The Friar's Tale, стр. 17

He almost tripped over a root.

"Woolgathering, Brother?" Clorinda, turning the abbott's wife's ring around on her finger. It was at least a size too large.

"Guilty as charged. I was envying the horse and his lack of concern for anything in this world beyond his next mouthful of hay or grass."

"There's no sense being concerned about anything else. Why worry?"

"Because..." He paused for a moment. "Men should have larger concerns."

"But I'm not a man," she teased impishly before darting ahead in the line to fall in next to Will.

He shook his head. She was far too childlike at times. But not simple. Perhaps that was her secret, after all. Her secret was that she did not allow herself to worry about anything. She might even have a point.

Worrying was, after all, not the smartest course of action for any man or woman. It could age one. Yet, Tuck found he could not often stop himself from doing it. Stupid, and he knew it was stupid, but what else could he do?

He was supposed to be a friar and he had days when he was not sure God existed. Or worse, not sure God cared. Clorinda seemed far more carefree. Clorinda, whom he knew prayed to older gods. To false gods.

What did that say about him? Nothing good, he decided. He glanced up at the forest canopy. God was in the trees, he knew that. Maybe God was in the horse. Maybe it was only humans who were thus separated from him. Separated by knowledge and by sin.

It was the tree of knowledge that had condemned Adam and Eve, he reminded himself. If you did not know what was good and what was evil, then you would not worry about it. You would exist in a state of innocence. Like the horse.

They picketed it next to his mule, removing its saddle. The marks of saddle sores were made visible. Robin frowned, disappearing in search of some physick.

The abbott could afford jewels, Tuck thought, but not a saddle that fit his horse? Maybe he did not care. He could afford another horse, after all. He went over to his mule. "I promise I'll never put ill-fitting gear on you."

Brownie snorted at him, exhibiting a distinctly low opinion of the promises of humans. Being a mule, he had an opinion on everything, and none of his opinions were good. Despite that, though, he appreciated the rough affection the animal gave him. It felt like the mule didn't like him, but didn't like him less than he didn't like others, and that might as well be friendship.

He scratched him at the base of his shorn mane before heading to find some ale.

Winter was approaching. Winter in the greenwood would be unpleasant. For the first time in a good while, Tuck questioned whether he should stay.

Nobody would suspect him of having been involved with outlaws...and he could even say, quite truthfully, that they had coerced him.

Besides, a priest had a certain obligation when it came to things like last rites. One did not turn a person down, even if they were a criminal. It was a basic right, and he, for one, would not deny it to anyone.

Yet, he had chosen to stay this long. Cold rain fell down on him...which had started with him a good way away from camp.

His own stupid fault for not watching the sky, he chided. Mud had caught under his sandals.

Ah, yes, there was the road. If he could get on the road, he would be wetter, but less likely to get caught in some kind of unpleasantness. Like, say, the deep mud hole he had just barely avoided. At least this was not the moors, where the mud holes could be deep enough to drown a man.

They said the only safe way to cross Dartmoor was riding a pony bred on the moor, because they could smell the quick bogs and avoid them. He had never even tried to cross Dartmoor. There was nothing there except ponies and sheep.

Yes. There was the road. An old road, built by the almost legendary Romans. Supposedly, they had known ways to build a road now forgotten. He had seen Rome, where their ruins dominated the skyline. Especially the great theater where, the stories had it, men had fought to the death for the entertainment of others.

At least these days people only had roosters do that. The sky was starting to clear.

Then he saw the riders. Four of them, on quality horses. All men, of course. The horses were not quite war horses, not quite palfreys. The kind of light mounts, almost, favored by the Saracen. Who had ridden rings around the knights on their chargers.

Quite a few of the Crusaders were making plans to bring some of these animals back with them. They were willing, even, to give gold to the infidel for them. These horses, however, were stockier than that. Garrons. That was the word.

"What ho, Brother? You look as if the rain does not like you much."

Tuck laughed to the rider. "I should have watched the skies." He was quite willing to mock himself for his own folly. "You look no better," he added.

The rain had darkened the horses' coats and soaked the riders. He wondered where they were going.

Then again, he was far from the only man to have ever failed to check the skies properly. Or, perhaps, they did not wish to delay several hours for the rain. On a long trip, that could easily translate to an extra day.

"God seems determined to ensure we end the day damp," the rider admitted. "We hear there are outlaws in these woods."

"Not my concern." Tuck showed one hand empty...the other was curled around his staff. "I have nothing worth stealing."

"No, not much point robbing a friar. Unless, of course, you have gold hidden in the seams of your robes."

Tuck laughed. "I have a few coppers, and they could have those. Far from worth