Romancing Robin Hood

by Jenny Kane

  In fact, now she’d seen the sheen in Rob’s eyes when she’d mentioned passion, albeit in a totally non-sexual context, the reality of what that meant hit Grace, right in the middle of her inadequacy button. Her body had been kept under wraps for years. It had more lumps and bumps than the local landscape. If Rob saw it naked he’d run a mile! It was all very well him liking her mind, but Grace couldn’t help suspecting he’d change his views about the benefits of intelligent conversation if he ever witnessed how disappointing the body that went with the brain was.

  ‘Grace? Are you with me? You did say you liked noodles, didn’t you?’

  The waitress was looking at Grace expectantly, her pencil hovering over her pad.

  ‘What? Oh yes, I’m sorry, I’d phased out. Tired after all that shopping. Yes, I love noodles, thank you.’

  Telling herself she was being ridiculous, vowing to leave the over-thinking until later and just enjoy the meal, Grace gestured encouragingly toward the waitress. After all, she thought, Rob had only been teasing her. He wasn’t to know that she’d never coped well with teasing. Just relax, woman, you’re out of practice with men, that’s all.

  ‘You OK?’ Rob reached a hand across the table and rested it on top of Grace’s.

  ‘Fine. Sorry.’ Flipping her palm around, Grace held his hand properly, ‘I was thinking about how to explain what I meant about football.’

  ‘Oh, yes! The passion theory. Go on then. Tell me all.’

  ‘No need to look so hopeful, Dr Franks, this is not about that sort of passion!’

  Fluttering his eyelashes like a schoolgirl, Rob said, ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

  Rolling her own eyes Grace laughed, ‘All I meant was, and this is going to sound so flat now, that I can understand why people get passionate about things, whether it’s football, or climbing, or skydiving or whatever they love to do. And although I’d never want to do any of those things, I wouldn’t knock people for loving them. I hate it when people do that to me, although I admit my passion hobby-wise isn’t that usual. But you only have to hear people expound about their favourite sports team, or the highest mountain they’ve climbed, or the rush of the air as they fall from insane heights out of a plane, to see that it lights them up. To recognise actual passion. Just a glance at their eyes while they talk will show you that it makes them feel alive.’

  The smile at the corner of Rob’s lips widened. ‘That’s how you feel about your work, isn’t it? Robin Hood and the fourteenth century is your passion.’

  ‘Yes. I’m very lucky. To be able to work with the feeling that I’m doing what I love every day of my life is a privilege,’ Grace took another sip of wine, ‘and although there are down days, when it doesn’t work, it’s still good.’

  ‘You mean, even when your football team fails to score, they’re still your team, and you still love them.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You’re an unusual woman, Dr Harper.’

  ‘You mean I’m odd.’

  ‘Well of course you’re odd, but on the whole, I think that’s a good thing. And I like that you’re odd.’

  Grace picked a prawn cracker out of the basket that had discreetly been placed on the end of their table, ‘Well, you know what they say; takes one to know one!’

  Rob gave a mock bow in agreement, before asking, ‘And would you say that people who are creative are more passionate than those who aren’t?’ Grace considered for a moment, ‘I think so, although perhaps it’s a different sort of passion. Artists and writers put so much of themselves into their work, it has to feel like a personal affront if anyone puts it down, and a total triumph when they have success. I think all creatives are a bit obsessive.’

  Rob laughed, ‘Are you talking about all creative types, or just yourself?’

  ‘Both, I think.’ Grace looked down at her hands with a sigh, ‘I should warn you, Rob, I am a dreadful workaholic, I am obsessive about people who’ve been dead forever, and very probably didn’t ever exist in the first place, and paranoid about how people see that obsession.’ She looked up sharply, as if challenging him. ‘So, now I’ve warned you what I’m like, do you want to leg it?’

  Shaking his head as if he couldn’t quite believe this woman sat over from him, Rob’s grin widened, ‘You are talking to a man who used to be exactly the same. OK, for me medieval England is an interest that I’ve made into my career, and not a complete lifestyle, but it was once. I was a terrible workaholic. There was nothing else. That’s one of the reasons I came back to the UK. I was making myself ill over there in Houston. The work was non-stop. It felt as if what I loved to do was swallowing me whole. Then I realised that it wasn’t the university or the students that were making me feel like that. It was me. I was doing it to myself.’

  Grave swallowed slowly against the lump that had formed in her throat. What Rob was saying rang horribly true. Abruptly she moved the subject along, ‘So you came home? Where is home anyway?’

  ‘Bath. My parents run a bookshop there.’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful! You lucky thing!’ Grace leant back in her chair as the waitress arrived at their table with two hot trays, and began to distribute enough food to deal with world famine. ‘That looks amazing!’ The food smelt incredible. As the waitress departed, Grace picked up her chopsticks, ‘Did we really order all this?’

  ‘We did! Although if I’d realised how big the portions were then I’d have ordered less. Hope you’re hungry. It does look incredible, though, and I guess we’ll know to order less next time won’t we?’

  ‘Next time?’ Grace looped some noodles around her chopsticks, ‘You’re prepared to be seen out with me again then, despite me being an oddly passionate obsessive?’

  ‘Maybe. It will all depend on how well you behave!’

  ‘In that case I’d better skip flippancy and ask you a serious question, Dr Franks. So, you came back here to escape the rat race in the States, is that right?’

  Rob sighed, ‘It was great to start with. I loved working in Houston, but I began to miss fresh air. So much of Houston is trapped under air conditioning. I also missed English rain that smells of farmyards, a decent cup of tea, and chocolate that tastes of chocolate. And don’t even get me started on cheese in a can.’

  ‘Hang on. Rain that smells of farmyards?’

  ‘I told you, I grew up near Bath. Lots of farms. Everything in Somerset has a slightly appealing edge of silage to it.’

  ‘Lovely!’ Grace wrinkled her nose, but couldn’t help the smile that crossed her face. This guy was every bit as odd as she was.

  ‘And the Nottingham post was there, so I applied for it.’

  ‘And you got the job!’

  ‘I was lucky.’

  ‘No, Rob. No one gets a lectureship by luck; not these days. You got it because you’re good at your job. Professor Davis told me you were well respected, and he was right.’ ‘You flatter me.’

  ‘Simply stating a fact.’ Grace cheeks flushed.

  Rob didn’t seem to have noticed her pink face as he ladled a heap of fried rice into his bowl. ‘So, I read your novel.’

  Grace’s chopstick dropped to the table, spattering shards of rice across the neat red cloth. She’d been trying to forget that he had a copy of her manuscript. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’ Fussing around the cloth, picking up all her spilt food, Grace felt flustered.

  Taking no notice of the mess, Rob fixed her eyes with his, sending a shot of unaccustomed lust direct to Grace’s soul.

  ‘It’s good. It’s really good. Stop worrying about it. Finish it. Get it out of your head. Send the first three chapters and a synopsis to a publisher now, before you’ve finished it. It will spur you on. Do it. Do not argue with me. Then finish that textbook afterwards.’

  Grace’s mouth dropped open, ‘But what about Professor Davis, and work and the wedding, and …’

  Taking no notice of the fact that Grace had spoken, Rob carried on talking, ‘Obviously you’ll need a pen name so you can keep your p
rofessional credibility. But that’s cool; loads of people have noms de plume. Could be fun choosing one. And don’t get hung up on the history to much. The story’s the thing and all that.’

  Squeezing her eyes shut for a split second, Grace felt a weight lift from her shoulders. Not for the first time she cursed her ability to understand everything there was to know about life in the fourteenth century, but not see the obvious in the here and now. ‘A pen name? Good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  Suddenly feeling the need to offload all her worries about her writing, Grace stared into her noodles, twiddling a chopstick between her fingers, ‘And do you think it sounds historical enough? I deliberately haven’t gone overboard on the period dialogue, but now I’m wondering if perhaps I’ve gone too modern?’

  Rob stabbed a stray water chestnut thoughtfully. ‘I’d leave it as it is at this stage. At the moment it’s a nice middle ground between modern and historical language. You can always change things when you edit it later. So what will you call it?’

  ‘That is a very good question, and if you come up with an answer I’d love to know! I thought maybe Folville’s Girl, but I’m not completely sold on it.’

  ‘It’s a good working title, and that’s all you need for now I should think.’

  ‘I’ll need something better if I get it published.’ Grace sighed wistfully, unable to stop herself wondering if she was simply wasting her time. ‘Do you really think anyone will actually want to publish it?’

  ‘Honestly, Grace, I haven’t a clue. It’s a tough world out there in book land, but you need to try, otherwise it’ll eat you up. Now, talking of eating, let’s eat this.’ Rob manoeuvred a chopstick balanced with sweet and sour chicken into his mouth, ‘And stop looking so worried – if I didn’t think it was any good, I’d have said so. I think writing this novel, even if it doesn’t get out into the world, will help teach you the trade. After all, writing fact is very different from writing fiction. I haven’t known you long, but I know this is too important to you to lie about. Now, tell me what happens next. How is Mathilda getting on with Robert? Good choice of name for your hero, by the way.’

  Grace playfully stabbed at the back of his hand with a chopstick. ‘Behave, or I’ll kill Robert off and make Walter Folville Mathilda’s keeper instead!’

  Chapter Twenty

  Robert hadn’t said a word as he watched the largely empty cart arrive back at the workshop in Derby. Mathilda hadn’t expected a major display of gratitude, but the lack of a ‘well done’ on seeing her return to him on time, and in one piece, or a quick glance to make sure she was well, hurt more than Mathilda liked to admit.

  As Hugo’s apprentice Roger tugged Mathilda from the cart and hoisted her directly onto her pony for the ride back to Leicestershire, Robert disappeared into the workshop with the leatherworker. Then minutes later, his expression thunderous, he mounted his own horse, and mutely gestured for Mathilda to follow him in an agitated trot out of the courtyard.

  The evening’s journey from Bakewell back to Derby after the market had been frosty enough. Master Hugo had sat morosely at the reins of the cart, despite having had a most successful day’s trading. Mathilda had been glad of his silence, and had kept Nicholas Coterel’s warning words in mind, her hand as near as she possible to Robert’s secreted dagger.

  Robert’s silence as they returned to Ashby Folville, on the other hand, was unnerving and felt ungrateful. Mulling the reply she’d been given by Coterel over in her mind, Mathilda wondered if she should ask Robert if he wanted to hear what it was straight away. However, his sullen nature was making her nervous, and she began to consider the possibility that Master Hugo’s account of her behaviour while working on his stall had been less than accurate.

  A dab hand at selling, Mathilda had quickly endeared herself to the customers, and managed to persuade several of the merchants who came to the stand, whose fine clothing indicated they could well afford it, to purchase rather finer and more expensive goods than those they had originally come for.

  Only once had Mathilda had to shy away from a sale, and that was when Geoffrey of Reresby had hovered near the stall for a few moments His hawk-like gaze had surveyed Hugo’s goods with an avaricious gleam that Mathilda suspected had nothing to do with working out how he could profit from another trader’s success. Unfortunately, Hugo had spotted Mathilda moving back from a customer in order to avoid Geoffrey seeing her, and he had not been pleased.

  Mathilda had tried to explain the reason for her action to Master Hugo, indicating how it would not be in Robert’s favour for Geoffrey to see her there, but her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. He had been far too delighted at having an excuse to admonish and belittle her in public to listen to reason.

  Now she supposed Hugo must have focused on that one moment of dissatisfaction, rather than reporting to Robert how much profit Mathilda had made for him today. With her bottom bruised from bouncing out of sync with the movement of the mount, and her palms dry from a day of dealing with leather, Mathilda ached all over. She’d survived her task with the Coterels and a day with the obnoxious leatherworker. Now all she had to do was go home.

  It didn’t help that it was getting darker, and Mathilda couldn’t stop herself from peering into the trees on either side of them, constantly expecting someone to leap out at them. The dagger’s hilt dug into her side, the stone in the hilt bruising her thigh as she clung onto the palfrey’s mane, leaning forward to help her keep her balance. Mathilda began to wonder how fast she could pull the weapon from its hiding place if they were assailed by outlaws. Then again, not even an outlaw would be stupid enough or desperate enough to attack a Folville. Mathilda wasn’t sure if that thought gave her comfort or not. Forcing herself to concentrate on watching Robert’s back through her windblown fringe instead of looking from left to right all the time, Mathilda reflected on how different their return journey was. On the way Robert had stayed by her side. He’d made sure she was safe, that she was comfortable, and that she was prepared for the task ahead. Now she’d completed that task it seemed his solicitousness was a thing of the past. Perhaps it had never existed in the first place, but was just a Folville acting in a way that would ensure he got what he wanted.

  When they finally rode through the gates of the Folville manor house, the stable boy helped Mathilda’s stiff body down from her short steed, his brow furrowing as he held her shivering frame against his. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Thank you, but I’m a little cold, and it has been some time since I ate.’ Mathilda glanced around her. Robert had disappeared.

  Unsure where to go, and feeling unsteady on her feet, she held onto the horse, unwilling to let go of its reins least she fall to the floor. Mathilda was about to ask the boy where she should wait, when he gestured towards the back door of the kitchen, ‘I think Sarah wants you.’

  Mathilda turned to see the housekeeper looking at her impatiently.

  ‘Come on, girl!’ Sarah snapped under her breath, ‘the men are waiting for you!’

  Passing the reins to the stable lad Mathilda headed toward the housekeeper. Each step was an effort. Her stomach growled in protest at its lack of sustenance, and the cold shivers that had engulfed her on the journey home were joined by streaks of heat, and before Mathilda could call out in distress, her legs gave out from under her, and she sank with no grace whatsoever onto the damp hay-strewn gravel.

  There had been a brief sensation of falling, that the world was spinning, and darts of a sickly green had flashed behind her eyes. Mathilda thought she’d heard a woman shouting, and she knew male hands had lifted her from the ground and carried her into the kitchen, but she wasn’t sure whose they had been.

  Now, with one of the horse’s blankets swathing her, Mathilda’s eyes slowly came back into focus. She didn’t seem to be able to stop the quiver in her legs, and her head thudded. Doing her best to pull herself together, angry with herself at having swooned like some sort a feeble princess in front of members of the
Folville household for a second time, Mathilda was about to apologise when the housekeeper let fly.

  ‘What in heaven’s name do you think you’re playing at, girl? Sarah rolled up her sleeves as she spoke, and for one second Mathilda had the impression that she was going to hit her.

  Sarah merely grunted and she shook her head in clear disapproval. Her hair hung loose around the shoulders as if she’d been preparing to turn in for the night when the returning party from Derby had disturbed her, ‘Come on! They are waiting!’

  ‘Who is waiting?’ Mathilda’s head swam and dots of perspiration had appeared on her forehead. Wiping dust and small shards of gravel from her palms, Mathilda struggled to concentrate.

  It didn’t matter that she’d survived a meeting with Nicholas Coterel; Sarah the housekeeper, as she stood there like a disgruntled matriarch, with her hands on her ample hips, made Mathilda feel as though she was as welcome as an infestation of mice in a bakehouse, and every bit as inconvenient.

  ‘My Lord Eustace and his brothers, of course!’ Sarah stamped her foot impatiently, ‘Heaven help us; don’t say your fall has knocked the wits from your head.’ Then, in a tone that was more concerned than annoyed she added in a whisper, ‘You haven’t forgotten the message have you?’

  The unexpected concern on Sarah’s face brought Mathilda up short. ‘You know of my mission?’

  ‘Of course. The brothers trust me. Now,’ Sarah passed Mathilda a cup of ale, ‘drink this and I will take you through.’

  Taking her time, Mathilda stood for a minute or two, letting gravity plant her feet firmly on the ground before she attempted to move. ‘I’m very sorry. I am not given to fainting. I am quite all right now. Thank you for taking care of me.’