She moved with the flow of people, picking up a wooden bowl from the stack on the end of the serving table.
“Robin.” The deep but raspy voice of Brother Fletcher came from behind her. “You have returned.”
She shifted her weight to turn and face him. This was a conversation she could have. “Your observations, as usual, are shrewd,” she said, handing him the empty bowl she was holding and grabbing another for herself.
“Of course they are,” the old monk said, accepting the offered. “How are my brothers?”
“They are well,” Robin answered, following the moving line. “Enjoying the warmth of Allys while despairing of the constant noise. They spoke of nothing but their beloved Fletcher, who left his life of quiet prayer to join a team of bandits.”
“Ah,” Brother Fletcher said, raising his eyes to the ceiling in an expression of mock long suffering. “How I miss the contemplative life. But I sacrificed what I loved to help those in need.”
Robin shook her head at the old monk’s antics. He loved his active life, perhaps a little bit too much. “Elias also sends his greetings,” she said, dropping the jest.
“I am surprised that crusty old relic is still alive,” Brother Fletcher replied.
“He said exactly the same thing about you.” Finally nearing the actual food on the table, Robin turned her attention to the comforting aromas wafting from the large pot of stew ahead. Just before it sat a basket of bread rolls. She picked one up,holding it in her spare hand while she used the other to give her bowl over to Willa.
Only, it was not Willa serving from the pot as usual.
It was Ian.
Surprised to see the crown prince serving her food, Robin instinctively pulled her bowl back. She looked around, confused. Ilida controlled the food service as closely as she watched the ledgers.
“You are back,” Ian said, reaching over the pot and leaning forward to take the bowl from her. “It is good to see you safe, but I can only guess you are starving.”
“Ilida is letting you serve the stew?” Robin asked, her confusion making her tone sharp.
Ian poured a ladle of stew into her bowl, a chunk of parsnip landing last and splashing into the broth below. “Is that unusual?” Ian asked. “I told you I was here to help, and it seemed like the easiest task I could offer.”
Ilida stepped up behind him, bringing a new basket of bread rolls. “Robin! The food cart is three days late.”
“No ‘welcome back, Robin,’?” Robin said, mostly in jest.
“Welcome back, Robin,” Ilida repeated, her voice dry.
“You are letting him serve the stew?” Robin gestured to Ian. She knew she was ignoring Ilida’s concern, but she was also still shocked. “I was gone for less than five days.”
“Is this something I should not be doing?” Ian asked. He held a second scoop of stew over her bowl but refrained from pouring it in.
“Some of us are dying from starvation back here,” Fletcher said from behind Robin. “So someone needs to be serving the food, and currently you are not.”
Ignoring the waiting line of people behind her, Robin looked to the confused prince. “Ilida is so concerned about wasting foodthat she has only ever let Willa, Bernard, or herself serve the stew.”
Ian looked from Robin to Ilida.
The steward put her hands on her hips. “You told me to run this house as I please,” she said to Robin. “He is precise and careful. Now, about the food cart.” Ilida reached across the table, grabbing Robin’s upper arm.
Robin gave Ian one more confused glance as she was pulled around the table. “Well done?” she said, not sure how to compliment the man on having won her steward’s trust. And in only five days.
“The food wagon is three days late,” Ilida said once she had dragged Robin free of the food line. “Again. Which would not be a problem if Doulast was not hoarding food. It happens every time. We allocate enough food for the entire route, but Berwell is the last village and we never have enough for them. Reeve Alrud sent a messenger yesterday. When a wagon is late, it impacts them the most. But Doulast is never out of food. Reeve Vahnell never sends a messenger when the wagon is late. We need a better way to manage the resources so everyone gets a fair share.”
Robin tried not to crush the roll of bread in her hand as she listened to Ilida’s rant. “We have no proof that they are hoarding food, Ilida,” she said. They’d had this discussion more than once, and it always ran against one of Robin’s most important laws.
Ian appeared at her side, holding out the bowl of stew he had been filling for her before she’d gotten dragged away.
Robin took it from him, her stomach eager for its contents. “I will not withhold food from those who need it,” she said. Her voice was firm. “That is not justice, it is cruelty.”
“Can you not see that by refusing to control this,” Ilida argued, “you leave the smaller villages—”
