The Friar's Tale, стр. 41

Tuck shifted both hands to his staff, although he saw no immediate likelihood of combat. He glanced around.

"What with?" John asked, sparing no extra words.

"Gisbourne's men. They took half of our men for the levy and there is no way we can make the harvest without them."

A problem that could, perhaps, be solved. But not by them. Tuck frowned. "The best half, knowing Gisbourne."

"Including the smith."

That was wrong. Smiths were supposed to be immune to levy, for no village could function without its blacksmith. True, the lord needed smiths, but he was not supposed to simply take them. He was supposed to hire away the best, of course.

John let out a short, sharp breath. His temper was rising, but with none there who deserved it, he settled for just banging the end of his staff on the ground. The goodwife flinched. "We need our smith."

"Unfortunately, we are only two, as you can see," Tuck said. "On our own, we can't steal him back from Gisbourne. It's going to take some planning."

And he could not do it himself. He glanced at John. Surely, the big outlaw had some ideas. He was not stupid, as some thought men of his size tended to be. He was, also, more often in the council of Robin than Tuck himself. He was frowning.

"Something has to be done about him," the goodwife murmured. "He needs..." She tailed off.

"Not much can be. The prince will not exceed his authority to remove a troublesome lord," Tuck grumbled. "And the king will not return from Palestine."

"Is that a prophecy, good friar?"

"A reasonable suspicion." Richard would use any excuse not to come back to what he called the 'wet armpit of Europe'. Or worse, when in his cups. It was an open secret amongst those who had met the man that he would rather have ruled France alone and forgotten England ever existed. This goodwife, of course, would not know such things. A girl of about six ran up behind her, clung to her and regarded the men.

The fear in her eyes said more about Gisbourne's behavior than her mother's words. Perhaps her father had been among those taken, or perhaps an older brother. And they would likely not return. If Gisbourne was levying so heavily, he intended to return to the Holy Land to stake a claim there.

Perhaps, Tuck thought, all of the absentees should lose their holdings. Including Richard Lionheart.

What to do about Gisbourne? That was the topic of discussion. Will, Clorinda and Robin were talking animatedly. John was listening nearby...whilst sharpening a knife.

Killing him had been brought up. Then, his young son would inherit...probably under the regency of the man's wife. Who, by all accounts, egged him on. On the other hand...what could be worse than Gisbourne?

Tuck thought of the lord in the lonely castle and shuddered. There was worse than Gisbourne. Rare, yes, but most definitely in existence. Well. It was not his problem. What was his problem was going to be keeping everyone's heads together if things went bad. He frowned, listening to the ebb and flow of conversation and the rhythmic sound of John's stropping.

For a moment, it all seemed unreal to him. Gisbourne had completely lost it. No. Gisbourne was simply a microcosm of what was going on.

The crusades had become more important to the upper classes than the health of their people, than the life of their peasants. The king never set foot in his kingdom. Outlaws showed more honor than knights.

The world was upside down. The world was no longer what it should be.

He could not escape the feeling that none of it was right. Monks had more wealth than yeomen.

Well, at least, he was not one of them. He could feel at least somewhat virtuous on the matter. He had kept two of his three vows, when most managed none. And what did he have to be obedient to?

He was not sure he even had God, anymore. "What can we do?" he murmured.

Clorinda turned to him. "We can rescue them."

"No, we can't. Gisbourne would burn the village to the ground if we did. He does not care anymore whether the next year brings him a good crop or not." Tuck wished his words were other than true, but they were not. They were words that flowed around him, bound him. Words he feared to speak, almost, as if to do so made them truer.

"The friar's right, curse it." That was John, raising his voice slightly over the sound of stropping. He too did not want to admit to the truths.

"The only person who can deal with Gisbourne now is the king. John does not have the authority and Richard will never return from Palestine."

The best thing that could happen to England was a proven report of Richard's death. Would be nice if a few of the lords went with him. "At least we can suspect Gisbourne will leave again for the Holy Land."

"In his absence, we can probably do something. His wife rules," Robin muses. "And she is a very typical woman, she rules, but she seldom leaves her solar, and the boy..."

"The boy is an echo of the father, but he is still a boy." Tuck frowned. He almost felt sorry for the child, and he definitely did for Gisbourne's daughter. Who would, no doubt, be married off at fourteen, and who cared if she was dead of her fourth child by eighteen?

"The boy will be no better than his father," Robin mused. "The wife is, after all, no better than the husband."

"He is still a boy." Harming Gisbourne's child, which Robin's words could be taken as promoting, was not a wise course of action. "Perhaps we can at least rescue the smith, though. But it would have to be done carefully."

Gisbourne would retaliate, against people who were already likely to go hungry come winter. Some would starve. And then the tax man would come and take a portion