The Friar's Tale, стр. 23
In any case, they both had staffs. One or two guards they could take and it hardly seemed likely there would be an entire company at the top.
Robin went first, lightly climbing the few rock 'steps' into the passage and vanishing within. He did not have a torch.
Tuck had noticed he had the night vision of a cat. About all he could do was follow and hope he did not stumble on something in the dark and cry out.
Up. The other side of the rock was an easy walk. This one was a cliff, one that provided the castle with much of its defenses. From the top, there must be a spectacular view.
No doubt Clorinda was not enjoying it. She would be in one of the cells in the basement of the keep or a side tower. Most likely a side tower. Contrary to popular belief, keep basements were seldom dungeons. They were usually wine cellars.
The sheriff likely drank well and ate well. Most of his kind did. They might even have permission to take the occasional swan.
Tuck had tasted swan once. He had not thought it worth all of the fuss. He would rather have venison, or even really good beef.
Up. The passageway was steep and twisty. Occasionally the outside of it opened up, letting in light. Hopefully they would not be visible from the ground. A runner might get ahead of them. A message in the ale basket certainly would.
He began to seriously wonder what he was doing here. He was not an outlaw not a fighter; he would be executed if caught. No sense doing anything else, not to a man trying to break a witch out of jail. They would not even hesitate. They might not even bother to capture him.
If they did not get Clorinda out, somehow, she would be burned. If she repented, they might be nice and strangle her. He did not see her repenting. He did not see her pretending to renounce her gods. If she had any sense, she would be silent about her beliefs.
Then there was a chance they would simply flog her as an uppity woman and let her go. A small chance. It did not seem likely. They had decided they needed a witch to hang or a heretic to burn. Every so often, it kept the peasants in line.
Tuck had doubted the Church for a long time. Recently, he had thought it might be better for everyone if it did not exist. Of course, it was also possible they realized Clorinda was one of those troublesome outlaws.
She might be bait. They might be going into a trap. He did not say anything. He knew that Robin would be more aware of that possibility than he was. He was leaving things to the expert.
In many ways, his part of the mission was done, but he could rap guards on the head with his quarterstaff.
And that would be the top. An iron gate blocked the passageway and he saw part of a man's back beyond it.
A guard who needed, Tuck thought, to pay attention to what he was supposed to be guarding. With his back to the gate, he could be readily surprised. However, he was not alone. There was no question of that.
There was also the gate.
Robin pulled out a thin dirk, moving to the gate to try and pick the lock. If the guard turned around. If the lock squeaked, then it was entirely probable the guard would just shoot them through the gate. In the narrow passageway, it would be impossible to avoid getting hit. Tuck flattened himself against the wall to minimize the risk as much as he could, but he knew that if they fired, it would only be a question of how badly he was hurt.
The lock squeaked. The guard started to turn. Tuck hesitated only a moment before throwing himself against the gate.
The half-picked lock gave, and he stumbled through it, between the two guards, off-balance. They drew swords.
Swords. Zounds! Tuck thought, blasphemously. Everyone always tried to use a sword against a staff. He swung the staff around, knocking the blade from one of their hands. Robin was moving swiftly to get behind the other one while they were both focused on Tuck.
He spun the heavy length of oak as if it were a child's baton. The disarmed guard actually showed the whites of his eyes before the staff slammed into his midsection, knocking the wind out of him before he could yell for help.
The other got "Int..." out before Robin hit him on the back of the head. He went down, quite probably dead.
"Should I finish this one?" Tuck asked, softly.
"Knock him out."
Tuck brought the staff down carefully on the side of the man's temple. If he had it right, he would wake up in a few hours wishing he was dead. Robin wanted these people to remember...well. That was fine by Tuck.
He was starting to think like them, he realized. The intimidation, the quick movements, were as much part of it as the weapons. Reputation was a weapon in and of itself.
They were in the outer bailey. Walls lined it, somewhat lower on the cliff side than on the side from which an attack could readily come. There would be guards on those walls, and it was getting lighter.
Not for the first time, Tuck wondered how Robin planned on getting them out. Possibly bold as you please with hostages. More likely, they would change into the habits they carried and walk out the front door as friars.
Hostages struck him as a smart idea. They moved close to the bottom of the wall, where the soldiers on that