The rain continued it steady downpour, but it was warm and dry in Knighton Hall's stables. Perhaps a shade too warm, Robin thought, sliding two fingers under the scarf around his neck, while Sir Edward's eyes peered steadily at him.
Robin respected Sir Edward. The former sheriff was a kind man, a gentle soul, who had done right by the shire when he'd held office. And because he was Marian's father, Robin had always sought to impress him, except for the few times his conscience had overruled his respect. But even so, he knew he'd need to watch his tongue now, and remind himself to be polite, if Sir Edward began discussing what Robin suspected he would.
His suspicions proved accurate.
"Young man," Lord Knighton began sternly, "you seem to be making a habit of visiting my daughter on the sly."
"Apologies, Sir," Robin began sincerely. "Being an outlaw, there's no other way I can visit her."
"You should not be visiting her at all! Do you want to put a noose around her neck?"
"Sir! No! Of course not, Sir! I'm very careful when I come here, I swear it."
"You are reckless! You have always been reckless! In the past, it didn't matter quite so much. I knew you visited my daughter late at night, climbing to her window. If Marian's character hadn't been so blameless, there would have been talk. But at least then, you were betrothed, and people look a blind eye on young engaged couples in love."
"I never took her virtue, Sir Edward. I swear to you, I didn't. I tried to honor her as truly as I should."
"Then honor her now, and let her be."
"Sir?"
Except for the snorting of the horses, the stables fell silent. Robin stood looking at Sir Edward, a sense of dread gripping his heart and his stomach, seeming to squeeze them dry.
"You heard me, I think," Sir Edward continued, determined to protect his daughter. "You must stop all contact with my daughter, today. You forfeited the right to her company, the day you left the shire."
"I went to war," Robin defended himself, angry now. "I went to serve our King. I went to recover Jerusalem. What's so criminal about that?"
"Nothing, except you broke my daughter's heart when you left. And since you've returned, you've become an outlaw, a man any other may kill, without impunity. A person of less account than pigs rooting for acorns on the side of the road."
"Not less than pigs," Robin said, hiding his hurt behind an air of flippancy. "There's a price of twenty pounds on my head."
"It's climbed much higher than that now, young man. And if you find that something to boast about, it only proves my point."
Sir Edward softened, watching Robin's smug arrogance deflate before his eyes. It had always been difficult to remain angry at Robin for long. The boy had been so winning, his heart so true, his courage so undaunting. The same was true of the man he had grown to be, on the distant battlefields of the Holy Land. And he so obviously loved Marian. But this nonsense had to stop, if only to save Marian's life.
"You said something about me breaking your daughter's heart," Robin said sadly. "If I could do anything to repair the hurt I caused her, believe me, I would."
"She's recovered, but I do not think you understand the depth of what you did to her. For two years, after you left, she was seriously ill. Marian, who's always been robust, the picture of health, ill and listless, uninterested in life! There was nothing wrong with her, but the heart you broke by leaving her behind, to go off on your glorious adventure."
"She was ill? Seriously ill?" Robin asked, not being able to picture Marian weakened, only picturing the young girl who could run, climb trees, and roll down hills better than most boys.
Sir Edward's voice was sad as he explained. "I despaired of her, and spent countless hours on my knees in prayer. And then, she seemed to recover her health, almost overnight. She'd gotten over you, you see, and knew there was more to life than simply moping about, longing for Robin of Locksley to return."
Sir Edward did not tell him that Marian had recovered when she'd found purpose as the Nightwatchman. That was another piece of nonsense he wished he could quench, before it, too, put a noose around his daughter's neck.
"Before I knew it, she'd grown strong again, and suitors began flocking to win her, those who weren't put off by my disgraced position in the shire. After all, Marian was young and beautiful, and stands to inherit all my property and holdings."
"But she didn't marry!" Robin said, confidently full of hope. "And neither did I! There's a reason, Sir! Marian and I are meant to be together!"
Sir Edward slowly shook his head. "No," he told Robin soberly. "Not anymore. Marian deserves a normal, happy life, not the role of your forest May Queen, tempting as you think that role might suit her! No. Forget your dreams and think of reality. What kind of life can you offer her, you, with nothing now, except the ragged clothes on your back, foreign weapons you pulled off of some dying Saracen, and two meaningless medals? How will you feed my grandchildren, provided you live long enough to see them? Will you turn yourself in again for the reward money, so that they might have a roof over their heads? Oh, but you forget! They, too, would be outlaws, by association, and so would my daughter."
"I would not see any harm come to Marian, Sir," Robin repeated, plunged into a dream, at the mention of grandchildren. The stables seemed to grow hazy, until he could barely make out Sir Edward's features. The old man's voice drifted toward him, as if through a fog.
"I think I've made my point," Lord Knighton said, weary from the emotional scene. "Now, this is goodbye, Robin. I wish you well, and can only hope you'll relocate safely to another shire. With your charms and talents, I'm sure you'll find someone to take you in. Now, be careful not to be seen when you leave my property, and be sure never to set foot on it again."