The Friar's Tale, стр. 19
It was a hunch. It was his overactive imagination yet again. Said imagination never could or would shut up. As he left, he thought he saw blue behind the trees. Had it been the Virgin or somebody else? Something else? Part of him still suspected the fae. This was their country, after all, only grudgingly shared with man. Only the fact that most now carried cold iron kept them at bay. He thought he saw a sparkle in the air, a shimmer.
"Where is she?" he asked, out loud.
No response other than a growing sense that Clorinda was in trouble. She was the one who would be in the worst situation if caught. The others would merely be hanged. She would likely be burned as a witch.
Which he was not entirely sure she was not, and he was not entirely sure he cared. True, the word of the Lord was 'thou shalt not suffer a witch to live', but if he was going to tolerate outlawry? It was between her and God, whether she acknowledged him. Whether she acted like a normal woman or, yes, a witch.
It was not his place to judge her and certainly not his place to kill her. The greenwood seemed dull right now, autumn clouds rolling in again. More rain threatening the skies. Well, if he got a bit wet, it would be worth it.
This was the way she had gone. He was learning to track, and Clorinda's feet were smaller than anyone else's. Smaller even than Robin's, and he was not at all a large man. At one point another trail crossed them, and he almost lost it. Then he found it again, on the far side of a small stream. A squirrel scolded him from some branch overhead as he passed.
"What did I ever do to you?" he asked it, cheerfully.
Then he saw it. Signs of a struggle. An arrow, one of Clorinda's...she used distinctive fletching...on the ground. Her bow, the string broken, cast to one side.
Clorinda had been taken.
It was a council of war that met under the great oak tree. Will leaned against it. He did not appear inconsolable, but rather wore the set face of a man bent on revenge.
Tuck would have to talk to him. Revenge was all very well, but he could do Clorinda no good if he got himself killed.
That they would take her for a witch was highly likely. In some quarters, 'witch' was another word for 'woman who doesn't know her place'. Clorinda had made her own place. That meant they had to find her quickly. They would bother with a trial, but it would be brief and a foregone conclusion.
They had days before they would be retrieving a body. Less if they decided to put her to the ordeal...where the innocent drowned and the guilty were hanged.
More if they decided to use her as bait. "They might use her to lead us into a trap," Tuck voiced.
"They might. But I don't leave any of my men in prison." This was Robin much as he had been when Tuck first saw him, all of his light heart faded. That time, he had been obliged to give mercy to a dying comrade. This time...he had a rescue to plan. The same focus.
The same almost frightening intensity. Even John was staying back from him right now.
"I'm not saying you should. Just..." Tuck tailed off. He could not bear the idea of Clorinda dying, possibly a highly unpleasant death. By many standards, she was a witch. She was also his friend.
Could the blue lady help them, whoever she was? Perhaps she already had. It might have been a lot longer before they realized Clorinda was gone.
Even now two of the best trackers were following the trail from the place. They had to be sure.
They did not have time to chase any wild geese.
Will, finally, spoke. "It's my duty to go after her."
"You're compromised," Robin said, softly. "If you do it, you won't think straight and I'll have to rescue both of you."
It was harsh, but likely accurate. Will loved her, which made him the last person who should go. "I'll go," Tuck found himself saying. "If nothing else, I can get in to give her last rites...and if all else fails."
If all else failed, he could at least ensure she did not face the gallows.
"Two brothers might be better for that," Robin mused.
"If somebody is willing to have a bald spot for a while." It took a long time for a tonsure to grow out...which was why it was done. So a monk or friar was well and truly marked, in a way that did no harm to him.
"I'll do it myself." Robin flickered a weak grin. "After all..."
Robin rarely let anyone outside the band see him without his hood up. He could easily hide the cut for the few months it would take to fully disappear, and he was young enough to be sure it would grow back.
Tuck nodded. "I'll coach you. How's your Latin?"
"Lousy. You'll have to do most of the talking."
The next day, they set out. None of Tuck's habits would fit Robin, of course, but they had a couple. Stolen, presumably, from the laundry of an abbey somewhere, for just this kind of need.
Without prompting, though, Tuck was not sure Robin could have pulled off being a friar.
"So," he said, on the road.
"Let me do the talking. Don't be offended if I tell them you have no talent for languages." That was the best way to explain a friar with poor Latin. Tuck's was not that great. Unlike a parish priest, he did not use it all the time, or had not before joining the outlaws. But it was better than Robin's.
Robin nodded. "And?"
"Keep your head down. Don't meet worthies in the eye.