Page 29 of Rogue of the Greenwood
Widowed for years now, she had lost one son to war, one son to drink, and one son to the lure of a better fortune in London. She was left with two widowed daughters—one large with child and one with a babe at her breast. Mrs. Grover also cared for her even more elderly spinster sister who maintained a marginal grasp on reality, and a collection of fatherless grandchildren with no viable means of support.
When the sheriff evicted them from their home, they took refuge where they could, first with friends then under the trees here in Sherwood. They were desperately needy and Robert could scarcely begrudge anything he had to offer them. He cursed a sheriff who would throw such sorrowful folk out of their home without any hint of compassion.
“I didn’t know what else to do with them,” John went on, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Will and I were just strolling through the forest, looking for game to bring in for supper, and there they were, the whole lot of them, shivering in the rain with the river rising around them. Half their belongings had already floated away. We couldn’t just leave them out there.”
“No, of course not. You did the right thing. We’ll find a way to keep them, I suppose.”
Several of the children squealed and the puppy barked, all of them running circles around Alan who played a merry tune on his pipe. The goats bleated from a corner and chickens cackled. It was nothingshort of bedlam.
Robert had initially been inclined to find a shelter outdoors for the livestock, but John reminded him that not only would goats be visible to anyone who might happen by, they would make enough noise to be heard from a distance. If Robert was determined to stay hidden, the animals would need to be kept indoors.
So, here they were. Four men, two creaky grandmothers, two women with babes, an assortment of noisy barnyard stock, one bouncing dog, and a pack of boisterous children. All of them fully dependent on Robert.
“It’s a lucky thing this lodge is built for a crowd,” Will said, sauntering past the children and deftly offering one of them his handkerchief when the little scamp sneezed.
“I doubt the decayed Locksley who built this place ever considered we’d be using it for this,” Robert said.
“I daresay your grandfather did,” John chuckled.
Robert cringed at the mocking reminder of his grandfather’s delusions, but he could hardly fault his comrade for joking this way. Perhaps it was true; in his dementia, Grandfather may very well have considered this lodge in the forest as a good hiding place for Robin Hood. It certainly did have plenty of rooms for housing a band of so-called merry men and—in this case—merry beggars.
“Pity my grandfather never figured out a way to keep the larder magically full,” Robert sighed. “Despite the supplies Mr. Fraytuck shared with us from his delivery for the poor, we will have little to offer these people after another day or two.”
“We sent the boy with word of our need,” Johnreminded him. “Your friends in the village will find a way to help out.”
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.
