsar's. Now that man was dead, along with Xue and Ying. Just as he had almost been.
As he stepped out into the cold, flanked by soldiers to the left and right, on his way to the combat arena from the Marriott, Bohuslav's wrist throbbed again, at the stump which he'd cauterised himself, almost passing out from the pain.
He felt the pull of the stitches at his stomach, the wound which would have seen his intestines spill out on the floor had it been a couple of millimetres deeper. As it was, he'd had to sew up the flesh with his one good hand — his driver useless at anything medical it seemed — dosing himself with antibiotics so there was no infection.
By the time he was fit enough to travel, news had reached them of the failure of their troops to retain the castle. Bohuslav had been numbed by the realisation that their entire operation had been a spectacular catastrophe.
There had been only one thing to do at that point. Waiting for them just off the coast were the fleet of empty hovercrafts, including The Tsar's, which he'd followed them in. He'd told his driver to radio that he would be returning, and that he would now be taking charge of the fleet — and indeed of The Tsar's entire army. They would return home to Russia to bide their time and replenish their forces.
It had been enough of a pasting to make him think twice about trying it again for a good while. Or at least without any major allies. One day, however, one day…
Because, as much as he loved his motherland, Bohuslav was also thirsty for vengeance. Not just on those who had done this to him, but also on the man who had lured The Tsar and his men across to that fated isle in the first place.
Tanek.
Even the name caused him to clench his fist as he climbed into the limo. He couldn't clench the other, as that position was now occupied by a handheld (Bohuslav would laugh at the inappropriateness of that, if it didn't remind him of the pain he'd endured) sickle, attached to the stump that was now aching so much.
Yes, one day he would meet both Hood and Tanek again. And when he did…
Bohuslav wondered where that cowardly giant had run off to after leaving his leader in the lurch. Reports were sketchy, but he'd apparently abandoned him at Sherwood after a confrontation with their enemies.
"Drive," he instructed the man in front, once his personal bodyguards were seated on either side. (They were no oriental beauties, but he knew they would give their lives for him.)
As the car pulled out into the snow-covered road, Bohuslav cursed Tanek, hoping that wherever he was, he was suffering.
For weeks now, he'd sat there, beside her, watching her suffer.
Quite how he'd managed to keep her alive was beyond him, not with the wound she'd suffered. He could put so much of it down to his skill with the blade, his knowledge of anatomy allowing him to perform the operation and remove the bullet — which had come so very close to penetrating her heart.
After leaving Sherwood, Tanek's plan to return to the castle had been waylaid by Adele, who had finally passed out from the loss of blood, in spite of the field dressing he'd applied. He needed to get her to an old hospital, anywhere he might be able to find replacement blood quickly. Tanek already knew her type: O-Neg. He consulted the map he found in the jeep they'd taken, and decided to head for King's Mill in Sutton-in-Ashfield because it seemed to be closest to their current position.
As he'd expected, the place was run down. People had picked over the stocks of drugs, but some of the medical equipment remained and the emergency operating theatre was still relatively intact — if woefully unhygienic after years of disrepair. They weren't in a position to be choosy, though.
Placing Adele on the table, Tanek went off and gathered what he could find — including tubes and needles for a transfusion, seeing as there were no stocks of blood that he could find. Running out of time, he'd hooked himself up and conducted the transfusion at the same time he began to operate. Not ideal, but necessary. There was alcohol in the medical kit from the jeep, so he'd been able to sterilise the bullet wound that way. He hadn't needed to knock Adele out with anything as she was totally unresponsive.
Tanek had cut into her with a scalpel that had survived the scavenger hunts, searching for the bullet that was causing all the bleeding. Little wonder, because it had glanced off the ribs and come close to actually puncturing her heart. Tanek had managed to remove the foreign item, stemming the blood flow; stitching her up and treating her with antibiotics that were also from the jeep. But he knew they couldn't stay there for ever.
He was too woozy to drive that night, but once he'd recovered enough, Tanek carried her to the jeep and prepared to make the trip back to the castle in Nottingham.
He hadn't got to the city limits when he saw that Hood's men were back on point. Tanek knew what that meant — they'd taken back the castle. He was tempted to go there anyway, gun them all down, but realistically he wouldn't get very far. And he had to look after Adele.
The dreams, the promise… they were never far from his mind.
He needed somewhere quiet, out of the way, somewhere he could care for her. So he'd retraced his steps from over a year ago, returning to Cynthia's little house out in the middle of nowhere.
The door had been wide open this time when he arrived. Stepping cautiously inside with his crossbow raised, Tanek had searched the place for any signs of the woman or her fucking demon dog. There were none, just evidence of some kind of struggle. Obviously someone had stumbled upon this place and they'd either fled, or been taken away and killed. There were no corpses to indicate it had happened in the house. He neither knew nor cared.
Tanek had carried De Falaise's daughter up to the bedroom, placing her on the comfortable bed that was still untouched. Then he'd looked after her, continuing to give her the antibiotics until they ran out, mopping her brow as she sweated out the pain, and willing her to wake.
She opened her eyes only twice. The first time she asked for water, which he gave her. Tanek had been feeding her intravenously with a drip he'd found back at King's Mill, while he'd been surviving on what he could hunt in the nearby meadows: small animals mainly, some birds which he killed with crossbow bolts. He'd lived on less.
Adele told him she'd seen her father, that he'd talked to her.
Tanek nodded. She'd had the dream as well.