The Friar's Tale, стр. 34

A vague sense of alert flowed through him, a sense he could not readily shake off. Something bad was about to happen.

They had, of course, taken his staff. No big deal in the long term...he could always make another. But it left him unarmed. He was not good at fighting unarmed. He took stock of the room again. No furniture other than the bunk, and that too heavy for him to lift. They were careful.

The two guards came in a moment later. And that was when he clearly felt her presence. He didn't want her. His soul or his life, was that his choice?

He sensed, almost heard, the words 'Trust me.' But he was not sure if he did, he was not sure if he could. She was...whatever she was...and he was a friar and devoted to... Possibly Her son. Perhaps. But the fear that flowed through and around him was the same fear that had driven him here.

The fear he could not shake, and now it mingled with a very real fear for his life. It was all he could do not to soil himself...he who had been brave in so many other situations.

They grabbed his arms and all but pushed him down the stairs.

"What do you want with me?" he protested. "I am but a traveling friar!"

"We have to be sure of that."

Then, perhaps, it was the stories of Robin to blame for this. Or perhaps somebody else had had the idea of pretending to be a friar. By chance, though, he had the right man. Tuck only had to prove otherwise.

Play stupid. Pretend to be somebody pushed into orders because he was of no other use. That was what Tuck had to do. He could not quite manage to be the drooling fool, but he could certainly convince them he was slow.

As they pulled him across the courtyard, though, he remembered everything he had learned with the outlaws. The stables were there. The worn pattern towards the base of the third tower indicated the likely presence of a sally port. That, of course, was a better escape route than the main gates.

Of course, right now, to escape he would have to grow wings and fly. Even with the Blue Lady's help that seemed unlikely. If he accepted her help...

She was there. He could feel her, sense her, he knew her. She asked only that he trusted her. Not worship, trust. How could he, though, when he did not know what she wanted of him?

He started a little. The sound that came from one of the towers seemed very loud, but it was only pigeons taking off. He guessed it was mid morning. It was hard to tell, for the sky was deeply overcast, threatening rain.

Rain would be good if he could get to that port. It would conceal his tracks and pursuers that were wet and miserable were likely to give up sooner than they would on a pleasant day.

But he needed more than a bit of rain. He needed Robin. Or real, true magic, of the kind that existed only in stories. Of the kind that helped a man split another archer's shaft? No. Robin had been both damn good and damn lucky that day. It was not exactly a feat he could repeat regularly.

Tuck wished for his staff, but one did not drop out of the sky either, and then he was being hustled up the steps into the keep.

The great hall was dank and mostly dark. It was lit no more than it needed to be, and there was a faint smell. In fact, the prison cell smelled better. Perhaps it had not been occupied recently.

No. It was the smell of hound. Three of them, flopped at the base of the dais in various angles of repose. They were huge hounds, the kind one would use to pursue wolves. Two were dark grey, the third a solid black.

His chances of escape had dropped considerably. Such hounds could equally easily be used to hunt men. Behind them, sat a man with an aquiline nose.

He looked as if he might be distant kin to the king...no, it was not John, not here in this godforsaken place. But some Norman cousin, no doubt. Pure Norman, for sure, there was nothing of the English about his features. He was dressed in black.

"So. Are you the fake friar?"

"Fake friar?" Tuck played it as casual as he could. "Somebody has been impersonating a member of my order?"

"Somebody has. And as a result, I no longer permit friars in my holding."

"Not something I was supposed to know." So, he was being assumed to be a spy. Well, then, he would be one. "I had heard...a rumor, but it seemed to be a minstrel's tale, much fueled by ale."

"Exaggerated, Brother. But not untrue."

"My mother house is in Cirencester. My identity can be checked with them." He kept some fear in his voice. It was easy, as the black hound lifted its head and looked right at him as if assessing how much meat his bones might carry.

It was only a large dog, he reminded himself. No doubt well trained, and he doubted the man would feed him to his dogs. Whilst it happened in minstrel's tales, a dog that had once tasted man flesh would be useless for all purposes, for he would grasp the possibility that his handler might be a meal.

However, no doubt that these dogs would be trained to corner him if he tried to run. They were certainly big enough to pin him.

"Cirencester. I would say you are a long way from home, but it is the habit of your order to wander far, is it not?"

"I have been to the Holy Land." It might be coin he could barter with. As a former pilgrim he would be respected.

"Indeed?" There was skepticism, though.

Perhaps it had backfired. Perhaps this man did not believe him. Tuck glanced around again and realized something he should have grasped before.