The Friar's Tale, стр. 10

"On the morrow." She regarded him with little suspicion. Likely, she could not tell he was a friar, not a monk, and thought he sought supplies for some nearby cloister.

Well, he was not unwilling to let her continue to believe that. "In that case, where is the inn?"

"You have your back to it, good Brother."

He laughed a bit and turned around. He did indeed. The sign was of the three roosters. No writing under it, not in a place like this. "Thank you, goodwife."

He made his way towards the inn. For what it was worth, he would sleep under a roof tonight. If he was lucky, it might even be in a bed. He secured mule and cart and went inside.

The common room was not yet crowded, it being relatively early in the night. For a moment, there was nobody behind the bar, and then a large woman emerged from the back door.

She looked as if she partook too much of her own cooking and her own brew. Tuck had only once seen a small tavern keeper...and then he had sought food and lodging elsewhere. He did not trust a skinny cook.

"And with what can I help you, Brother?"

"Bed and board for one night, plus stabling for a mule."

She nodded, rattling off a price that included stew and half of a room.

He could have asked for common sleeping, but it was not his money. It was Abbott Moresford's money, ultimately, and from what he knew of that man, he had no qualms about spending it. "I'll take it. Could I have the stew now?" he added, sliding the coins across the bar.

"It's not quite ready. But soon. And I can give you ale. Or stout, if you prefer."

"Stout would be good."

She slid a pint across the bar to him. He took a sip. Not the best he had ever tasted, but not bad. Not bad at all. "This is a good place," he mused.

"We tend to think so. Of course, you have seen many places."

"I have just returned from pilgrimage to the Holy Land." That should break the ice. Anyone who heard that would be after him for stories.

"What is it like?"

He mimed mopping his forehead. "Hot. Very hot, very dry. The image we have of Christ's birth in a land covered with snow..." He tailed off.

"It does not snow there?"

"Very, very rarely, or so those who live there claim. Winter nights can get cold, but...that is also from those who live there. I doubt not that they would find our English winters freezing, and those experienced in the Germanies..." Tuck shivered. From what he heard, it got very cold in the central parts of Europe. Britain was a greener land. "But they are closer to the sun."

The sun did, indeed, seem to be closer in the south than it was in the northern lands.

"I wonder how that can be," the barmaid mused. He was, right now, her only customer, and she was taking advantage of the fact to talk.

"God makes it that way. Perhaps to make the world more interesting, by having some parts of it be green forest and other parts stark desert." Perhaps if everything was the same, God would be bored, but he did not say that out loud. "The people are short and dark."

Another incorrect image...the paintings of Christ as a tall man, often blond. Son of God or no, would he not likely resemble those around him? After all, he had lived quietly as a carpenter for years...would he have been able to do that if he stood out visually? "And there are some Moors."

"Is it true that Moors are the color of wood?"

Tuck considered that. "Close. They are very dark. Their lands are even further south and even hotter, perhaps the sun burns them that color, just as it darkens a farmer's skin in the summer."

Just more so. "Their hair is very curly," he added, thoughtfully. "They and the Saracens both use blades that are deeply curved and wear only light armor. The Saracen horses, although quite different from those we have, are extremely fine and very fast. They only ride the mares."

"Somebody once told me he heard from a Crusader that the Saracen sometimes ride these tall, ugly beasts with humps on their backs."

"Camels," Tuck supplied. "They are used as mounts in the deep desert and can go for days with no water and minimal provender. They are also hideous and ill-tempered. If I never come close to one of those beasts again..."

"Did it bite you?"

"No. It spit on me."

The bar wench shuddered a bit. "I can't imagine being spat on by a horse."

"Don't." He took another sip of his stout. "So, I came back, where things are green, where it rains regularly, and where people ride horses."

He wasn't about to reveal to her his real reason for returning so swiftly. That was between him, his conscience and God. Talking to outlaws about it was one thing. Scaring this young woman was quite another.

She would live out her life here, have her children, probably never leave the valley. Who needed to? He would move on...perhaps not as soon as he had originally planned, but he would move on. He envied her.

However, another customer came in. She moved to serve the man, a tanned farmer. More ordinary people. Tuck was sure now that he would learn nothing here to suit Robin's purposes. Well, that was not his problem. The outlaw would have to take what he could give him...and he would give him nothing that might hurt these people.

They were not prosperous, unless one measured it in good stout. Neither seemed underfed, but neither was well dressed, either. Their garb was that of those for whom money was a rare luxury, solid but not fancy. No doubt they managed ribbons for their sweethearts...sometimes.

He settled back and listened to the conversation between barmaid and farmer, but they talked of crops. Of the hard work that made him glad he was not a farmer. That