An Indecent Betrothal [Book One of the Lady Heloise Adventures]

Chapter One

DISCLAIMER: The Robin Hood characters used in this story come from the excellent BBC series also called Robin Hood. The characters of Heloise and her brother as well as the earldom of Malmesbury are (or I believe are) fictional and were created by me.

November 1191- Nottingham Castle

Winter had hit the town of Nottingham hard. Strong winds and flourishes of snow sent the residents fleeing for shelter, arms full of supplies so as to withstand the incoming storm. Deserted, the normally bustling streets were still and peaceful. A white blanket was already beginning to form as dawn broke on the feast day of St Catherine, settling over the dirt and debris that came with a medieval market town.

Within the intimidating structure of Nottingham castle, the sheriff of the town was breaking his fast in the Great Hall whilst reading through important documents. The sheriff, though wrapped in heavy furs, shivered miserably as yet another gust of wind sent flakes of snow and sleet spilling into the room through the hollow window.

“Boy!” he roared, hoarsely, at a nearby page boy. “Get something to shut that window.” The boy only stared at him blankly. “Put some wood over it, fool,” he spat, returning his attention to the plate of food in front of him. “What is this?!”

“Your breakfast, sire,” the page boy squeaked, having located the correct wooden window shield from a pile in the corner of the large room.

“My breakfast?” The Sheriff lifted a thin sliver of ham from his plate and sniffed it hesitantly. “I can see through this slice,” he growled. “And this bread is staler than my dead mother.” To prove his point, he threw the chunk of bread at the page boy and smirked as the hard piece smacked the adolescent on the cheek.

“My lord, the chef said that with the storm arriving we had to conserve our supplies…”

“And is the chef sheriff, boy?”

“No… no, my lord.”

“And does the chef decide how much each person gets?”

“No, my lord, that is your jurisdiction.”

“Is it?” The Sheriff, knocked his plate onto the floor with a loud crash and reached instead for the silver goblet, mercifully filled to the brim with a deep red wine. “Well, I have an idea how to conserve food. Guards!” With his cry, four men, armoured in the traditional Norman style with steel helms containing wide nasals and coated in mail shirts. “Guards, go down into the kitchens and grab the chef. Strip him of his uniform and throw him in the dungeons. Don’t bother feeding him until after the storm has lifted.” The Sheriff smirked again as the guards left, a sly smile creeping over his rat-like face. “And boy!” he barked. “Go to the kitchens yourself and fetch me a new breakfast. I want a chunk of bacon, a small loaf of fresh bread and two boiled eggs. Without the shell.”

As the page boy hurried through the door, the towering form of Sir Guy entered, removing his outer cloak of grey wolf fur. Underneath his furs, he wore his regular attire of dark leather and his even darker facial expression.

“My lord.” He gave the Sheriff a deferential bow as he entered. “It seems we have some noble visitors at the gate.”

“Noble? How noble?”

“They claim to be the Earl of Malmesbury’s daughter and bastard son.”

“De Grey? I thought that git was in Ireland playing lord over the barbarians.”

“Apparently he is. The pair was heading for Lincoln when they were intercepted by Hood and his gang. The thieves took everything apart from their shifts and a cloak.”