Chapter 9 #2
Robert hoped that was true. It was risky to involve so many others, yet he knew beyond doubt that he could trust Much and Mr. Fraytuck. The boy would let them know about these new members of Robert’s rag-tag household and of their desperate need.
Henry had been a regular here, slinking back and forth, to and from the manor, carrying messages.
Through these notes, Balford kept Robert appraised of Mr. Gisborn’s actions and promised to send warning if there was indication of danger.
So far Gisborn’s behavior implied that he felt secure in believing Robert was gone forever.
In fact, according to the note Henry brought this morning, Gisborn was planning to host a dinner party at Greenwood Manor in just two days’ time.
What gall, to behave in such a presumptuous manner!
Even if Robert had perished as Gisborn had hoped, it would still be far from the steward’s place to play host in the Locksley home.
Indeed, ownership should be expected to pass on to one of Robert’s distant cousins, from a branch of the family living in the far reaches of Yorkshire.
There was no legal precedent at all that would give Gisborn any right to claim Greenwood as his own.
And yet that is exactly what he was doing; he was boldly setting up housekeeping as if he owned the place. In fact, Robert had a suspicion he knew exactly whom Gisborn planned to keep his house with. At the top of the guest list for Gisborn’s anticipated dinner was Miss Marianne Maidland.
Marianne pulled her shawl tightly around her as she dodged a puddle.
Her joy at being outdoors was dwindling as she’d been dealing with the realities of mud.
She should have expected that after a day and a half of rain, but as usual she’d let her passion carry her away and she forgot to think ahead.
When she’d been at the crest of the hill just north of the town, the walking path had been nearly dry.
As she’d descended the hill toward the river, its condition had changed.
There were great ruts in the path, carved by rivulets of running water.
She had to slow her pace to avoid sliding or tripping.
Her skirts were likely going to be ruined and she did not even want to contemplate the state of her shoes.
Still, she didn’t regret her escape. Even more so as she approached the river, leaving the muddied walking path to carefully make her way along the road.
The mill sat sturdy and strong, even as the waters around it had risen.
She paused before the wooden walkway that would take her from the roadway down to the mill.
It had not been her intent to stop here. What would she say if Mr. Muchleigh appeared? Oh, she had hundreds of questions for him, but what could she do with any answer he might give her?
The old mule was standing where it had been before, head drooping as usual, lips plucking up bits of grass.
His huge velvet ears perked at the sound of her footsteps and he looked her way.
Perhaps he remembered her or perhaps he simply appreciated any visitor, but he slowly plodded over, looking even more forlorn today because of the mud splattered over his hooves and his fetlocks.
Of course she couldn’t simply walk away from the old fellow, so she paused at the fence.
She wished she had brought an apple or carrot for him, but he seemed content to sniff her and let her pat his soft nose.
His huge dark eyes were hooded by thick lashes.
Gray whiskers poked out from his chin. He was well fed, though, she could tell.
Despite the mule’s obvious age and diminished strength, someone kept him around and cared for him.
She scratched his forehead and patted his neck, telling him what a handsome old man he was.
He seemed to greatly enjoy the attention, so she kept at it.
There was something remarkably soothing about conversing with an animal this way.
One never needed to worry that they’d argue or tell tales afterward.
Indeed, she rather liked this silly old mule.
“He’s a nice mule, isn’t he,” a young voice said beside her.
Marianne jumped, startling the mule, and found a boy. He must have come along the road, but she had been too busy enjoying the mule to notice his approach. He smiled at her, the freckles on his nose wrinkled charmingly.
“Here, I brought him a carrot.” He handed the carrot to her.
“Oh, if you brought him the treat then you should be the one to feed it to him,” she said, stepping out of the way.
The mule’s nostrils flared, and he eyed the boy eagerly. The carrot was indeed accepted. Bits of the bright vegetable tumbled from the mule’s mouth and the boy laughed as it munched loudly.
“Mr. Muchleigh—the one who runs the mill—says he used to ride this mule as a boy,” the child explained. “I think he’s too old to work now, but Mr. Muchleigh keeps him anyway. Like a really big spaniel, I guess. His name’s Clarence.”
“That seems a fine name for a mule,” she replied. “And he certainly likes that carrot!”
“Mr. Fraytuck gave it to me to bring to him,” the boy explained. “I had to run a message to him.”
“So you work here at the mill?”
“No, I work at… er, somewhere else.”
The way he paused and corrected himself caught her attention. What had the boy been about to say, and why did he not say it? Most likely it meant nothing at all, but with everything going on, she couldn’t help but be suspicious.
“You work for Mr. Fraytuck, at the church?”
“No, I was just taking him a message and then he gave me one to take back.”
“To your employer?”
“That’s right. My employer.” He grinned and puffed out his chest. He seemed to like the sound of that word.
“But your employer is not Mr. Fraytuck, and you don’t work at the mill, so where can you be going with your message to take back? We are quite outside of town here.”
Panic flashed over his young face. Clearly, he did not want her to guess his secret—whatever it was.
She felt a bit of guilt for pressing him, but how could she help it?
Poor Meg was home, locked in her room weeping over the man she was forbidden to marry, and the whole town seemed embroiled in some sort of scheme.
Marianne owed it to her cousin to be inquisitive.
The boy seemed to think otherwise. “Say, why do you ask so many questions?”
“Just making conversation. You look like a fellow who knows about things.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “And you look like a smart lady. But why are you carrying a bow? You planning to shoot somebody?”
“No, of course not. I plan to do some archery.”
“That sounds capital! But I don’t know any ladies who do archery. Who are you?”
“I am Miss Marianne Maidland,” she said and made a polite curtsey for him.
His cheeks went pink and he returned a clumsy bow. “My name’s Henry. I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Marianne.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Henry. If you are going my direction, would you care to walk with me?”
“I don’t know… where are you going?”
“Into Sherwood, of course. There will be plenty of trees and branches to aim at, without accidentally shooting someone.”
Now his eyes tripled in size. “You can’t go into the forest!”
“Can I not? As a girl I played there all the time and was perfectly safe.”
“That must have been a long time ago, miss. You shouldn’t go in there now.”
She tried not to laugh at him since he appeared utterly earnest. “And why not?”
“Haven’t you heard what people say? There’s robbers about, bad people. They hide in the forest so the sheriff can’t find them.”
“Don’t be silly,” she dismissed. “Those are just tales people tell, make-believe from the days of Robin Hood.”
He glanced over his shoulder and took a step toward her. Apparently not even the mule should hear what he had to say.
“You’ve heard about Robin Hood?”
“Of course! Hasn’t everyone?”
“But you haven’t heard about him lately?”
“Have people been talking about Robin Hood lately?”
He seemed shocked that she would even ask. “You’ve not heard them? Oh indeed, people are saying he’s come back!”
“Certainly not! They are saying that? But why?”
“You really have not heard? Maybe I shouldn’t tell you…”
“Oh, but you must! Now I am horribly curious. Why should people say he’s come back? Have they seen him?”
The delight of sharing forbidden information was apparently too tempting for the boy. He glanced around again, decided Clarence was trustworthy, then continued in hushed, conspiratorial tones.
“People say they’ve seen him, that he’s been giving alms to the poor and helping folks that can’t pay their taxes.”
Was this true? She was prepared to believe that Robert Locksley was hiding in the forest, and even that he was plotting some sort of scheme.
But tending to the poor? Why should he do that when he could simply take his place in his own home and be able to do so much more for those in need? How very odd.
“Surely these stories can’t be true,” she said, eager to hear the boy defend them.
“They are true! I know it for a fact.”
“You’ve not seen the man, of course.”
“But I have! Oh yes, he gave me a whole lot of money, almost enough to get my Pa out of gaol!”
“Your father’s in gaol?”
“Taxes, you know. But not for much longer! Pretty soon I can pay the sheriff and my Pa will be free. Look, I’m sorry Miss Marianne, but I’ve got to go. I’m supposed to help Mr. Muchleigh with a delivery today. He’ll be looking for me. See, there he is now.”
The boy pointed excitedly toward the mill.
From one of the buildings below, a wagon appeared, pulled by two sturdy draft horses.
Mr. Muchleigh himself was driving the wagon.
From where she stood, Marianne could see that it was partially loaded with what appeared to be blankets or perhaps a large pile of rags.
An odd load from a mill, but it clearly fit the boy’s claims.
The mule flicked his ears and turned his big head toward the sounds at the mill.
George Muchleigh left the driver’s bench and climbed into the back of the wagon.
He was very intently checking on whatever he had been loading, although all Marianne could see was that pile of blankets.
The man fluffed and arranged them carefully.
Whatever he would be hauling, he didn’t want it getting damaged.
Once he seemed content with his arrangements, he called into the mill. Two men came trotting out. These were not the same two men Marianne and Meg had witnessed before. No, these appeared to be common laborers. Mr. Muchleigh pointed and spoke a few words, but Marianne could not make them out.
“See? I’ve got to go help now. It’s been very nice to meet you,” the boy said, making another awkward bow.
He was a charming lad. How was he involved in all of this?
If anything the boy said could be believed, she hoped it was true that he’d be able to get his father from gaol soon.
He was far too young to be left on his own, carrying the burden of paying his family’s taxes.
What sort of sheriff would let that continue?
All the more reason to make sure poor Meg didn’t have to marry that man. Perhaps Marianne should take the time to speak with George Muchleigh now. If there was any hope for Meg’s future with him, Marianne needed to know. Did he love her cousin more than he hated her uncle?
“I’ll walk with you, Henry,” she said. “I may like to speak with this miller for a moment or two.”