Romancing Robin Hood

by Jenny Kane

  ‘Again Mathilda, you are wise …’ ‘For someone so young, my Lord? You keep speaking of me as though I am a child, yet I am nineteen, not twelve. And you are sending me into the lair of some of the most notorious men in this Hundred, on a mission you, I hope, would not lay upon a child.’

  Robert smiled in rueful acknowledgement of her words, before taking Mathilda totally by surprise and drawing her close, hugging her briefly, ‘Be careful, my girl. Follow your orders, listen to Master Hugo, and then come back to me. I’ll take you home to Ashby Folville.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord,’ Mathilda muttered, her cheeks burning, astonished at such a gesture from the man who was essentially her gaoler. If it was meant to assure her, it had failed, for it just reinforced the perils of the mission to her. Maybe that had been his way of saying goodbye, just in case that mission turned out to be one of no return?

  ‘You must go now; Hugo is ready to leave.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Mathilda bowed briefly, and turned to go, but one more question burned in her throat, that she had to ask, ‘Forgive me, but Master Hugo? Do you trust him?’

  Roberts’s face flushed with a flash of anger, and for a second Mathilda flinched in readiness for an explosion of his temper, but he caught himself, and in a sharp, controlled voice said, ‘I’d trust him with my life, something that I have in fact done on the battlefield on more than one occasion.’

  She bowed again and left without another word, wondering though if Master Hugo could be trusted as generously with her life.

  An hour had passed since they’d left the boundary of Derby, and although dawn was still breaking, the roads were busy with wagons and carts on their way to Bakewell for the fair. Feeling Robert’s knife pressing against her thigh, Mathilda wriggled into a more comfortable position in the back of the cart, pulling the thick brown travelling cloak she’d borrowed from Mary closer around her shoulders. The day promised sunshine, but the early mists had yet to clear, and the chill in the air was trying to burrow between the layers of her clothes.

  Mathilda was glad of the presence of the other traders travelling the same road, for she had dreaded being alone with Master Hugo. Greetings were called and exchanged as those heading to Bakewell recognised each other from other markets and fairs. Yet Mathilda kept her own mouth shut, just in case she was spotted by someone from the markets she had frequented with her father. She didn’t want to have to answer questions as to why she was there.

  Sat in the back of the cart amongst the leather wares, Mathilda closed her eyes. This spare time was dangerous – it allowed her to think. She needed to stay busy to drive away the worries that beset her about her family. Was her brother Oswin home now, or lost in Lincolnshire? Or somewhere else entirely? Were Matthew and her father working all the hours of daylight they could to get her home, while still managing to support themselves and keep the home going?

  If she jumped off the cart now, Mathilda knew she could easily disappear into the woodland that currently bordered the road. It would take several days to get home, but she could do it, and then … no, that wouldn’t help. The debt would still require payment, and the Folville brothers wouldn’t be likely to stop at kidnap next time.

  Banishing plans of potential escape, Mathilda bought her mind back to the matter in hand. So far she had avoided having to talk to Master Hugo, but as they drew closer to their destination, she knew that would have to change.

  Mathilda was still unsure why she disliked Hugo so much. Although he hadn’t gone as far as being friendly, he had been courteous, had treated her well in his home, and was helping her to carry out her allotted task. Yet there was something about the way he appraised her, with a sort of resentment about his features, which made Mathilda feel vulnerable and uncertain. He was a successful merchant, he was free of many of the worries the majority of the trading and lower classes had to endure; surely it was she that should have been resentful of him?

  Her thoughts ceased with their abrupt arrival at the gates of Bakewell. The carts before them had started to queue up, as stewards and other assorted officials directed the traders, entertainers, and merchants to their allotted stalls. As they crept slowly forward in the queue, Master Hugo called to Mathilda. Clambering down from the cart, she went around and took hold of the horse’s bridle to lead them into the market place.

  Speaking in a low mumble, Hugo said, ‘Once we are set up, and the earliest customers arrive, that will be your best chance to slip away. But don’t be long, child, by noon business will be brisk and I shall need your help.’

  ‘What if I can’t get back on time? I wouldn’t want your business to suffer because of me.’

  Hugo stared at her shrewdly as he explained that there was a local lad that helped him out sometimes, and that they’d manage until she returned. If they had to.

  Mathilda nodded, ‘The directions, my Lord?’

  ‘I am not your lord, girl, nor anyone’s,’ He spat his bitterness.

  ‘I’m sorry, Master Hugo; I simply meant to show respect.’

  ‘Indeed.’ He seemed far from convinced, but after a few uncomfortable moments said, ‘From my stall you must head left and walk the length of the fair; once you reach the final stand in the row you’ll see two roads. Take the second, on the right-hand side, and follow it for about a mile. The manor you seek will be there. It is an easy route, but not an easy task. I confess I am surprised at Folville’s choice of mate and confidante.’

  Mathilda bit back the retort that came to her throat, saying instead ‘Thank you. I shall return as soon as I am able. I do not wish to linger with the Coterel family for any longer than I have to.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thanks to Mary’s instructions, and the time they’d spent in Roger’s dour company sorting the plain practical belts and aprons from Master Hugo’s intricate girdles, delicate butterfly-patterned belts, and dagger sheaths, the market stall was soon set up.

  The crisp morning air remained cool, but the earlier promising hint of sunshine was starting to break through, and the buzz of happy expectation from her fellow traders was infectious. The first customers of the day began to descend on the scene as jugglers and other street players started to ply their light-hearted entertainment alongside the merchants of the county and beyond.

  Set out in a series of rows that ran from one side of the square to the other, every possible commodity was available, providing you had the money to pay for it. From Master Hugo’s finest luxury leatherware stall at the far end of the second row, there were others displaying goods as far ranging as intricately worked pieces of silver and gold jewellery, wicker baskets, combs and skeins of wool, and rolls of fabric, to food of all varieties, from the local to the exotic.

  Time seemed to be passing incredibly fast to Mathilda, and before she’d had time to think about planning her exit properly, the local boy, Tom, had arrived to help Master Hugo, and she bid them a temporary farewell, slipping away to complete her allotted task.

  With a racing heart, Mathilda raised her hood, and hugged her cloak around her, afraid that the knife would be spotted despite being hidden beneath several layers of clothing. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking at her in particular, but at the market in general, Mathilda edged closer to the last stall in the row. She could just make out the gateway she needed to get to over the crowd’s heads.

  Passing stalls displaying apples, freshly baked bread, and roasting pigs, nothing registered beyond her duty. Soon only two stands remained to be passed. Mathilda could now clearly see the slim walkway ahead, between a fenced off garden and the back wall of a workshop. She had just increased her pace, when Mathilda spotted a familiar face behind the final stall of the row.

  She froze on the spot. There were plenty of people about. Surely she wouldn’t be easily singled out from them, but Mathilda pulled her hood further forward anyway, covering as much as her face as possible as she watched Geoffrey of Reresby selling his pots with comfortable ease on the final stall in the row.
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  A jealous, angry bile rising in her throat as her eyes ran over the mass of ceramicware he could afford to offer. He may have appeared welcoming and friendly, but Mathilda knew differently. Reresby had beaten her father to the best pitches at markets and fairs for the past few years, often cheating or bribing his way into favour with the local lords so that they would buy from him and no one else.

  She was only partially surprised to see him so far from home; this was a popular market after all. Mathilda also knew of her own father’s shortcomings. It would never have crossed his mind to travel so far to make money.

  Making sure she stayed shrouded behind a group of women chatting about the goods on offer, Mathilda moved slowly with them, until at last she was close enough to the alleyway to slip away from the stall without Geoffrey seeing her. Suppressing the idea of turning back and throwing one of the small stones which littered the edges of the road at the stall, and smashing as many of his pots as possible, Mathilda left the bustle behind her; wondering if it was her presence with the Folvilles was what had caused this abrupt, uncharacteristically violent urge.

  Just as Master Hugo had said, there was a choice of roads. She took the right-hand one as instructed, and walked purposefully, trying to give the air of someone who knew where they were going, and had a perfect right to be there.

  She’d travelled about a mile and was sure she should have arrived by now. She had passed the final dwelling and yet there was no manor house in sight, just a stretch of land strips to the right and a cluster of coppiced wood to the left. Mathilda dare not ask anyone for help. Anyway, the market had drawn most of the population away from their daily labours for a few precious hours, and the side street before her lay deserted.

  Slipping between the trees Mathilda came to a standstill, her mind racing. Somehow she must have gone wrong. Thinking fast, she reran her instructions in her head. Go on the right path, and keep going. She had done exactly that. Childish tears sprang to the corners of her eyes as Mathilda took in her situation. She scrubbed them away, angry at herself, but angrier with Robert. He’d trusted Master Hugo, even though she hadn’t. There was no other conclusion to reach. The leatherworker had given her the wrong directions on purpose.

  A vision of her father and brothers flashed through Mathilda’s head. She wouldn’t let them down. For that matter, she didn’t want to let Robert down either. Not because she cared about him, she told herself, but because she wanted to prove she wasn’t the little girl he thought she was, and was worthy of the expectations his family held of her. Although the Folvilles’ methods worried her, they were effective, and the fear they engendered was at least smeared with respect.

  ‘What would Robyn Hode do?’ Mathilda whispered to herself as she crouched between the spindly trees, watching for any other sign of life. ‘He’d make a plan and stick to it. I have to find the manor, so I’ll have to ask someone, I have no choice. But I need a plausible reason for asking.’ This was less easy to think up. She had no money on her, so she couldn’t buy a gift to pretend to take to the Coterel’s home, she only had her message. Would that be enough? Or was she supposed to keep the fact that she was delivering a message a secret, along with the message itself?

  It had to be the gift idea. A present from a master to Coterel perhaps? A master she would have to make up, so if she was forced to give more details, she at least sounded plausible. How about Master Hugo? She owed him some trouble after all.

  Mathilda felt the knife against her side, thankful now that Robert had forced it upon her, and with a heavy sigh strode back the way she’d come. There was only one thing she could claim was a gift to the Coterels from Master Hugo, and with a heavy heart, she undid her girdle and laid it across her palms. With any luck she wouldn’t have to part with it once she’d reached the manor. She really didn’t want to face Robert’s fury if she lost the girdle, even if it was through no fault of her own. She ran her fingers over the pattern, and was struck with the idea that she’d seen it somewhere else as she began to walk faster, her heart thudding in her chest.

  Retracing her steps, Mathilda mused as to Master Hugo’s motives. Why send her the wrong way? She was convinced he hadn’t done it by mistake. Was he really on the Folvilles’ side? Or was his friendship to Robert fake on his part for some reason, the bond they forged on the battlefield merely convenient for his own plans? Mathilda resolved to be even more wary, and also to say nothing to him of his success in misleading her when she got back to his stall. There was no way she’d give him the satisfaction, and was determined to frustrate Master Hugo by somehow succeeding in her mission.

  On reaching the first holding on the edge of the town, Mathilda called out, trying to keep the nerves from her voice, ‘Excuse me.’

  She was relieved when it was a child who ran to meet her hail, ‘Can I help you, my Lady?’

  My Lady? Mathilda was momentarily stunned by the address, until she remembered her new attire, and quickly adopted what she hoped would be the mannerisms to go with her assumed social status.

  ‘I have taken a wrong turn, I think. My father has instructed me to take this gift to the manor of the Lords Coterel, do you know the way?’

  The boy, who she guessed was no more than ten years old, shrank back a little, ‘The Coterel manor, you say?’

  ‘Please. They are expecting this, I bought it from the market,’ she showed the boy the girdle, ‘and I fear it would be unwise to delay in its delivery.’

  ‘You are right there, my Lady, my father says the Coterels are not patient men.’ He bit his lips, suddenly, as he wondered if he’d spoken out of turn.

  Mathilda smiled to reassure him, ‘You can direct me?’

  ‘I can, my Lady; you are two miles adrift. Go towards the market place, and just as you reach it, there are two further paths, one to the market, and one to the left. Take the left road. A mile or so down there and you’ll reach the house.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mathilda with all the authority she could muster.

  ‘Please, my Lady,’ said the boy as she turned to go, ‘where are your horse and attendant?’

  Mathilda hadn’t been ready for this question; her cheeks flush in betrayal of her role, ‘My maid is helping at the market, and my horse is lame.’

  She hastened away, uneasy at leaving the boy staring after her in disbelief, but glad that she now knew where she was going. She strode as quickly as was seemly, aware that she was already well behind time if she was to return to Hugo’s stall by midday.

  A sound behind her made her turn. It was the boy on a pony and cart. ‘May I assist you; I can give you a lift as far as the market, if you don’t mind travelling in the cart. I apologise, I should have offered before, but I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  Mathilda only hesitated for a second, before agreeing and thanking her helper.

  The boy chatted away as they rode, ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to get any trouble from the Coterels, my Lady. I have seen them at work. No, I wouldn’t want a pretty lady like you in trouble with them!’

  Mathilda almost asked him what he’d seen, but then decided she didn’t want to know. As they reached the crossroads she’d been at earlier, she alighted, ‘Our Lady’s blessings on you, child.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lady. Good luck.’

  This time the directions were correct, and it wasn’t long before Mathilda could see the manor house ahead of her, at the end of a rough driveway. Re-securing the girdle around her waist, relieved that she hadn’t needed to bargain with it after all, Mathilda lowered her hood and, hovering behind an oak at the roadside, took a moment to decide what to do next.

  She was close to her destination now, and nerves swam haphazardly in her stomach. These were men to be cautious of, but, she thought with a stab of pride, she’d already survived being kidnapped and put in the Folvilles’ holding cell, so she could survive this. She had stood before the Folville family, and was now being trusted with a task which, Robert had told her, was vital to both them, and the second fe
lonious family she was about to encounter. She could do this. She must.

  Judging that it must already be about an hour until noon, Mathilda knew it was unlikely she would be back before the specified time. That was a shame; she would love to have seen the look on Master Hugo’s face if she had.

  Wasting no more time, and with a quick stroke of Robert’s dagger for luck, she went cautiously forward. The driveway wasn’t long, and Mathilda soon found herself in a neat courtyard.

  A boy hurried up to her, ‘May I help you, mistress?’

  ‘I am instructed by my master to see the steward.’

  Thankfully unfazed by her request, the boy ran towards what Mathilda took to be a workshop of some sort in the far corner of the yard.

  She had barely time to examine her surroundings, when a gruff barrel of a man strode impatiently towards her. She’d obviously disturbed him from his labours, and he wasn’t too impressed by that fact.

  Mathilda spoke quickly, ‘My apologies for the disturbance. I have a message. La Zouche and De Heredwyk.’

  The solid man’s eyebrows knotted together in a frown of disapproval as he stared at her with disdain. Mathilda raised her head in response, copying the expression of haughty annoyance she had seen on Sarah the housekeeper when she’d struggled to bathe her two days ago.

  Grunting, the steward set off towards the main house, ‘Come on then.’

  Following him, Mathilda resisted the temptation to run to keep up. She repeated the message over and over in her head, hoping that her welcome would be well received, and that this visit would be swift.

  ‘Wait here.’ The steward left her in a narrow corridor between the main door and the hall. It was a larger house than the Ashby Folville residence, but no warmer or lighter, and as Mathilda peered around her, she saw it was in more need of care than the Folvilles home.

  ‘In here.’ The steward spoke abruptly, pointing his way forward with a calloused hand.