I would’ve said that it cast a shadow over the wedding preparations but there hadn’t been any great signs of joy to these beforehand, and they went forward without interruption. No, I mean that it made the servants’ hall a gossiping, troubled place from which all kinds of stories and rumours spread through the estate. As newcomers, we of the Chamberlain’s were largely unaffected by the death. (For some reason I kept my two encounters with the man to myself.) Nevertheless, an episode like this gives a disagreeable tinge to everything for a day or two. And these same days should have had a midsummer bloom to them. Ever since we’d arrived at Instede the mornings had dawned clear, warm and bright. Throughout the day the sky was scarcely blotted with a single cloud and, when evening approached, the golden glow of day seemed to gather itself round the great house in fold upon fold. The death of the wood-man sat oddly with all this warmth and tranquillity. I spoke to the servant Davy about the stories concerning Robin’s death – or rather he sought me out to tell me of them.
