Romancing Robin Hood

by Jenny Kane

  Grace’s head snapped up so quickly that she almost lost her footing in her unaccustomed footwear, and had to catch hold of Dr Frank’s linen-clad arm for a split second to steady herself so she didn’t examine the lake at soggily close quarters, ‘You know about Folville’s law?!’

  ‘Of course. I am, as you have pointed out, an obsessed medievalist.’

  ‘But you’ve been in America.’

  ‘Incredible as it is to believe, they do have books in America.’

  Grace scuffed her shoes against the banks, embarrassed at being teased again, but knowing that this time she deserved it, ‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve not met many people who’ve heard of Folville’s Law.’

  Rob stared at Grace levelly and quoted directly from William Langland’s medieval epic Piers the Plowman,

  ‘“And some ryde and to recovere that unrightfully was wonne:

  He wised hem wynne it ayein wightnesses of handes,

  And fecchen it from false men with Folvyles lawes.”‘4

  In other words, Folville’s Law said it was OK to redress a wrong with violence.’

  Grace stood open-mouthed, staring at her companion, disbelief etched on her face as Rob continued, ‘I think you may be on to something. How are you going to write it up though? Will you truly be able to get the idea across, and can you quantify it?’

  She had an uncharacteristic urge to tell him about the novel, but just as Grace was about to, the usual unease she experienced about sharing the idea in academic circles claimed her. She really didn’t want to be teased on a professional level as well as for fun, so she simply said, ‘It’s proving a challenge, and taking far longer than I had planned.’ Which was the truth – almost.

  ‘It always does.’ Rob started to walk them back towards the less attractive square buildings that formed most of the Nottingham campus. After a few steps he added, ‘You haven’t told me about why you like him personally, or your views on Robin Hood as a figurehead for justice, though.’

  ‘I know,’ Grace spoke bluntly, keeping her gaze firmly on the path before her, ‘but I have to get going. I have to endure the horror that is dress shopping in Sheffield tomorrow.’

  ‘A horror? Surely not? You wear your clothes so well.’

  Grace’s cheeks reddened at the unaccustomed compliment, while wishing Agatha hadn’t made her wear such a low-cut top, and mentally admonished herself for allowing him to turn her face to crimson twice in one afternoon. ‘Thank you,’ she squeaked, ‘but I confess, this is not my usual attire.’

  He tilted his head to one side, ‘Jeans and T-shirts?’

  ‘Yup,’ Grace laughed despite herself, letting some of the tension that had built up between them slip away.

  ‘Me too.’ He looked down at his crumpled suit with an unsavoury grimace.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s been this stupid three-line whip about what clothes we can wear during interviews. They actually sent me home to change into a suit this morning! Can you believe that?’

  Grace’s mouth dropped open in surprise for the second time in ten minutes, and burst out laughing, before telling him about her own similar start to the day.

  Chapter Nine

  A strong black coffee in a double layer of cardboard cups to protect her from the heat of its contents sat on the lap table fastened to the back of the train seat before Grace.

  The journey to Sheffield wouldn’t take long, but Grace decided to do some writing before Daisy picked her up from the station. It would prevent her mind from replaying the viva she’d just experienced (or more accurately, the walk with Dr Franks she’d had afterwards), and keep the prospect of dress shopping tomorrow at bay.

  Flicking her way to the correct place in her notebook before fishing out a red pen from her ancient Tom Baker Doctor Who pencil case, Grace found herself wondering what Rob Franks would make of her ownership of that. He’d probably wonder why, if she must own a child’s pencil case rather than a sensible boring adult one, why she didn’t have a Robin Hood one.

  The lecturer been a lot nicer than she’d expected really. OK, he had teased her a bit, but she’d probably asked for it. She knew she got a bit touchy about her work sometimes. Despite her determination for it not to, Grace’s mind drifted to when they’d stood by the lake together and she’d had to steady herself against him, albeit briefly. His crumpled linen jacket had been rough beneath her touch, and yet warm from the sunshine. The slim muscular arm beneath had suggested that maybe he worked out …

  The conductor came into the carriage and broke Grace’s unsolicited daydream by asking for her ticket. She admonished herself firmly; she’d just wasted a good ten minutes writing time with pointless reminiscences and fruitless wishful thinking.

  ‘Mathilda.’

  Robert de Folville spoke sternly, and at once Mathilda could see why it would be unwise to argue with his man unless you were very sure of yourself. It was as if he had two sides to him. A side that was never to be questioned, that was ruthless and determined. And a kinder, more gentle side, considerate of the individual and the locality. It was how these two halves mixed and intertwined that intrigued Mathilda as she stood shyly in only her chemise before him.

  The housekeeper who’d bathed her had produced new clothes for Mathilda, and despite all her experience and sharp temper, had been unable to persuade this new girl to put them on, claiming she favoured her own familiar, if rather dirty, clothes. Eventually the older woman threatened to get his lordship, whether Mathilda was naked or not. Mathilda had said she wouldn’t dare, but the housekeeper had dared, and grinning knowingly went to fetch Robert.

  Mathilda had only had time to pull on the long kirtle before Robert came striding in, a look of annoyed impatience across his face. ‘You will dress in these,’ he pointed to the pile of semi-new clothes. ‘I can’t waste my time with things like this, girl.’

  Shaking her head firmly, Mathilda braced herself as she risked provoking his temper. The housekeeper was looking expectantly at Folville, and Mathilda wondered if she was disappointed when Robert steadied his temper and took a deep breath before speaking with deliberate clarity.

  ‘Mathilda, it is important that you temper that natural directness of yours, not to mention your boldness. Those are valuable skills, but I need you to hide them under style and grace.’ He pointed again to the garments laid out before them. ‘These clothes will help you give the impression we require you to portray. Your own clothes will be cleaned and returned to you when the job is done.’

  ‘You see my directness as a skill, my Lord?’

  Robert almost smiled as he replied with exasperation, ‘Boldness, intelligence, directness, and an uncanny knack of knowing what’s going on when you shouldn’t may well get you out of here alive. But overconfidence won’t.’

  Indigent, Mathilda’s face flushed, ‘I’m no gossip, my Lord.’

  ‘Indeed not, but as you have proved to me once again, you are bold.’ He turned to the housekeeper, treating her to the edge of his simmering anger, ‘Now, for the Lord’s sake, Sarah, get some clothes on her, she looks like a whore,’ and he stalked out of the room.

  Bright red with embarrassment, Mathilda allowed the disgruntled maid to help her into fresh clothes.

  Over the chemise, Mathilda wore a tightly sleeved dress of light brown, and on top of that came a longer sleeveless surcoat in a fine blue wool, a little paler in shade than her temporary master’s cloak. Finally, a wide simple leather belt, with a plain circular clasp, was used to pull in and girdle her tiny waist, and a pair of practical leather boots adorned her bruised feet.

  Clothes such as these, Mathilda knew, placed her in the arena of those who worked for the rising gentry, rather than those who traded for a living. For the daughter of a potter who only just kept his family alive on his own tiny stretch of land, and his skill with clay, it was a major transformation.

  Describing Mathilda’s new clothes wrenched Grace out of her concentration and filled her head with ima
ges of the potential bridesmaid dress which was just out there, waiting to be found. Putting on such a garment would feel as strange to Grace as her unexpected new outfit would have done to Mathilda.

  At least, Grace thought, Daisy is unlikely to force anything I hate upon me, and the choice of colour will probably be my own. Unplugging her music, Grace laid down her pen and watched the grottier parts of Sheffield’s outskirts come into view though the carriage window.

  Daisy was waiting beside her battered old Land Rover, a wide beam on her freckled face. Her dungarees had some white paint smeared across one leg, and her mad shoulder-length curly hair was stuffed behind her head in a red scrunchy that clashed alarmingly with her ginger colouring.

  When she caught sight of Grace, she had to do a double-take. It looked like Grace, but in a skirt and jacket? And no trainers either? Surely not?

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Daisy pointed in amused disbelief at her as Grace dropped her bag into the Land-Rover.

  ‘Don’t ask! Just get me to a decent Ladies’ cloakroom so I can put my jeans back on.’

  ‘I am going to ask, but I guess it can wait. How about I find us a Pizza Hut, a couple of glasses of wine, and, as you wish, a nice clean cloakroom, and then you can tell me why you’re dressed like a business assistant for an IT company?’

  Grace enveloped her friend in a hug, ‘Daze, you’re a star!’

  Grace couldn’t actually describe the relief she felt when she slipped her jeans and trainers back on. They didn’t even look that bad with the charity shop’s blouse and jacket. She studied her reflection in the washroom mirror. It seemed even odder to Grace, now she thought about it, that she’d been comfortable during the interview despite her unfamiliar clothing. That wasn’t like her at all. She normally fidgeted and shuffled non-stop outside of her regular attire. Perhaps it had been because Rob had made her so welcome, and had obviously respected her work and her opinion. Maybe I should have told him about both of my books? No. Even as the notion entered her head, Grace knew she didn’t want to risk a fellow historian laughing at her. Or worse, losing the respect Rob had for her work before he’d really got to know how good she was at what she did.

  ‘Is that better?’ Daisy was already studying the menu as Grace returned, appearing far more like her old self, but with fewer creases than usual.

  ‘Tons, thanks,’ Grace grabbed her menu, ‘what are you having?’

  ‘Well, despite what I said earlier, I’d better skip the wine and have a Pepsi as I’m driving, but I’ll definitely have a Hawaiian pizza. Marcus hates pineapple so I don’t get to have it any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We buy a big pizza and share it.’

  ‘Cute!’

  Daisy blushed slightly, but smiled anyway, ‘Stop it. It’s not cute, it’s economical.’

  ‘If you say so, Daze.’

  ‘Stop teasing me, and tell me about the viva, and more importantly, about the internal examiner. Was he ninety years old, crusty and dull, or twenty, and scarily brilliant, but disappointingly plain and as wet as a lettuce?’

  ‘Actually, he was neither.’ Grace paused in her account of Dr Franks to relay her order of a pepperoni pizza and cola to the hovering waitress. ‘I guess he was probably a bit younger than us, mid-thirties probably, intelligent and interesting. He’s newly arrived from teaching in America.’

  Daisy’s eyes shone with mischief as she listened, ‘And is this young interesting man single?’

  Seeing where Daisy was heading, Grace said, ‘Oh for Heaven’s sake, Daze! I only said he was almost our age, I didn’t declare a secret crush or anything, and I’m sure he’s probably been living happily ever after with some American airhead for years.’

  Daisy pounced, ‘So you do have a crush on him.’

  ‘I said I didn’t!’

  ‘No, you didn’t! You said you hadn’t declared a secret crush – that implies you have one to declare. And you were mean about a girlfriend he probably doesn’t have.’

  ‘Oh hell, Daisy, you’re impossible now you’re all loved-up.’

  ‘I only want you to be as happy as me, babe,’ Daisy smiled as she leant towards her friend, wagging her finger in mock admonishment, ‘and anyway, you’re the one who’s supposed to be good with words. I’m only playing you at your own game!’

  ‘Honestly, Daze, Rob was just a nice guy, that’s all, and our research covers similar areas.’

  Daisy put her newly delivered drink down with a thump. ‘Rob? The intelligent, interesting, nice guy is called Rob?’ Daisy looked directly at Grace, ‘I mean, he’s working in Nottingham, he’s a medieval historian, and his name is Rob – as in Robert – as in Robin. Do I have to paint a picture here?’

  Grace, who was beginning to wish she’d had a glass of wine after all, gave Daisy one of her Paddington Bear stares; the sort she used on students who were persistently late with their coursework. ‘You can stop your match-making right there, thank you, Daisy Marks. Dr Franks will be unlikely to re-enter the framework of my life again anytime soon, and if he does it will be because we work in the same field of study. OK?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ Daisy giggled as her pizza arrived.

  ‘Right then!’ Grace began to laugh as well.

  ‘Seriously though,’ Daisy wiped away her giggles along with some honey and mustard dressing she’d accidentally trickled over the table, ‘you don’t normally say these people are interesting. The subject, yes, but rarely the people that go alongside her studies.’

  Grace thought as she chewed at a particularly well-stuffed cheesy crust. Daisy was right in a way. Dr Franks had been more interesting and easier to talk to than the typical medievalists she met at meetings and conferences. ‘It’s probably because he’s my age, and even more important, he’s heard of Folville’s Law.’

  ‘Of course he has. He’s obviously as much of a crackpot as you are.’

  ‘No, honestly, Daisy, I use Folville’s Law as a sort of test. You’d be surprised how many historians haven’t heard of it.’

  ‘Criminal!’

  ‘Oh, ha ha ha. Now, will you stop teasing me please?’

  ‘Only if you stop behaving like an idiot. Fancy testing a person’s level of interestingness with the knowledge of one obscure quote from hundreds of years ago. Only you could be that mad.’

  Grace felt defensive. She knew it was silly, but it wasn’t like Daisy to get at her like this, ‘Let’s drop it, OK? So, what’s the plan for tonight, tomorrow’s shopping bonanza, and beyond?’

  Unsure why Grace wasn’t being her usual easy-going self, Daisy changed the subject, but privately vowed to get more information about Dr Franks at a later date, ‘I hope you won’t mind sharing a room with a couple of guinea pigs tonight, we’re a bit stacked-up at the moment.’

  Grace relaxed. This was more like Daisy. She could imagine the state of the little guest room. It was only really big enough for the single bed that was squashed along its far wall beneath the window, and the small matching dressing table and chair squeezed opposite it. Grace however, had never seen it without empty, or sometimes full, hutches stacked across every square inch of the floor. She knew the walls were magnolia, but as she had never seen the carpet through the homes of the furry incumbents, she couldn’t even begin to guess at its colour. Yet it was always comfortable at Daisy’s place, even if it did have a faint aroma of clean straw and fur.

  Grateful for the change of subject, Grace said she wouldn’t mind sharing with the four-legged guests, and deciding she’d better act on her good intention to be a decent bridesmaid, said, ‘Break it to me gently Daisy. What colour do I have to wear to this wedding of yours? I should warn you, though, that if you say Lincoln Green I may empty this salad bowl all over your lap!’

  ‘Actually, that hadn’t entered my head,’ Daisy replied untruthfully, ‘I thought we’d see what suited you. You’re the only bridesmaid, so it doesn’t matter that much.’

  ‘Not pink.’

  ‘Definitely not p
ink, and perhaps not a colour that will clash with my ginger locks.’

  ‘Good point,’ Grace stabbed some lettuce around her salad bowl to dab up the last few bacon bits, ‘so that’s orange and bright red out.’

  ‘Yuck! I’m doing the traditional ivory bit, so at least that will go with anything.’

  ‘Not wearing white then?’

  Daisy stuck her tongue out.

  ‘Have you got a dress sorted out?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Daisy grimaced at the memory of her second attempt at trawling around every wedding dress shop and boutique in South Yorkshire and Derbyshire, ‘I’ve narrowed it down to three. I hoped you could help me narrow it down to “the one” tomorrow. I’ve found a friendly little wedding shop that doesn’t make you feel like you’re gate-crashing a society event just by walking through the door.’ ‘Well done! I bet that took some doing.’

  ‘You have no idea!’ Daisy took a sustaining gulp of Pepsi, as if trying to rinse away her memory of a parade of bored wafer-thin bridal shop assistants, ‘It has a great selection of stuff for you as well as me, so fingers crossed we can get it all there and have the rest of the weekend to ourselves.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ Grace lifted up her hands so Daisy could see that she’d crossed all her fingers, ‘here’s hoping.’

  Chapter Ten

  Grace sat up in bed, her manuscript resting on a large book about breeding rabbits that she’d found propped up in the corner of the room. Why anyone would need such a book Grace couldn’t imagine. Didn’t rabbits just breed? Surely a book about stopping them breeding would be far more useful?

  Attempting to focus on the last paragraph of Mathilda’s story she’d written, Grace found her mind drifting off to Rob Franks again. What would he think of her for spending time on this novel when she was supposed to be working on a textbook? Would he respect her for it? Grace shook her head, ‘Daisy’s putting ideas in your head, girl. Stop it.’ She fished a red pen from the depths of her bag and began to update her work so far.