‘Sire,’ the announcer called, ‘the arrows are both so close to the mark, there is no telling between them.’
‘Then set the target back another, shall we say, fifty paces and let them fire again.’
The small cluster of pupils who were playing the crowd, many of them wearing two costumes at once so that they could double in other roles, all oohed in response to this.
‘Who shall shoot first?’ said the announcer.
The boy playing Robin put on a great show of hobbling back to the mark, his acting somewhat better than the real Robin’s portrayal. ‘Let the young man shoot first,’ he said in an attempt at a cracked voice, ‘I need a moment to gather my breath.’
‘Sam a Mill to shoot,’ said the announcer and Sam nodded and took his shot. The robed figures who were playing Robin’s men began to sidle round the stage at this point and Erasmus noted the smallest one was clutching something purposefully behind his back. He watched as Robin put on a show of checking the wind and commenting on the weather, before firing offstage to the accompaniment of twang and bucket.
‘He’s split the arrow in twain,’ said the announcer and there was a collective gasp from crowd and audience alike.
‘Then surely he is our winner,’ said the Sheriff. ‘Let him have his prize.’
At that point, Atkinson came on from the left of the stage, dressed in knitted armour and holding a crossbow. The shorter of Robin’s men gasped and produced a painted sponge from behind his back, hurling it across the stage to bounce from Atkinson’s head. Atkinson gave the audience a brief, stupefied glance, getting a big laugh in the process, then stumbled and fell to the floor. Soldiers poured onstage from both sides and Robin and his men cast aside their cloaks and began to fight. Whilst this was going on, Atkinson crawled offstage to prevent himself being trampled.
Erasmus smiled. History it seemed had changed a little, but not significantly and he doubted any of his pupils would ever spot the connection between a small boy throwing a sponge at Atkinson and himself hurling a board rubber across a crowded classroom. That reminded him, he thought, he needed a new board rubber – his old one had probably decomposed after eight hundred years and, even if it hadn’t, he didn’t think the passage of history would have left it undisturbed in the grounds of Nottingham Castle today.
After the play had ended, Erasmus returned to his classroom with a mug of tea and sat down to mark some books. There was the usual plethora of pupils who had failed to pay attention and were convinced that Magna Carta was, variously, a woman who was burnt at the stake by King John, a volcano in the East Midlands or the latest sports model of the horse and cart, but in general the quality of the work was high and a good reflection on his hours of teaching.
Atkinson had done a commendable job of sketching Nottingham Castle in the twelfth century. It was all from imagination, of course – the castle had long since been demolished – and it didn’t resemble the castle Erasmus remembered, but it was a fair representation of the Norman motte and bailey in its heyday and he didn’t feel he could mark someone down simply because they hadn’t been back in time to check their artwork. He assigned the essay an A grade then closed the book and turned to Harrison’s ink-stained submission.
He was disturbed after an hour by a gentle rapping on the door. After a quick glance at the clock, he called out for the visitor to enter and Atkinson came in, carrying a mug of tea and some biscuits on a tray.
‘I called by the staffroom for you,’ he said.
Erasmus accepted the offering and placed the mug down on his desk. ‘Thank you, Atkinson,’ he said. ‘What are you still doing here?’
‘Rugby practice. It’s the first away match next week.’
‘Ah,’ said Erasmus,’ and what can I do for you? I assume you aren’t after praise for hamming it up onstage this afternoon?’
Atkinson blushed. ‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘It’s just that, a couple of weeks ago, you confiscated my bow and I was wondering…’
‘Yes?’
‘… if I could have it back?’
Erasmus felt a twinge of guilt when he remembered that Atkinson’s bow had long since been destroyed by a blow of Gisburne’s sword. In a way it was a kind of poetic justice that the knight had destroyed the weapon of someone who would one day pretend to be him, but that wasn’t something Erasmus could explain.
‘I’m afraid it got broken,’ he said. Atkinson’s face fell – it had been a very good bow, after all. Erasmus frowned – there had to be something he could do, although he didn’t feel up to making Atkinson a replacement. A thought struck him and he stood up and made his way to the storeroom. Atkinson made to follow, but Erasmus told him to stay where he was. A few moments later, he emerged with Deloial’s sword in his hand. He passed it to Atkinson, hilt first.
‘Perhaps this will make up for it,’ he said.
Atkinson’s eyes shone as he took the weapon. ‘Thanks, sir,’ he said.
‘Careful,’ said Erasmus. ‘It’s sharp.’
Atkinson eyed the blade with shining eyes.
‘It’s a real sword,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘I mean it’s not like one of those fake genuine Arthurian things they sell in the comic shop.’
‘No.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘It’s been in my family for centuries,’ said Erasmus, bending the truth only very slightly.
‘And you’re giving it to me?’
Erasmus shrugged. ‘Well, I never use it and it just takes up space. Mind you don’t let anyone at school see it – it’s a dangerous weapon and quite probably illegal.’
Atkinson tried to put the sword into his sports bag. It was too long and stuck out of one end, so he concealed the handle with a carrier bag before putting the bag carefully over his shoulder.
‘Thanks, sir,’ he said.
‘Think nothing of it,’ said Erasmus, watching the boy as he made his way to the door.
Atkinson paused with his hand on the door handle. ‘Oh, sir,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘You weren’t really in the storeroom for ten days, were you?’
Erasmus smiled. ‘Goodnight, Atkinson,’ he said.
Atkinson smiled in return. ‘Goodnight, sir.’
Erasmus closed the door behind the boy then sat down to his tea and biscuits. Handing out swords to schoolboys probably wasn’t the most responsible thing he could have done, but it wasn’t changing history. Back in the comfort of the present, Erasmus felt less responsible for his actions. Maybe that would change in time, but for the moment he considered the future was no longer his problem.
Epilogue
An autumn wind played in the treetops above the outlaw camp. A squirrel, wrestling an acorn from a recalcitrant oak, gripped tightly to the branch and glared at the sky in a tiny gesture of defiance. Presently the wind, perhaps realising the little mammal wasn’t going to fall, turned its attention elsewhere. Below was a fire. It contented itself with toying with the flames there instead.
Robin moved Marian gently aside and reached for a handful of twigs from the pile at his side. Thrown on to the fire, they caused the flames to leap and crackle. The breeze which had been quelling them departed for easier pickings elsewhere and Marian nestled back into her former pose, her head resting on her partner’s broad chest, his arms wrapped around her and across her chest as he leant on an accommodating oak. For a while, they just watched the flames dancing, then Marian looked up.
‘It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Funny?’ said Robin. ‘In what way?’
‘The thing with you and the Sheriff.’
‘You’re not going to let me forget that, are you? I told you, he was very persuasive.’
‘No. That’s not what I meant. I mean, Maude told me Erasmus was convinced it was his fault.’
‘His fault? How?’
‘Because he made Gisburne fall from his horse. Apparently he was convinced that was
why you ended up capturing the Sheriff.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. But what would have happened if Gisburne hadn’t fallen from his horse? He’d have captured us, wouldn’t he?’
‘You’ve always escaped before.’
‘True. But that doesn’t mean I always would. It’s difficult to arrange, you know – getting someone into the castle to break you out.’
Marian looked thoughtfully into the fire. ‘I was staying in the castle at the time, you know.’
‘You were?’
‘My father was involved in some kind of negotiations. Something to do with land or tax or something.’
‘Yes, but you wouldn’t have rescued us, would you? Not a decent, law-abiding girl like you?’
‘I don’t know. I’d heard a lot about you. It’s possible I might have been, you know, curious. I might have gone down to the dungeon to see what you were like.’
Robin sat up a little straighter. ‘And I suppose I could have hidden behind one of the pillars to make it harder for you to see me.’
‘So I’d have had to open the trapdoor.’
‘Allowing me to take you hostage and make my escape.’
Marian sighed. ‘It would have been a good plan.’
‘It would, yes. Not sure we’d have ended up quite so cosy after that, though.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, wouldn’t you resent being taken hostage by a common criminal? That would have been a slur to your noble house, surely?’
‘I’m sure I’d have got over it – eventually. I can be persuaded, you know.’
Robin smiled broadly. ‘And I’m a very persuasive fellow.’ He tickled the back of Marian’s neck, causing her to squirm and giggle.
Across the fire, Maude looked up from where she was darning one of her spare tunics. What was the phrase Erasmus had used – happy ever after – it had a nice ring to it. She sighed wistfully. It was a shame real life wasn’t like that – at least it wasn’t for everyone.
An acorn dropped into her lap and she glanced up. A little face blinked down at her inquiringly. Picking up the acorn, she held it between two fingers and offered it to the mammal. ‘Come on, m’duck,’ she said. ‘It’s ’ere if you want it.’ The squirrel hesitated and held its right paw in front of its chest as if asking what? Me? It was a very endearing gesture, which even in such hard times could give people thoughts.
Maude allowed the thoughts to run free in her mind. A pet squirrel would be completely impractical, of course – even if you could stop it running off and getting into trouble. The thought drew itself to an amusing conclusion and a smile played on the corners of her lips.
She looked up again. ‘Come on... Erasmus,’ she said.
About the Author
Andrew Fish was born in Chatham, Kent in 1972. He promptly escaped and set up home in Sherwood Forest where he operates as an author and software engineer.
To say that Andrew’s writing career has been long in the making is rather like saying a bottle of Napoleon Brandy has been long in the cask. Starting with short stories back in the 1990’s – one of which, the uncharacteristically serious Exit Darwin, was broadcast on Radio Kent – he has developed his Douglas-Adams inspired literary style over two decades. Fortunately, the software engineering pays the bills. Erasmus Hobart and the Golden Arrow is his most persistently almost released book.
When he’s not writing, Andrew is also a keen musician, photographer and cook. Sometimes he finds time to sleep.
Credits
Cover design by Awatif Bentahar
Copyright
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Copyright © Andrew Fish
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A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007510825
EPub Version 1
ISBN 9780007510825
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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