The Friar's Tale, стр. 51

Tuck could not help but laugh. "Did somebody write him into something scathing?"

"Oh yes. And bawdy, to boot. Implying that his wife has to seek her entertainment elsewhere."

Tuck winced. Impotence was a bad thing of which to accuse a man. And they were in mixed company, Clorinda...fletching arrows as she listened.

It seemed as if she could not involve herself in conversation without occupying her hands. But she laughed instead of blushing.

Tuck shook his head. "Clorinda, you are the furthest thing from a lady I have ever met."

"Why, thank you," she said, with wry humor she might well have somehow obtained from her husband.

Tuck shook his head again.

Robin grinned, but then wiped it from his face. "Let's focus on the matter at hand. What do we do about Gisbourne?"

"There's nothing we can do." Will's voice, quiet, reaching for his harp. "He will either return from Palestine or he will not. Only the king..."

"The king will never return," Tuck mused. "Honestly, he should be forced to abdicate."

Robin frowned. "That might be going too far."

"John's hands are tied, the country is going to rack and ruin, and Richard plays soldier in the Holy Land. What more reason would we need?" Will sounded angry, moving to Tuck's side literally as well as figuratively...of course, that might have been because Tuck had strategically positioned himself close to the ale cask.

"The removal of a king is a major matter." Robin glanced at Tuck.

Clorinda muttered something in French. Tuck thought he understood it. She was talking about breaking the system again.

"The system can be made to work again." Tuck spoke as much to Clorinda as to Robin. "But not as long as people like that hold power. Break it down and we'll have mob rule and chaos. Allow this to continue..."

"...and we'll have mob rule and chaos. You're right." Robin's shoulders slumped. "But so is Will. There is nothing we can do about Gisbourne. Anything we do is as likely to start more riots as anything else."

"More riots might not be a bad thing. It depends on the where and the what over." Tuck frowned. "And we don't need something else like the fair. Kids got killed." He thought of the little blonde girl he had saved.

He had saved one. Two or three others had gone down under the trampling feet and not risen again. "What can we do?" His voice sharpened.

He wanted to hit a few people over the head with his staff, but it would avail nothing. "This is almost enough to make me wish I had stayed in Palestine."

"You hate the place," Clorinda pointed out from behind her arrow.

"Well, true. I just can't stand to see this. All of it. Any of it." His pain was obvious. "I feel as if..."

"Well," she challenged. "If you were in charge, what would you do?"

"Reduce the tax and the levy so it reflected what people could pay, not what I wanted. That alone..." That alone might make enough of a difference that people could survive. "Sell jewelry before I took more from the peasants."

Clorinda laughed. "Have you ever owned a piece of jewelry other than that wooden cross of yours?"

Tuck shook his head. "No. What would I want with it?" He reached for the ale keg. "This, on the other hand, is my weakness."

"Uh-huh. You don't get any more without sharing."

Any hope of formal discussion faded at that point. The next day, Tuck took staff and robe and headed away from the camp.

He needed to think. He needed space...not to the point of leaving again, but simply that little bit of time on his own.

He contemplated the matter of Prince John. A man about whom Tuck knew little. A man doomed to play second fiddle to his less responsible brother.

Thinner than his brother and taller, he knew that much. Perhaps smarter, definitely less of a fighter. A better king? Clearly, for he was not the one deserting his responsibilities to hare off on Crusade. Would things be better if Coeur de Lion stayed home? Impossible to know or tell.

Prince John. Tuck thought of the lean man who so resembled the king and his brother. Wrong side of the blanket, surely.

Yet, even the son of a serving wench might know who his father was. Might have the ear of the royal family.

Might be able to get an audience for a poor friar who had information of vital concern to the prince.

He would not do it without talking to Robin. But if he could get in, if he could make John aware of what was going on, perhaps the Prince could do something. Not remove Gisbourne, no. But he might be able to put pressure on him. Scare him, even. He deserved to be scared. And humiliated some more, but they could manage that on their own.

Then again, were they in truth responsible for the riot? Had somebody found their own way to humiliate Gisbourne? Far better to do it in the flesh, of course, but he had left again for Palestine. It would be months, if not years, before he showed his face again. Perhaps they were responsible for that, too. It was entirely possible he had left because he was too embarrassed to remain.

Then again, a lord should not be embarrassed about being out-shot by a yeoman. Yeomen tended to be better at archery, for it was often the only weapon they knew. The weapon every man and, for that matter, many a woman, was expected to know. Only the fact that Tuck wore habit and tonsure exempted him from being bound to master it.

Fortunately. The village he approached was better off than the one they had been helping, but not by much. People were thin, but not starving, clothing threadbare, but not rags. If they had the right to choose whether the Crusades happened, he had no doubt what choice they would make.

He had no doubt that their voices would be raised in a no, and he