Erasmum Hobart

by Erasmum Hobart

  Maude nodded solemnly. ‘I understand,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t have to forget about me,’ said Erasmus, ‘just don’t let the memory stop you from getting on with your life.’

  There was a loud ooh from the crowd as the guard’s arrow missed the target and thudded into the ground beside it. Robin was now lining up to take his first shot and Erasmus watched intently, squinting at the target to see if there were any arrows in it yet. There weren’t, and Robin’s arrow thudded into the centre of the target effortlessly. Marian nodded at him and spoke, but the words were inaudible at a distance, then she drew her bow and fired.

  The crowd held their collective breaths as the arrow sailed through the air. A heartbeat of silence, then another, then the arrow drove into the centre of Robin’s and split it like a dead twig. The crowd were aghast and it was several seconds before they began to clap. Robin looked at the target, his mouth open in shock, then looked into Marian’s eyes. Realisation flowed across his face like a ripple on a pond and he grabbed her round the waist, pulled her towards him and kissed her. The crowd seemed unclear on how to respond to such a display, but eventually settled on a cheer.

  Erasmus blushed: even though it was roughly what he’d hoped would happen it was still slightly embarrassing. Then he felt a touch on his arm and looked down at Maude, who was watching the pair with tears in her eyes. He patted her hand and turned back to look at the couple as they walked confidently hand in hand to the podium to collect their prize.

  The announcer, who’d seemed more shocked that a nun would kiss a beggar in public than that she had won the archery prize, held the arrow out to Marian.

  ‘The winner,’ he yelled. ‘Sister Mary of Sleaford.’

  Marian took the arrow in her free hand and held it aloft. Erasmus smiled with pride – everything was coming together. He glanced briefly at the Sheriff, who was sitting on a wooden throne in the grandstand, smiling furtively. It did cross his mind to wonder why the Sheriff seemed so happy, but Erasmus was caught up in the moment and didn’t dwell on the matter. He returned his gaze to the happy couple but, as he did so, a movement caught his eye and he turned his head to follow it.

  To the left of the grandstand, a group of soldiers were creeping forward and, at their head, Gisburne was sighting along a crossbow. There was no time to warn anyone, no time to run towards him. Time seemed to slow down as Erasmus, acting on pure instinct, reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the board rubber he’d inadvertently brought back from the twenty-first century. With a skill born of countless hours teaching unruly teenage boys, he brought his arm forward and hurled the rubber through the air, just as Gisburne’s finger was closing on the catch.

  Heartbeats seemed like seconds.

  The schoolroom missile caught Gisburne on the temple and he wheeled over, falling on his back and firing the crossbow bolt over the grandstand, where it caught the grinning Sheriff and pinned him to his chair by his shoulder. The crowd screamed in panic and the soldiers charged forward, weapons drawn, to capture the winners. Erasmus’ board rubber, however, had alerted the outlaws to the soldiers’ presence; Marian and Robin drew their own swords and stood back to back, circling slowly, whilst the other outlaws armed their bows, the men casting aside their cloaks for better aim.

  Maude smiled at Erasmus, then set an arrow to her bow and joined her companions. The soldiers tried to encircle Robin and Marian, but gradually realised that a ring of archers was forming around them. Will and Alice, meeting as the circle closed, exchanged glances and Erasmus noted, with a certain mischievous humour, that the look that passed between them went somewhat beyond a professional evaluation of the competition. Feeling the outlaws now had the situation under control and the level of distraction was at its height, he sidled around the attentive crowds and sprinted towards the castle.

  Much as he’d hoped, he found the gateway to the castle apparently abandoned: the Sheriff’s entire guard must have been divided between engaging the outlaws in front of the grandstand and guarding the entrance to the outer bailey to prevent their escape. Erasmus slipped through the inner bailey and into the keep itself. From his earlier visit, he seemed to recall that the great hall had been on the first floor. He slipped through the kitchens, startling a scullery maid and causing her to drop a platter containing dressed peacock, then carried on up the servants’ stairs to the west end of the hall.

  He found his privy was no longer hidden when he entered. Instead it stood, rather incongruously, to the left of the Sheriff’s chair on the raised dais. Erasmus hurried over to the machine and checked it for any signs of tampering. The access panel in the base appeared to be unmoved and, apart from a few scratches on the lock, there didn’t seem to be any evidence of an attempt at entry. Erasmus took the key from his pocket and was just about to place it in the lock when a voice from behind startled him and caused him to drop it.

  ‘Going somewhere?’ the voice dripped with grim theatricality, like a man performing Richard III in a lunatic asylum. Erasmus turned to see Deloial emerging from behind a curtain looking every bit the tragedy. His trousers were shredded, showing blood-soaked bandages around one thigh and a variety of scratches, presumably caused by the rocks in the river. His head was bandaged and there was now additional padding around his left eye. His right arm was in a sling, but he held his sword purposefully in his left as he limped forward, dripping water all over the wooden dais.

  ‘How did you—’ Erasmus began.

  ‘Survive?’ Deloial completed his sentence. ‘I was lucky. I washed up by the Trent where a priest was good enough to bind my wounds.’

  ‘But how did you get here?’ Erasmus put the question he’d actually wanted to ask.

  ‘The priest had a horse.’

  ‘You stole a horse from a man who saved your life?’

  ‘Well, he won’t need it any more. Not where he’s going.’

  Erasmus was revolted, but there wasn’t time to respond. He reached to his side, but realised he no longer had a sword or even a dagger. He was defenceless, a madman was approaching him with a sword and the key to the time machine was somewhere on the floor. All in all, the day appeared to be going downhill.

  ‘It was a simple job,’ Deloial said, talking to himself it seemed, ‘that’s what the Sheriff said. “Just keep an eye on this outlaw,” that’s what he told me. “I don’t trust him,” he said, “but if you’re there then we can easily dispose of him.” Simple, you see?’

  Erasmus nodded and backed away.

  ‘He never warned me about you,’ Deloial continued. ‘Oh, Gisburne told me about the encounter in the forest, but the Sheriff said he was mad. Said he was having delusions – that men don’t turn up just to throw you off of your horse then step into privies and disappear. He lied. To me.’

  Erasmus took another step backward and nearly stumbled on the edge of the dais. Deloial continued his slow advance.

  ‘When I first saw you, I thought you were harmless – a nosey bastard, for sure, but no threat to anyone. If I’d have known then what I know now, I’d have killed you when I met you. Well, that’s not a mistake a man makes twice.’

  Deloial raised his sword. There was nowhere for Erasmus to go. He closed his eyes and prayed the end would be quick, but it didn’t come. There was a clattering sound and Erasmus opened his eyes to see Deloial lying on his back with an arrow in his chest. The arrow was fletched with a pale green flight.

  ‘Maude?’ he said incredulously, turning to see his rescuer, still dressed as a nun, standing at the other end of the hall.

  ‘You didn’t think I’d let you go without saying goodbye, did you?’ said Maude.

  Erasmus smiled and held out his arms. Maude ran to him and embraced him, her grip almost crushing him as she did so. She kissed him tenderly on the lips then let him go and stepped back, her eyes still wet with tears.

  ‘Goodbye, m’duck,’ she said.

  ‘Goodbye, Maude,’ said Erasmus.

  ‘If you ever find it’s safe t
o… y’know…’

  ‘Get in your britches?’

  Maude smiled.

  ‘I’ll come back,’ said Erasmus. He bent down to pick up his key, then approached the time machine and placed it in the lock. After one more glance back at Maude’s tear-stained face and a sigh, he opened the door and stepped inside. Then, after a moment’s thought, he came back out and took Deloial’s sword. He gave Maude another brief kiss on the cheek, then went back into the time machine and closed the door.

  It was time to go home.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Returning to the time machine was almost a homecoming in itself. After ten days of proto-Luddite existence, Erasmus found himself inordinately pleased to be surrounded by wires and LEDs. He placed the ignition key into the control panel and turned it, half-worrying it wouldn’t start and half-hoping it wouldn’t so that he could return to Maude and tell history to go hang.

  There was a moment of nothing, then the capacitors charged and the lights flickered into life. The time clock had automatically updated itself, but Erasmus had to enter the co-ordinates of the castle for himself, since there were no GPS satellites to rely on. Finally, he adjusted the time lever until the clock showed NOW and the joystick until the location showed HOME then paused, his finger over the trigger that would end his adventure.

  Ten days and it seemed like a lifetime – he’d left home looking for an answer to a simple question and was returning with enough knowledge for an entire dissertation. He’d camped in the open, hunted, bested a man in combat and used a board rubber to save the life of a legend. All in all, he considered, it was more than most people expected from their holidays.

  With one last look through the periscope at the great hall and a last breath of heady, mediaeval air (he hardly noticed the dung any more) he pressed the button and let it all fade away. The characteristic whirring rose in pitch until it was inaudible then, seconds later, there was a brief whirr and the machine came to a halt. Erasmus withdrew the ignition key and gave the control panel a friendly pat, before pushing it back to the wall and emerging into his supply cupboard.

  Daylight was streaming through the skylight and, by its glow, Erasmus observed a cluttered scene. The usual hurricane-like arrival of the time machine had taken paperwork from the shelves and strewn it around the room with all the care of a bull in the premises of a purveyor of fine porcelain. Erasmus tried not to stand on his notes, gathering them up in armfuls and heaping them on the nearest flat surface to hand. He then locked the time machine door and paused, looking at the machine with tired eyes. He was back.

  A tremendous banging on the door to the storeroom brought Erasmus to his senses and he turned, noticing by the clock that it was eleven in the morning, which meant there was probably a class in session. He suddenly realised that the noise of the time machine’s return had probably caused something of a commotion in the room beyond: he’d never heard the sound himself, but his adventures had taught him it was clearly somewhat less than subtle. The banging on the door was equally unsubtle and was accompanied by yelling, as the familiar tones of the headmaster demanded to know what the hell was going on.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Erasmus called out.

  The knocking stopped. ‘Erasmus?’ The headmaster’s voice was a mixture of concern and shock.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What are you doing in there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Erasmus, hurriedly removing his mediaeval costume and placing it in a bag. He quietly opened the modern day wardrobe and took out his normal clothes and a stick of deodorant. The latter wasn’t a substitute for a good bath, but he doubted he’d have that particular opportunity at present.

  ‘Are you coming out?’ said the headmaster.

  ‘In a moment,’ said Erasmus, taking out his contact lenses and putting on his glasses. He blinked at the sudden increase in clarity – obviously streams weren’t the ideal way to keep contact lenses clean. He glanced in the mirror and noticed that his hair was unkempt. He smoothed it down with his hand and continued his evaluation. There wasn’t much he could do about a shave, but beyond that he looked all right; he’d just have to brazen it out. Taking the cupboard key from his jacket pocket, he unlocked the door and opened it just wide enough to leave the room without allowing anyone else to see in. A crowd of children, gathered around the headmaster, jostled to see past him, but Erasmus quickly closed the door, locked it and pocketed the key.

  ‘Have you been in there all along?’ said the headmaster.

  Erasmus frowned. ‘All along? I was in there just now, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘But you’ve been missing for ten days. Have you been in there all this time?’ The headmaster’s expression seemed to imply he would have been concerned but not surprised with a positive reply.

  ‘In there?’ Erasmus gestured to the cupboard. ‘No, of course not. I just popped in this morning to mark some homework and I must have,’ he paused and smiled, ‘lost track of time.’

  ‘Then where were you?’

  Erasmus shrugged. ‘Around.’

  ‘Around?’ Clarence’s face was like a thundercloud. ‘We’ve had police out searching. I… people thought you’d committed suicide.’

  ‘Suicide? Now, why would I do that?’

  The headmaster looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, you know,’ he hissed. ‘Lonely bachelor, not very well paid, lives alone, spends all his time at work. It gets some people down.’

  Erasmus laughed. ‘Lonely,’ he said. ‘Come now, Clarence, just because a man doesn’t parade his conquests for all to see, doesn’t mean there aren’t women that love him.’

  ‘And are there?’

  ‘There have been. In the past now, of course, but I’m hardly over the hill. I know for a fact that some women find me cute.’

  The children were now looking at Erasmus with interest. He scratched his stubble and gave them a winsome smile, then his gaze fell on Harrison, who was standing gloomily to one side with a huge ink stain on his jumper.

  ‘What happened to you?’ he said.

  ‘Kirk—’ Harrison began. Erasmus shook his head. Harrison smiled understandingly. ‘Someone got ink on my jumper,’ he said.

  ‘I see,’ said Erasmus. ‘Well, you go and get yourself a clean one from Matron.’

  Harrison turned to go, but Erasmus cleared his throat and he turned back.

  ‘Could you pop into the staffroom on your way?’ said Erasmus. ‘Only I’m dying for a cup of tea.’

  Harrison absented himself and Erasmus ushered the rest of the class to return to their seats. The headmaster, somewhat put out with the authority with which Erasmus had reclaimed his class, stood to one side as Erasmus glanced at the blackboard.

  ‘Now what are we doing today?’ he said. ‘Oh yes, Magna Carta. Now can anyone tell me where you’ve got up to whilst I’ve been away?’

  Several hands went up and Erasmus glanced over the attentive faces, deciding whom to ask. The headmaster cleared his throat ominously.

  Erasmus turned to face him. ‘Still here, Clarence?’

  The headmaster flushed. ‘You still haven’t told me where you’ve actually been all this time.’

  ‘No,’ said Erasmus, picking up a stick of chalk and toying with it thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t, have I?’

  ‘Well? Are you going to enlighten us?’

  ‘I’m going to enlighten the boys with some mediaeval history, Clarence. I believe that’s what I’m paid to do. Of course, if you wanted to discuss the other matter.’

  ‘Other matter?’

  ‘You said something about my being low paid.’

  The headmaster mumbled something under his breath and hurried from the room.

  Gold and brown were the leaves that swirled around the grounds of St Cuthbert’s as the sky grew dusky in the late afternoon. The leaves drifted along the driveway in the gusty breeze, they blew across the cabbage patch that Botchit had planted where his privy had once stood and they fluttered against the windows of t
he assembly hall as if watching the proceedings within.

  Rows of children sat, cross-legged, their faces turned to the front of the hall, attentively watching as the school play unfolded. At the back, amongst the row of teachers, sat Erasmus, feeling fresh in a new suit and with his hair neatly combed. He rubbed his stubble-free chin and glanced at the programme: the third years had produced it in their art lessons and it portrayed a fanciful picture of Marian, in the classic pointy hat with the optional strip of cloth, looking out across the greenwood as Robin’s men marched by in their Lincoln green uniforms.

  Erasmus smiled and opened the programme. There was a brief essay on the history of the Robin Hood legend (penned by Harrison who had used ‘f’s instead of ‘s’s to make the text look authentic), a résumé of the acts and a list of cast members, each name accompanied by a thumbnail photograph of the guilty party’s face. Erasmus tried not to laugh at Atkinson’s youthful attempt at a grimace in the photo that heralded him as Guy of Gisburne. Closing the programme, he turned his attention to the stage, where the contest for the golden arrow was now underway.

  ‘Will you take your mark, stranger!’ a youthful announcer told the robed Robin, who stepped up with his bow in hand. The bow had no string, nor were there any arrows, but when Robin mimed taking a shot, an extremely theatrical twang (probably done by the drama class with a ruler) echoed from the speakers, followed by a thud coming from somewhere offstage. The programme had Harrison marked up as bucket, so Erasmus imagined that was his contribution.

  ‘Sam a Mill to shoot next,’ the announcer called out and a shorter boy, dressed in brightly coloured fabric, drew his bow and pretended to draw back the string. There was a cracking sound from the speakers and Sam pretended to respond to a broken bowstring, causing peals of laughter from his youthful audience.

  ‘Foul,’ the announcer called.

  ‘Let him shoot again.’ Erasmus’ attention was drawn to the sixth-form boy who sat on the throne with a cardboard chain of office, playing an imperious sheriff. Sam duly restrung and fired his bow and this time the sound from the speakers was a twang and was followed by a thud from the offstage bucket.