The Friar's Tale, стр. 52
That could not be allowed to happen. England would slowly fall into civil war if it did. And then when Richard did come back?
No. He would not. Sooner or later, John would have full power. What would he do with it? That they needed to know what kind of man he was was obvious.
Was he the weak intellectual most saw him as, a shadow of his brother? Or something more?
Tuck wandered towards the inn. It was a little early in the day to be drinking, so it would likely be quiet. In any case, he saw few men. Those not gone on Crusade or otherwise were presumably out in the fields. He saw children and women. Of course, most of the women were out in the fields as well. It was a rare farmer who did not need to use the labor of his wife and offspring in the summer and harvest...harvest took every set of hands you could get, down to those barely out of swaddling clothes. At this time of year, though, the men struggled to find work and the women turned to spinning and weaving.
He remembered in better times that monks would turn out of the abbey to help in the local harvest in exchange for their own bread. That villagers would assist the lay brothers. Now suspicion stood in the way of all of that.
You still helped your neighbors, but people did not trust the Church or their superiors. Perhaps some even went so far as to blame God for their hardships.
All it would take, Tuck thought, was for this unseasonably dry weather to last a little longer, and the countryside would go up like a tinder box. Possibly literally as well as metaphorically...fires happened after droughts.
People would realize they were not likely to have food for the winter...and they would know who to blame. God, yes. But also man. He felt, for a moment, a sense of the Blue Lady's presence.
If she had any ideas, he would appreciate knowing them, now. Other than praying for rain, which he would do anyway. Perhaps God would listen.
But God did not always change things. He sent hardship to test people. And sometimes, Tuck thought, even God could not or would not...likely would not...break his own laws.
He would not always change the weather, and Tuck wondered if that was not because of those laws. If perhaps a drought was sometimes needed for balance.
Some people would blame such things on Satan. He felt her hand on his shoulder. It was all he could do not to turn around.
Instead, he walked into the inn. "Got anything a hungry brother can have for lunch?"
"I'm afraid only stew."
"Stew's more than good enough, and bread, if you have it." He rummaged in his purse.
The tavern keeper, a broad woman, waved him off. "I don't expect money from friars."
"I have it, you need it." It was clear, though, that she was not going to be moved.
"Where are you heading, Brother?"
"Nottingham, for now." It was almost winter. Cold rain was threatening from the sky.
"Not a bad place to winter."
Tuck shook his head. "No. I don't think I'll winter around here." Winter in the greenwood was unpleasant, but his alternative was to winter at an abbey, and he would rather the company of outlaws and heretics.
What did that say about him? No, it said something about the Church.
"You want ale with the stew, or just smallbeer?"
"Ale."
She slid stew and ale and bread over to him. He took them to a table and sat down, just as the rain started. He could hear it pattering onto the thatch and the street outside.
He had not quite realized he was heading to Nottingham until he said it. He should, perhaps, not go alone, but who could he take with him on this kind of mission?
Nobody was the honest answer. It was nobody's place to go with him. He would be better on his own. Unless he got caught, and then...they would not know where he was.
Or would they? He felt watched over. Safe. Protected. He knew he should not rely on her, and yet he did.
Robin's way was the only way, now, he could deal with her. She had to be Mary. He could not accept her as anyone else.
Yet he had doubt.
The stew was not very good. Little meat in it, and what there was was rabbit. Including the bits of the rabbit one only put in stew, although that had never bothered him. It was the vague lack of seasoning that did.
Ah, yes. They were short on salt. That was it. Of course, salt could be quite expensive. But rosemary? They should have more rosemary...that stuff would grow best when you did not wish it to grow.
Or, of course, the tavern keeper was just a better brewer than a cook. He sipped the ale.
No. She was not a better brewer. He ate and drank nonetheless. He was not about to waste food unless it was literally inedible. Then he left as quickly as he could.
For Nottingham.
It felt almost as if he was being guided or drawn there. Of course, he knew who he was looking for. That was a rational thought. To find the thin man. The man who looked like the king.
But where? He had not traveled with the entourage of a nobleman, so perhaps was not staying in the castle.
Perhaps he was no longer here. He could have returned to London before the winter set in. That was even more logical. Nottingham was not a place somebody from court...if he was from court...would long choose to remain. The sheriff was in charge, most of the time, and he had a major aversion to spending Gisbourne's money. Which, Tuck supposed, was better than wasting it.
That or Gisbourne was demanding every penny be sent to him. Or spent on arms and men.