Romancing Robin Hood (3 page)

She tried not to start blaming her father, but it was difficult not to. Why hadn't he told her he'd borrowed money from the Folvilles? It was an insane thing to do. Only the most desperate … Mathilda stopped her thoughts in their tracks. They were disloyal and pointless.

They'd been relatively well-off when Mathilda was younger. They'd owned four horses, a few chickens, a cow, and a field for planting their own vegetables and a small amount of wheat. There was also the pottery shed and kiln where her father made his tableware and cooking pots, and a little orchard which backed onto the two-roomed house. Slowly, over the past few years, it had almost all been sold off. Only the workhouse, orchard, one horse and cart, and a single strip of the field remained.

Now she thought about it, Mathilda realised that they
had
been that desperate; she'd simply been so busy making the best of things that she hadn't had time to think about it. Since her mother had died four years ago, and the disastrous crop failure a few harvests back, combined with the decline in the demand for locally made pottery as ceramic tableware from Wales, the south, and even France flooded the markets, life had become steadily more difficult. Her father hadn't been able to compete, and each time he travelled the ten miles to the market at Leicester he seemed to come home more dejected than the time before, and with more and more unsold stock.

Last time her father had travelled to the city, he'd returned early, a desolate figure, with a cartload of shards behind him. A thief had struck in the market place, and in their unthinking eagerness to apprehend the villain the bailiff's men had run roughshod through the stalls, toppling her father's table as they went, leaving him with only broken stock and an increasingly broken faith.

‘Our Lady,' Mathilda muttered in the gloom, her voiced hushed in fear, ‘please deliver me from this place.' Then, guilty at having asked for something so boldly from someone she'd willingly begun to neglect of late, Mathilda added, ‘I'm sorry, Our Lady, forgive me. I'm frightened, that's all. Perhaps though, you could look after my brothers and my father.'

Mathilda wasn't even sure that any of them were still alive. The Folville family reputation made it more than possible that they'd all been killed.

As soon as she'd been taken, lifted bodily from the water as if she was as light as air, Mathilda had been bundled into a covered wagon and moved to the manor at Ashby Folville. A large man had sat with her, shoving a filthy rag between her lips to fend off the thousands of questions she had, and tying her hands behind her back.

The journey, although bumpy and bruising, was no longer than two miles, and soon Mathilda was untied and un-gagged and, having been thoroughly stared at from top to bottom by this impertinent man who seemed to have the ability to see through her clothes to the flesh beneath, was wordlessly bundled below stairs to her current lonely location. Her stomach growled at her, complaining at its emptiness. She felt cross with herself. How could she even consider food when her family was in danger?

‘Just as well I don't want to eat,' she told herself sternly, ‘as I probably won't ever see food again.' Then she collapsed to the ground, the terror and shock of the morning washing over her in a wave of misery.

Does Mathilda seem miserable and scared enough?
Grace wasn't sure she'd laid the horror of the situation on thick enough. On the other hand, she didn't want to drown her potential readers in suffering-related adjectives.

No, on reflection it was fine; certainly good enough to leave and come back to on the next read through. She glanced at the clock at the corner of the computer screen. How the hell had it got to eight thirty already? Grace's stomach rumbled, making her think of poor Mathilda in her solitary prison.

Switching off her computer, Grace crammed all her notes into her bag so she could read over them at home, and headed out of her office. Walking down the Queen's Road, which led from the university to her small home in Leicester's Clarendon Park region, Grace decided it was way too hot, even at this time of the evening, to stand in the kitchen and attempt, and probably fail, to cook something edible, so she'd grab a takeaway.

Grateful it wasn't term time, so she didn't have to endure the banter of the students who were also waiting for associated plastic boxes of Chinese food, Grace speedily walked home, and without bothering to transfer her chicken chow mein to another dish, grabbed a fork, kicked off her shoes, and settled herself down with her manuscript.

The hall was foggy from a poorly-set fire, and it took Mathilda a few moments to take in her surroundings. The smoke stung her eyes, and even though the vast space was actually rather dark and dim, she blinked against the light, which was bright compared to the cell.

Her arms and feet hadn't been tied, but as a precaution against her potential escape the same surly man who'd deposited her in her prison earlier, dressed in the same dirty hose and capon, stood over her, his unusually tall frame giving off an unpleasant odour of sweat and fish.

As the fishy aroma assaulted Mathilda's nostrils, her mind flew to her brothers, and she opened her mouth to speak to the man sat at the table before her. The words never left her mouth though, as he raised his hand in a clear warning for her to remain silent.

Mathilda stared at him. He was finely dressed in a peacock blue cloak, with a green and brown tunic and matching hose. There was braiding around his collar, but this was not a man of high birth, nor was he the local sheriff or bailiff. His birth status was obviously somewhere in between high nobility and public servant. Mathilda swallowed nervously, and lowered her gaze to the floor in a natural response to before her betters – even if ‘betters' was entirely the wrong description in this case. This man had to be a Folville. Mathilda began to shake with increased fear as a million possibilities of what might happen to her flew around her head. None of them were pleasant.

‘I see you wish to ask questions,' His voice was husky but soft, and without the harsh edge she'd been expecting, ‘and yet wisely, and with a politeness I certainly appreciate considering the events of the day, you are waiting for permission. You will get your opportunity, but first I will ask
you
some questions.'

Mathilda kept her eyes firmly on the dusty floor, concentrating on her cold bare feet.

‘What is your name, child, and how old are you?'

‘Mathilda of Twyford. I'm nineteen, my Lord.'

‘You appear much younger.' He looked harder into her face for a second before carrying on, ‘Tell me, Mathilda, do you know the stories of Robyn Hode?'

Surprised by the question, Mathilda's head snapped up and for a second she found herself gazing directly into her captor's blue eyes.
Is he one of the Folville brothers after all?

There was a grunt of derision from the man Mathilda had come to think of as her jailer as the possible Folville had asked his question.

Glaring over Mathilda's shoulder, straight at her escort, he dismissed him, ‘I'm sure you must have parishioners to lead astray, Brother. I am sure I can attend to this girl alone.'

The religious brother, the rector of Teigh? Surely the man who'd dragged her here wasn't a man of the cloth?
Mathilda had no time to speculate on this shocking revelation however, for the well-dressed man was repeating his question. ‘Do you know the stories of Robyn Hode, child?'

‘Why, yes, I do, my Lord.'

Catching the gleam in his eyes, Mathilda remembered herself, and hastily lowered her gaze again, frightened of his reaction to her infraction of class rules.

He seemed more amused than cross at her boldness, and Mathilda was sure she'd heard suppressed laughter in his voice as he continued, ‘Well, Mathilda, can you tell me what Hode does?'

‘He takes from rich people, sir, and helps those who he decides deserve it.'

‘Very good. That's almost right. Although, if you listen to the balladeers carefully next time they are at the fair, you'll notice that he takes from those who are cruel or greedy; they weren't necessarily rich.' The man stood and came closer to the girl. She was filthy from the cell, and her shoulders shook, but he reflected, possibly more with hunger and thirst than straightforward fear.
Remarkable in one so young; especially a female.
‘You enjoy the stories?'

‘Yes my Lord, my mother used to sing them, and I've heard them at the fair.'

‘I like them too. I particularly like the bit when Robyn Hode takes a tax from those passing through Barnsdale, and how he punishes those who fail to discharge their debts.'

Bile rose in Mathilda's throat; so all this was about money. She wondered how much her father owed this man.

‘Do you believe everyone should pay their debts, child?'

She tried to say ‘Yes, my Lord,' but the words died in her throat as Mathilda imagined her father thrown into a cell like the one she'd occupied, and her brothers, dead or hurt. The horrific pictures rapidly growing within her mind suddenly swam together in an incoherent blur, and her legs began to buckle …

Grace closed the notebook as she shovelled the final forkful of noodles into her mouth, reluctantly putting her novel notes away and turning her laptop on. She'd put off checking her emails all day, and knew that if she left them until tomorrow the messages that had already started to queue for her attention would have reached insurmountable proportions.

Scanning the list of forty-eight messages waiting in her inbox, she happily deleted twenty-one of them, all of which extolled the virtues of breast enlargements (Grace's Rubenesque size 16 figure would never need them), and penile extensions (for heaven's sake!). Then Grace skipped her eyes through the emails from her students, begging for deadline extensions for essays and projects that should have been handed in weeks before the summer break, along with their general gripes, groans, worries, and excuses.

Next she opened one from Professor Davis, who informed her he'd passed on her details to Dr Franks at Nottingham. Then she'd had an email from Franks himself.

Dear Dr Harper,

Many thanks for agreeing to step in ‘cavalry-like' as the external examiner for my student – especially at such short notice.

Viva is a week on Friday at 2 p.m.

(Grace swore under her breath. Her boss had mentioned ‘soon' but not ‘instant')

Naturally I will take you out to lunch prior to the interview so we may discuss the thesis, its strengths, weaknesses, etc. A copy of the thesis has been sent to you via courier. You should get it tomorrow morning.

Perhaps you could meet me at 11.30 at the reception of the Lenton Grove building?

Looking forward to meeting a fellow medievalist.

Yours etc.

Rob (Franks)

‘Creep.' Grace experienced an immediate dislike for this man she'd never met. ‘Fellow medievalist' indeed! He made it sound like an exclusive club.

Finally Grace read an email from Daisy.

Hope you got my card. You WILL be my right-hand girl on this won't you? I couldn't possibly go through this wedding lark without your support.

Went to find a dress today – bloody disaster.

Have NO idea what suits me or what I want. I've even bought some wedding magazines in a desperate attempt to get ideas. ME – WASTING MONEY ON MAGAZINES – the world has gone mad!

Anyway – when can we meet up to get your outfit?

Hope you ok. Give my love to RH!!

D xxx

Grace smiled; Daisy always sent Robin Hood her love, as if he was a really was a tangible person in Grace's life. Her smile died a little, however, as she thought of Daisy buying magazines. That was not natural at all. And when the hell was she going to find time to go dress hunting in the next few weeks?

She felt guilty. Grace knew she should offer to go with Daisy to get her wedding dress as well as her own bridesmaid's dress, but when? Shooting off an email, Grace privately vowed to herself that writing, lecturing, marking, and forthcoming viva notwithstanding, she would find time for her best friend.

Of course I will be your bridesmaid. Looking forward to it.

Will consult calendar first thing tomo morning re. dress shopping, and we'll hit shops. (I won't whimper too much if you promise I don't have to wear pink!!)

RH says hi.

G x

Chapter Four

Pulling back her curtains, Grace couldn't help but smile as the rain washed down the window. The hot sticky weather was all very well if you were comfortable wearing floaty skirts, or were happy to reveal your pasty legs for the critical observation of others. Grace wasn't. She never quite right unless she was wearing her trusty denims – black for work – blue for home.

There was something reliable and safe about pulling on a pair of jeans each morning. Grace knew they had become part of her identity over the years, and the last two weeks of sunshine-enforced thin linen trousers had made her feel wrong in a way she could never have explained to anyone else.

The view from her bedroom window was reassuringly the same as ever. Victorian terraced houses queued along the thin pavement opposite; parked cars lined up next to them in tight formation. Early morning dog walkers and paperboys and girls strode along the unexpectedly damp pavements of Howard Road.

Content with the scene, Grace reflected on how lucky she was to live in such a nice terrace within a stone's throw of work, and to be occupying one of the few homes in the area that wasn't neighboured by student accommodation on all sides.

It was only seven o'clock. Students usually cut through the street to the university from their residences at the top of Queen's Road, but at this time of year it was blissfully quiet.

Grace showered, pulled on her jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, shook out her shaggy mass of unruly brown hair, ignored the idea of breakfast, and, gathering her notes together headed into the muggy, warm Midlands air.