Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

“I thought women cared about the size of a man’s somethin’ else!” roared Luther, and they laughed until their sides ached. “Ah, Robin. I’m glad you came. You’ve saved me hardship, findin’ that purse. ’Twere marvelous how you done it.”

Robin roamed the room after a full pitcher. “ ’Twasn’t me, ’twas one of my men. An idiot to boot. Much the Miller’ Son. He’s a miller’s son, son of a miller. We met him on the King’s Road one day, decided to play with him. It were a slow day. Told him to produce his silver — millers always have money — or we’d string him up. But he fooled us. He said t’was buried in the flour. He dug around — quite an act for an idiot — and whipped big handfuls in our faces. Poof! Ay, it stung! Then he whacked us with a cudgel till our bones ached. Bunged my knee for a week. But he used his head, thick as ’twas. When his father died, the bailiff turned the gristmill... over to someone else and threw Much out. We came... fetched him... What is it, Marian?”

His wife crooked her little finger to her mouth. “What my husband would call a harebrained scheme.”

Robin tried to whistle, fizzed instead. “Someone’s in for it.”

“Aye,” said his wife. “You. Would you become a miller?”

“What? You’re potted, Marian!”

“No, I’ve got a plan. Are you game?”

Luther and Arelina looked perplexed. Robin thought, shrugged. “I’ve been a butcher and a potter, why not a miller? Hoy, we’re dry! Send for more stout!”

“No!” pronounced the women.

Early the next morning, Elgiva was pitched out of her home.

“Oh, please, please, kind sir, you can’t do this! You can’t!”

Young and slim and pretty, the widow tried every charm to make Luther relent. She hung on his arm, wrung her hands, cajoled, pleaded, sobbed. But the steward coldly told her the gristmill was property of the duke, his to mete out. She was finished. From the loft, the two servants carried down Elgiva’s chattel: a chair, two carved and painted chests of clothes, a triptych of Christ on the Cross, an effigy of Saint Audry, an iron pot and a spoon. They laid it outside the door.

Elgiva turned bitter. “You’ll be sorry, Sir Luther! I’ll tell Lord Lancaster what you’ve done at the manor court! He won’t like it! Hosea, honest husband, was a good miller and I a good miller’s wife! You can’t cast us out — and I want my fortune!”

“You’ll get that once we find it,” Luther lied. He pulled the half door shut and rode off with the lord’s huntsman. Elgiva’s curses echoed across the valley.

Meantime, the new miller scooped water from the sluice and lugged buckets to the cellar. Robin mopped the gears clean, but could not wash out the bloodstains. “Proof enough he was murdered.” He crossed himself.

In the village, Marian tended the outlaws’ original business. Every autumn, before winter rains made roads impassable, they circumnavigated Sherwood Forest. This fief lay just within its ragged northern border. They renewed contacts in the villages and dispensed hard-won coins. Outlaws could not survive without the support of common folk, and both groups ofttimes needed to hide out, to borrow food or money, to ask favours or justice or succor. The Fox and Vixen of Sherwood toted up who was still alive, still on their side, still reliable. Marian reiterated that any “beggars” who braved the dark winter forest to fetch news to the Greenwood would receive coin, food, and protection.

Marian asked other questions, too. About millers, and young wives, and journeymen, and lepers, and wine.

Having cleaned the machinery, Robin fetched tools and whittled new teeth for the gears. By noon, he could open the sluice gate. Water rushed and splashed, the wheel buckets filled, and slowly the ponderous wheel turned. Excited as a child building a sandcastle against the tide, Robin ran downstairs as the rumbling wheel gained speed. In the dim light, he watched the gears tunk smoothly, heard the millstones grind overhead.

Alone, he crowed, “Brilliant, Master Robin, sterling! Very clever work, I must say!”

Chuckling, Robin leaned out a hand, grabbed something moving, snatched his hand away, lost his balance, and flopped on the muddy floor.

Swearing, he swiped muck off his trousers. “Pride goeth before a fall, Master Robin, and it serves you right.”

In the dimness, he’d leant against the thick millshaft that connected the waterwheel and crown wheel. “Fool, that turns too!... Oh... Turns.”

But the fleeting thought was erased by a new distraction. A noise.

Groaning.

Robin cocked his head. Tolling steadily, every few seconds, came a low moan. Like a dog in a trap, or a cow with a full udder.

Holding his breath, Robin tiptoed, squatted, peered at the revolving gears and rotating posts. He couldn’t locate the sound. But for the first time, he noticed how the machinery seemed alive. Like a great horse or dragon, leashed and harnessed, but poised to turn on its master at the first chance.

The groaning rang on and on. Real but untouchable.

Like a ghost.

Robin Hood fled up the stairs.