by Jenny Kane
‘Oswin is with the Coterels! Are you sure?’
‘No, Mathilda, I’m not sure, but it is likely.’
Mathilda suddenly remembered the feeling of being watched she’d had when she was talking to Nicholas Coterel. It had been merely a feeling of being observed, not a sinister sensation that being observed by a stranger can give you. It had to have been Oswin!
‘And you don’t think the Folvilles know about this?’
‘As I said, I don’t know for sure. If they do, then I can’t think why they haven’t told you.’
Mathilda suspected they probably did know, and it was likely that they hadn’t told her because it suited them to keep her worried about Oswin. If she had more than one family member to be concerned for it would make doubly sure of her obedience to them.
Keeping this theory to herself, Mathilda said, ‘Sarah, please don’t think me ungrateful, but why are you helping me like this? It’s such a risk for you and Allward, not to mention the stable lad.’
Sarah’s usual austere countenance broke into a hitherto unseen gentle concern. ‘I told you that I raised almost all the brothers.’ She peered around her, alert and wary even in her more soften state, ‘and I know it’s wrong to have a favourite, but I do.’
‘Robert?’
Inclining her head, Sarah’s tone was full of regret, ‘I have tried to keep him safe. Tried to look after him and his family, but they walk into trouble, those men.’
‘Their intentions are good.’
Sarah’s expression reverted to its usual shrewd state. ‘You really believe that, Mathilda?’
‘I wasn’t sure, not at first. But, now, I think we can assume that the sheriff’s men will be sniffing around my family; and knowing full well how the sheriff likes to find a perpetrator for the crimes in his jurisdiction, even if it isn’t the right one – well, some justice seems better than none.’
‘Have you heard of Folville’s Law, Mathilda?’
‘No.’
‘What you’re doing here, that’s Folville’s Law. The meeting tonight, that’s Folville’s Law as well. Just as, if my suspicions are correct, the killer of Master Hugo will be found using Folville’s Law.’
‘You mean this family takes the law into their own hands and administers its own justice. A more direct form of justice.’
‘I mean exactly that.’
‘Like in the Robyn Hode stories.’
Sarah smiled. ‘You’ve heard the travelling players sing the Robyn Hode stories?’
‘Yes, at the fair last year. I’d heard a few before then as well though. My mother used to sing them to me.’
‘They are complex tales, you remember them well?’
‘I’ve always had a good memory for words.’
‘Is that so?’ The housekeeper picked up some firewood and gestured to Mathilda to follow suit.
Moving into the deserted hall, Sarah knelt to the grate, and tapped the floor for Mathilda to sit with her. ‘My grandfather taught me many such songs. Not the Hode ones of course, they’re too modern; but the lines he sang with his fellow soldiers after the failure of De Montfort’s revolt were fairly similar in sentiment.’
Mathilda gasped; even now, over six decades since Simon de Montfort and his barons had failed in their rebellion against the excesses of King Henry III, it wasn’t sensible to mention any sympathies towards them. Mathilda felt oddly flattered that the initially hostile housekeeper was confiding in her in such a way.
‘There’s one verse that has stayed with me. It’s from a song I used to sing to the Folville boys when they were children. Sometimes I wonder if that was such a wise thing to do when they were so impressionable, still …’ Then, much to the younger woman’s surprise, Sarah began to sing.
Right and wrong march nearly on equal footing;
there is now scarcely one who is ashamed of doing what is unlawful;
the man is held dear who knows how to flatter;
and he enjoys a singular privilege …13
There was a moment’s quiet, and then Mathilda said, ‘Things haven’t changed much, have they?’
‘Sadly, child, they have. It’s worse now, much worse.’ With a final placing of the cut wood on the fire, Sarah added, ‘I think it’s time to answer the question you haven’t asked me.’
‘Which one? I have a great many questions.’
Sarah grinned, ‘I am referring to the question that is most important at this moment in the light of Master Hugo’s death. Why it is you need to be seen to be Robert’s companion at this time, more than ever?’
‘Are you ready?’
Robert, dressed from head to toe in brown and grey to aid in his shadowy concealment, reined in his horse as the same bleary-eyed stable lad who’d located Oswin for her hoisted Mathilda into her saddle.
‘I am.’ Mathilda didn’t feel at all ready, but with a new resolve engendered by Sarah, and the knowledge that Oswin was very probably alive, even if he wasn’t free to go home, she sat with all the confidence of a woman who fully expected to be Robert’s future wife. A concept she was surprised to find didn’t repulse her as she’d assumed it would; especially now she knew precisely why it was so vital to her survival, her father’s success in paying his debt, and Robert de Folville’s very life to appear convincing in the role.
Chapter Thirty
‘I can’t possibly be in love with him. I barely know him.’
Grace stood at the little bedroom window staring out across Daisy’s massive garden, stroking a baby guinea pig who’d been squeaking for attention from the second she had woken up.
Believing being busy was the best cure for the blues, Daisy had barely let up on the hard graft since she’d arrived, and Grace felt physically refreshed after a proper sleep bought on by sheer exhaustion.
Mentally however, she remained bruised and a little bit lost as once again she tried to reason the situation into a more coherent mess by adopting Daisy’s newfound list-making skills.
Settling the guinea pig, which she’d decided to call Chutney in honour of his pickle-coloured coat, onto her lap, Grace tore a piece of paper from her notebook. ‘OK Chutney, I’ve proved that I am hopeless at explaining myself out loud, let’s see if I can do a bit better with the written word. If I can’t, then I might as well give up working on Mathilda’s story right now!’
Writing the number 1 on the top left-hand corner of the piece of lined paper, Grace rested her pen next to it and sighed, ‘Come on, Chutney, help me out here. I don’t know where to start. What should I put first?’
Understanding why the healing powers of stroking animals was considered so beneficial, Grace decided to forget working in a logical order and simply hammer out every feeling and thought she had concerning Rob. She could put them into some sort of sensible order later on.
1. I have lots in common with Rob
2. We get on – at least, I thought we did
3. Conversation is easy
4. He doesn’t treat me like I’m weird
5. I feel good when I see his name in my inbox – well, I used to
6. I need to tell him about Malcolm – he may still hate me, but he has to know I didn’t do anything wrong. In fact I was bored out of my mind with Malcolm!
7. No one has ever made me so sad that I didn’t want to watch a RH film before!
8. He has nice eyes and smile
9. He makes me laugh
10. Our kiss in kitchen
Grace couldn’t bring herself to write about exactly how she’d felt in the kitchen. After all, nothing had really happened; but there could be no denying that the air between them had been charged with so much sexual tension and promise (dashed promise now), that she wasn’t sure she would ever feel the same cooking in there again. ‘Oh, crikey!’ Grace lifted Chutney up to her face, ‘I’ve just remembered – the burnt dinner we abandoned is sat in the cold oven!’
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?’