Page 28 of Rogue of the Greenwood
It did more than that, in fact. As Henry beamed with renewed hope, Much and Mr. Fraytuck dug into their own pockets as well. The few coins they were able to add made the boy practically giddy.
“With this much, I can get Pa out of there in no time! Thank you, sirs, thank you!”
“Take care of that money, lad,” Mr. Fraytuck cautioned. “It’s a lot to be carrying around.”
“Oh, I won’t carry it long, sir,” Henry promised. “I’ll give it to Balford. He’ll hold it for me. If anyone asks where I got it, I’ll just say Robin Hood gave it to me.”
It was heartwarming to realize how such a small gesture could bring such a big smile to a young, dirtyface. Perhaps Robert felt slightly less inclined to despise that foolish Robin Hood legend. All his life the dashed association brought him nothing but torment, yet now it brought hope and would protect his identity.
Very well, he would play Robin Hood for this particular boy. He still bristled at the memories associated with that name, but for the first time ever, it seemed something good might come of it. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony, though. Despite all of the years and all of his efforts, he’d become Robin Hood.
Chapter 9
A full day and a half of unyielding rain had left Marianne feeling sulky and out of sorts. It did not help her mood at all that her cousin had taken to her bed and refused to speak with anyone. Aunt Regina and Uncle Prinley seemed not to mind, instead they continued on with wedding preparations as if their daughter’s silence and misery meant nothing to them. But it meant something to Marianne and she desperately wished Meg had not shut her out.
As if it weren’t bad enough that Meg’s engagement to Mr. Reeve was being announced all over town, something else had come up. This morning an invitation arrived, for their whole family. It seemed Mr. Gisborn was hosting a dinner party—at Greenwood Manor! What presumption, to host a party so soon after the very master of the house was presumed dead. And to know that Mr. Gisborn made special effort to include her in the invitation seemed ominous. That dratted proposal she’d been avoiding loomed closer and closer. She needed someone to talk to about it all, and right now Meg was the only one she could confide in.
She listened for the least sound from inside as she rapped softly at her cousin’s door one more time. “Meg, please let me in. I want to talk with you.”
No answer from inside. Perhaps Meg was sleeping. How could anyone sleep for so many hours? Last time Marianne had knocked at the door Meg sent her away,claiming she needed rest. That had been two hours ago in the middle of the day. Surely Meg must be suffocating in there, cooped up for so long.
“I know that last time we spoke I upset you… but I’m sorry for that,” Marianne called softly. “Won’t you please let me in?”
Meg still did not reply. It was insulting to be shut out this way. Marianne hadn’t meant to upset her cousin so. She’d only been trying to comfort her! But after what they’d overheard at the mill two days ago, Meg was beyond reason. Marianne had hoped to go speak with George Muchleigh yesterday, but the downpour made that impossible so she was no closer to resolving any of this.
But Meg was too eager to hear his explanation. She suggested writing him a letter and having one of the kitchen maids deliver it. Marianne knew, of course, that was a bad idea. Surely the staff could not be trusted to keep such an important secret. If Aunt Regina and Uncle Prinley found out Meg was sending letters to the lowly miller—and that Marianne was a party to it—both of them would be locked in their rooms until after the wedding.
She told Meg as much, scolding her for such a reckless idea. Meg took great offense and countered with a claim that Marianne had no idea what it was like to be in love and she ought to keep her opinions to herself on the matter. Unfortunately, Marianne let herself get carried away by emotion and replied that she was well pleased not to have any experience with love because obviously it turned people into fools.
That was when Meg took to her bed and refused to see anyone. For nearly two days now! It was getting a bit ridiculous.
Marianne grumbled below her breath. How could she apologize for making Meg upset if Meg wouldn’t even see her? Well, she’d make her cousin listen and she’d set things right between them.
Marianne tried the door handle. It would not open; Meg must have locked it from inside. Well, that said quite eloquently just how much Meg cared to help in her time of trouble.
Fine, then. If Meg wouldn’t allow any further help from Marianne, perhaps Marianne would just help herself. She was so anxious and frustrated she felt she could jump out of her skin. She needed a walk.
Indeed, she needed a good long walk out to the countryside where she could be truly alone and out from under the oppressive St. John roof. The countryside always soothed her, even when she was a rambunctious child. She could go to the woods and walk among the trees and she would feel free. That’s just what she would do now: she would go for a walk.
Even better, she would take along her bow! What would be more freeing and relaxing that leaving all this trouble behind and focusing on archery for an hour? It would be heaven, the more she thought of it.
With one last parting glance at Meg’s silent door, she hurried back to her room to collect her things. No one needed to know what she was doing so she simply made ready and let herself out. It felt even better than expected to walk out on her own, free of them all and their heavy weight of expectation. She hurried past the church and practically ran along the walking path that led away from the busy village streets.
Broad pastures opened up around her and the river flowed down below. There was a footbridge near the mill and if she took that, it was an easy walkthrough the meadow, up the hill, and to the edge of the forest. She could lose herself in Sherwood, where she never had to answer to anyone beside the trees and the birds and the ever-present specter of Robin Hood.
“I’m not ruddy Robin Hood!” Robert growled.
“Watch your language, Rob,” John said, merely laughing at him. “There’s women and children around.”
It was true, oddly enough. The solitude and seclusion of their quiet hunting box had been disrupted by the arrival of a dozen ragged people of varying ages and sizes. Quite a variety of odors, too, which Robert tried not to notice. They had brought a pen of chickens, a gangly, slobbering puppy, and two goats along with them.
“How am I going to provide for all of them?” Robert grumbled. “Surely there is somewhere else they could have gone.”
“Of course there was,” John remarked. “They could have gone to gaol. That’s where that blackguard of a sheriff would have sent them, locked them up for not paying St. John’s abominable tax, or shipped the able ones off to that workhouse he calls a factory.”
From what Robert could see, none of them would be considered able. Desperate would be the more accurate word for them. But very, very grateful to have had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies last night.
The matriarch of the clan was Mrs. Grover. Her hair was gray, her face was lined, and her body wasbent from years of hard labor and arthritic bones. She’d worked her own loom most of her life, but now the growing population of mills had displaced her and her own body betrayed her. Her hands were twisted, her joints gnarled and stiff.
