The Friar's Tale, стр. 5
His thoughts had taken him far from there, in fact. Had taken him to a little cloister where the Clares had let him stay in the guest house and sit in the back of the church. Even a sworn brother was not allowed within the cloister proper. Men were stronger and might take advantage of a sister, forcing her to break her vows.
He had known of men being raped. Rarer, yes, but it happened. And he had once had to fight off a woman bent on taking her pleasure with him regardless of his wishes. He thought she might have had a thing for priests. For the unattainable.
Still, he had glimpsed the Clares at their work and contemplation. They prayed. He saw no reason they could not do other work, but that was as it was. They prayed.
He dropped to sit on a rock by the stream. He should pray, but he did not feel God's presence right now. Had not felt Him much of late.
Which no doubt meant he had been stepping down some path God did not wish for him. Out here, though. All creation is His temple, he reminded himself.
It did not help. Instead of feeling the presence of God, he felt the forest close around him. He heard the songs of the birds. Their voices echoed in his ears. Across the stream a fox, on business of his own, paused and lifted a paw, pricking ears towards the human.
"I mean you no harm, Brother Fox," Tuck said.
Not understanding his words, the fox loped off into the woods. He was fleeing without trying to look as if he was, for foxes had their own sense of dignity. Tuck shook his head. He did not see God in the fox. He saw only the fox.
What had happened to his faith? He reached out, but felt only a distant presence. Perhaps it was not his faith, but that God was busy elsewhere. Certainly the Crusaders were making plenty of work for Him. Not the best kind of work, either.
Or perhaps this was one of the old places, where powers other than God held sway. More likely, the fault lay with Tuck himself. A fault that he had to address, if he was to minister to anyone. Even a bunch of outlaws.
The water shimmered for a moment. He held his breath. It was not a fish jumping, but the water's surface itself. Changing, altering, and then back to normal. A sign? Certainly, but was it from God, Satan or somebody else?
Or just a trick of the light.
Clorinda was making arrows, sitting at the edge of the camp, as Tuck returned. Her deft hands secured goose fletching to the shafts.
Tuck watched her for a moment. It was not a skill he had ever had the chance or need to learn. Most men knew the bow, but friars and monks and priests were not expected to hunt or fight. More women than many thought. Her bow leaned against the tree near her. A longbow, albeit slightly smaller and lighter than most.
Tuck did not disturb her. He just watched her, her dark head bowed over her task. She was a woman who would have drawn some men to consider their vows.
"She is a temptation, is she not," came a soft voice from behind. Clorinda barely looked up.
This man was a little older than the leader, but not much. As close as he had approached, Tuck could see harp callouses on his hands.
That such a group would have a minstrel with them did not surprise him. He would dare and risk and then return to town, and the truths he told would be mistaken for tales. Or turned into them...exaggerated, linked to one man when they spoke of many.
"Who's woman is she?" Tuck asked, softly.
A blush colored the minstrel's cheeks. "She is mine, at least as much as such a woman belongs to a man."
He had thought Clorinda fought with the leader, but he saw now that he was wrong. He moved further away from her. "A temptation to some men, but not to me, I assure you.." Tuck shrugged.
The minstrel laughed. "Ah. You cannot tell me, though, that you don't have feelings."
"Would the vow be a discipline if I did not?" Tuck noted, heading further into the camp. He did not want to admit he was not tempted, for that had in the past invited questions, and he was not yet comfortable with this man. "I have not caught your name."
"Will."
"They call me Tuck."
"Not your real name."
The friar shrugged. "I prefer to keep the name my parents gave me unspoken, and my nameday Saint is a woman who's name does not lend itself..." He tailed off. He had a cloister name, of course, but he had regretted it within six months of choosing it. Tuck suited him far better.
"Like anyone here uses their real names. Or all of them." The minstrel shrugged. "But Tuck has to have some story behind it."
"A novice story, long told and mostly forgotten." He had had little choice but orders. No food for him, not for the fifth son. Not much for his brothers, either. In other, darker times, they might all have ended up as slaves. His choice was, thus, the orders or attempting to convince a wealthier family to marry him to one of their daughters. He preferred orders.
Will smiled. "But tales are my stock in trade. Come, you should tell me...and if it is exaggerated a little, so much the better."
Tuck laughed. "This evening, and only if you pay me in ale. My own ale, I would hasten to add."
He was still a little bit bitter about how rapidly his stash was vanishing. And what would replace it when it was gone? Bad homebrew? More likely something they stole or traded for, selling risky game to the villagers.
Like he had