The Friar's Tale, стр. 2
He would not promise he could hold up under the ordeal. Few men could. He had his faith and he had a certain courage...he would not shy from a fight if forced on him, but he did not trust even faith to carry him through.
The lead outlaw nodded. "I am afraid it is a hard duty I ask of you."
"Last rites." The friar was not stupid. For this outlaw band to corner a priest and haul him to this place...it could only be for that. Even a wedding, they would likely go with the older handfasting should such be desired. A lychgate wedding, it was sometimes called. What property, after all, did such men and women have to pass on to the fruit of their loins? There was no reason for the bride to be churched.
Besides, any women with the band were unlikely virgins, having come here in pursuit of their men. If they were, it would be because they were sapphists. The friar had seen enough of the world not to deny the existence of such, which the church called vices. He was not so sure. "Show me the man."
The man had been stabbed in the stomach. A slow and unpleasant way to die. The sweet smell of corruption surrounded him. The friar listened to the man's sins. To guilt, to cowardice.
That was what he was supposed to do. Listen. Whether it had any power in the eyes of God, he had never been sure. It made the person speaking feel better, he had no doubt. He listened, and he spoke the words, and then he stepped out of the tent in which the man lay.
The young leader was waiting for him. "How long?"
"A few hours, no more." The friar might have suggested making that time shorter, but there were those who considered giving mercy a sin.
"Is there any hope for him?"
"No." The Friar was going to be honest. The best physician, the most experienced herbwife, could not save that young man...and the Friar did not believe that all herbwives were evil, unlike many men.
The young man nodded, his face set grimly, and made his way into the tent.
The friar had a feeling he knew what was about to transpire inside. He walked over to his mule. A couple of eyes followed him, but none tried to stop him. If he tried to leave, he knew he would be stopped. He might yet die here at their hands.
However, at the moment, they were paying little attention to him. Or, perhaps, they were planning on asking him to do the funeral as well. Out here, they would seldom have access to a priest. He could imagine that at their most benevolent, they would yet seek to keep him a while.
One hand rubbed along the mule's ears. An ugly beast it might be, but it had served him well so far and hopefully would continue to do so. Besides, it was too ugly for anyone to be tempted to steal.
The outlaw leader approached him. He realized, now he had leisure to study the man that while he was young, he was more than a stripling. It was the lack of a beard that made him look young...most of the others had full beards, the only one without being the one the friar suspected was female. The hint of a nick indicated that he was shaving himself.
Perhaps he did not grow a beard worth keeping. Some men, after all, had that affliction. But a more accurate guess as to his age would place him in his early twenties. Still very young to be so obviously in charge.
Which meant either they were fools to follow him, or he was brilliant.
"Thank you, good friar. Might I ask your name?"
"Tuck." It was not his real name, but he had almost forgotten what that was. The nickname would serve better. "Might I ask yours?"
"Robin."
The friar spent the night. The old man, it seemed, still wanted to see him dead. Robin, he suspected, had a different goal.
Robin wanted to cultivate him as an ally. A friar, associated with no church, he was the perfect person to tend to them on those occasions they needed a priest. Tuck sat under the wings of the tent, staring out into the rain, and contemplated the matter.
His ale was gone, his cart was a little banged up but workable. His mule, Brownie, was undamaged. Most importantly, his person was undamaged. This Robin...a pseudonym, surely...was a most honorable kind of outlaw.
Nobody else had stirred yet. The rain was enough to cause a man to take one look outside and then return to his bed. It fell in sheets of misery, dripping off the leaves of the trees, but inside the tent it remained dry. Not that much less comfortable than the average peasant hut...and far easier to move.
So. This outlaw. Honorable. Possibly devout. How had he ended up outside the law? Taken something from the forest, perhaps? Tuck snorted.
The forest laws had only become worse of late. A poor man could become an outlaw for allowing his swine to root in the wrong place. Not to mention what they forced these people to do to their dogs, crippling the poor beasts.
It might be that these outlaws had never done anything worse than shoot a deer to feed starving children. It might be that every last one of them was a stone-cold killer. The truth, likely, lay somewhere in between.
Almost certainly the food they ate was mostly stolen. The more honorable ones stole only from the crown.
Like Richard would care. Tuck snorted. John was an asshole by all accounts and Richard would be just as happy if the entirety of Britain sailed out into the ocean and sank one day. Neither of them was worthy of being king.
Well, you dealt with what you had. Tuck was more concerned about the reason he