Read Online Randall #03 - Sherwood Ltd. by Anne R. Allen - Free Book Online
Authors: Anne R. Allen
Tags: humerous mystery
Ads: Link
“full English breakfast.”
We set out walking along a cobbled path beside the river, between weeping willows and old brick buildings hung with pots of cascading flowers. Peter stopped and pointed at the far bank, where the fluffy sheep grazed in their blossom-strewn meadow.
“That’s Nottinghamshire on the far side. Sherwood Forest used to come right up to the river in Robin Hood’s time. Richard the Lionheart’s time, I should say. Nobody’s quite sure when—or if—Robin Hood existed. But I like to believe, don’t you?”
Although the flat, treeless meadow looked nothing like a forest, I did want to believe—in Robin Hood and Maid Marian and Merry Olde England, and Sherwood.
Peter led me around the picturesque town, by an open market where peddlers and farmers sold brightly colored ribbons, produce, cakes and meat—probably much as they had in Robin Hood’s day—and down a narrow street to an adorable café called The Mary Ann Evans Tea House.
“It’s where Mary Ann Evans, a.k.a. George Elliot, lived when she wrote her great novel, The Mill on the Floss ,” he told me.
We sat at a tiny lace-covered table and ate two “full English” breakfasts—heaping platters of sausage, mushrooms, beans, grilled tomatoes, eggs, something savory called “black pudding,” and fried bread. It was enough to feed a family for a week, but I ate and ate. The abundance helped quell the panic that had been living in my stomach for months.
I relaxed and listened to Peter tell me the history of the town—founded by a Viking named Sven Forkbeard—Swinsby meant “Sven’s home” he said—and of the mighty river Trent, which George Elliot had dubbed “the Floss” in her famous novel.
“The name Trent comes from the Celtic word meaning ‘trespasser’,” he said. “Because the river floods its banks so often. It has a tidal bore called the Aegir: a wave caused by the funnel shape at the river’s mouth. It’s unpredictable, especially in spring. I’m a damned good sailor, but I’d rather fight a Caribbean hurricane than the Aegir in April.”
The darkness of his tone felt ominous.
But his sunnyness returned as we finished up our feast and he led me on a walking tour of the little town—its medieval manor house where Henry VIII had met Katherine Parr, and the hill where Cromwell and the Royalists once battled.
As we walked along a path lined with flowering trees that showered pink petals on us like rosy snow. I let Peter put an arm around me. Although the sky had clouded and a soft drizzle misted our clothes, I enjoyed exploring the ancient streets and listening to Peter fill me in on his own history, entertaining me with tales of his life as a rock music promoter.
“Then I sold up and chucked it all.” He stopped under an archway to light his pipe. “Four years ago, I bought a yacht and sailed to the Caribbean to live the richly rewarding life of a beach bum. I’d still be there if I my boat hadn’t sunk—and the banking collapse hadn’t bollixed up my finances.”
“It’s been hard on everybody,” I said. I hadn’t told him about my own slide into financial ruin, grateful he didn’t pry. I hoped he hadn’t read the nasty things Jonathan said about me during the throes of our divorce. He’d made me sound so cruel, when in truth, I hadn’t stopped loving the man; he’d stopped being the man I loved.
I kept on my polite smile, reminding myself to resist Peter and all this English charm. Jonathan had charmed me once, too. I needed to stay on my guard. It wasn’t just the kinky books. I still didn’t know the full story about Lance.
“What made you give up all that glamour and become a beach bum?” I asked, trying to banish my suspicions.
“My heart.” He clutched at his chest in that self-mocking way he had. “It broke. Literally. My wife left me for a drummer—took the kids, the house, everything—and then I had a heart attack. But the Caribbean was better medicine than any
We set out walking along a cobbled path beside the river, between weeping willows and old brick buildings hung with pots of cascading flowers. Peter stopped and pointed at the far bank, where the fluffy sheep grazed in their blossom-strewn meadow.
“That’s Nottinghamshire on the far side. Sherwood Forest used to come right up to the river in Robin Hood’s time. Richard the Lionheart’s time, I should say. Nobody’s quite sure when—or if—Robin Hood existed. But I like to believe, don’t you?”
Although the flat, treeless meadow looked nothing like a forest, I did want to believe—in Robin Hood and Maid Marian and Merry Olde England, and Sherwood.
Peter led me around the picturesque town, by an open market where peddlers and farmers sold brightly colored ribbons, produce, cakes and meat—probably much as they had in Robin Hood’s day—and down a narrow street to an adorable café called The Mary Ann Evans Tea House.
“It’s where Mary Ann Evans, a.k.a. George Elliot, lived when she wrote her great novel, The Mill on the Floss ,” he told me.
We sat at a tiny lace-covered table and ate two “full English” breakfasts—heaping platters of sausage, mushrooms, beans, grilled tomatoes, eggs, something savory called “black pudding,” and fried bread. It was enough to feed a family for a week, but I ate and ate. The abundance helped quell the panic that had been living in my stomach for months.
I relaxed and listened to Peter tell me the history of the town—founded by a Viking named Sven Forkbeard—Swinsby meant “Sven’s home” he said—and of the mighty river Trent, which George Elliot had dubbed “the Floss” in her famous novel.
“The name Trent comes from the Celtic word meaning ‘trespasser’,” he said. “Because the river floods its banks so often. It has a tidal bore called the Aegir: a wave caused by the funnel shape at the river’s mouth. It’s unpredictable, especially in spring. I’m a damned good sailor, but I’d rather fight a Caribbean hurricane than the Aegir in April.”
The darkness of his tone felt ominous.
But his sunnyness returned as we finished up our feast and he led me on a walking tour of the little town—its medieval manor house where Henry VIII had met Katherine Parr, and the hill where Cromwell and the Royalists once battled.
As we walked along a path lined with flowering trees that showered pink petals on us like rosy snow. I let Peter put an arm around me. Although the sky had clouded and a soft drizzle misted our clothes, I enjoyed exploring the ancient streets and listening to Peter fill me in on his own history, entertaining me with tales of his life as a rock music promoter.
“Then I sold up and chucked it all.” He stopped under an archway to light his pipe. “Four years ago, I bought a yacht and sailed to the Caribbean to live the richly rewarding life of a beach bum. I’d still be there if I my boat hadn’t sunk—and the banking collapse hadn’t bollixed up my finances.”
“It’s been hard on everybody,” I said. I hadn’t told him about my own slide into financial ruin, grateful he didn’t pry. I hoped he hadn’t read the nasty things Jonathan said about me during the throes of our divorce. He’d made me sound so cruel, when in truth, I hadn’t stopped loving the man; he’d stopped being the man I loved.
I kept on my polite smile, reminding myself to resist Peter and all this English charm. Jonathan had charmed me once, too. I needed to stay on my guard. It wasn’t just the kinky books. I still didn’t know the full story about Lance.
“What made you give up all that glamour and become a beach bum?” I asked, trying to banish my suspicions.
“My heart.” He clutched at his chest in that self-mocking way he had. “It broke. Literally. My wife left me for a drummer—took the kids, the house, everything—and then I had a heart attack. But the Caribbean was better medicine than any
Similar Books
