Like the symptoms of some slow-acting poison, the affect of my words was not immediate. William was, as ever, the perfect lover about it, telling me what a good girl I was for forgiving Rob, and warning me not to trust so easily, like a father comforting his daughter, or an equally disturbing analogy. The irony of his words - his warning not to trust so easily, I mean - wouldn't hit me for months, but when they did, they hit so hard I took them on board and never revealed quite so much to one person again.

Once the emotionally intensity had subsided, we went out for a ride, chatted about music and the Tesco-value scandals, most of which was too embarrassingly demure to repeat, mundane politics and pregnancies-before-marriage. One of the up-sides about being engaged to an egotistical psycho was the insider gossip, how he made it his business to know everybody eles' business before they did. For a net-curtain-twitcher like me, it was like being married to the macho-camp personification ET (Entertainment Tonight, I mean. Not an extra-terrestrial. That would be weird.) One of the down-sides, unfortunately, was that even then his mental health was deteriorating: I'd like to think this wasn't entirely my fault, and there was perhaps some unresolved childhood trauma, but there's never been anything solid. It's strange, how early the signs were there, how subtlethey were. Like the times he'd bend my wrist around so hard I'd have to stifle a scream that happened so rarely at first I could dismiss them as accidents. I'm not, by the way, trying to make out I was some battered wife, because I don't think he was ever really trying to hurt me, he just didn't realise he was.

The wedding was getting closer. As wedding plans about pretty dresses and expensive wine evolved into house-keeping money and which property was best for raising children in, the first throws of reality gripped me: Christmas at Ludlow was only the tip of the iceberg. There would be maiden aunts to visit on weekends and staff wages to dispense and banquets to plan, and by the time you were caught up in the suffocating ordinariness, it would be okay 'cause you'd be dead. Oprah says "marry for money and pay for it every day of your life" - and well, it's true...a life of boredom was nothing more than I had signed up for, and nobody had ever said that marrying William would come without a price.

It just so happens I didn't realise, when we were sitting there making abstract plans about nursemaids and tablecloths, just how high that price would turn out to be.

And then I got a letter.

Strange, how certain moments define us, change our lives forever in the most random and meaningful ways. This wasn't one of those moments, it was just a bit of an inconvenience.

So this skinny boy came snivelling towards me, and read the letter even though I could have done it faster myself, being a forward-thinking kick-ass chick (actually, my being able to read had nothing to do with feminism, my dad had insisted I was literate in English and Latin in order to improve my marriage prospects.) But still. And basically, my darling brother had decided it was a good idea to find God and join a monastery six weeks before my wedding. Of course a completely selfless act like that was an ideal start to his career in the service of God. Prat.

Every cloud has a silver living, and my brother's sudden faith was a perfect excuse for postponing the wedding. "Because," as I'd explain to William as we sat in mass, the bishop preaching about the evils of sodomy (actually, must have been a pretty big deal to have been bought up during mass. William, we're all looking at you) "I don't have anybody to give me away."

This was a slight exaggeration. There was my UncleHenry, of course, but I didn't much fancy being lectured on the exact mechanics of the local economy as I walked down the aisle. Or my cousin Ralph, who was, in today's terms, morbidly obese...I considered him, because he'd walk slow enough for every girl in the church to take in every detail of my gown and swoon with jealousy - but he was a bit of a perv, and would probably be all lecherous and gross. Then for a truly fairy-tale wedding there was one of my brothers: I could chose between Grumpy, Dopey, Sneezy (okay. He had leprosy. But y'know) or Bashful - and even then they lived far away and would no doubt be annoyed at having been asked to pull themselves back up to the dump that was the ancestral home for a dreary family wedding.

Fortunately, Groomzilla was even more desperate than me to have the perfect wedding. "It's not like we've put the banns up yet. I want you to have the perfect day."

Pity, really, that the sweet ones always turn out to be raving lunatics. C'est le vie.

The foundations for my future issues with abandonment in place, I busied myself with plans for a wedding that, with any luck, would never happen. It's amazing, the effect of sampling sweet dishes can have on a girl's memory. By the time I saw him again, Rob was the furthest thing from my mind.

There was no romantic scene on the balcony or scaling the walls to invade my bedchamber, just a ride through the forest on a grey Wednesday afternoon.

As it happens, I'd been on my way to the market, with no entourage except Ann, thinking it was probably best the castle was guarded, rather than the kick-ass diva that was moi. I know the forest wasn't exactly the safest place to be, what with the wolves and bears and outlaws (oh my!) prowling through the trees waiting to gobble up some foolish rich girl who was out alone. But I didn't have all day, and I'd been living on the edge of the forest my entire life, and had so far never once been gobbled up by anything at all: so the forest was probably fairly safe. It's this kind of logic that gets me into zany predicaments.

So there I was, trundling along on my horse, minding my own business, when, out of nowhere, I was ambushed by a ridiculously tall (actually, he was probably only about six foot, he just seemed ridiculously tall) scruffy outlaw.

History has come to know Little John as a gentle giant, limited by his stature to be seen as nothing more than a savage barbarian, concealing his kindness and intellect from an unforgiving and superficial world. In reality, he was pretty much how you'd expect him to be from looking at him: a lanky dumb-ass who's reasoning never developed much beyond, "Me like destroy!" I'm not saying he wasn't a good person; he was the only person to show Rob any kind of kindness during those first days of his new life on the run - we just had a personality clash, and he thought I was a gold-digging tart. I suppose he wasn't that far wrong, really.

Being mugged was pretty much as it was today, threat of violence, handing over of the money, everybody goes home. Only the money-being-handed over was interrupted by the immortal words, "errm...John...actually. I, um. I know her."

The mugging apprantly interupted, John's head swung round to reveal Rob, who'd been hiding somewhat unconvincingly, behind a bush. "Oh great, now she knows where you are. Well bloody done. You ain't supposed to say nothing 'till they've gone."

I have to say, discovering your assault is part of a warped training excercise for wannabe-outlaws dosen't make the process any more pleasant.

"Aye. But can we not steal from her?"

"Why not?"

I realise now that whilst this debate raged on, I could have easily trotted away into the distance. I might have ended up with an arrow in my back, but you have to admit the idea is quite funny. Ann looked bored, said nothing.

"Oh for God's sake. Alright. You piss off. And tell some of your rich mates to come by here, it'd really help."

I blinked, utterly confused. "So...I'm not being robbed?"

"Apprantly not."

"Oh. Um. Good. Well - thanks. Nice to see you Robin." And with my moneybag still in tact, I rode off into the afternoon sun, leaving two quarreling criminals in my wake.