a whole world of other problems to solve, you know—where do you keep the bow when you’re riding, that sort of thing.” His eyes were momentarily distant and thoughtful. “Any rate, when they brought Jonquille back in, she only had one saddlebag, and no doubt the thieves had taken whatever was in it, but you shouldn’t have let someone else load her.”
Marian hid a smile. He’d called her down to rebuke her for letting someone else do his job, however briefly. “It won’t happen again,” she assured him.
“I’ve added some straps here,” he said, gesturing to the saddle and tacitly inviting Marian to come inspect his work, “and here. So the load can be adjusted more easily. See how it feels.”
Marian ran her hands over the freshly shined buckles, which weren’t fastened, and then lifted the flap of one of the bags. A flash of green wool caught her eye, and she let the flap fall closed again with a gasp.
Midge, unconcerned, was cleaning off the saddle brush with the rag. “I’ve got a sister lives here in Nottingham,” he said, inspecting the brush with a frown. It was beginning to look a bit worn. “Two little ones. Seems they’ve had bread, these past few days.”
Marian’s heart was pounding as if she were still grappling with Gisborne, still expecting him to drag her down off that wall by her cloak. The cloak that now rested, folded neatly, in the saddlebag before her. “What is this?” she asked, her voice sounding cold in her effort to reveal nothing.
Midge replaced the brush and then rolled up his sheath of leatherworking tools, tying off the packet and stowing it. “Jonquille went out that day with a full load, if poorly balanced. She came back empty of rider and load, and you walked back in with Gisborne.” He raised his head to look at her. “I think you lost something.”
Marian’s face was hot, and her throat had closed again. Fear licked at her voice, making it unsteady. “Midge—”
“There’s also this.” Midge was back at the saddle again, reaching for the stiff leather strap of the stirrup. He shoved the heel of his hand through and pushed up, causing something inside to poke out through the top of the saddle. He grasped it and worked it back and forth, muttering, “It’s easier if you’re actually astride . . . ah, there.”
Marian’s mouth fell open, but she found no words with which to speak. It was her bow. Unstrung, it was little more than a long, slender stick, and Midge had fashioned a leather sleeve concealed inside the straps. She’d have to dismount and string the bow if she wanted to use it, but it was not unlike a sword’s sheath. It would conceal the fact that she traveled with a weapon, whenever she took Jonquille out.
She could hardly take her eyes from the bow, which Midge must have returned to Edinwstowe to fetch, for she had not brought it with her when she first traveled to Nottingham. She forced herself to lift her gaze and saw the grizzled stable master watching her evenly.
“I think you should make sure I’m the one saddles Jonquille from now on,” he said mildly.
Marian could have cried from sheer bewilderment. Of all the people who might have guessed the truth, Midge was the last she would have expected. Gisborne, her father, even Elena, yes, but Midge? He waited, radiating equanimity, leaning on the saddle rack with his hands clasped over his stomach.
“Indeed,” she said finally, words failing her. “I’ll make certain of it.”
Midge flashed her a quick smile and then began bundling the saddle back to its usual rack in storage, giving her a bit of time to recover her balance as he worked. When he returned, she reached out and touched his arm. He stopped. He was a little shorter than she, and he looked up at her, no longer amused, expression grave.
“Her husband died a year ago. My sister’s barely clinging. I send her what I can, but—” He shrugged, looking grim. “I’m not sure what kind of starving hurt worse, the kind in their bellies or the kind in their hearts.”
Marian licked her lips, thoughts still turbulent. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, Midge.”
His lips twisted a bit, and his gravity seeped away. “You know—my Lady, I never much cared for that nickname.”
Marian was still trying to reconcile his tacit approval of her actions as Robin with the placid, genial man who’d looked after her for so