Erasmum Hobart Read online

  Throwing the match on to the fire to burn the evidence of twenty-first-century intrusion, Erasmus looked around him for any sign of something edible.

  It was autumn in mediaeval Sherwood and, though this meant the days were still long and bright enough that Erasmus could see, it also meant there appeared to be no sign of any nuts or berries that would have provided him with a simple meal. After half an hour of fruitless searching, Erasmus returned to his camp, threw some more wood on the fire and took out the dagger with which the outlaws had furnished him. It wasn’t a particularly elegant affair: the blade was short and businesslike, the handle rough-hewn and well worn. The weapon had probably been confiscated from a merchant at some point in its career – in an age where sword ownership was as common as car ownership in twenty-first-century England, this was the Fiat of weaponry – a small, functional tool for the first time murderer or the person who needed something to make sure he got from A to B with relative ease and without losing money. As a piece of hunting equipment, however, it looked even to Erasmus’ untrained eye to be somewhat less than ideal: it wasn’t weighted well enough for him to throw and he doubted he could just persuade a rabbit to come close enough to be stabbed.

  He looked around for something with which he could improvise a more effective weapon: there were strands of creeper on some of the trees and Erasmus pulled on one experimentally. The creeper didn’t snap, in fact it seemed relatively flexible. He cut himself a length and tried tying a knot in one end. This proving to be fairly simple, the teacher sat down cross-legged in front of his fire and set to work.

  After ten minutes Erasmus examined the fruit of his labours critically. He had to admit it was a good job: a few knots, a length of creeper and a handful of stones and he had fashioned a bolas. It was crude, certainly, but it was functional and it was only a shame he had absolutely no idea how to use one. Standing clear of the fire, he tried a few experimental swings, then unwrapped the flailing ends from around his own neck and adjusted his stance. Logically speaking there had to be a simple principle involved in the bolas’ use; Erasmus was a scientist, so he should be able to find it. After a few false starts, he found he could swing his creation with a reasonable degree of proficiency. He whirled the weapon around his head, creating a downdraught that whisked the flames of his fire into an energetic frenzy.

  It was at this point that Erasmus realised he had a problem: he had no idea how to stop the bolas from spinning without clubbing himself around the back of the head. He pondered on this for a few moments then, as his arm was beginning to ache, he let the weapon go and watched it wrap itself around the nearest tree. He rubbed his sore arm for a moment then disentangled his weapon and examined it thoughtfully. There was another problem, he considered: how the hell did you aim the thing? He might not have been an expert with a bow, but he did at least know roughly how the arrow was supposed to be persuaded to approach its target. This was like trying to walk on a football. It might look dramatic, but if you didn’t know how to steer it you were going to look very stupid. Erasmus looked up into the trees. He couldn’t see any squirrels queuing up to snigger at his efforts. All he could really do, he supposed, was try the weapon – if it didn’t work then he’d just have to go without dinner.

  The paths through the forest were well trodden by wildlife and it didn’t take very long for Erasmus to find a narrow path strewn with what even his limited woodcraft could identify as fresh rabbit-droppings. Crouching quietly, he glimpsed beneath the bushes to see if there was any sign of the droppings’ originator. Sure enough, he saw a small brown specimen looking at him balefully, its nose twitching nervously. Erasmus returned the rabbit’s gaze with some discomfort. Now that he came to the moment of truth, he wasn’t terribly keen on what he had to do. There was, he realised, a vast difference between preparing meat and persuading its owner to part with it in the first place. He had to eat, though, so he rose slowly to his feet and began to swing the bolas around his head, building up speed until it generated a low humming sound like a fluorescent light whose bulb is about to go.

  He closed his eyes and breathed heavily for a moment or two, then something brushed across the back of his legs and startled him into letting go of the weapon. Looking to his right, he saw the rabbit disappearing off into the forest. He shrugged – well that, he supposed, was that. Ahead of him, he could just see his bolas wrapped around a tree branch about twenty feet off the ground. He approached the tree and looked up – there was no way he was climbing up to retrieve it. As he stepped forward, he became aware of something soft and warm pressed against his ankle and, looking down, he saw the recently clubbed body of a dead squirrel. He picked up his kill by the tail and examined it.

  ‘Sorry old chap,’ he said to the rodent, ‘but it’s a man eat squirrel world.’

  As the remains of a charred squirrel hung on a makeshift spit over his campfire, Erasmus lay back against a tree and watched the moon coming out over his clearing. Fending for himself had made him think about how much man had changed in such a short time. In eight hundred years, society had gone from one in which people treated hunting and preparing meat as a daily necessity of life, to one where even the average student who flipped burgers for a Saturday job would feel a degree of revulsion if their burgers still came wrapped in leather and with a head attached. The housewives who wouldn’t buy a fish that looked at them would have had no place in the villages of England in the twelfth century – if a woman wasn’t prepared to kill, gut and cook, then she would probably have been burnt as a witch. Perhaps the twenty-first-century squeamishness about killing your own food applied to other things as well, Erasmus considered. Would the apparently bloodthirsty actions of an outlaw in Sherwood be as socially acceptable in their day as, say, wrestling matches were in his?

  He sighed and shrugged: there was still a vast difference, even when you looked at it analytically. For a start people rarely died in wrestling or boxing and also there was the fact they were willing participants. Historical slant or not, Erasmus could see no justification for attempting to kill a non-suicidal friar, even if he was living very well of his parishioners. There was also the truth of that statement to be considered: Tuck had seemed genuinely mystified by the accusation and, for Robin to actually be intent on killing the man, he assumed there was more to it than the usual story of Church taxation. Why would Tuck have become some legendary hero as one of Robin’s victims? It just didn’t make sense and, although Erasmus could accept the idea that the legend wouldn’t be entirely accurate, it was that characters with the same names as those in the legend seemed to exist but to completely contradict the legend that he couldn’t understand. Perhaps the legends grew from satirical tales, he considered, but that didn’t seem right either. When you satirised a villain, you didn’t usually make him the hero of the piece.

  Whatever the truth of the matter was, Erasmus felt he knew enough and he just wanted to go home. The experience of meeting a legendary hero and finding him to be just a common criminal left a bitter taste in the mouth – although that could have been down to the quality of the ale – and, besides, he could really do with a large pot of tea. With that thought, Erasmus closed his eyes and drifted gently to sleep.

  It was still dark when Erasmus awoke. The fire had long burnt out and a crescent moon hung in the sky. The teacher looked around the shadows, wondering what had woken him. He held his breath and listened carefully to the sounds of the forest – it all seemed very quiet. Somewhere behind him an owl hooted. Erasmus relaxed, his breath coming out as a slow hiss – he wasn’t used to sleeping outside: almost anything could have disturbed his rest. He was just reaching the conclusion that he was jumping at shadows when he heard a rustling sound coming from somewhere behind him. He turned and hurried to press himself against the nearest tree, his hand going to the hilt of his dagger, but the sound had stopped and all was quiet.

  Breathing as quietly as he could, Erasmus peered out into the forest, trying to find the source of the rustling. As he s
tared into the half-lit depths of the forest, the sound began again and Erasmus caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure moving slowly towards his clearing. He rose to his feet as quietly as he could and drew the dagger from his belt. The figure was heading towards the right-hand side of the tree, so Erasmus sidled slowly round towards the left, placing his feet carefully to avoid making a sound. By the time the figure entered the clearing, Erasmus had worked his way round behind them and, with one swift movement, he pinned the stranger’s arms to their sides and put his dagger to their throat.

  ‘It’s a dark night to be wandering around the forest on your own,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not on my own,’ a female voice replied.

  For a moment Erasmus expected to feel a knife against his own throat. ‘No?’ he said, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

  ‘No, m’duck. I’m with you.’

  Erasmus relaxed his knife and turned the figure round to face him. As her hood fell away from her face, Erasmus recognised the ravenblack hair and rounded features of Maude.

  ‘Is that a dagger in your ’and or are you just pleased to see me?’ she said.

  ‘Both,’ said Erasmus and hugged her gratefully.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Many years ago or, from Erasmus’ current perspective, in many years time, he had set a class of third years an essay about health and hygiene in the Middle Ages. As expected, twenty-nine of the thirty entries had focused heavily on the plague and many of them had also fallen into the trap of assuming it was also a time of mud and missing teeth. Erasmus had spent the lesson after the exam explaining that, despite the lack of toothpaste, there was also a lack of sugar to cause teeth to rot and that, if you dug up the tarmac, there was just as much mud in the modern world as in the ancient one. Needless to say he had not relied on any of his students’ work as tourist material for his visit and it, therefore, came as no surprise to find the land was not filled with two-toothed peasants obsessed with mud and claiming to be part of an anarcho-syndicalist commune. What did come as a surprise was that many of the men (and nearly all of the women) were clean-shaven. His own hair was sufficiently well groomed that he had no immediate need of a hairdresser, but stubble was proving to be a problem.

  ‘’Aven’t you done it before?’ said Maude as Erasmus held the edge of his dagger gingerly against his chin.

  ‘No,’ said Erasmus, trying to avoid undue mouth movement as he spoke. He silently guided the blade up towards his cheekbones, then felt the area he had covered with his fingers: there was no gush of blood, but he still felt quite stubbly.

  Maude watched him scratching awkwardly at his face for a few moments, then snatched at the dagger and tested the blade with her thumb. ‘This wouldn’t cut butter,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not trying to cut butter,’ said Erasmus. ‘I’m trying to have a shave.’

  Maude set herself to sharpening the blade on a stone. ‘What do you do in foreign?’ she said.

  Erasmus considered this. The concept of an electric razor was probably too difficult to explain. ‘We have special blades,’ he said. ‘They’re safer.’

  Maude nodded. ‘It sounds like living in foreign makes a man soft,’ she said. She gripped Erasmus’ chin gently but firmly, turned his face towards her and began to run the dagger over his left cheek. Erasmus didn’t answer – the tip of the blade seemed to come perilously close to his eyes as she scraped.

  ‘’Ow did you catch the squirrel, by the way?’ said Maude.

  ‘Bolas,’ said Erasmus, moving only the corner of his mouth.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bolas.’

  ‘What’s one of those?’

  ‘Stones held together with rope,’ said Erasmus.

  ‘Different,’ said Maude, finishing his left cheek and starting on his right. ‘You use those in foreign?’

  Erasmus suppressed the urge to shake his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They used to use them in Greece.’

  Maude didn’t pursue the point. ‘’Ow did you end up on your own, anyway?’ she said. ‘Did Robin ’ood leave you ’ere?’

  ‘No. I left them at Fountains Abbey.’

  ‘Fountains Abbey? What where they doing there?’

  Erasmus waited until Maude had finished his chin and upper lip. ‘Trying to kill a friar,’ he said.

  ‘A friar? Why?’ Maude examined her handiwork, then handed Erasmus back his dagger.

  Erasmus felt his face: Maude had done a good job. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It just didn’t make sense.’

  ‘And that’s why you left ’em?’

  Erasmus nodded. ‘I found out what I wanted to know,’ he said. ‘Robin Hood isn’t the man I’d heard about.’

  ‘No?’ Maude looked puzzled. ‘Who is, then?’

  Erasmus smiled. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said. ‘He is the man, but he’s nothing like the stories I’d heard. He doesn’t seem to care about robbing the rich to feed the poor or anything like that.’

  Maude nodded. ‘I did warn you.’

  ‘I know, but I had to see it for myself.’

  ‘’E wasn’t always like that you know.’

  ‘No? What happened?’

  Maude shrugged. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps ’e got bored.’

  ‘I suppose he must have,’ said Erasmus, suddenly feeling very tired.

  Maude sat down next to him and put a hand on his knee. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Erasmus. ‘Go home, I suppose.’

  Maude looked disappointed. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to stay with me?’ she said. ‘I could make you ’appy.’

  ‘You’re very kind,’ said Erasmus, ‘but I can’t.’

  ‘’Ave you got a wife back home?’

  Erasmus sighed. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you like me?’

  ‘It’s not that. You’re a very attractive woman and, if things were different, then I’d love to…’

  ‘Get in me britches?’

  Erasmus smiled. ‘If you like,’ he said, ‘but I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Erasmus looked up at the trees then closed his eyes and scratched his head. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ he said. ‘I may have been here too long already.’

  ‘Dangerous?’ Maude looked utterly confused.

  ‘I can’t explain. I wish I could, but I can’t. I’ve just got to get back to the castle.’

  Maude gave Erasmus a look of astonishment. ‘How can it be more dangerous to sleep with me than to go into Nottingham Castle?’ she said.

  Erasmus considered this – it was a fair point. If he’d been talking to any other person he’d have felt no need to be honest, but Maude was… special. There was a part of him wanted to say hang the consequences, let’s explore the inside of those britches together, but he couldn’t run the risk. Telling the truth, however, perhaps that was less of a risk – it wasn’t as if Maude would be able to replicate his work. How much of an impact did his mere presence have on history, anyway?

  He looked at Maude’s earnest, open face and sighed. ‘I’ve something important to tell you,’ he began, ‘but you have to promise not to tell anyone else.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maude and Erasmus knew he could believe her totally. The woman may have been able to shoot rabbits and Norman knights as casually as he could put a boy in detention, but she seemed utterly without guile.

  ‘I’m not from foreign,’ he said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Nottingham.’

  ‘Nottingham?’ Maude looked at him blankly. ‘You’re not one of the Sheriff’s men, are you?’

  Erasmus shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m from Nottingham, but not from this time.’

  Maude didn’t reply: she couldn’t make sense of his words – they were English, but they didn’t seem to fit together in that order.

  ‘You’ve heard of King Arthur, haven’t you?’
/>   Maude nodded. ‘You’re not Merlin, are you?’

  Erasmus smiled. ‘No,’ he said, although it was an amusing thought – suppose Merlin was a time traveller like himself. ‘People have been telling stories about King Arthur for hundreds of years,’ he continued, ‘and, over time, stories tend to change. Do you understand?’

  ‘I think so – is it like when Marian says she ’ates Robin, although ’e was the reason she came to the forest.’

  Erasmus’ brow furrowed: he hadn’t known that. ‘Sort of,’ he replied. ‘Imagine she told someone that she liked Robin then, when people talked about it later, someone else said she loved him, then later still people said she’d married him and they’d lived in a house in a big oak tree… ’

  ‘That’s silly.’

  ‘Perhaps, but that’s how stories change. Now how would you find out what the truth actually was?’

  ‘Ask Marian,’ said Maude automatically.

  ‘But if Marian had died a long time ago, how would you do that?’

  ‘But then I’d be dead too.’

  ‘No,’ said Erasmus. ‘I don’t mean you, I mean a hypothetical you.’

  ‘’Ypo-what?’ said Maude.

  Erasmus scratched his head – things were beginning to stray from the point and he didn’t have time for philosophy. ‘Just imagine that you lived hundreds of years from today and you wanted to know about Marian,’ he said.

  ‘Why would I want to?’

  ‘It’s like King Arthur – he died a long time ago. How would you find out what really happened then?’