Mom lured me to Nottingham with her the next day, promising she’d treat me to lunch. She was meeting with a colleague at the university there, and I didn’t want to spend my off day in the hotel in Leeds, alone with my thoughts. Plus, free lunch. And because Dad wasn’t there, I ordered a big plate of deliciously greasy fish-and-chips, soaked it in malt vinegar, and washed it down with a half-pint of cider, in spite of the shoot tomorrow. Carbs with a side of salt and a glass of fructose, please. It tasted like truancy.
“This inn,” Mom said, picking up a chip, “is reputed to be the oldest in England.”
I set down my glass and looked around. More convincing than the giant sign outside that Mom had just quoted were the cumulative details of the place—the twisty stairs and awkward levels, the uneven floors and low doorways. The obvious stuff, though—whitewashed walls, dark wood, brass taps—was a bit Ye Olde English Theme Restaurant. “Don’t tell me the espresso machine is original,” I said.
Mom gave me her Professor Hudson look but otherwise ignored my comment. “Nottingham was one of the last stops in England for crusaders on their way to the Holy Land. It’s plausible that by the Third Crusade there was an inn here. The caves in and around Nottingham were certainly used by the local monks to— Don’t sigh, Eleanor. I’m making conversation.”
“I’m not sighing,” I insisted, though I probably had. Mom taught medieval history at Notre Dame, and though I went to school there, I didn’t take any of her classes because mealtime conversations like this had allowed me to test out of the freshman-level history requirements. “Here’s my question. Was there really an evil sheriff, like in the stories?”
“A number of them. Often as brutal as the one in the Robin Hood legend. Nottingham Castle has all kinds of treachery in its past.”
I leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Really?”
“Oh yes,” she said with enthusiasm. Treachery was one of her favorite topics. “Plots and rebellion and assassination. You should tour the castle while I’m at my meeting. Though, sadly, there’s not much left of the original structure that William the Conqueror began.”
“Wait, wait, I know this. What is the Norman Conquest,” I said, like it was a Double Jeopardy! question. “Which started with the Battle of Hastings in 1066.”
“Correct,” Mom said, half professor, half proud parent.
I shrugged it off. “I only remember because that king got shot in the eye with an arrow.”
She frowned. “Why do you do that? Don’t dismiss your intelligence. Dad and I raised you and Rob to be athletes, not…jocks.”
That was a painful but fair hit. How many kids get impromptu lectures on quantum physics and the Plantagenet royal family during the same dinner? I just really did not want to have another parental conversation about things I always did. “So, William the Conqueror…?”
Mom was easily diverted. “Remember, there were Anglo-Saxons in this area before the Normans came across the English Channel. The Normans made a settlement here near the castle, and to the east, where the Lace Market is now, was the Anglo-Saxon town of Snottingham, which gave the new town its name.”
I snickered into my cider. “Snottingham.”
Mom tried to look annoyed. “Really, Eleanor. Don’t be juvenile.”
“Did they make lace hankies there? In Snottingham?”
She finally laughed. Then she moved her glass to the side in an obviously preparatory move. “By the way, Eleanor, your dad and I talked last night. He is sorry for comparing you to Robert.” I know I sighed that time, but Mom didn’t call me out. “You’re both so talented, and you’ve worked so hard in your own right. Maybe too hard.”
Great. Mom thought I’d cracked because I was too focused, and Dad thought I’d flaked because I wasn’t focused enough. They might both be right. “Mom, I didn’t imagine that I saw someone. He was dressed in white, or off-white, and it was sort of like a monk’s habit, you know, with the—”
I’d raised my hands to show a kind of cowl, but Mom’s expression stopped me. She sat pale-faced with her hands knit together on the table in front of her. I looked from her bloodless knuckles to the crucifix she always wore and made an intuitive leap. Reaching across the table, I covered her hands with mine. “Oh no, Mom. It wasn’t Rob. It wasn’t his ghost, wasn’t any kind of angelic harbinger of his death. I swear.”
She looked away, embarrassed. “When you put it that way, it sounds silly.”
I rubbed her cold and clenched hands. “It’s not silly. He is missing in a dangerous part of the world, but if he were dead, I’d know.”
Her color came back as she turned her hands to clasp mine. “Of course. You two have always been so close…” Then she laughed, shaky but genuine. “Oh my God, Ellie, I sound like a superstitious nut, not a history professor.”
I squeezed her hands one last time. “You could be on Haunted History.”
She made a face, but continued with a new thought. “You know, your description reminds me: the sports center where you shot yesterday was once the site of a Cistercian monastery. Only a corner of the foundation is left. It’s not in the brochure.”
“Then how do you know about it?” I asked.
“There’s this new thing called the Internet.” Deadpan, she took a sip of her cider. And she thinks I get all my snark from Dad. “You can see the ruins of the foundation if you get close enough on Google Earth. Anyway, the Cistercians were called the white friars because of their undyed robes.”
I gave her an intensely skeptical look. “You should be on Haunted History.”
She raised her hands, pleading innocence. “I’m just relating information. It’s up to you to form a theory with it. Like your father says, ‘Just because it hasn’t been proven yet doesn’t mean it’s impossible.’ ”
“Yeah, but he was talking about the scientists at CERN creating enough antimatter to implode the universe.”
She waved that away. “He said the same thing about the Red Sox winning the World Series, and I’ve yet to hear the end of it. My point is, keep an open mind. It could be a subconscious recollection of the abbey’s history, or a psychic echo from the past. Maybe you were even glimpsing a parallel universe.”
I narrowed my eyes, sure she was joking. Pretty sure, at least. She’d been genuinely frightened that I’d seen my brother’s ghost. “I think you read way too many science-fiction novels.”
“Well, life can’t be crusades, treason, and Black Death all the time.” She wadded up her napkin and tucked it into her empty glass. “Ready to go?”
“Yeah,” I said, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulder and leaving the rest of my fish-and-chips on the plate. “Funny how mention of the bubonic plague always kills my appetite.”
Outside, the sky was a mottled blue-gray. Or gray-blue, if you were a glass-half-empty sort of person.
Mom checked her watch. “Good Lord. I’m going to have to grab a taxi to make my meeting. Now, head straight up this road and it will take you to the castle.”
I pointed straight up. “I’m guessing it’s that big stone thing I saw at the top of the cliff.”
She pinched my cheek a little too hard. “Didn’t I say you were bright? Meet at the market square about five?”
“Sure thing,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like I was eager to get rid of her. “Have a good meeting.”
I watched her cross the street and catch a cab at the end of the block, before starting up the hill. The Trip to Old Jerusalem was at the base of a big sandstone cliff and Nottingham Castle was at the top—a defensive advantage that became evident in my thighs pretty quickly. I ran regularly, but on the level track at school or in the training center.
Maybe if I stopped climbing the hill like I was being chased by my own ghosts…I shook off that ominous word choice, slowed down, and actually looked around at where I was. Across the street was a small churchyard and another pub, the Friar Tuck Inn. Between them ran Maid Marian Lane. I sensed a theme. Ahead of me, on the left and cut
into the cliff, was a paved park, and in the center of it stood a bronze statue of an archer. There was probably a sign, but it didn’t take a genius to work out who it was.
Robin Hood, the famed outlaw of Sherwood himself.
The bronze was weathered to an appropriate shade of green. The statue must have been a bit of a landmark, because a family was taking pictures in front of it. At least, the mom was urging her two kids to smile at the same time instead of swinging from the archer’s arm and pretending to sword fight each other. Sibling shenanigans. My parents have a bazillion pics of Rob and me giving each other noogies in front of historic locations.
Nuts. I stared up the cliff so I could blame my stinging eyes on the watery sunlight. It’s not the times you expect to miss someone that are hard, it’s the ambushes.
Other people’s brothers rebel by partying too hard, or becoming socialists, or joining an indie hipster band. Mine joined the Peace Corps. Left school, the archery circuit, his gold medals for me to hold on to until he came back.
I’d been furious at Rob for leaving—I mean, the freaking Peace Corps. Like it wasn’t already hard enough being his sister.
“I want to do something that matters,” he’d tried to explain the night he let me in on his plan. We were in his bedroom, talking in whispers because he hadn’t told our parents yet. I could still feel that tight-throated ache from keeping my voice down, holding in my emotions. Rob and I had done everything together—or him first, then me—my whole life. What would I do if I wasn’t following in his footsteps?
What would I do without Rob?
The ache had spread from my throat to my jaw and temples and down to my sternum and my heart behind it. The pain made me panic, and panic made me angry.
“What do you call that?” I had pointed to his wall of medals and trophies. “What do you call the international championships, or the World Archery Federation title? That doesn’t matter?”
“I mean something big-picture important,” he answered calmly.
“The freaking Olympics aren’t big picture?” I jumped up and paced in the tiny space between his twin bed and the desk, because you can’t be truly furious sitting down. “How is digging ditches more big picture than that?”
“Because people need ditches,” Rob snapped. And then there was a weighted, awful, awkward silence while what he didn’t say—no one needs an Olympic medal—expanded between us, sucking up the oxygen and pushing us apart.
“Fine,” I said, loosing the word from the taut bowstring of fear and anger. “Then you won’t mind my selling your medals on eBay if you don’t come back.”
It wasn’t the last thing I said to him, but it might as well have been, the way it ran like a loop in my head.
This tournament mattered because my teammates were relying on me—for a team win, and for the medal tally—and because I wanted to qualify for the Olympics, and that meant medaling in the women’s individual event. But I’d walk away from the tournament tomorrow if that would somehow bring Rob back.
“Excuse me, would you like me to take your picture?” asked the mother of the statue-climbing siblings. I glanced around before realizing she was talking to me.
“Oh. Um, no, I’m good,” I said, feeling conspicuous. And I wasn’t sure a solo pic would help this acute flare-up of Rob-lessness.
“Come on, now. You can’t come to Nottingham and not take a snap with old Robin,” said the mom, holding out her hand and wiggling her fingers. “Do you have a mobile?”
Well, at least it wasn’t a selfie. I posed self-consciously in front of the statue as the lady took the picture, then thanked her before she and her kids headed off.
I glanced at the screen. Most pictures of me came from tournaments, when I had zinc oxide on my nose and my hair was plastered down by sweat and the band of my sun visor. Today I’d tried to dress like a normal person, which in England in spring meant skinny jeans, a hooded green sweater, and a scarf knotted around my neck. My short blond hair was wavy in the damp air. Bronze Robin Hood and I could share the same stylist, actually, except I was wearing Chuck Taylors instead of boots.
Probably should have gone with the boots.
Dumb luck made me glance up from my phone in time to see a white-robed monk hurrying past. With the really old church across the street, it didn’t strike me as strange until the monk had crossed Maid Marian Lane and continued uphill, at which point the rest of my brain caught up with my eyeballs.
Hold everything. I was not imagining this guy—this monk—or his similarity to the guy I’d seen yesterday. Now that he was on my side of Castle Street, I could see the texture of his robe’s fabric, the color variations in the warp and weft, the dirt on its hem. His cowl bunched around his neck, and the sun glinted off the circle of damp, shaved scalp at the top of his head. I couldn’t hear his sandals on the pavement or the click of the wooden rosary beads hanging from his belt, but maybe that was only because of a loud bus going up the next street. He was moving at a good clip, and passed out of sight before I’d gathered my shock-scattered thoughts. But once I did, I took off after him.
By the time I reached the sidewalk, the monk was just a flick of fabric going around the corner and into the castle courtyard. I followed him to the twin towers of the gatehouse, but could only glimpse through the fenced area to the terraced garden leading still farther up, to the building at the top.
I ran into the gift shop, where a woman was straightening rows of green-capped teddy bears and Nottingham lace bookmarks. “Did you see a monk going by here?” I asked, only a little winded. “Into the castle?”
“A monk?” She took her time thinking about it. “No. I don’t think so, dear. We have a couple of Robin Hoods who do tours, and one sheriff of Nottingham, but no Friar Tucks.”
The man I saw had been lean and fair-haired, and his robe was white, nothing like the fat friar from folklore. Maybe this guy was role-playing a cleric from a video game. Or, crazy idea, he could be an actual monk. But really…how could I let him go without finding out?
I dug into my messenger bag for some change. “I need a ticket.”
“Easy, love,” said the woman, amused and so very slow. “The castle has been here for a thousand years. It’s not going anywhere in the next minute.” She chuckled at her own joke.
Maybe not, but I had a wild goose to chase. I slapped enough money onto the counter for admission plus a brochure and threw a quick “Cheers” over my shoulder.
When I came out of the gatehouse, I didn’t spot a robed figure, but all paths led uphill, so that was the way I went. When I topped the last terrace, I stopped to get my bearings and my breath. To my left loomed a blocky Italianate building. To my right was a flat field, roped off from pedestrian traffic. There was a modern play fort on the far side; around the curve of the promontory stood a wooden framework. I consulted the brochure and read that the construction was a replica of what the eleventh-century outbuildings would have looked like, on the site of the original timber and stone tower. The only remaining medieval structures were the gatehouse, which I’d passed through, and the caves beneath the castle.
There was clearly no monk in the open field, so I struck out on the path that circled the existing building. The pamphlet said it was built in the 1600s—modern, as castles go, I supposed. The terrace gave a spectacular view of the city and the surrounding countryside, but I didn’t pay it much attention as I suddenly spotted the monk.
Or rather, I spotted the top of the monk’s head, which was hard to mistake for that of a tourist. The rest of him was hidden by the terrace wall and slowly slipping out of view. He was going down a sloped path on the cliff face, and I was about to lose him.
I ran along the wall and found an iron gate with a sign that said CAVES ACCESSIBLE BY GUIDED TOUR ONLY. I pulled on it anyway, but the latch clanged against the lock.
Maybe I should have thought twice, but I didn’t. I grabbed the top of the gate, braced a sneakered foot on the post, and hopped over the stone wall.
Dropping onto a packed-dirt path between the terrace wall and an outer one that marked the cliff’s edge, I stumbled on the steep slope before gaining my footing. I headed downhill but didn’t get far before I ran into another metal gate, this one blocking the cave entrance. There was nowhere else the monk could have gone, but the gate was secured with a shiny modern lock like the one on the gate I’d just jumped. Not knowing what to expect, I grabbed the bar nearest the latch and gave it a hard yank, and the gate swung open.
I took it as a sign and went through. Almost immediately, the downward angle of the path turned into a jumble of stairs, cut into the sandstone and worn by time. Most of the light came through the opening behind me, but from the tunnel below there was a soft, artificial glow, and I saw a shadow move through it.
Down the ramshackle stairs I went, leaving sunlight and brisk Nottingham air for underground twilight and the tang of damp stone.
As I went, the work lights got farther apart, forcing me to pass through patches of dark, one hand against the wall to help me keep my balance on the uneven tunnel floor. The cold grew teeth sharp enough to bite through my sweater, and clammy fingers of mist touched my face and neck. Farther down the tunnel, the air thickened with an earthy aroma, the clean smell of dirt mixed with river and a whiff of barnyard.
I slipped on some loose rocks, one foot skidding out from under me, and stumbled into a patch of darkness so thick it seemed to push back. Now I understood why the caves were gated to keep people out. I fumbled for the handrail, but only scraped my knuckles against the wall.
The blackness became viscous, not just blinding me but stopping my ears and flooding my nose and mouth until there was nothing else, until I couldn’t tell down from up. I grabbed at the wall with both hands, curling my fingers as if I could dig in and hold on. For a horrible, eternal instant, that gritty chill of sandstone seemed the only thing that anchored me to the earth.
The liquid dark tugged at me like a current, and I had to pick a direction and move, or be swept away and drowned. The wall had been on my right when I’d run into it, so I kept that hand on the stone and felt my way in the dark, edging my feet cautiously along the rough path.
No Good Deed Page 2