Romancing Robin Hood (6 page)

Mathilda felt sick. A thousand unpleasant uses for her swam through her mind.

‘Eustace had considered selling you on, for servants and whores are always required.' Mathilda blanched at the easy, casual manner in which he spoke of her potential disposal, ‘but your father told him you were intelligent, and so he had an idea of a more satisfying use for you – for all of us. Do you have letters?

‘Some, my Lord, but only to read, not to write.'

‘That is of no matter. Reading will be of help, and I'm sure you will learn more without too much trouble.'

Interest disturbed Mathilda's troubled features. Surely they were unlikely to be about to sell her as a slave to the highest bidder if they were interested in if she'd been educated.

‘You are to be our assistant and my companion. Do you think you could do that, Mathilda of Twyford?'

Mathilda's jaw dropped open, but no words came out, and she gasped for air, as she took in the narrowness of her escape from the shame of prostitution. Yet she couldn't help wonder if her soul would end up being in even worse peril if she was to stay within these walls for too long.

‘Mathilda?'

‘My Lord, I will certainly do my best, but, if I may, sir, what sort of assistant?'

Chapter Seven

The triple knock on her office door could only have been from Agatha. The department secretary had her own special way of knocking, which she successfully employed so that the closeted academics would know it was her requiring attention and not a student; in which case, they shouldn't ignore the summons to answer the door.

‘Morning, Aggie, how's tricks?' Grace liked the secretary, and unlike some of her colleagues didn't blame her personally for the piles of red tape they needed to wade through every week.

Agatha was the mother of two girls, stepmother to two boys, supporter of a million good causes, administrator of the local University of the Third Age, and multi-tasker extraordinaire. She was at least fifteen years older than Grace, maybe more, and yet Grace frequently wished she had half as much energy as the secretary did.

Pulling up a chair, Agatha slumped into it. ‘You don't mind if I park my bum for a moment, do you? I'm shattered! I was up at five o'clock this morning trying to extract the mud Malcolm's rugby kit has plastered all over the insides of the washing machine, then I was in by six getting the marked exam papers sorted and put in the safe. I've been having an increasingly personal war with the undergraduate project results spreadsheets on my computer, only to have the damn thing crash on me. I may have lost the lot.'

‘Oh, hell!' Grace winced, knowing exactly how much extra work that would mean, not just for Agatha, but for the staff in general.

‘I.T. Ian is in my office dealing with it now. Heaven knows if he'll manage to save it, but if the resident computer genius can't fix it then I'm stuffed.'

‘Why on earth were you cleaning the washer at 5 a.m.? Surely your stepson's mess could have waited?'

Agatha sighed, ‘He has football this evening, and has a habit of adding very muddy kit to
very
muddy kit, I've had to have the washing machine drum changed three times already. Two loads of mud will probably finish the machine off completely. Couldn't sleep, so I got up and dealt with it.'

‘Oh.' Grace wanted to ask if she made Malcolm pay for it, after all he was a grownup, who earned his own wages, but she knew Agatha had a soft heart when it came to her children, step or otherwise, and didn't want to offend her by asking. Instead Grace asked, ‘You want to come for a coffee? I was about to get one before I hit the road to Nottingham.'

‘Ah.'

‘Ah?'

‘Well, um … yes. That's why I'm here really. You see, I've been meaning to talk to you about Nottingham.'

Grace was instantly suspicious, especially when she noticed how uncomfortable Agatha suddenly appeared. ‘What is it?'

‘Right, well it's like this.' The secretary hit her palms to her lap with a decisive slap, ‘Remember, this is not coming from me; I am but a poorly paid messenger, OK?

‘O-kay …'

‘I have been told to ask you … no, I have been told to
tell
you that it is not considered acceptable for you to attend a viva inappropriately attired.'

Grace pulled a face. ‘You mean I can't get away with wearing my black jeans and a posh blouse this afternoon.' ‘You can't wear jeans.'

‘Oh, bum.'

‘I knew you'd say that.'

Grace madly began to gather everything required for the afternoon ahead into her bag, ‘Look, I don't have much else to wear, as it is I've packed my only smart stuff to endure bridesmaid dress shopping in Sheffield tomorrow.' She pointed to the battered holdall stowed under her desk.

Agatha didn't bother trying to hide her smirk, ‘You! A bridesmaid!'

‘Yes, all right, I know,' Grace snapped, before smiling apologetically and sitting back heavily in her seat, ‘So what does Professor Davis deem appropriate attire? I'm always smart, aren't I?'

‘You are indeed, and to be fair, Davis doesn't give two hoots what you wear as long as you do your job properly. No, it's a new “directive,”‘ Agatha made speech marks in the air with her fingers and placed a resigned expression on her face, ‘from the Vice Chancellor no less. Apparently we need to “promote the good name of Leicester University in other academic institutions”.'

‘You mean the old buffer is worried about how well De Montfort Uni is doing, and wants us to outshine them with our haute couture, even though our clothing has nothing to do with our brainpower.'

‘That about sums it up.'

‘Oh, hell! This is such a waste of time. So what do I wear?'

‘Did you iron your shirt?'

‘What do you think?'

‘Do you own a suitable dress? A smart trouser suit?'

Grace grimaced and pointed to her holdall, ‘I have a creased pair of linen trousers and a white blouse with a button missing to wear while shopping tomorrow.' ‘Smart?'

‘In a very casual way.'

‘Not smart then.'

‘Well, no.'

‘When do you need to leave here?'

‘My train is at 10.05.'

Agatha stood up, a determined expression on her face, ‘Right, that gives us a whole hour and a half. Come on, Cinders, you shall go to the ball. Even though you don't want to!'

Ten minutes later Grace found herself back on Queen's Road out of breath, standing in a cramped Oxfam shop changing room. Agatha was passing her random skirts, tops and jackets, as Grace stood self-consciously in an un-matching bra and pants, and unsuitable black ankle socks and trainers.

Three skirts, four shirts, and two jackets later, Agatha declared Grace done, but insisted on fastening her own chunky silver necklace around Grace's neck, ‘to add that “vital something.”‘

Having paid an amazingly cheap price for a complete outfit, Grace was hurried off to her home to put on tights and her one and only pair of court shoes.

As she stuffed her jeans and trainers into the top of her weekend bag, Grace swore at the Vice-Chancellor under her breath. About to meet the new historian on the block, and examine a whiz kid postgraduate in the most important interview of his life; she was supposed to feel relaxed, professional, and confident. Instead Grace felt conspicuous, and rather like an over-dressed Christmas tree.

Forcing herself to stand still for a second, Grace stared into her bedroom mirror and took some calming breaths. The creature gazing back at her seemed only vaguely familiar. A deep khaki, full length, but flattering shaped skirt was topped with a paler green V-necked top, which to Grace's mind made her boobs look enormous, but which Agatha assured her made them look shapely and attractive. The jacket they'd found almost matched the skirt, and was luckily plain and simple. Grace hadn't had the heart to tell Agatha she only had navy blue shoes, but personally she didn't care, and was pleased by her minor flouting of fashion's bizarre rules.

She had twelve minutes to get to the station. Thank goodness Aggie had arranged a cab. Making sure she had the thesis, her own work, money, her iPod, a train ticket, and her overnight things for a stay at Daisy's, Grace let herself out of her house and onto the doorstep in the gentle sunshine as the taxi pulled up in front of her.

To Grace's immense relief, the train was five minutes late, and she managed to settle herself in one of the few vacant seats just in time for the East Midlands train to whisk her to Beeston station on the outskirts of Nottingham, which was only a stone's throw from the university.

Plugging her iPod into her ears, Grace rested her head against the seat and tried to relax, as the haunting tones of Clannad playing the
Robin of Sherwood
soundtrack soothed her. She briefly toyed with the idea of reading through some of her own manuscript, but it was only a twenty-five minute journey and she knew she'd be better employed re-reading the PhD abstract and conclusion.

Grace had just been re-impressed with the postgraduate's neatly tied together final paragraph when the train pulled into Beeston's small station. Five minutes later Grace was in another taxi, taking her to the nearby university campus.

She'd done about half a dozen vivas in her five-year stint as a lecturer, twice as a supervisor, and four times as the external examiner. Grace should have been calm and radiated confidence, and yet wearing these unfamiliar clothes, about to face a stranger she was slightly in awe of, Grace found herself questioning whether she really knew anything about her subject at all.

Usually when invited to attend such interviews, Grace already knew the other examiner fairly well, even if they'd never met she would have read their books and papers and probably heard them speak at a conference or two. The medieval England historians' circle was a small world, and everyone was aware of everyone else. This Rob Franks was new and therefore an unknown quantity. Was he young or old, black or white, straight or gay? Was he vastly published, or completely new and unpublished? Grace cursed herself for being too wrapped up in her own writing to research Franks as properly as she would normally have done. It was unprofessional, and she felt she'd let herself down.

Panic had a go at trying to claim Grace, but she quickly shrugged it off and attempted to be practical as she headed to the School of History, situated in a stunning Georgian building called Lenton Grove on the west side of the campus. Walking sedately, trying to get a grip on her nerves, Grace, not caring if anyone overheard and thought she was nuts, muttered under her breath, ‘For goodness sake, this is Nottingham. If you're out there anywhere, Robin Hood, then help me get through this in one piece, and then I'll return to the novel, I promise.'

Chapter Eight

Determined not to appear as flustered as she felt, Grace took herself into the nearest cloakroom and washed her hands. Fluffing her mass of hair into a marginally less straggly state, she sternly told her reflection that she was clever, knew as much as anyone about medieval England, and that this Dr Franks would be friendly and it would all be fine. She didn't let herself think about after the viva. The idea of dress shopping with Daisy the following day made her palms sweat.

Picking up her belongings, Grace thought of her novel's protagonist, Mathilda, frightened but brave, sitting with a member of the infamous Folville family with no idea what fate was about to throw at her. ‘And you think you've got problems!'

Having announced her arrival to the Humanities Department receptionist, and asking if he would mind storing her overnight bag until the viva was over, Grace took a seat and awaited Dr Franks. As she looked around at the inevitable Robin Hood motif and the associated posters you'd expect to see anywhere in Nottingham, her mind drifted once again to Mathilda. Aware she was in danger of getting bogged down in too much historical detail if she wasn't careful, she tried to work out how to move the story along a little faster.

Usually Mathilda bathed in the village ford, splashing around in an attempt to scrape off the flour, leaves, grass, and dust of daily life. Total immersion in a bath was a completely new experience for her.

When the austere female servant had been instructed to take her to bathe, Mathilda had been frightened, not really understanding what was about to happen. Everything was changing so fast. Only a little while ago she'd been catching fish in the river, then she'd been taken and imprisoned, and now she was being told to strip off all her dirty but familiar clothes, and get into the water that steamed before the fire in a small room off the main hall.

Her fears, in this case a least, were unfounded. Plunged into the lightly lavender-fragranced tub, the blissfully warm water soothed her undernourished body and un-knotted her tense muscles. Mathilda sighed with the feeling of a temporary reprieve, for while she immersed in that pool there was nothing she could do about anything except get clean, and she found herself unexpectedly grateful for a period of forced inactivity, where she could neither receive instructions nor fruitfully plot to run away.

I'm alive,
she mused, and if, as Robert de Folville himself had told her she'd been exchanged for a debt, then her family should also be alive and well, so that could work on paying it off.

As the tight-lipped housekeeper undid the remaining ties of her hair, and washed out its knotted tresses Mathilda resolved to believe that her new master was basically kind. It was less frightening that way. If the opportunity arose for her to ask about her family again, then she would do just that.

‘Dr Harper?'

A tall, fair-haired man, who she'd guess was probably in his late thirties, towered over Grace.

Rising with a start, Grace dropped her manuscript into her bag as she stood. ‘I'm sorry, I was miles away.'

‘Was it nice there?'