The Friar's Tale, стр. 22
"Pilgrim is the official name."
But names could change and drift, and Tuck wondered which one would stick...as long as the brewhouse lasted, anyway.
Robin headed for the door, ignoring the two men. Tuck caught a snatch of the conversation, "And a fine boar it was...but it would not cover spotted sows, no sir."
He laughed to himself, having heard of such discrimination in horses, but never in pigs. Probably, it was an Irish tale, exaggerated in the telling and exaggerated further by the drink.
Inside, the inn was small and dark. The back of it was a natural a cave, and the tallow lighting did little more than cast shadows. The rich smell of hops drifted through it, making a man hungry for ale. A barmaid who would have been attractive in better lighting leaned over one table, carefully pouring a refill.
Tuck followed Robin to the bar. No doubt, the small outlaw had a plan, he could see it in his eyes. He had not, however, voiced it. It did strike him as if the passages that led up through the rock, though, could give admission to the castle.
Perhaps Robin simply sought to fortify himself with alcohol against the mission ahead. A lot would take away performance. A little could aid courage.
"Two of your best," Robin asked the barkeep.
"Of course, good brother. Do you go on pilgrimage?"
"Maybe. We have been thinking about it."
Tuck remained silent. He was not ever going on pilgrimage again and had he thought Robin was serious...
He knew he was not, although pilgrimage could turn an outlaw into a citizen once more. To make it was to earn remission from all of one's sins. Which was a fine idea, for it was a hard trip, had the pilgrimage, of late, not turned into... He tailed off, forcing the image of what had happened to those villagers out of his mind.
They had been Christians. That had been the last straw, that and the knowledge that they would do the same to Jerusalem itself. They would turn the Holy City into a charnelhouse. Even had they only faced Jews and Saracens, it would have been wrong.
"I hear," Robin added, conversationally, "rumors that Gisbourne has returned."
"Not that I know of. The sheriff is still in control, certainly. If Gisbourne is on his way, he is not yet here. Or perhaps he has been and gone."
Robin nodded a little. "Perhaps."
Tuck shuddered. Gisbourne's sheriff had a terrible reputation. It was rumored his tastes led to leaving serving girls with scars. Boys too, on occasion. Supposedly, it was the death of his wife and son in childbed that had turned him this way. Tuck thought it more likely that she had been the only thing keeping him from acting out his fantasies.
If all of that was true. But he had a worse reputation than Gisbourne himself. And what of Clorinda?
"I hear," Robin added, "that the sheriff might have his hands on a pretty young witch."
"Ah, that I hear...a woman who dresses up as a man." That, alone, was enough to get a woman branded as a witch. "I hear he daren't touch her. The abbot wants her tried for heresy, not under civil law."
Moresford and the sheriff fighting over jurisdiction.
"But its the sheriff who has her...and whoever gets her, she will hang eventually." The eagerness in Robin's tone would have been frightening had Tuck not known it was feigned.
Of course, there were plenty out there for whom watching a pretty young witch hang would be highly enjoyable. Tuck shuddered inwardly, hoping his robes concealed any outward echo of it. He could not show disgust at a traveling companion.
"Oh, the entertainment will come soon enough...but not too soon, with the wrangling. I would say a couple of weeks."
Robin nodded, taking his ale. "Well, I am certainly not planning on leaving."
Anyone who heard the conversation might, Tuck thought, suspect that they were here to rescue the witch, but they might not. And if they did, they would remember two friars. Not outlaws. Nobody would think of that until it was too late. He hoped.
If caught, then they might both burn for heresy. Pretending to be a priest certainly qualified, even if Robin's true beliefs were not revealed.
Tuck found himself hoping the blue lady...whether she was Mary or one of Clorinda's goddesses...was watching over them. He tried to chase the thought, which would certainly condemn him to fires hotter than the sheriff could light, out of his mind. He did not succeed. It remained there, hovering in front of him, an image he both feared and longed for.
Perhaps, though, he was already damned. Or saved.
8
The sun flared against the red stone of Castle Rock, giving it a glow that would have been attractive, even distracting, at better times. As it was, the only thing Tuck cared about was the cliff's height and the fact that scaling it would be near impossible.
"We have time, and she is in the castle."
"You know that for sure?"
"The barkeep told me. Oh, not in words. He looked up when she was mentioned."
Tuck might have seen that gesture, but he had not really noticed it. "At least he didn't tell us the trial was tomorrow."
"If it was, we would have gatecrashed it in force." Robin flickered a grin. "I've done it before."
Tuck nodded. "The downside to it being in two weeks is they won't let us in to see her. Yet. And I'm not leaving her in the hands of that..."
That had been the initial plan...to offer her last rites and sneak her out in a third habit. It was not going to work...although they still had that item with them, and a hood to hide her face and hair.
They were going to have to break in. Robin glanced at the sky, nodded, then headed for the