The Friar's Tale, стр. 30

Tuck let only a small frown show on his features, but Robin actually winked at him.

Then he lifted his bow, drew, nocked and fired in one smooth motion, as if he was hunting deer. The arrow flew, twisting in the air a little, and...

...it struck home. It struck the very shaft of Gisbourne's arrow, splitting it.

"I would call that a better shot," Robin said, calmly.

Laughter and applause echoed through the village.

Gisbourne turned several interesting shades of red. "Seize him!"

Well, that was hardly unexpected. Tuck's staff spun into a ready position. And the men hidden amongst the village houses stepped out and drew their bows, almost as one.

Gisbourne's men did not move. "I said..." Then he looked around, realized he was surrounded. He leapt on his horse and fled, his men following. No arrows flew after them. Killing Gisbourne, after all, was far less fun than humiliating him.

Besides, there would be other chances.

The inn was small and dark, but the stout was very good. Tuck sipped at it, listening.

"And then he and his men vanished back into the woods."

"I wouldn't believe it. Not shooting like that."

Tuck hid a smile behind his glass. He was not about to let these men know he was there and saw the feat of which they spoke. Which was not even being exaggerated. It did not need exaggeration.

Of course, Tuck suspected there was no more than a handful of archers alive who could duplicate it. He had known Robin was good, but that good?"

"Believe it. My sister saw it with her own eyes. Gisbourne was so embarrassed he fled."

"I don't think he needs to be embarrassed about being beaten by somebody that good."

"A peasant."

"Who thus has more time to train, I reckon. Less time spent hawking, hunting with dogs and sleeping with mistresses."

Sharp laughter followed. Tuck drank more of his stout. For Robin to have a reputation for being almost supernaturally good? That was something they could use.

When had the band gone from being the people he hung out with to his people? Sometime over the winter, he thought, when they had been confined to camp. When he had joined in the bickering.

He had been part of that, part of the light banter that kept people sane in confined surroundings. Of course, he had experienced it before.

Yet not like that. He belonged here, as little as he wanted to admit it. More of the stout vanished. Now, the question was how, indeed, did they make use of Robin's reputation? How did they support it, use it? Had Robin been thinking it through this far when he had challenged Gisbourne?

It had been a risk, but a risk that came off. "I'd imagine," Tuck said conversationally, "Gisbourne has quite the bounty on that outlaw's head."

"Oh, a large one." The man glanced over. "He's embarrassed, for one thing."

"You don't sound as if you're too upset about that."

"I...eh."

"You should be careful. He's probably got spies." Which was almost certainly true. Tuck only cared to a point. Friars had a certain level of protection from the secular authorities. Part of it, of course, came from nobody taking them seriously. They wandered around and prayed.

Of course, that would make one the perfect spy. In a way, that was what he was doing. There was as yet no price on his head, and far less chance that anyone would set one. Even Gisbourne, who might vaguely remember that the crazy outlaw had been accompanied by a friar.

People seldom looked past the habit.

"Spies in friar's clothing, perhaps?"

Tuck spread his hand. "I'm not his man. But I don't want to see anyone strung up. Gisbourne does like his gallows."

"He does indeed."

Tuck's glass was dangerously close to empty. For a moment, he was not quite sure how that had happened. Surely he had not drunk that much? Well, apparently, he had. "So, perhaps a change of subject would be wise."

Not that the story would not circulate. Gisbourne could not stop it, and there was no sense worrying about it getting back to him. But Tuck did worry that the line would be crossed. That somebody would end up, as he had put it, strung up.

He didn't particularly want his neck fitted for a noose either. Would Gisbourne dare? Quite likely, if he realized Tuck was the same friar. The thought made Tuck reach for his glass again. The men had changed the subject, to the charms of a certain young woman. They discussed her as if she was a prime brood cow, and Tuck shook his head a little. If he was the serving wench, he would 'accidentally' spill ale on them.

Instead, she approached him with a pitcher. "Refill, brother?"

"Of course."

She was glancing over at the table. "One of these days, those two will discuss the wrong woman and get slapped."

She was likely right. Some women did not mind being treated like objects. Others would object in the most vociferous terms. "Well, you're safe from me."

"Indeed?" she teased.

"Admittedly, you would tempt me to break my vows, but I have managed to keep them so far." He voiced it carefully. She was a pretty young woman, and not acknowledging that might offend her. Acknowledging it too much might lead her to think he would break his vows with her.

She mock-pouted. "You'd be better than them. Eric there has been trying to get me in his bed for months."

"Slap him," Tuck suggested.

"I did. It seemed to make him more enthusiastic."

Tuck lowered his voice, "Slip monkswort into his ale."

She giggled...she knew what monkswort did, alright. Of course, she probably knew it because some farmers used it on mares, to calm their cycles and make them easier to handle.

He winked at her as she headed back off again. Maybe she would. It would certainly do the man no harm, other than making it harder for him to get either desire or performance for a few hours. Eric, he noted, was looking daggers at him. Jealous, perhaps,