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volume so it lapped at its banks. The gentle sun made the surface water sparkle, highlighting the orange flash of the goldfish which darted to and fro, before they became abruptly motionless for a few seconds, and then flitted off again.
    Never one for an uneasy silence, Grace sighed and launched into her well-rehearsed and often repeated justification of her Robin Hood fascination.
    â€˜The Robin Hood legend is so resilient, so utterly lasting. We all know the stories from childhood, whether we enjoy them or not. They have engendered countless films and television shows, and taught generations of people how brutal the consequences of our less-advised actions can be. The story is more widely known than Shakespeare, for its language has adapted with us over the centuries. I believe, or at least, I’m working on the hypothesis, that the tales themselves held a strong influence over the genuine outlaw bands or lawless groups of the fourteenth century and beyond. So much so, that some families used the Robin Hood ballads and accompanying stories and songs of the day as examples of the justice they aspired to and hoped for. Maybe they even used them as justification for their criminal activities.’
    Dr Franks continued to peer into the lake water as he listened to Grace’s passionate declaration. ‘You may well be right about using the ballads as tales to live by. Damn tricky theory to prove though.’
    Grace smiled wanly. ‘Completely impossible.’
    Rob tilted his head towards Grace, but refrained from looking at her as he replied, ‘Not completely, surely, what about Folville’s law?’
    Grace’s head snapped up so quickly that she almost lost her footing in her unaccustomed footwear, and had to catch hold of Dr Frank’s linen-clad arm for a split second to steady herself so she didn’t examine the lake at soggily close quarters, ‘You know about Folville’s law?!’
    â€˜Of course. I am, as you have pointed out, an obsessed medievalist.’
    â€˜But you’ve been in America.’
    â€˜Incredible as it is to believe, they do have books in America.’
    Grace scuffed her shoes against the banks, embarrassed at being teased again, but knowing that this time she deserved it, ‘Sorry, it’s just I’ve not met many people who’ve heard of Folville’s Law.’
    Rob stared at Grace levelly and quoted directly from William Langland’s medieval epic Piers the Plowman,
    â€˜â€œAnd some ryde and to recovere that unrightfully was wonne:
    He wised hem wynne it ayein wightnesses of handes,
    And fecchen it from false men with Folvyles lawes.”‘ 4
    In other words, Folville’s Law said it was OK to redress a wrong with violence.’
    Grace stood open-mouthed, staring at her companion, disbelief etched on her face as Rob continued, ‘I think you may be on to something. How are you going to write it up though? Will you truly be able to get the idea across, and can you quantify it?’
    She had an uncharacteristic urge to tell him about the novel, but just as Grace was about to, the usual unease she experienced about sharing the idea in academic circles claimed her. She really didn’t want to be teased on a professional level as well as for fun, so she simply said, ‘It’s proving a challenge, and taking far longer than I had planned.’ Which was the truth – almost.
    â€˜It always does.’ Rob started to walk them back towards the less attractive square buildings that formed most of the Nottingham campus. After a few steps he added, ‘You haven’t told me about why you like him personally, or your views on Robin Hood as a figurehead for justice, though.’
    â€˜I know,’ Grace spoke bluntly, keeping her gaze firmly on the path before her, ‘but I have to get going. I have to endure the horror that is dress shopping in Sheffield tomorrow.’
    â€˜A horror? Surely not? You