He ate the bread, drank the water, and contemplated the bow. He was still too tired to think sensibly—he felt as if the night before had been more a period of unconsciousness than of sleep—and his bruised emotions could not decide if they were chiefly of gratitude for the mysterious rescue of the one possession that meant more to him than any other, or fear of finding out how, exactly, it had been restored to him.
He muffled a sneeze. He was stowed away in the smallest, highest loft in Much’s father’s old barn; in Much’s grandfather’s day they had kept a few beasts, but the mill’s custom had increased to the point that the animals were more trouble than they were worth when the miller could trade for anything he might need. “If there had been six of me instead of only me and a few sisters,” Much had said once, “that barn might still be used; but there isn’t, and there’s more than work enough for my father and me at the mill.” Robin thought of that now: and Much was suggesting that he turn his back on his father, to run wild in Sherwood. He had tried to balk the night before, when Much brought him home; Much was known as a friend of his, the sheriff’s men would come to the mill to ask—possibly to search. “Oh, they’ll come and they’ll ask,” said Much, “but they won’t search. You don’t know my father when he plays stupid. He’ll be beautifully offended when they ask if his only son might be harbouring any known criminals, and he’ll be even more offended when they suggest, none too gently, as gentleness is not part of their training, that they might just have a look in the old barn. He’s still the miller hereabouts; they’ll leave him alone for now—and now is all we need.”
The straw in the loft was older than he was; it was hard to tell if his tongue would have tasted mouldy this morning anyway, or if the un-subtle flavour was a result of breathing ancient strawy dust all night. He muffled another sneeze, and crawled to the edge of the loft to look down. A shadow darkened the narrow doorway, and he flattened himself immediately; but it was only Much.
“You’re awake, then,” his friend said softly. “I was beginning to think that what we do with you next was irrelevant because you were going to sleep for the rest of your life. Are you feeling any better?”
“No,” said Robin.
“Oh. Well, it’s a bright clear day out, my father dispatched the sheriff’s men without half trying—a timorous lot to be sure, to be set hunting a desperate man—and some of my friends are coming round tonight to talk to you.” Much had climbed the first rank of wall beams as he spoke—the ladder that would bring him the rest of the way to Robin’s loft was in the loft with Robin—and his head was now only a little below his friend’s as Robin hung over the edge.
“How did my father’s bow get here?”
“I brought it up when I brought you breakfast,” said Much.
“You know what I mean.”
Much would not meet his eyes. “You’ll have to ask Marian. She’ll be here tonight.”
“She’ll—what? She’s not to get mixed up in this.”
Much’s face was invisible as his fingers groped along the edge of the loft for the legs of the ladder. “I seem to have pushed it a little too far back,” his voice said. “If you could—”
“Did you tell Marian she could come?”
Much’s face re-emerged, looking cross. “You don’t exactly tell Marian she may or may not do things.”
Robin had noticed at their parting by the stream the night before that she seemed preoccupied; but there was an abundance of material to be preoccupied with. Much was leading him off to his refuge, Marian said only, “Good night,” as she left them, and Robin, too tired to do anything at all—including follow Much—assumed that she was going home, and was relieved that she had gone so quietly. He had been afraid she would insist on coming with them, and every minute she was in his company was another minute’s terrible danger for her. If he had been more alert, he might have noticed a gleam in her eyes.
“She is not to get mixed up in this,” he repeated.
“You get to tell her that,” said Much. “Never mind the ladder; you’re not fit for conversation if you’re going to brood, and there’s work waiting at the mill.” He stared, exasperated, at his friend’s inward-looking face for a moment. “Robin, I do know enough not to know what you’re going through just now.” Robin’s gaze flicked back to him. “But—don’t take it out on Marian?”
Robin said nothing. Much shook his head, and started to climb down. “When you need to go out—the back of the barn’s sheltered from any peering eyes; there’s a broken board you can squeeze past.” He reached the floor. “Try not to drop the ladder; we might hear it at the mill, and mice and bats don’t drop ladders. I’ll be back to bring you indoors after dark.”
Much’s two sisters still at home were bundled off to stay with friends, and his father, who knew about the temporary occupant of the old barn, tactfully (and strategically) left the house to his son and what friends might appear. Did anything go wrong with the evening’s affairs, he would have been seen by at least a dozen of his own acquaintances, safely and innocently drinking ale and discussing crops at the Singing Lark on the road to Nottingham.
Marian was the first to arrive, and this did not help Robin’s mood. He had meant to be calm and well-reasoned, although he was already angry that she should so casually (he thought) continue to put herself in danger by associating with him, and while he began by asking only how his father’s bow had come to him, his own voice sounded curt in his ears.
She did not react to his tone, although she looked at him sidelong. She had simply stolen Robert Longbow’s bow out from under the sheriff’s guards’ noses, for what had till yesterday been Robin’s little holding had been under close watch by yester eve. She had done it at black midnight, after Robin and Much were both asleep. The very manner of her telling infuriated him, for she spoke flatly, and made no acknowledgement of her foolhardiness. It infuriated him further when it occurred to him that even had he noticed a suspicious gleam in her eyes the night before, there would have been nothing he could have done about it. When he began to remonstrate with her, she cut him off impatiently.
“I could not let your father’s bow into their hands if I could help it,” she said. She tried to smile at him, but the grimness of his expression made it hard for her. “I could not. Robin—you haven’t listened to what Much wants to tell you; you are too anxious to make us believe we aren’t listening to you. He—we—need you, and we need the—the heart of you. I thought perhaps the heart of you is that bow; or at least it was all I could save.” She looked at him measuringly, trying to gauge how black was his mood. “The cottage would have been a little difficult to carry away secretly.”