Romancing Robin Hood (5 page)

Ignoring the siren calls of the pizza place, Grace headed home to cook a quick dinner of pasta, eating it out of the saucepan while watching an old episode of
Robin of Sherwood
on DVD. Grace marvelled, as she always did, at how young all the actors looked. It may have been recorded over twenty years ago – but you only had to look at the once-gorgeous Ray Winstone … Grace chuckled to herself. Even Daisy hadn't understood her crush on the character of Will Scarlet. He was portrayed as the most violent, merciless, and unforgiving of the outlaws, and yet Grace always had the urge to give him a big cuddle. He was a bad boy you just had to love.

It was one o'clock in the morning before Grace finally put down the PhD thesis. There was no question in her mind: it was one of the best she'd ever read. She would have to watch this future academic carefully; he'd be stepping on her territory. ‘Best make him an ally and not an enemy then,' Grace said to the framed poster of Basil Rathbone's Guy of Gisborne that was hanging on the upstairs landing wall, before she gave up on the day and went to bed.

Chapter Six

One of the household servants had been instructed to check on Mathilda every few minutes, and having found her awake and lucid, had followed his instructions to the letter and provided her with a hunk of reasonably fresh bread, some thin vegetable soup, and a cup of ale.

Mathilda had eaten and drunk hastily and gratefully. She thanked her new companion while chewing on a mouthful of bread in a manner which would have infuriated her father, who had strangely strict ideas on table manners compared to his easy-going nature in every other aspect of life. She knew his dinner table lecture by heart: ‘You never know when important visitors might call. We should always be at our best and give a good impression at the table.'

She could hear her father's deep gravelly voice clearly, and see his grey-mottled bearded head. He'd been a tall man once, but since his forty-fifth year he'd seemed to dwindle, as if ill and fed up with the routine of daily existence without her mother.

The last drops of soup and ale gone, Mathilda brushed a few escaped breadcrumbs from her lap and whispered to her companion, ‘What's your name? Can you tell me where I am?'

The boy, for he was no more than twelve years old, was edgy. ‘They call me Allward.' He obviously hadn't been given direct permission to talk. On the other hand, he hadn't been forbidden to do so either, for after a moment's pause he whispered back, ‘Ashby Folville hall, the home of his Lordship John Folville.'

‘John? Not Eustace?'

Allward bowed his head, obviously uncomfortable, ‘It is my Lord John's home, but he is rarely here, preferring instead to reside in Leicester or Huntingdon. Naturally his whole family here in Ashby Folville too, on and off.'

‘Was it my Lord John who bid me rest and eat?'

‘No miss, it wasn't.' The boy stood up, ‘I'm to take you back now, please follow me.'

‘Back to where? To who?'

The boy didn't reply as he led her away from the small, closeted space into the main hall, but he threw her a look of apology that did nothing to calm Mathilda's quickly re-emerging fears.

‘You are Mathilda of Twyford, daughter of Bertred of Twyford and sister to Matthew and Oswin?'

‘Yes, my lord,' Mathilda stared at her feet as once again she stood back before the man in the blue cloak. She could feel the heat of his piercing eyes examining her closely.

‘Do you remember what I asked you, Mathilda? Before you swooned.'

‘Yes, my Lord,' Mathilda mumbled her reply, before remembering her manners. ‘Thank you for looking after me, my Lord.'

‘You are welcome.'

She risked a glance at her noble companion's face, but it gave away nothing. Mathilda judged him to be in his twentieth year, maybe a little older. His body was not as smooth as to indicate a wholly indoor life, but nor was it so tanned or calloused to indicate an existence labouring in the fields or at a craft. She placed him as one of the younger brothers, not quite having a role, unless to fight as a knight for the king, or to enter the church. Not that she could imagine him in the latter role.

‘So what were we saying, Mathilda?'

‘I agreed that debtors should pay their debts my Lord.'

‘Good.' He stood and paced between her and the fire that now roared without excess smoke, but was remained rather too fierce for safety, causing him to gesture to Allward to come and tame it before the flames licked towards the house timbers. ‘Sometimes debtors do not pay what they owe through sheer greed, and we, my brothers and I, have ways of sorting those situations out.'

Mathilda's spine tingled, and a chill ran through her as this calm stranger, a stranger who'd showed himself capable of kindness, implied threats and murder.

‘On other occasions, a debtor, who is known to be otherwise honest, is unable to pay what's owed straight away. Or perhaps the debt is more complex than the mere owing of money. Chattels are used, sometimes crops or animals, or sometimes,' he paused again, his eyes assessing Mathilda shrewdly as he placed his hands on her shoulders, making her tense beneath his firm touch, ‘… with the loan or gift of servants or younger members of the family.'

Not giving Mathilda time to react to the import of what he'd said, the man continued, letting go of her and crashing without dignity into his seat with a sigh. ‘These are turbulent times, Mathilda. King Edward II has been removed, and although his child sits upon the throne, he is but a puppet. It is his Queen Isabella and her lover Mortimer who pull the strings of this country. As the Despenser estates, and the lands and policies of Thomas of Lancaster, are continually argued over, and our fair country's honour over the matter of that cursed land of Scotland is debated, who has an eye on the small towns of England? No one. No, we must look to ourselves, Mathilda; we must take care of our shire and protect it against injustice. Don't you agree?'

Mathilda nodded. She hadn't understood a lot of what he'd said and, anyway, her mind was filling with the slow realisation that her father not only saw her as a mere chattel, but had exchanged her, like a cow or a carven chest, to pay his debt. The cold that seemed to have hung about her since her release from the small prison returned, and she had to fight to hide the shivers that were making her shoulders quake.

‘I knew you were an intelligent woman.' The nobleman appeared pleased, and Mathilda fought her confusion in order not to displease him, saying, ‘You protect the area, like Robyn Hode would if he was really amongst us, my Lord, if you please.'

‘Indeed, girl, just like Hode would if he were truly here.'

The Folville didn't say anything else for a moment, but seemed satisfied as he watched his quarry. She didn't shake now. He'd seen how hard she had fought within herself to still her external reactions to his news of her change in circumstance, and had admired her self-control. She had more of an offended dignity about her than terror. He wondered if she'd been taught her letters. Most families' didn't waste their time teaching their womenfolk such things, but this Mathilda was sharp and capable. With the mother gone, he imagined she'd run the household, and probably did the job well.

Breaking the silence that had stretched out between them he said, ‘You have questions for me. I can see your mind jarring with them.'

‘If I may, my Lord?'

‘You may, although I should caution you, I may not always choose to offer a reply.'

Mathilda licked her lips and ran her clammy palms down her grubby belted dress, which largely hid the fact she was wearing boys' hose and flexed her cold numbed bare toes. ‘Please, my Lord, who are you?'

This produced a bark of laughter, ‘You don't know me, child? I apologise. You are well-mannered despite the indignity of being thrust, if only for a short while, into our cell, and have instantly spotted the flaw in my own behaviour, for I haven't introduced myself. I am Robert de Folville, youngest of the seven brothers of the manor.'

Mathilda curtsied, more out of natural impulse than any feelings of reverence to this man, who she now knew for certain had been party to at least one murder, ‘You are brother to Eustace, my Lord?'

‘Yes girl, I am.' He cocked his head to one side. ‘That worries you?'

‘He is a man I have been taught to fear, forgive my impudence, my Lord.'

He snorted, ‘I would rather have honest impudence than bluff and lies. So, you have been instructed by your father to be wary of us?'

‘Not only my father, sir.' Abruptly worried that her boldness might place her family in more danger, Mathilda clamped her mouth shut. Seeing, however, that the younger Folville wasn't cross, but had a mild expression of acceptance on his face, Mathilda braved a further question.

‘Where is my father, my Lord, and, Matthew and Oswin, my brothers?'

Robert paused, and after a moment's consideration, gestured for the servant boy to bring her a chair. Mathilda sat down gladly, confused at the equal status she was being afforded after her earlier abuse, as the Folville sat next to her, leaning in close to her slight, tensed frame.

‘Your father and your brother Matthew are at home in Twyford working on ways to pay back our debt. As yet, I do not know all the details of Oswin's whereabouts. I am, after all, only one of the younger brothers.'

Mathilda heard the bitterness in him, and for the first time understood a little of this man. He would probably have made a good lord of the manor, but his lot was to be a minor son.

‘You will have heard of the death of Belers three years hence?'

‘Yes, my Lord.' Mathilda spoke softly, her mind going back to the day she'd heard about the murder on Brokesby Field. It may not have happened right on their doorstep, but the frisson of fear the crime had engendered had been felt even in Twyford; such was their closeness to the Folvilles manor house; and the waves the crime had created were still leaving ripples these many months later.

He must have read her mind, for Robert slammed his hand against the table, making Mathilda jump, ‘Damn it all woman, Belers was a tyrant! An oppressive and rapacious man who had become a scourge on our county! We did what needed to be done. Robyn Hode would have done no less!'

Mathilda said nothing, but knew he meant what he said. Robert, and probably his brothers as well, evidently believed they were providing a public service, and took their fee for such a deed as wages, just as the sheriff did when he arrested a felon for the King.

Folville leant towards Mathilda earnestly, ‘Did your father ever sing you “The Outlaw's Song of Trailbaston”, child?'

‘I've heard of it, my Lord, but no, I don't know it as I know the Robyn Hode tunes.'

‘It contains much wisdom. I have no doubt that its great length influenced the author of the Hode stories.' Robert sat back in his seat, his long arms stretched behind his head as he began to quote a verse to his captive.

‘You who are indicted, I advise you, come to me,

To the green forest of Belregard, where there is no annoyance

But only the wild animal and the beautiful shade; For the common law is too uncertain.
³

What do you say, child?'

Mathilda swallowed again. The ale she'd drunk earlier had been stronger than she was used to, and had made her head ache and left her throat feeling sticky, producing a thirst worse than before. ‘I believe there is wisdom within, my Lord. I have heard my elders say that the law is confusing. If we truly have been abandoned by the law, perhaps you are correct to take matters into your own hands – within reason, my Lord.'

Mathilda flinched, expecting her host to strike out. She shouldn't have said that last bit. Why couldn't she ever keep her opinions to herself and her tongue in check? Her directness had always been a bone of contention within the family, and now Mathilda was regretting sharing her opinion honestly, rather than telling Folville what he wanted to hear. She tensed, awaiting the call to the guard to come and throw her back into prison.

It did not come. Folville was peering at her quizzically, ‘You are a curious creature, Mathilda of Twyford. You must have realised you have been used to pay off your father's debts, but you ask nothing of your own future, only theirs. My reverend brother placed you briefly in our cell, and you do not ask why, or make complaint about your hasty kidnap and enclosure.'

Mathilda bit her tongue, not wanting to say the wrong thing, despite her need for answers to the questions he'd posed.

‘Your father told Eustace and the rector that you were headstrong and determined when they collected you, so Richard decreed a spell in our holding cell would soften you to our will.' Robert snorted into his mug of ale. ‘He obviously never bothered to take the time to talk to you before he acted. A fact about my holy brother that surprises me not one jot.'

Mathilda looked back at the floor, the first glimmer of a smile since her removal from the river, trying to form at the corner of her mouth.

‘Your father also said to Eustace that you have qualities more suited to the male gender than the gentler sex. It seems you are happier in the river or fields than the house or orchard, and only ran the home begrudgingly as it is your duty as a female.'

Mathilda said nothing, but was unable to prevent the crimson blush that came as she heard how her father had described her to a stranger. She felt indignant. Mathilda had worked hard to run the house, small garden, and orchard as successfully as her mother had done, even though it was a task she didn't enjoy and frequently resented.

‘Well, Mathilda, I will tell you what Eustace has arranged with your father.'

Mathilda sat up straighter, her hands clasped in her lap as she listened.

‘We have an adequate compliment of servants here, Mathilda, so exchanging you for payment of a debt was a rather unusual thing for Eustace to do.'