Romancing Robin Hood

by Jenny Kane

  Mathilda went were she was directed, into a hall busy with servants at one end, and a long table near the fire place at the other.

  A stocky man with tamed curly black hair and a clipped beard was looking at her expectantly. His fine clothes told her he was a Coterel, but not which one.

  ‘My Lord,’ Mathilda curtseyed, ‘I have a message.’

  ‘Give it, child.’

  ‘Please, my Lord, I have been instructed to ask whom I am addressing first.’ The man smiled, not a friendly smile, but a knowing smile, one that told her that he would have instructed a messenger of his own in the same way should the roles have been reversed.

  ‘I’m Nicholas Coterel. The message?’

  ‘De Vere has agreed.’

  Coterel’s shrewd face gave little away, but his dark eyes shone with what Mathilda hoped was satisfaction. He stood for a moment and then said, ‘You may give the Folvilles my reply. Tell them, “The message is well received. Three days. Midnight.”’

  Mathilda copied the message back, ‘The message is well received. Three Days. Midnight.’

  ‘Exactly right,’ Coterel gestured to Mathilda to sit down as he took a draft of ale, ‘I am curious at Folvilles choice of envoy. Who are you, child?’

  Mathilda sat down, swallowing nervously, wishing that everyone would stop referring to her as a child, ‘I am companion to Robert de Folville, my Lord. My name is Mathilda, and I’m from Twyford.’

  Coterel choked on his drink and sent a fine spray across the table, ‘Are you? Are you indeed? Now that is interesting …’ His voice trailed off, but his eyes never left his visitor.

  Mathilda stiffened, unsure how to respond, so simply said, ‘If you’ll forgive me, my Lord, I must return to my duties, I have another errand to run.’ She flicked her eyes around the hall; Mathilda had an increasing feeling that Nicholas wasn’t the only one watching her.

  ‘Of course, but have a drink first; you have travelled far and must be tired. I confess I am curious to know how you got here, as my steward tells me you have no horse.’

  Mathilda inclined her head with gratitude as she was presented with a cup of honeyed ale.

  ‘I should advise you to tell me the truth, Mathilda of Twyford. I’m sure you will have been told all about me by your young man, although I find myself believing that you would never be so stupid as to lie to me anyway.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Doing her best to ignore the fact that all the hairs on the back of her neck had stood up, and her conviction that she was being surveyed from some hidden location in the smoky hall, Mathilda had seen the sense in telling Nicholas Coterel everything about her day so far when he’d asked, although how she came to be in the company of the Folvilles in the first place she kept to herself.

  Nicholas had not appeared surprised by Hugo’s behaviour; although he didn’t venture an opinion as why the leatherworker had acted in the way he had, beyond saying ‘Master Hugo is an odd one and no mistake. I can see why you wish to get back to him on schedule. He’d hate that!’

  ‘I can’t possibly manage that now, my Lord. I’m weary from walking, and it’s another two miles back to the market place.’

  Coterel regarded her with open curiosity, ‘Were you not scared, girl, to walk into this notorious den of thieves?’

  Mathilda again chose honesty as the best course, ‘I was terrified, my Lord, but it was important to Robert that I succeed in my task.’ She did not add that it was even more important to her father and her brothers.

  ‘You genuinely like Robert, don’t you?’

  Mathilda found herself blushing at the suggestion, but determined to keep up the companion pretence said, ‘He is a good man, my Lord.’

  ‘Despite his deeds?’ Coterel cocked his head to one side, a mischievous curve playing at the side of his lips.

  ‘His deeds are for the general good, my Lord.’

  ‘Not always, child.’

  ‘No, I suppose not; but often they are.’ Folding her palms in her lap, it came as a surprise to Mathilda to realise that she really did like Robert, and was now only beginning to see that fact clearly.

  Nicholas broke away from his piercing appraisal of the messenger, ‘I have a proposal for you. A way to dissatisfy that upstart Hugo. Are you interested?’

  Mathilda leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘I will lend you a mount and lad. If you gallop hard the first mile and trot the second through the town’s outskirts, you’ll make it on time, and Hugo will be dumbfounded.’

  ‘You’d do that for me, my Lord? I’m only a messenger.’

  ‘You are a polite and efficient emissary from the closet thing this family can call an ally in these treacherous times, besides,’ Nicholas stood up decisively, ‘I can’t stand that Hugo, even if his craftsmanship is second to none.’ He gestured to her girdle with his head as they walked, ‘That was a present from Robert?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Makes sense. He won’t have a word said against the belt-maker; I believe Hugo saved his life when they were in arms. My advice to you, therefore, is to keep Hugo’s betrayal secret if you can.’

  Nicholas strode through the hall, forcing Mathilda to jog after him. She’d been bursting to tell Robert about Master Hugo’s lack of worth, and felt disappointed that she’d been advised against it. While she considered what Coterel had said, she peered from side to side, trying to catch a glimpse of the set of eyes she’d felt boring into the back of her neck since she’d set foot in the hall, but saw nothing.

  As they reached the courtyard, Coterel called for his steward to make swift arrangements to ferry Mathilda to the town. ‘Do you ride well, Mathilda?’

  ‘No, my Lord, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Then it’ll be best if you share a horse.’

  He turned to a slim young man who’d emerged from the workshop. ‘You will take the Lady Mathilda to the edge of town. Leave her at the market crossroads, before riding directly back here.’

  The young man inclined his head in a surly manner that reminded Mathilda of Hugo’s apprentice, Roger.

  Coterel himself helped a surprised Mathilda into the saddle before the lad came up behind her. It was strange having a male body pressed up against her back, and stranger still when he wrapped his arms around her to reach the reins.

  ‘Good luck, Mathilda of Twyford, I shall enjoy hearing all about the look on Master Hugo’s face when next we meet.’

  Mathilda smiled down at him from the horse, and found she hoped that she did meet again. ‘Thank you, my Lord. I much appreciate your kindness.’ As she spoke, Mathilda suddenly remembered that Nicholas Coterel was a murderer and, some said, a rapist, and yet she still wasn’t afraid of him like she was of Master Hugo the leatherworker.

  The lad swung the horse around and was steering them towards the gateway, when Coterel called after them. He ran back to her, and put a restraining hand on her stirrup. ‘Mathilda, do you have a weapon? Did Robert give you his dagger?’

  Mathilda was confused, ‘Why, yes, my Lord, he did.’

  ‘While you remain with Hugo, keep it close. He has no humour, and may not take kindly to being thwarted, however much it might amuse you and I. Take care, child.’

  Calling back her thanks, Mathilda held on for all she was worth as the lad spurred the horse forward from a gentle walk to a full gallop in only seconds.

  It took very little time to reach a stream of people moving away from the market, and as the horse slowed to a trot, Mathilda surveyed at the myriad of wares the local populace were carrying home from the market. Her eye fell on a young serving girl carrying a large grey pitcher. She was walking gingerly, as though her very existence depended on her getting the vessel back in one piece, and she supposed that it very well might. It had a familiar pattern on it. Diagonal lines and the occasional butterfly.

  The lad pulled to the side of the road and helped Mathilda down.

  Ignoring the curious glances of the passers-by,
(they could think what they liked, she didn’t live around here after all), Mathilda thanked her companion.

  ‘My Lady,’ He nodded and returned the way he’d come, leaving Mathilda free to stride through the thick crowds. Hugo had been correct; things were much busier now the sun was at its height.

  Even if she lived for a hundred years, Mathilda would never forget Master Hugo’s expression. She took a secret delight in watching as he struggled to place an expression of relieved pleasure onto his weasel face, as Mathilda weaved through the stalls towards him just as the church bells chimed twelve. It was the sweetest feeling. A tiny victory against a man she suspected had the capacity for more danger and deception than all the Coterels and Folvilles put together.

  ‘I hope I haven’t kept you too long, Master Hugo,’ Mathilda kept her voice demure and, without giving him time to comment, she joined the leatherworker behind the stall and began serving customers.

  The dress fitted.

  Ashley had been proved right, the bottle sage colour (or Lincoln Green as it would forever be to Grace and Daisy), suited Grace’s skin tone perfectly. Daisy too, was relieved to find that no more alterations were required to her dress, and that the shop had a range of neat, unfussy tiaras in stock that would complement both her outfit and mass of curls. They also had a selection of almost plain veils that could perform their function well without Daisy having to start the next chapter of her life feeling as though she was peering through an over-patterned net curtain.

  Grace had a grin on her face that she couldn’t shift. Her mind constantly flickered between her meeting with Rob at Mrs Beeton’s, their walk to her office, how intoxicating his presence had felt in that small space, and the meal she was looking forward to enjoying with him later that day.

  Daisy had been pumping her for information about Rob from the second she’d stepped off the train into Sheffield at ten o’clock that morning, and Grace knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d have to give her friend some answers.

  ‘Right then,’ Daisy handed over her credit card with only a slight wince at the price as she paid for the dresses.

  ‘I was going to pay for mine, Daze.’ Grace protested as she was dragged back to reality by the shock of hearing how much her friend was spending on two outfits that would only ever be worn once.

  ‘No way. That’s how this wedding lark works. You can buy me a stupendous wedding present instead.’

  ‘And Marcus!’

  ‘Of course, and Marcus.’

  ‘Family pack of guinea pig nuggets fit the bill?’

  Daisy poked Grace in the ribs as they walked outside, leaving the dresses hanging in the shop to be steam-cleaned before collection two days before the wedding. ‘OK, so that’s my big day sorted, let’s get you sorted out now.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yep. What you going to wear tonight?’

  Grace pointed at her smart jeans and linen blouse, ‘This.’

  ‘Oh hell, honey, come on.’ Daisy grabbed her friends elbow and doing an almost perfect imitation of Aggie, frog-marched her to the nearest charity shop. ‘Let’s sort you out once and for all.’ Never mind butterflies; Grace felt as if a whole shoal of fish was swimming in her stomach, as she waited for the train to pull into Nottingham station. Feeling rather strange in a pair of brown suede trousers and a new (ish) black, low-cut shirt, along with a chunky but smart black woollen jacket, she sat, leaning slightly forward in her seat, as if she was about to be interviewed for a job she really wanted but had no idea if she could actually do.

  She had been so excited, so high about meeting someone so much on her wavelength, and actually getting asked out by them for her first proper date in years, that the practicality of the evening ahead hadn’t occurred to her. It was already six o’clock, which meant that by the time they’d had their meal it would be late, and Grace didn’t fancy getting the train back to Leicester alone in the dark. She also didn’t relish the embarrassment of going back to Rob’s place. She was not ready for that – well, she was, but didn’t think she should. Perhaps I’d better book into a hotel or something?

  All of a sudden Grace wanted to run and hide; all her exuberance had evaporated in an instant. This was too hard. She’d been fine on her own for ages, doing what she liked when she liked. Why was she putting herself through all this angst anyway? It was only a kiss and a hug. It meant nothing; she’d been letting her imagination run away with her as usual. That’s what happened when you spent all your time writing stories and living in the past.

  And that was another thing! What if Rob had read her manuscript? What if he hated it? She really wasn’t brave enough to have her first real date in years and her work analysed all in one go.

  The train shuddered to a halt. Fighting the cowardly option of staying in her seat and letting the train take her home to Leicester, Grace stepped down onto the busy concrete platform.

  She couldn’t see Rob at first, and was surprised by how disappointed she felt despite her own inclinations to flee the scene. That’s a good sign, Grace decided as she eased her way through the commuters; it proves I really do want to be here after all.

  Rob was elbowing his way through the mass of oncoming passengers in the opposite direction when she eventually spotted him. He looked mildly flustered, and for the first time it occurred to Grace that he was probably anxious as well.

  Chapter Nineteen

  To Grace’s relief, once they’d negotiated their way out of the crowded station her initial nervousness had dissipated.

  Leaving the depressing grey environment of the station behind them, they headed towards Nottingham city centre. Scooping Grace’s hand in his as they strolled towards the main street, Rob asked, ‘So how was the nightmare that is dress shopping? All over now?’

  ‘More or less. I need to get shoes and book a haircut, then I won’t have to think about getting all dolled up until Daisy’s big day.’

  ‘It can’t be as bad as that surely? I thought women liked having the chance to get all dressed up every now and again.’

  ‘Bit of a generalisation there, I think! That’s like saying that all men like football.’

  ‘Millions of them do.’

  ‘And millions of them don’t.’ Grace laughed at the image that had popped into her head, ‘I can’t imagine you perched on the edge of the sofa, a bottle of lager to hand, shouting at the referee, and worrying about the consequences of a man who failed all his exams at school not getting a ball between two posts.’

  ‘Bit of a generalisation there yourself!’ Rob held her hand a little tighter, ‘I’m sure not all footballers failed at school.’

  ‘Probably not. I was only being silly.’

  ‘I know, but you’re right. I don’t like football. In fact, I don’t really “do” sport. I take it from your rather jaundiced description that you aren’t a football fan either.’

  ‘No, but I do understand why people do like it.’

  ‘You do?’ Rob raised his eyebrows, ‘For most people football is a Marmite situation. They love it or hate it. I’ve never really understood why folk like watching overpaid men running around a field showing off.’

  ‘I think it’s all about passion.’ Grace’s words had come out with far more force than she’d intended, and as soon as the sentence had left her lips she went bright pink.

  Wiggling his eyebrows mischievously, Rob said, ‘Tell me more!’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean! I wasn’t talking about …’ Grace broke off her sentence as Rob pointed to the restaurant doorway to their left hand side.

  ‘I thought we’d try here if that’s OK with you.’

  Grace stared through the glass next to the door into a tastefully decorated Chinese restaurant.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s like food-wise as it hasn’t been here long, but I’ve heard good things, and I’ve been dying to give it a go. What do you think? Shall we?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Grace found she rather enjoyed allowing h
erself to be escorted by the elbow into a restaurant by a handsome, intelligent man, and happily let the aromas of crispy duck and fried rice assail her nostrils as her coat was taken and they were shown to their table.

  Hung with Chinese paper lanterns in discreet streamers along the walls, the red and gold decor was traditionally Oriental, and yet the place managed to remain far more understated than many similar restaurants she’d visited over the years. It was completely devoid of aquariums containing oversized carp, and there wasn’t a single waving lucky cat in sight.

  This place was not only new, but unlike its comrades along Nottingham’s High Street; it was definitely not aimed at the student market. One glance at the menu once they’d been seated by a most helpful waitress confirmed to Grace that this was ‘properly posh’ as her grandmother would have said. She privately decided that when it was time to pay the bill they would be going Dutch.

  The wine they’d ordered arrived quickly, and Rob raised a glass, ‘To Grace, the reluctant bridesmaid!’

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ Grace took a draught of wine, enjoying the perfectly chilled liquid as it slid down her throat like silk. ‘Daisy is absolutely the only person on this planet I would put myself through this for.’

  Rob looked at her thoughtfully for a second before asking, ‘So what does Daisy do? Is she another history buff?’

  ‘Not these days. She cares for stray and injured animals. It started on a small scale as a hobby, but now her home is a mini animal sanctuary.’

  ‘So, you’d say she was passionate about animals then, like some people are passionate about football but not about wearing posh frocks?’ His eyes twinkled as he peered at Grace over the top of his menu.

  ‘And there I was thinking you’d let me off the hook with that one.’

  ‘No way, Dr Harper. I’d like you to choose what you’d like to eat, and then I’d want to hear your views on passion. Preferably in detail.’

  Grace had been only half-listening when she’d agreed with Rob that she should order a heap of noodles, rice, chicken, duck, and beef dishes. She was far more concerned with how to phrase her point of view about being passionate about things without it inevitably leading to a discussion about bedroom preferences. Not that she minded that, but not in the middle of busy restaurant on a first date. Grace wasn’t ready for any conversation that might ultimately lead to revealing her cellulite.