LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘Ask a lot of questions, don’t you? I don’t know what it’s like in foreign, but over ’ere that can shorten your life.’

      ‘Shorten it?’

      ‘By about a ’ead’s’eight. Now, d’you say it was afternoon when you got ’ere?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Well, we got a couple of’ours then. You sure you don’t want to…’

      ‘Thanks, but not right now.’

      ‘Suit yourself. Guess I’ll get a bit of kip then.’

      Erasmus leant back against the wall and breathed deeply. He was definitely in the right time, but things weren’t turning out quite the way he’d planned. As he closed his eyes, the old man picked up his little collection of straw, wiped up some rat-droppings with it, then walked over to the middle of the room and dumped it on the pile.

       Chapter Seven

      Erasmus lay back against the wall of the dungeon, deep in thought. As a tourist in his own time, he’d visited the shells of many castles and seen their ruined dungeons, but nothing had really prepared him for the psychological impact of being imprisoned in one.

      He’d heard the stories, of course: he knew well the tale of how prisoners in Carlisle Castle had been compelled to lick the walls to quench their thirst; he’d seen the waxworks that filled the dungeons of Warwick, hanging around in manacles or tied on racks. The trouble was that such images were so different to anything in his experience that it was hard to relate to them. You could understand the pain of torture as prisoners were interrogated; you could even try to comprehend the deprivations of an inadequate diet whilst they awaited their fate – something familiar to many poor university students – but what was difficult to handle was the simple torture of imprisonment itself. The greatest terror a dungeon could bring was not the application of thumbscrews to extract a confession, or even the cheerful banter of the hangman as he came to measure you up for your scaffold, it was the horrifying tricks the mind of an incarcerated man could play when there was nothing to do but think. And for someone who did a lot of thinking it could take a lot less time for the effects to kick in.

      Oubliette. The word ran through Erasmus Hobart’s brain looking for a reason. Place of forgetting – oubliette. Forgetting what? Surely you only forget things when you’re preoccupied. If all I’ve got to do is think, I ought to have an eidetic memory by now. The time. What’s the time? See, you’ve forgotten that. No, I remember what the time was when I saw it last, I just don’t know how long ago it was. That’s not the same as forgetting. Is it day or night? How can you tell? It never changes in here. It can’t have been more than four or five hours, but what time did I arrive? Oubliette.

      The distant sound of a grunt roused Erasmus from his thoughts and he looked around the room. Most of the prisoners were asleep, so perhaps mediaeval people had some internal body clock that told them whether it was day or night in the outside world. The old man wasn’t asleep, though, he seemed to be continuing his earlier argument with the wall, but even he was keeping his voice down.

      Oubliette. Why did they call it that? Did they forget they’d shoved you in it perhaps? No, it couldn’t be that – they’d be popping round to have a look every five minutes, just to see what was there. Perhaps forgetting was a crime? Perhaps you could get locked up for forgetting. That wouldn’t go down very well back at school – every time someone handed their homework in late, they’d be struggling for an excuse other than ‘I forgot’. ‘The dog ate it’, ‘it got flushed down the toilet’, ‘Mulder and Scully came round and confiscated it because the FBI didn’t want it published’ – he’d heard some excuses since he’d started, but ‘I forgot’ was still the original and classic. Oubliette. Why oubliette?

      There was a grating noise from above and the trapdoor slid back to reveal several hooded figures. For a moment, Erasmus thought the Oubliette Squad had come to take him, leaving him as just a memory in the minds of people who hadn’t been born yet. Maude, however, seemed less than worried and looked up expectantly.

      ‘There you are,’ said one of the hooded figures – Erasmus noted the voice was female. ‘I bet you thought we’d forgotten you.’

      The corridors above the dungeon were in darkness and Erasmus concluded it was night. He wanted to ask the exact time, but Maude had told him not to speak unnecessarily and, besides, they didn’t have accurate clocks in these days. It had almost been tempting to keep his watch on, but it wouldn’t have helped – he had no way of getting the right time in the first place.

      He looked at his rescuers: a small group of women, each wrapped in a black cloak, beneath which Erasmus could catch the occasional glimpse of green cloth or brown leather. The women paid little attention to him: once Maude had persuaded the aggressive, short-haired woman (Alice, Erasmus presumed) that Erasmus was from foreign and was, therefore, not the same as other men, they had reluctantly let him out, but they showed no interest in talking to him. Instead, Alice issued orders to her companions in hushed tones, and the three of them began to pull up the ladder from the dungeon floor. Alice busied herself with an unconscious guard in the corner, trying to make his posture look natural, so that people would assume he was asleep on duty. As she turned to pick up his helmet, she noticed one of the other male prisoners trying to climb out on the ladder.

      ‘Is he from foreign too?’ Alice asked Maude.

      ‘Don’t think so,’ said Maude.

      Alice hefted the guard’s helmet and used it to hit the prisoner on the head. He gave a single, startled yelp then fell back into the dungeon with a thud. Maude and the other two women made a redoubled effort to pull up the ladder, then closed the trapdoor and locked it. Erasmus could do nothing except watch as Alice, apparently uninterested in the fate of the man she had brained, returned to her efforts with the guard, casually slitting his throat to make sure he didn’t wake up and spoil the effect. Erasmus wondered whether he really wanted to be rescued by these people: he might have been safer in the pit.

      Once the trapdoor was closed, Alice led the way through the maze of passages that ran away from the dungeon. Erasmus looked around him in wonder – he’d known about the Nottingham caves, of course, but he hadn’t realised how extensive they were. With all the twists and turns he rapidly lost all sense of direction. Had Maude not been dragging him along by the arm, he could easily have become separated from the women. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he was going to find himself at the centre of the Earth, he found himself being bustled up some rough steps, hewn from the rock itself, and the party emerged through a door in the foot of the castle and into the outer bailey.

      The night sky was scattered with wispy clouds and the light waxed and waned as drifts of cirrus passed across the face of the moon. They made their way across the bailey, keeping to the shadows of the outbuildings. As they passed the time machine, Erasmus felt a sudden desire to run, to get into it and go back to the safety of his own century. He paused and Maude looked at him questioningly.

      ‘What is it?’ she hissed.

      ‘He does exist, doesn’t he?’ said Erasmus.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Robin Hood.’

      Maude gave him a puzzled look. ‘Of course ’e does. Why are you asking me that now?’

      Erasmus took one last look at the time machine and sighed. ‘I was just thinking about home,’ he said.

      ‘You’ll never get there if the guards catch you wandering round ’ere. Come on.’

      Erasmus let himself be dragged along by the arm, noticing as they passed through the outer gatehouse that the two, apparently slumbering, guards seemed to have small puddles of blood forming on their tunics. Alice obviously took a lot of pride in her work.

      The town of Nottingham was a far cry from the lively city of Erasmus’ experience. A clutch of primitive,

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