Romancing Robin Hood (29 page)

Groaning, knowing that her kitchen was going to stink when she eventually faced going home again, Grace took a steadying breath and picked up the mobile she'd turned off the minute she'd arrived in Hathersage.

Switching it back on, she closed her eyes, preparing herself for the disappointment of not seeing any text messages or email alerts from Rob. She had to check though, and was able to stop herself from hoping that there was something from him, even if it was a negative. The familiar hum of
Doctor Who's
TARDIS told Grace she did have a text.

‘It probably isn't from Rob, though,' she told the guinea pig as, with her eyes still closed, she bought the phone closer to her face. Then, stealing herself for a second dose of rejection, Grace looked at the screen.

The text was from her mother.

Cross with herself at her level of disappointment that Rob hadn't contacted her, she ran an eye down her emails instead, of which there were many demanding her workday attention, but none from Rob. Grace balled up the list she'd just written and threw it on her bed in a fit of frustration. Returning Chutney to his hut with his noisy friends, she shrugged sadly, ‘If he can't even face sending me an angry message, then that tells me all I need to know, doesn't it?'

Although it was only six o'clock in the morning Grace headed downstairs to see if Daisy had got up yet. When she reached the kitchen Daisy was nowhere to be seen, but it was clear that she was about somewhere. The kettle was warm and her wellington boots were missing.

Knowing her friend could literally be anywhere in the grounds, Grace sat at the table, and began to think through the end of Mathilda's story. One way or another, events were closing in on her fourteenth-century girl.

As she considered her options for Mathilda, Grace realised she'd finally stopped feeling guilty about romanticising the period from which she was convinced the stories of her beloved Robin Hood had come. She knew she'd strayed from the reality of the historical facts of the time, and Mathilda and her family were her own creation; and yet still every string of the tale had echoes of fact running through it. Having made herself a cup of tea, Grace sat at the old kitchen table and, grabbing an old brown paper bag that used to contain rabbit feed, began to write some notes on it to type up later.

As they rode through the subdued evening light, Robert said nothing; his concentration taken up entirely by his surveillance of the landscape around them.

For once the quiet didn't make Mathilda feel uncomfortable. She welcomed more time to think back over the conversation she'd had with the housekeeper that afternoon.

After Sarah had confided in her while they'd made up the hall fire, they'd gone on to discuss more about the troubles in London. She'd told Mathilda that a merchant had been adding to the buzz of gossip that had been circulating the weekly market for some months now. Unwisely telling anyone who'd listen, rather too loudly, about the latest liberties taken by King Edward II's wife Isabella and her lover Mortimer, who had stolen power from the King almost two years ago, and how the violence and corruption which had become commonplace in London were spreading fast in every direction across England as its population remained unsure who was actually in charge.

The conversations that Mathilda's father and brothers had about the way the country was being run when they knew they were alone, and out of ear shot of anyone who might report them, had given her the impression that the local sheriff, Sir Robert Ingram, and his bailiff were already corrupt and that there was very little they'd refrain from doing if the money was right.

While Sarah had been talking to her about events in the south, the thoughts that had been vying for attention in Mathilda's head had begun to crystallise. The fog of fear for her own safety had lifted, and she was beginning to see the reality of the situation more clearly.

Although undeniably tough and uncompromising, the Folvilles, and quite probably the Coterels as well, had decided that the law was failing them. That was why they did what they did. They weren't the good guys, and Mathilda certainly disapproved of many of their more extreme actions, but compared to the avaricious excesses of the authorities, they were the lesser of two evils. In Mathilda's eyes they became more like Robyn Hode and his outlaws every day. After all, the merry men were fictional characters who weren't exactly saints, but compared to those in power within their stories, they were principled indeed.

Breaking the silence as they left Ashby Folville far behind them, Robert pointed the horses towards a path that would take them deep into Charnwood Forest. ‘Are you scared of the dark, Mathilda?'

‘No.' Mathilda spoke honestly. ‘But I am afraid of what may lurk in the dark.'

‘Very wise.' Robert smiled, reminding Mathilda of how handsome he could look. ‘In ten miles the path will split and I will go one way, and you the other. For a few moments you will be alone, but after that the path sweeps around and I will be riding parallel to you.'

Not allowing her hands to tremble with the nerves that had been slowly bubbling back up in her stomach, Mathilda pushed her shoulders further back and sat bolt upright in the saddle. ‘And the package?'

‘You already have it.'

‘No my Lord, I don't.' Mathilda's voice gave away a little of her uncertainty. Had Sarah been meant to give her something before they left the manor?

‘I'm afraid you do.' Robert reined his horse in next to Mathilda's, bringing them to a halt for a moment.

Reaching out a hand, he gently flipped her cloak to one side to reveal the finery of her leather girdle belt. He smoothed it with a single finger of his gloved hand. ‘That is their prize, Mathilda.'

‘My belt?'

‘Sadly, yes.'

‘But …'

Robert nodded, ‘I regret I told you it was for you. It was my honest intension for you to keep it once you left us. However, with the death of Hugo …' He lapsed into a silence that seemed to spread out into the grey night as the tress thickened around them. The horses moved forward again. Mathilda shivered as Robert spoke in a more guarded fashion, ‘The belt is needed to prove our goodwill to Coterel. It is a valuable object, and now Hugo has gone, is worth more still.'

She nodded with sad understanding, stroking one hand over the intricate lattice work, ‘I shall miss it. I've never owned an object of such beauty before, even if only for a little while.'

‘I almost did, but I fear I may have ruined my chances.'

Mathilda turned her head toward Robert's face sharply, ‘My Lord?'

Robert said no more on the subject, pointing instead to a fork in the path. They were getting close to their undisclosed destination.

The texture of the air seemed to change the second Robert was out of sight. Despite her resolve to be brave and see this through, spurred on by the hope that if Nicholas Coterel was in receptive mood, she would take the chance to ask him about Oswin, Mathilda was even more frightened than she'd expected to be. The trees felt as if they were closing in on either side of her, and that the light of the moon was being physically snuffed out by the close-knit overhanging branches.

Suddenly all the jolly outlaw stories she had ever heard the mummers sing and watched being acted out in fairs and markets seemed to take on a sinister edge. Forgotten were all the verses about getting the better of a corrupt authority. Now all Mathilda could recall were the verses of violence. How the outlaws had skulked in the forest, how they had waylaid travellers and demanded a tax to pass by. The words, ‘To invite a man to dinner, and then him to beat and bind. It is our manner,' drowned out the lull of her usual happier recalled line, ‘For he was a good outlaw, and did poor men much good …'
¹⁴

Her ears alert for every rustle of leaves and every possible crack of a twig under foot or hoof, Mathilda's mind merged and muddled her thoughts, entwining them into the ballads she held so dear. From the depths of her mind she remembered the devious potter who'd double crossed Robin. ‘…
The potter, with a cowards stroke, smot the shield out of Robin's hand …
¹⁵

‘The potter!' Mathilda more breathed the words than spoke them. The gloom surrounding her became more suffocating, and her eyes flitted from one side of the path to the other as her mind forced another line of verse out of her murmuring lips.
‘I have spyed the false felon, As he stondis at his masse …
¹⁶

She wasn't sure why the random utterance of this line from Robyn Hode and the Monk made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but with a feeling that a ghost had crossed her path, Mathilda tried even harder to spot the shadow of Robert through the trees. Although she knew that being unable to see him didn't mean he wasn't there, she wished she could see him just a little bit.

Feeling cold and alone, Mathilda's common sense seemed unable to unlatch itself from her overactive imagination. Her thoughts flew to Master Hugo and the terror he must have experienced as he realised what was happening to him as the dagger got closer and closer … a shadow fell across the ever-narrowing path, and Mathilda started as her horse snorted into the stagnant air. Pulling the reins hard, she came to a stop and looked behind her.

Mathilda was convinced she was being watched, and not just by Robert.

Was it Robert, a Coterel, soldiers, men out on the hue and cry, or outlaws who were observing her? Mathilda pressed on again, her unease making her grip her leather reins so tight that they were in danger of cutting her palms.

Despite her fear about what she might find around the next turn of the thinning path, the image of Hugo wracked with pain continued to take prime position in Mathilda's imagination – a vision which abruptly contorted into the mocking face of Richard Folville, the rector of Teigh …

Daisy pushed open Grace's bedroom door to collect the hutch of baby guinea pigs, to give them their first taste of grass and the great outdoors, when her eyes fell upon the screwed up ball of paper on the bed.

Opening it to make sure it wasn't anything important before she threw it in the bin, Daisy smiled as she read. ‘I think that Rob should see this list, guys? What about you?'

Receiving a cacophony of positive sounding guinea pig squeaks in reply, Daisy slipped the paper into her pocket. ‘I wouldn't normally spy on Grace, boys, but right now she's all heartbroken. This means that I need to take charge, and if that means being sneaky, then so be it!'

Glancing around the bedroom, feeling like a benevolent spy, Daisy said, ‘Now, do any of you boys remember if Grace took her mobile with her, or if she left it in here somewhere?'

Chapter Thirty-one

‘Have you been ill, Grace?' Ashley pulled the sage bridesmaid's dress in an extra inch at the waist, ‘You've lost weight.'

‘No, I …' Grace turned to Daisy, ‘I'm so sorry, Daze!'

Sensing the concern in Grace's voice, Ashley quickly calmed the waters. ‘Don't worry. I can easily fix this. That's the beauty of choosing a dress with lace ties at the back.'

Grace sighed with relief, ‘Thanks. I'd have felt awful if I'd ruined things.'

‘Daft woman, of course you won't ruin things.' Daisy smiled at her bridesmaid as Ashley indicated that Grace should take off her outfit so she could make a few instant adjustments.

It had been over a week since Grace had come to stay with Daisy, and although she had been a great help, had mucked in, mucked out, made up the guest room for the pet-sitters due to arrive later that day, and had re-written and edited her story in every given spare moment, at no point had Daisy seen Grace check her email or glance at her mobile phone.

No mention had been made of Rob at all, and although Grace seemed to have got her smile back over the past couple of days, Daisy had noticed that her friend had pushed food around her plate at mealtimes rather than eating it. It was the fact that Grace was more or less existing on biscuits dunked into mugs of tea that had spurred Daisy on to bring the dress fittings forward a day earlier than planned, for she had suspected that Grace was losing weight. Daisy would have been jealous if her friend hadn't been so obviously unhappy.

More worryingly, Grace hadn't made any reference to Robin Hood. Not one. This was seriously odd. Daisy had never known Grace to have any lengthy conversation without bringing in at least one outlaw reference. She hadn't even taken her habitual walk from Daisy's home to the alleged burial site of Robin Hood's right-hand man, Little John. Legend had it that the giant man was entombed in a stone casket not more than three miles from Daisy's backdoor. Even though whenever she got to the grave Grace talked for ages about the gullibility of tourists and how John could no more be buried there than the Queen of Sheba could, she always made time to take the short pilgrimage. But not this time.

Daisy had the feeling that Grace was acting her socks off, playing the role of the woman who was ‘determined to be all right without a man.' Any day now her brave-face mask was going to crack. Privately cursing Rob for not having had the courtesy to at least let Grace explain about Malcolm, and cursing Grace for being too stubborn to email or call him, Daisy took off her wedding dress, allowing bubbles of excitement at the thought of her forthcoming nuptials to overtake her sympathy for her friend as she lovingly hung the only dress she'd ever loved on its hanger.

‘Only two days of being Miss Daisy Marks left then!'

With Daisy's Land Rover packed to the rafters, and the pet sitters installed in the small holding with so many lists of instructions they could have been bound and made into a substantial book, Grace raised her glass of lemonade in a toast to her friend, as they took temporary refuge in the local pub.

‘This ought to be a glass of wine, really, to see you on your way to becoming Mrs Daisy Stevens!' ‘I promise we'll have a glass as soon as we get there!'