Was there ever such an idiot butcher? thought the Sheriff; and he so far forgot his dignity as to nudge the Bishop in his fat ribs.
“Nay, good fellow,” quoth he chuckling, “I am always ready to help any in my shire. An you cannot find a buyer for your herd at this just figure, I will e’en buy them myself.”
At this generosity Robin was quite overcome, and fell to praising the Sheriff to the skies, and telling him that he should not have cause to forget the kindness.
“Tut, tut,” said the Sheriff, “‘tis naught but a trade. Drive in your herd tomorrow to the market-place and you shall have money down.”
“Nay, excellence,” said Robin, “that can I not easily do, for they are grazing in scattered fashion. But they are over near Gamewell, not more than a mile therefrom at most. Will you not come and choose your own beasts tomorrow?”
“Aye, that I will,” said the Sheriff, his cupidity casting his caution to the winds. “Tarry with me over night, and I will go with you in the morning.”
This was a poser for Robin, since he liked not the idea of staying over night at the Sheriff’s house. He had hoped to appoint a meeting-place for the other, but now saw that this might excite doubt. He looked around at the company. By this time, you must know, the feast had progressed far, and the butchers were deep in their cups. The Sheriff and Robin had talked in a low voice, and my lord Bishop was almost asleep.
“Agreed,” said Robin presently, and the words were no sooner out of his mouth than the door opened and a serving-man entered bearing tray of mulled wine. At sight of the fellow’s face, Robin gave an involuntary start of surprise which was instantly checked. The other also saw him, stood still a moment, and as if forgetting something turned about and left the hall.
It was Little John.
A dozen questions flashed across Robin’s mind, and he could find answer for none of them. What was Little John doing in the Sheriff’s house? Why had he not told the band? Was he true to them? Would he betray him?