The Friar's Tale, стр. 14
Still, he gave the two his respect. They were, as far as he was determined, harmless. And Robin, the leader, was quite devout.
So he was not entirely surprised to come across the man on one knee, praying. He stopped, a distance back, simply watching.
Robin was incredible, Tuck thought. If he did not become a legend, it would not be for want of deserving deeds. Likely he would be one of those men who accumulated stories rightly attached to others. Such was his charisma.
He should have been born a king. Yet, Tuck could hear the words of his prayers and the hair on his neck began to rise.
"Mother of God. Hear me, Star of the Sea, and grant my prayer."
He was praying to Mary, but not in terms of Mary as intercessor. As he stopped, he stood, and then he turned.
The two were face to face. And Robin had turned...pale.
Tuck knew why. Robin was a heretic. He was invoking Mary as an entity capable of granting prayers in her own right. As a goddess. And now he had been heard to do so by somebody who, whilst perhaps loyal to him, was yet a representative of the church.
Tuck wanted to ask him why. He wanted to ask him, too, if this was why the man was an outlaw. Heresy was serious, albeit often ignored if one was merely a yeoman and not too loud about it.
"Tuck..."
"I didn't hear anything," Tuck said, after a moment. He would let God judge Robin, not man. If only more would do the same.
A weak smile came to Robin's face. He knew full well the friar had heard. "Thank you."
Then, very softly, "I think I saw her. On the road. I am not sure." A woman clad in the sea. It was possible. Even without believing the heresy, she was the special one, the mother of God's son. The archetype of true, uncomplaining womanhood.
He tried to imagine Clorinda not complaining with a gaggle of children attached to her skirts.
"Not sure?"
"It could have been my imagination. I thought it was. But I saw a dark haired woman, in blue. It occurred to me, too, that she could have been fae."
Robin paused. "These woods are close to Faerie. It's perhaps more likely. I have seen them, and I have heard the Hunt ride."
The hair on Tuck's neck rose again. The Wild Hunt, not a superstition he wanted to believe in. "I thought the Hunt went after those out of doors."
"It did not bother us. After other prey, I suppose."
Some tried to bring the Hunt into the auspices of the church by claiming it was the Devil who rode that night. Not the fae. Or, as some claimed, an old god, be it Celtic Cernunnos or Norse Odin. But Tuck could not help but shiver. Even if he did not rationally believe in it, there was something visceral about the possibility of its existence. Something worth being afraid of. He told himself Robin had an overactive imagination and forced himself to dismiss the possibility. He had enough to worry about without adding phantoms to the mix. "But I am not sure. Like I said, I might have imagined her."
"She has always watched over me. I know what you think..."
"Like I said. I didn't hear anything." Of course, he suspected most in the band knew. But he would not let it pass his lips.
Robin glanced around. "We are safe here. And you don't judge me." He seemed almost surprised.
"It's not my job. It's God's job to judge people."
"What about hearing confession?"
"If people confessed directly to God, they would not be shriven." He paused. "Or maybe they would just not feel shriven. God is not responding to their words, or they are not ready to hear his response. One or the other."
Softly. "Will you hear mine?"
A couple of hours later, Robin vanished into the woods. Tuck was the one slightly troubled. The thought he had voiced about confession was vaguely heretical in and of itself. The idea that confession was for the benefit of the person, not God, implied that priests did not have the special status they were granted.
But what if it was true? Did God really need a priest to hear people confess for him? After all, He was omniscient.
Tuck did not doubt that fact. Sometimes he doubted whether he should worship God or serve Him, but he never had doubts about His nature.
Yet, at the same time, he did doubt whether He was the only God in existence. He sat down on a stump and prayed.
For once, it went well. The woods seemed very close around him, but that was not a bad thing. God's creation was a better temple than any cathedral. He wondered what Joseph of Arimathea must have felt when he found these green shores and planted his staff at Glastonbury. He'd seen the thorn. He'd seen thorns that looked very like it along the edges of streams in the desert. Until then he had thought the legend might be a picturesque story.
Now he actually believed it. Those particular trees could be propagated by cutting. Somebody might well have brought a cutting here, to bring a little of their own land with them.
But he was not sure why they would wish a reminder of that dry desert. Then he thought more. Because it was home to them and they loved it. Just as he loved the greenwood, and preferred it to any city built by man.
That was why he stayed, he realized. It was an excuse to be out here, where the only sounds were of birds and water. Where human voices were rare and far between. Where, for that matter, human smells were. The village had not even had a bath house, as it was said once every village did.
No amount of perfume could fully disguise the stench of a body that had not been bathed