Chapter Twelve

Lincoln Green! She’d never hear the last of it. Grace sat at her little desk in the converted bedroom that operated as her home study, and experienced a flutter of excitement. The dress had made her feel different. Special somehow, and although the irony of the colour wouldn’t go unnoticed by Daisy’s family at the wedding, it felt gratifyingly right that that particular shade of green suited her so well.

Grace’s study was her favourite room in her two-bedroomed terraced home. Although it would have been a squash to use the second bedroom for anyone bigger than a very small child, it was just big enough for three rows of bookshelves, a filing cabinet of research notes, and her desk. The walls, unlike in her work office, were not bedecked with posters of Robin Hood and medieval landmarks, but held a myriad of photographs from various periods of Grace’s life, stuffed into a variety of different-sized frameless frames.

Her childhood friends, birthdays, her parents, her family home, and her pets, all now long gone. The students she’d known, some briefly, some that she stayed in touch with via email and the odd letter in a Christmas card. Daisy was there in numerous guises, captured forever at various points in their lives over the past twenty years. Now, Grace thought as she swivelled on her chair, there would be wedding snaps to add to the collection.

Grace was still amazed that there would be. Daisy had been so adamant about not getting married, and here she was, neck-deep in arranging a wedding, honeymoon, and recruiting a band of helpers to feed and care for her animals while she was away. Grace hadn’t ever made such a negative decision about marriage, though in fact she’d never really considered her future in that way at all. She’d wanted a career, and she’d got one. Exactly the one she desired. Grace had simply supposed she’d meet someone when the time was right, but suddenly, without it feeling as if any time had actually passed, she was almost thirty- nine, with forty looming at her from around the corner, single, and about to be the world’s oldest bridesmaid.

Daisy had booked her a double room at the hotel, and somehow it seemed a waste of bed space that was there to mock her. It had been three years since Grace’s last date, which had been such a non-event that she hadn’t been in a hurry to repeat the experience. ‘Which is just as well,’ she told a photograph of herself standing in front of Exeter cathedral with Daisy at the tender age of 19, ‘as there’s no one I’d like to date out there anyway.’

Her mind drifted back to Rob Franks. He was the nicest man she’d met for ages. But he was so nice she couldn’t believe he was single, and anyway, he was a handsome man. He could have any slim young student he wanted. ‘There’s no way he’d settle for a sad, plump-ish, outlaw-obsessed almost forty-something, even if we do have work in common.’

Sighing with a hint of self pity, Grace switched on her email. She hadn’t checked it since her return from Sheffield the night before, and now, early on Monday morning she faced the list of contacts with a feeling that life had rather defeated her.

Running her eyes down the list, searching for anything she could delete or legitimately leave until she got into work, she saw a message from Rob Franks.

Her heart jumped a little as she saw his name. ‘Oh for Christ’s sake, girl, get a grip. You are too old for a teenage crush.’

Opening the message, Grace read,

Hi Grace, thanks again for a great viva. Christopher has already been on to York Uni with reference to a post-doc research post; which I am damn sure he’ll get.

I’ve been thinking. We should write something together. A paper on ‘Official criminology during the Black Death’ or something???

What you think? I’ll be honest – a joint paper with a respected historian such as yourself would help consolidate my post at Nottingham – plus, I think it could be fun to work together.

Have you got time over what remains of the summer vacation?

Hope shopping was a success.

Best, Rob

Reading the email through for a second time, Grace was touched that he’d remembered about her shopping trip, flattered that he believed her worth collaborating on a paper with, but alarmed by the thought of such a paper taking up the rest of the summer holidays. She had planned to finish compiling the draft of her novel over the student break, and then finally get back to her textbook in the autumn term before Professor Davis despaired of her.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard while she wondered how to reply. It had been a while since Grace had written an academic paper, and such things were very important for keeping your name known and respected in university circles. And if her novel ever got out there, she’d need all the respect she could get. But how could she possibly find time to do anything extra? She had to finish the novel and edit it; the textbook needed a serious sort out and a proper draft compiling – and on top of all that, she’d promised to give as much help as she could towards Daisy’s wedding. Grace hit the reply button and settled for hedging her bets. Ignoring the voice at the back of her head which screamed at her to arrange to see Rob again as soon as possible, and telling her that working together would give her a chance to see if she really did fancy him, or if it was Daisy putting ideas in her head, she typed,

Thanks for inviting me. It was a great viva.

Christopher will go far. You and I had better look out for our jobs in a few years!

Would like to do paper – summer tricky as have book and wedding to sort.

Grace re-read it, and then added,

But would like to do a paper though. The Christmas or spring break would be better for me time wise. Are those times any good for you?

Best

G

Hitting ‘Send’, Grace watched the email disappear into the technological ether and pulled herself off the chair. It was high time she had a shower and headed off to work.

From where she was sat at the edge of the hall, Mathilda considered her situation. She didn’t really understand what she was supposed to do, but she knew it could be dangerous if she wasn’t careful. As she waited to hear details of her first task, Mathilda thought about how she’d always been good at finding things out simply by virtue of being a good listener. But gossiping could get you into serious trouble. Not only was it frowned upon within the local towns and villages, it could led to being arrested and punished. How would she be able to gain information of the sort the Folvilles were alluding to, without endangering herself and those innocent informers that she spoke to?⁷

‘You seem pensive, Mathilda,’ Robert had finally emerged from the main hall, where he had been addressing the finer points of Mathilda’s first task with Eustace, ‘positively demure, even.’

‘Thank you, my Lord.’

‘I am not fooled, however; what were you thinking about?’

He sat beside her on the long wooden settle which backed onto the wall dividing the hall from the kitchen. ‘I was wondering how I’d get the information you require safely, my Lord.’

‘You’re only our messenger Mathilda; there is no reason for you to worry about your safety.’

‘Forgive me, my Lord,’ Mathilda choose her words carefully, ‘but I must have misunderstood. I took it that I was to be an informer for you – a spy.’

Folville almost blurted out a denial, but thought better of it. This child was no child. At nineteen she was past the earliest marriageable age, and due to the loss of her mother had been used to the ways of adulthood for some years now. She was also no fool. ‘Mathilda, if you are sensible, then this is not a perilous job. Eustace laced the task ahead of you with an exaggeration of the danger involved. It is the thing he enjoys most; making a theatre of a situation and revelling in the anxiety it causes in others.’

Not at all surprised by his description of Eustace, but feeling far from relaxed about what lay ahead, Mathilda asked, ‘Do you have other messengers, my Lord?’

Robert looked uncomfortable for a second, but answered her squarely, ‘Not at the moment, although there have been, and will be again.’

Mathilda decided not to ask of the fate of the previous messenger. She has no choice in her position, and the detailed knowledge of her predecessor’s death or imprisonment would not help. Anyway she was too busy trying to work out how to tackle the other issues which preyed heavily on her mind. ‘My I ask something more, my Lord?’

‘You seem to have developed the taste for questioning me, Mathilda.’ A smile played at the corner of Robert’s lips, but Mathilda remained cautious.

‘I dared not ask before my Lord Eustace, but no mention was made of my younger brother, Oswin.’

Robert spoke candidly. ‘We don’t know where he is, and that’s the truth of it.’

‘How so, my Lord?’ Hope rose in Mathilda’s chest, but she was afraid to show it too openly.

‘Richard tells me Oswin slipped through his fingers by the river, gone towards Lincolnshire we think. I can reassure you that he is not in the river. We checked for drowned victims.’

Relieved to know Oswin wasn’t lost to the water, but still worried, Mathilda asked, ‘Will you pursue him?’

‘No, girl, you were our prize. Although without Oswin’s help in the pottery, it will take your father longer to buy you back.’

While she digested the information, another idea drifted to her mind.

‘My Lord Eustace, sir,’ Mathilda couldn’t look at Robert now, a blush of embarrassed uncertainty on her face, ‘said I was to appear as your, well, your um … companion.’

Robert sat back down, ‘You fear for your reputation girl, your virtue, when you are already held here, when gossip has probably already spread and placed you as a group concubine.’ Robert sighed as Mathilda’s green eyes focused on his, not as meek in his company as she had been, ‘It is but subterfuge for your safety, Mathilda, it might cost you your blushes and some whispered remarks, but it could save your life. After all, only a desperate fool would attack the girl of a Folville brother.’

Mathilda had to acknowledge the truth of this, even if it was a truth she didn’t like. In that one statement he’d as much as admitted she was open to attack after all. And yet, for all that, she still felt he wasn’t telling her everything.

‘To that end, I have something for you.’

‘My Lord?’

Reaching into the leather bag he’d been carrying, Robert unrolled a delicate leather belted girdle. It was unlike anything Mathilda had ever seen, and as he passed it into her hands, she ran its length through her fingers, admiring the intricacy of the work. The leather had been punched into a latticework pattern of diagonal lines and tiny butterflies, and ended with a wide rectangular buckle, engraved to match the strap.

‘You are supposed, in the eyes of the world at least, to be my woman. It is fitting for our purposes that you wear a token from me that proves our link.’

‘It’s beautiful, thank you, my Lord.’

‘Put it on, I want to see if it suits you.’

With reverence, and fumbling fingers, Mathilda undid her belt, and fastened the new girdle around her waist. ‘It will be hard to return this, my Lord, when my task is complete.’

Roberts face blackened in anger. The abrupt change in his appearance made Mathilda start in fear, ‘It is a gift, girl, do not insult me by suggesting it will need returning.’

Mathilda spoke hastily, ‘My Lord, I’m so sorry. I assumed, well … the subterfuge and everything my Lord. I never meant to offend, I’m truly sorry.’

He gave an almost guttural grunt, as he looked at her ashen upturned face, and spoke with the manner of a man not used to curtailing his anger so quickly. ‘I suppose your assumption is not strange in the circumstances. Come, you need food and rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.’

Having eaten a meal of stew and bread alone near the fire, Mathilda wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do next. It was late, and only the boy servant, Allward, was bustling about at the other end of the hall, preparing the room for the coming of the new day, before bedding down behind the far screens for a night on his own straw mattress. Robert hadn’t told Mathilda where to sleep, nor if she was to wait for him after she’d finished eating.

Pulling her cloak closer around her shoulders, Mathilda shuffled a few inches nearer to the fire place. Her finger ran along the length of the new girdle. It really was beautiful, a work of art, and she wondered where it had come from. She’d been worried for a while that it had been stolen, but Robert had implied it had been made especially for her, and Mathilda choose to believe that was the case.

Watching the dying flames, Mathilda decided that if Robert didn’t turn up in the next few moments, she’d go and ask Allward where she should bed down for the night. While she waited, she prayed to Our Lady with every inch of her being, something, Mathilda hadn’t done in earnest since the famine of a few years ago had so cruelly taken her mother from her.