The Friar's Tale, стр. 45

"All you would give people would be the freedom to starve." He looked away from the stone, out into the surrounding forest.

"But still. Are you happy?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes not. Happier than many Churchmen, I think. If they were happy, they would not break the rules, would not keep their mistresses and their wealth."

"Then perhaps we need fewer and better Churchmen."

"But what, then, do we do with those who have no other place?" Tuck frowned. "Why would you care about the quality of Churchmen?"

"Because..." Clorinda tailed off. "If we had fewer and better Churchmen, we would not have those so afraid that they hide in the cloister and pull everyone else in after them. People could believe as they believed without threatening them."

He was not sure whether she had a point or not. "It is not just the Church that says you're wrong." He felt he could be frank with her.

"Believe I'm wrong all you like. You aren't waving a noose anywhere near my neck."

He laughed a bit at that. "And what if I try and convince you you're wrong?"

"You aren't entirely sure I am."

He refused to look at her. Or to say anything more.

Tuck walked into the village, staff held in one hand. He was alone...all the better to get information. But what he first noticed was the boy. Maybe fourteen, and you could count his ribs.

Most people were bad off, but not that bad off. Tuck had not seen anyone on the edge of starvation in a while. He changed course towards the youngster. He pulled a roll of bread, slightly stale, out of his pocket and offered it.

The boy's eyes widened, as if he had never known Christian charity. It was sadly probable that he had not. "I'm supposed to give you alms."

"Not when I have more than you do."

Since the levy had taken half of this village's men, they had been on the edge of starvation. The women, the remaining boys, had only managed about a third of the normal harvest. Tuck felt a smoldering anger within him.

Maybe Clorinda was right, and everything should be broken down and then built up again. Except how many more would be harmed if that happened?

He could see it almost as a vision of death, like some terrible plague spreading across Europe. There had been plagues in the past, there would be plagues again. Inviting one struck him as a bad idea.

Still. If somebody did not feed these people, they would start dying. They might already be, in some cases, too far gone. Then, Gisbourne would come and tax away the crops they had raised.

"I'm going to kill him," the boy said, almost as if voicing Tuck's thoughts.

"Gisbourne." A pause. "Don't try it. You don't have the strength or the skill. What good would you be dead?"

"I wouldn't be desperately hunting for food." The boy's eyes sought his.

He sought escape. He did not care if he lived or died. How did Tuck solve this?

Raiding Gisbourne's stores and bringing it to these people...but they had tried that, in a sense. It had availed nothing and got Hubert killed.

They could, of course, give them money, but who would they buy food from? Who had it to spare?

Tuck assigned himself a couple of Hail Marys for even considering praying for Gisbourne's death.

He wondered how many did. This boy did, he was sure of it. "What you can do is get food...even if you have to steal it."

"Or break the forest law," the boy said, softly.

It was likely he already had...and that, Tuck realized, was something they could do. Not steal food, no, but even a couple of deer casually left at the edge of the village might make the difference between survival and death. And perhaps a little...and yes. They would still be stealing, and likely hanged if caught, but Gisbourne had left them no choice. "Come with me," Tuck said.

He had to get more food into this young man's system. Hunger fed hatred. A full belly gave a man space to plan. Of course, Tuck did not plan on shooting a deer or a pheasant himself. He would likely miss badly enough to embarrass himself.

But there were other ways to get food from the greenwood, if you knew how. Acorns could be turned into flour, although it had to be done right. Done wrong, and you ended up only with poison.

What he was heading towards was not an oak tree. It was a bramble patch, and amongst the briars and thorns were fruit. He picked one, popped it in his mouth. "Nothing like fresh blackberries."

The boy grinned. "I missed this patch. Thank you."

He lifted a hand. "Don't take all the berries. If you don't leave some for the birds, there will be no more blackberries."

That piece of wisdom was, perhaps, an old wives tale, but he passed it on nonetheless. What if it was true? If it was true and people did not abide by it...the idea of there being no more blackberries scared him. "The greenwood is not inexhaustible," he continued.

The boy did take more than half of the berries, leaving those least accessible for the birds. His lips were already stained dark, and the rest Tuck held in his robes as a goodwife would in her apron. They could take them to the village.

A few blackberries were little help, but they were still received with surprise. One goodwife murmured, "He must be the one that walks with the outlaws."

Tuck flinched. Not because she was correct, but because that assumption was even being made. That only an outlaw would do them a good deed. "Is there no Christian charity left?"

The goodwife jumped. She had not expected to be overheard. "I have seen none." She was thin and worn...not quite as bad off as the boy, but certainly not healthy. "The only charity I have seen is that we're supposed to give."

Tuck shook his head, letting his skirts fall once the blackberries had been transferred to somebody's basket. "You