Chapter 17
It was late afternoon three days later when Robin and Ulli rode back up to Lockwood Manor. Her saddle bags were lighter, her purse fuller, and her mind busy mulling over the information that Brother Elias had shared.
Her stomach, however, was empty.
Supper would be served at sundown, and while it would likely be meager, Robin could count on it being hot.
She left the horses in the stable with Jette, who offered to brush and feed them after their long journey.
Her sore muscles begged for a hot bath, but with Sol and Meena having taken over her room, she did not want to ask any of the hardworking members of her household to go through the trouble of both heating water for her and finding a private place in the crowded manor for her to bathe.
A quick rinse in the cold stream would do her good—and ensure she was done before supper was served.
A short while later, in a fresh pair of trousers that did not reek of horse, she made her way back to the manor just in time for supper.
On entering the main hall, Robin kept to the wall, not yet ready to join in the loud conversing happening all around her.
She needed to find Ilida and give her the few coins she had managed to trade for.
But Robin’s patience had no room for complaints or problems quite yet.
She needed food in her belly before she would brave those conversations.
She moved with the flow of people, picking up a wooden bowl from the stack on the end of the serving table.
“Robin.” The deep but raspy voice of Brother Fletcher came from behind her. “You have returned.”
She shifted her weight to turn and face him. This was a conversation she could have. “Your observations, as usual, are shrewd,” she said, handing him the empty bowl she was holding and grabbing another for herself.
“Of course they are,” the old monk said, accepting the offered. “How are my brothers?”
“They are well,” Robin answered, following the moving line. “Enjoying the warmth of Allys while despairing of the constant noise. They spoke of nothing but their beloved Fletcher, who left his life of quiet prayer to join a team of bandits.”
“Ah,” Brother Fletcher said, raising his eyes to the ceiling in an expression of mock long suffering. “How I miss the contemplative life. But I sacrificed what I loved to help those in need.”
Robin shook her head at the old monk’s antics. He loved his active life, perhaps a little bit too much. “Elias also sends his greetings,” she said, dropping the jest.
“I am surprised that crusty old relic is still alive,” Brother Fletcher replied.
“He said exactly the same thing about you.” Finally nearing the actual food on the table, Robin turned her attention to the comforting aromas wafting from the large pot of stew ahead.
Just before it sat a basket of bread rolls.
She picked one up, holding it in her spare hand while she used the other to give her bowl over to Willa.
Only, it was not Willa serving from the pot as usual.
It was Ian.
Surprised to see the crown prince serving her food, Robin instinctively pulled her bowl back. She looked around, confused. Ilida controlled the food service as closely as she watched the ledgers.
“You are back,” Ian said, reaching over the pot and leaning forward to take the bowl from her. “It is good to see you safe, but I can only guess you are starving.”
“Ilida is letting you serve the stew?” Robin asked, her confusion making her tone sharp.
Ian poured a ladle of stew into her bowl, a chunk of parsnip landing last and splashing into the broth below. “Is that unusual?” Ian asked. “I told you I was here to help, and it seemed like the easiest task I could offer.”
Ilida stepped up behind him, bringing a new basket of bread rolls. “Robin! The food cart is three days late.”
“No ‘welcome back, Robin,’?” Robin said, mostly in jest.
“Welcome back, Robin,” Ilida repeated, her voice dry.
“You are letting him serve the stew?” Robin gestured to Ian. She knew she was ignoring Ilida’s concern, but she was also still shocked. “I was gone for less than five days.”
“Is this something I should not be doing?” Ian asked. He held a second scoop of stew over her bowl but refrained from pouring it in.
“Some of us are dying from starvation back here,” Fletcher said from behind Robin. “So someone needs to be serving the food, and currently you are not.”
Ignoring the waiting line of people behind her, Robin looked to the confused prince. “Ilida is so concerned about wasting food that she has only ever let Willa, Bernard, or herself serve the stew.”
Ian looked from Robin to Ilida.
The steward put her hands on her hips. “You told me to run this house as I please,” she said to Robin. “He is precise and careful. Now, about the food cart.” Ilida reached across the table, grabbing Robin’s upper arm.
Robin gave Ian one more confused glance as she was pulled around the table. “Well done?” she said, not sure how to compliment the man on having won her steward’s trust. And in only five days.
“The food wagon is three days late,” Ilida said once she had dragged Robin free of the food line.
“Again. Which would not be a problem if Doulast was not hoarding food. It happens every time. We allocate enough food for the entire route, but Berwell is the last village and we never have enough for them. Reeve Alrud sent a messenger yesterday. When a wagon is late, it impacts them the most. But Doulast is never out of food. Reeve Vahnell never sends a messenger when the wagon is late. We need a better way to manage the resources so everyone gets a fair share.”
Robin tried not to crush the roll of bread in her hand as she listened to Ilida’s rant. “We have no proof that they are hoarding food, Ilida,” she said. They’d had this discussion more than once, and it always ran against one of Robin’s most important laws.
Ian appeared at her side, holding out the bowl of stew he had been filling for her before she’d gotten dragged away.
Robin took it from him, her stomach eager for its contents. “I will not withhold food from those who need it,” she said. Her voice was firm. “That is not justice, it is cruelty.”
“Can you not see that by refusing to control this,” Ilida argued, “you leave the smaller villages—”
“I brought back coin from Allys,” Robin said, cutting Ilida off. She lifted the whole bread roll to her mouth and bit it softly enough that she could hold it up with her teeth to free one hand. “Here,” she mumbled through the bread roll as she held out a small handful of coins.
Ilida took them from her, counting through them easily. Robin could see the disappointment in her steward’s face, but the woman held back any further negative words. “And the tonic?” she asked.
Robin switched the bowl of soup to her other hand so she could access her other pocket.
Ian, still standing next to them as Willa had taken his place at the pot of stew, reached out and took the roll from her teeth.
“Thank you,” Robin said. After fishing the small glass bottle from her pocket, she held it out to Ilida.
“Good.” Ilida slipped the bottle into her apron pocket. “Her parents will be so relieved.” She turned to Ian. “I need to give these coins to Bernard.”
Ian nodded, seeming to understand the woman’s unspoken words. “I will help Willa with the stew.” Ilida was gone before he had finished talking. Turning back to Robin, he held out the bread roll he had taken from her, a smirk on his face.
Robin accepted the roll in her now-empty hand and shook her head at him in disbelief.
Somehow, he understood her very efficient and anxious steward.
Clearly his princely responsibilities had taught him how to work well with people who were under pressure.
Or perhaps that was just his older brother instincts.
Regardless of where it came from, she appreciated his strength in this area.
With a nod, Ian returned to the serving table.
Cradling the bowl of hot stew to her chest, Robin breathed against its warmth and made her way out of the crowded hall.
Ulli, Lane, and Rigelt were probably at their usual fire out back.
And she wanted nothing more than to sit at her favorite stump, just far enough from the warm flames, and sink into the comforting smell of smoke and pine.
Clasping the green cloak around her shoulders, Robin slipped into the ever-busy palace kitchen. In the midst of the bustle, no one even noticed her entrance. She smiled.
Even though she’d known every single person at her old home in Lockwood, she’d felt far more free to come and go as she pleased there.
Living at the castle under the guardianship of King Frederich made her feel constantly .
. . watched. Not that anyone in particular was looking at her every movement, rather that she never felt able to breathe comfortably. To fully relax.
So she’d discovered the joy of wearing an indistinct cloak and slipping through the kitchen to grab a hot bun before sneaking to the stables to spend time with Humphrey.
Ian, the king’s eldest son, had discovered her favorite hiding place and often sought her out there.
But she didn’t mind when Ian joined her. She could breathe comfortably with him.
In the busy kitchen, Robin lifted the corner of a linen cloth, reaching her hand into a basket of warm bread rolls.
“Tsk,” a voice said harshly, and someone slapped her hand when she drew it out of the basket. “Those are for supper.”
Robin instinctively pulled her hand back, but she refused to drop the roll.
“Oh it’s you, dear,” the cook said, noticing Robin’s face. “That old cloak makes you look like a goose girl still. Take whatever you need.”
Robin smiled wordlessly. No one noticed a goose girl.
Except for Ian. The sides of her mouth twitched as her grin grew wider.
She ducked her head and turned to leave the kitchen.