Romancing Robin Hood (2 page)

‘Sorry to disturb you, Grace,' Davis smiled, flashing his dazzling white teeth at Grace as he gave her office his usual amused look of disbelief. ‘I've had a call from Nottingham Uni, they need an external examiner for one of their PhD student's viva exams and I thought of you. It's a bit of an emergency, they've been let down by their previous examiner and the viva is soon-ish.'

Grace sighed inwardly; this was precisely what she didn't need. Her time to write was precious enough without the amount of work involved in supervising a viva eating into it. Assessing a research student and their work during the most important exam of their careers was not something Grace would contemplate taking lightly. It would take hours of careful preparation. Keeping her opinion to herself, her voice was light as she asked, ‘What's the subject?'

The professor read from a sheet of paper he was carrying, ‘It's entitled – wait for this!
The Sheriff of Nottingham; suppressed and oppressed over-worked civil servant, or out-and- out villain; the story of a fourteenth-century official.
'

‘Good grief! Sounds like the work of a future tabloid journalist.'

Davis smiled again; his gleaming grin clashing with his dark skin. ‘That's pretty much what I thought. He's supposed to be a good student, this Christopher Ledger. His supervisor is Dr Robert Franks.'

Grace frowned; she thought she knew all the medieval academics in the country, but his name was new to her, ‘Who's he?'

‘A new chap they've just got in. He's been spreading the knowledge in the USA. He did four years in Houston, and now he's taken on a post at Nottingham.'

It was ridiculous to feel worried, but Grace couldn't keep the mildly anxious edge from her voice as she asked, ‘What's his speciality, this Dr Franks?'

Davis pulled out a chair, understanding exactly why his colleague was enquiring, ‘He's an expert on medieval landscapes and architecture, and the nobility that came with them.'

‘Ah, hence the Sheriff of Nottingham-themed doctorate.' Grace was relieved that her academic territory hadn't been invaded so close to home. ‘Is he good?'

‘Very, apparently. He could help you with your own research, maybe. I believe Franks has access to the remaining land and forestry records of Nottinghamshire for the fourteenth century.'

Grace nodded, ‘I admit some extra original evidence in that area would be useful.'

‘How's your magnum opus coming on anyway?' Davis rose to his feet, ‘Bit slowly right now I should think, after the admin avalanche that's fallen upon us from a great height over the last few weeks.'

Hiding her crossed fingers behind her back, Grace replied, hoping she wouldn't blush and give away her major exaggeration from the truth, which was that only a very sketchy draft of it existed so far, ‘It's been tricky fitting it all in, but I'm at the second draft-checking stage. The skeleton is there, just needs the padding out to go now.'

‘Excellent. I know there's no set deadline for it yet, Grace, but the sooner you finish your textbook, the sooner we can get it on the course reading list, and the better your career prospects; but I'm not telling you anything you don't know! Well then,' her boss heaved himself away from the filing cabinet against which he'd lent, ‘I'll leave you to it. I'll tell the Nottingham lot you'll do it then, shall I?'

‘Sure. Why not?'

‘Thanks, Grace.'

Chapter Two

The sky was the sort of brilliant blue that primary school children happily daub in thick stripes across the top of any outside scene they happened to be painting. Free from a single cloud, it shimmered with a hazy heat from a piercing sun, whose rays were only diminished by the cover of a group of aged oak trees which huddled together at the end of Daisy's vast garden.

‘I'll make a deal with you,' she said to the sky, ‘you stay like this for my wedding, and I'll let you rain as much as you like for the rest of the summer. Deal?'

Laughing at herself, Daisy arranged a large wooden-framed run on one of the only patches of grass that her guinea pigs hadn't yet gnawed down to the roots. Despite the lawn's size, Daisy hadn't ever bothered to purchase a mower. With her ever-expanding livestock there was no need. Chatting to the animals as she placed hutches, pens, and runs in position, Daisy started the daily task of carrying the various furry creatures from their indoor to their outdoor accommodation. Glancing back up at the perfect sky, her mind returned to its preoccupation with her forthcoming nuptials. The fact it was happening at all was a miracle really.

Daisy hadn't grown up picturing herself floating down the aisle in an over-sequinned ivory frock, nor as a doting parent, looking after triplets and walking a black Labrador. So when, on an out-of-hours trip to the local vet's surgery she'd met Marcus and discovered that love at first sight wasn't a myth, it had knocked her for six.

She'd been on a late-night emergency dash to the surgery with an owl a neighbour had found injured in the road. Its wing had required a splint, and it was too big a job for only one pair of hands. Daisy had been more than a bit surprised when the locum vet had stirred some long-suppressed feeling of interest in her, and even more amazed when that feeling had been reciprocated.

It was all luck, sheer luck. Daisy had always believed that anyone meeting anybody was down to two people meeting at exactly the right place, at exactly the right time, while both feeling precisely the right amount of chemistry. The fact that any couples existed at all seemed to Daisy to be one of the greatest miracles of humanity.

She pictured Grace, tucked away in her mad little office only living in the twenty-first century on a part-time basis. Daisy had long since got used to the fact that her closest friend's mind was more often than not placed firmly in the 1300s. Daisy wished Grace would finish her book. It had become such a part of her. Such an exclusive aim that nothing else seemed to matter very much. Even the job she used to love seemed to be a burden to her now, and Daisy sensed that Grace was beginning to resent the hours it took her away from her life's work. Maybe if she could get her book over with – get it out of her system – then Grace would stop living in the wrong timeframe.

Daisy knew Grace appreciated that she never advised her to find a bloke, settle down, and live ‘happily ever after,' and she was equally grateful Grace had never once suggested anything similar to her. Now she had Marcus, however, Daisy had begun to want the same contentment for her friend, and had to bite her tongue whenever they spoke on the phone; something that happened less and less these days.

Grace emails were getting shorter too. The long paragraphs detailing the woes of teaching students with an ever-decreasing intelligence had blunted down to, ‘You ok? I'm good. Writing sparse. See you soon. Bye G x'

The book. That in itself was a problem. Grace's publishers and colleagues, Daisy knew, were expecting an academic tome. A textbook for future medievalists to ponder over in the university libraries of the world. And, in time, that was exactly what they were going to get, but not yet, for Grace had confided to Daisy that this wasn't the only thing she was working on, and her textbook was coming a poor third place to work and the other book she couldn't seem to stop herself from writing.

‘Why,' Grace had forcefully expounded on their last meeting, ‘should I slog my guts out writing a book only a handful of bored students and obsessive freaks like myself will ever pick up, let alone read?'

As a result, Grace was writing a novel, ‘A semi-factual novel,' she'd said, ‘a story which will tell any student what they need to know about the Folville family and their criminal activities – which bear a tremendous resemblance to the stories of a certain famous literary outlaw! – and hopefully promote interest in the subject for those who aren't that into history without boring them to death.'

It sounded like a good idea to Daisy, but she also knew, as Grace did, that it was precisely the sort of book academics frowned upon, and she was worried about Grace's determination to finish it. Daisy thought it would be more sensible to concentrate on one manuscript at a time, and get the dry epic that everyone was expecting out of the way first. Perhaps it would have been completed by now if Grace could focus on one project at a time, rather than it currently being a year in the preparation without a final result in sight. Daisy suspected Grace's boss had no idea what she was really up to. After all, she was using the same lifetime of research for both manuscripts. She also had an underlying suspicion that subconsciously Grace didn't want to finish either the textbook or the novel; that her friend was afraid to finish them. After all, what would she fill her hours with once they were done?

Daisy's mobile began to play a tinny version of
Nellie the Elephant
. She hastily plopped a small black guinea pig, which she'd temporarily called Charcoal, into a run with his numerous friends, and fished her phone from her dungarees pocket.

‘Hi, Marcus.'

‘Hi, honey, you OK?'

‘Just delivering the tribe to their outside quarters, then I'm off to face the horror that is dress shopping.'

Her future husband laughed, ‘You'll be fine. You're just a bit rusty, that's all.'

‘Rusty! I haven't owned a dress since I went to parties as a small child. Thirty-odd years ago!'

‘I don't understand why you don't go with Grace at the weekend. It would be easier together wouldn't it?'

Daisy sighed, ‘I'd love to go with her, but I'll never get her away from her work more than once this month, and I've yet to arrange a date for her to buy a bridesmaid outfit.'

‘Well, good luck, babe. I'm off to rob some bulls of their manhood.'

Daisy giggled. ‘Have fun. Oh, why did you call by the way?'

‘Just wanted to hear your voice, nothing else.'

‘Oh, cute – ta!'

‘Idiot! Enjoy shopping.'

As she clicked her battered blue mobile shut and slid it back into her working clothes, Daisy thought of Grace again. Perhaps she should accidentally invite loads of single men to the wedding to tempt her friend with. The trouble was, unless they wore Lincoln Green, and carried a bow and quiver of arrows, Daisy very much doubted whether Grace would even notice they were there.

Chapter Three

Mathilda thought she was used to darkness, but the dim candlelight of the comfortable small room she shared at home with her brothers was nothing like this. The sheer density of this darkness seemed to envelop her, physically gliding over Mathilda's clammy goose-pimpled skin. This was an extreme blackness that coated her, making her breathless, as if it was stealthfully compressing her lungs and squeezing the life from her.

Unable to see the floor, Mathilda presumed, as she pressed her naked foot against it and damp oozed between her toes, that the suspiciously soft surface she was sat on was moss, which in a room neglected for years had been allowed it to form a cushion on the stone floor. It was a theory backed up by the smell of mould and general filthiness which hung in the air.

Trying not to think about how long she was going to be left in this windowless cell, Mathilda stretched out her arms and bravely felt for the extent of the walls, hoping she wasn't about to touch something other than cold stone. The child's voice that lingered at the back of her mind, even though she was a woman of nineteen, was telling her – screaming at her – that there might be bodies in here, still clapped in irons, abandoned and rotting. Mathilda battled the voice down; knowing it that would do her no good at all. Her father had always congratulated Mathilda on her level headedness, and now it was being put to the test. She was determined not to let him down now.

Placing the very tips of her fingers against the wall behind her, she felt her way around. It was wet. Trickles of water had found a way in from somewhere, giving the walls the same slimy covering as the floor. Mathilda traced the outline of the rough stone wall, keeping her feet exactly where they were. In seconds her fingers came to a corner, and twisting at the waist, she managed to plot her prison from one side of the heavy wooden door to the other, without doing more than extending the span of her arms.

Mathilda decided the room could be no more than five feet square, although it must be about six foot tall. Her own five-foot frame had stumbled down a step when she'd been pushed into the cell, and her head was at least a foot clear of the ceiling. The bleak eerie silence was eating away at her determination to be brave, and the cold brought her suppressed fear to the fore. Suddenly the shivering Mathilda had stoically ignored overtook her, and there was nothing she could do but let it invade her small slim body.

Wrapping her thin arms around her chest, she pulled up her hood, hugged her grey woollen surcoat tighter about her shoulders, and sent an unspoken prayer of thanks up to Our Lady for the fact that her legs were covered.

She'd been helping her two brothers, Matthew and Oswin, to catch fish in the deeper water beyond the second of Twyford's fords when the men had come. Mathilda had been wearing an old pair of Matthew's hose, although no stockings or shoes. She thought of her warm footwear, discarded earlier with such merry abandon. A forgotten, neglected pile on the river bank; thrown haphazardly beneath a tree in her eagerness to get them off and join the boys in their work. It was one of the only tasks their father gave them that could have been considered fun.

Mathilda closed her eyes, angry as the tears she'd forbidden herself to shed defied her stubborn will and came anyway. With them came weariness. It consumed her, forcing her to sink onto the rotten floor. Water dripped into her long, lank red hair. The tussle of capture had loosened its neatly woven plait, and now it hung awkwardly, half in and half out of its bindings, like a badly strapped sheaf of strawberry corn.