Mathilda's Legacy

By Jennifer Ash

David, Earl of Huntingdon, sighed quietly as he watched his teenage son slip out of the woods that surrounded Huntingdon castle. That particular sport, where Robert had emerged, was special. That had been where Mathilda had taken her son for long forest walks, where she’d told him stories, and played games.
Sadly, when Robert was eight years old, the stories had ended.
David realised, as each day passed, why his offspring behaved in the way he did. After all, Robert of Huntingdon was Mathilda’s son. He was her legacy.
The moment couldn’t be put off any longer. It was time to tell his son the story of how the Earl had met Robert’s mother…
This story is set pre-Series One, before ‘Robin Hood and the Sorcerer’.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spiteful Puppet
• Release date: Feb 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9781837911479

Book preview

Chapter One

Arrow.jpg

The fire flickered and guttered in the great hall’s main hearth. It didn’t matter which side of the flames he sat, David, Earl of Huntingdon, could never quite avoid the draught that whistled down it and cut across the room.

Wrapping his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, Huntingdon suppressed an urge to release the sigh that raced up his throat. A groan which would, he knew, have resounded with resignation rather than anger. He didn’t dare show his despair – his frustration; not with so many servants around.

His eyes fell on the imparter of the latest ill tidings. A gleeful messenger, Camville, his steward of but a few years, always appeared to take pleasure in bringing him any news that cast a dim light on his son. The earl knew him to be loyal, but that didn’t stop the man relishing every drop of bad news his position allowed him to deliver. Biting back a further sigh, David couldn’t help but wonder how long that particular servant would have lasted in the castle if his wife had still been alive. Not long, he suspected.

Unwilling to give Camville the satisfaction of seeing his master reacting to the information he’d delivered with anything other than acceptance, Huntingdon waited until he was busy on the far side of the hall. Only when he was satisfied his man was out of sight, did the earl grip the handles of his chair with rather more pressure than necessary, push it backwards, and stand up.

Flapping away the maid who immediately arrived at his elbow, to see if she could be of assistance, he moved to the nearest window. His expression carefully neutral, the earl watched. There was only one place that afforded enough cover to avoid being clearly seen when moving from the forest to the castle. Did Robert honestly think he didn’t know of it?

The trees stirred in the light breeze of late afternoon. Folding his arms over his chest, the earl waited; a sad smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. One of the last arguments he’d had with Robert’s mother had been over that place. She’d told Robert about it, insisting that one day her son might be glad of a chance, albeit slim, to enter and leave the castle grounds unnoticed. Well, unnoticed if you didn’t know where – or how – to look properly. If you had the patience to truly see, then nothing remained invisible. Mathilda had always known how to see things and her patience had been boundless. It had to be. A gift that was as often a curse to him as much as is it was a blessing to her.

David sighed again. Now he and Robert were going to have another argument because of that place.

The earl hated arguing with his son, but these days it seemed to be the only way they communicated.

Keeping his eyes on the forest, he soon saw what he’d been waiting for. A glint of blonde hair in the gloom.

The boy had his mother’s hair. David shook his head. He could almost hear the echo of Mathilda telling Robert to think more carefully about his subterfuge.

If you’re intent on taking unauthorised trips into the forest, my son, then perhaps you should hide that hair under a hood.

Mathilda wouldn’t have punished his disobedience; she’d have called it sensible bravery. ‘All the skills of self-survival,’ she’d said, ‘are needed by everyone, be they earl or peasant, while we’re under the rule of tyrants.’

Huntingdon scowled as he recalled her words. It had been a statement she’d made more than once – each time sparking a row between them. An argument he never won.

As Robert emerged, his back edging along beneath the cover of the oak trees, the earl saw the brace of pheasants in his son’s hands. Taking a long deep breath, he muttered into the cold castle air. ‘Mathilda, what am I to do with our son?’

***

The repetitive slam of a cleaver hitting a wooden block with unfailing accuracy ricocheted around the room. Jointing the rabbit laid out before him, the castle’s cook threw the pieces into a waiting stew pot, before grabbing the next furry corpse and skinning it with practised efficiency.

The noise of dismemberment was accompanied by the background bustle of kitchen maids and lads rushing around. The fire was being stoked, water was being warmed, and sharp knives were slicing at speed; the shine of their blades dulled by use as three young servants prepared a mountain of cabbages and onion for the castle’s occupants evening repast. One more footfall crossing the flagged stone floor wasn’t registered by anyone until Robert of Huntingdon arrived before the cook’s table. With a cheeky grin he deposited a freshly culled brace of pheasants to the bloodied oak surface.

‘I don’t know how you do it my Lord, Robert. Hardly a mark on ‘em. Them that come in after the hounds have had a go at ‘em is rarely fit for the mouths’ of lepers let alone the cooking pot of an earl.’

‘It’s just a matter of getting the position of the arrow and the aim right.’ Robert moved behind the cook and, heading to a shadowy corner, crouched to the floor. Lifting a loose floorboard he hid his bow and arrows beneath it, before straightening up again.

‘I swear you’ll be the best archer of the age by the time you’re the earl, my Lord.’

Robert tucked a lock of golden hair behind his ear. ‘Thank you, but that’s a skill I’d like to keep between ourselves, or King Richard will be dragging me from my responsibilities to join one of his Holy wars.’

The cook’s jovial attitude dipped into concern. ‘You be careful young master, lest your father gets to hear ‘ow you is helping me fill the pot.’

‘He won’t.’ Robert winked, ‘after all, he hasn’t found out about the quarterstaff lessons I’ve been having with one of the palace