The Friar's Tale, стр. 53
Ale. Tuck was determined that before the day was out he was going to have drunk something better than the swill in the village.
Then he saw the girl. A wisp of a thing she was, but she closely resembled, too, the man who looked like the king. And based off of age...his daughter? She was well dressed, although not in the garb of a noble lady. More that of a merchant's daughter, or a Jew's.
Not a Jew, though, not with those features. Pure Norman, that girl, or close. It sometimes seemed to Tuck as if, except for the hated Jews, England melted everyone together, slowly drifting them towards some middle ground. Well, and the Moors, some of whom were darker than the brown of Tuck's robes.
He shook his head. Then, subtly, he followed the girl.
She did not go far. She vanished into a townhouse, her skirts the last thing he saw. Barely of marriageable age, that one, not quite ripe. Some said marriage at fourteen was fine, some thought sixteen better.
Most peasant girls could not afford to wed until eighteen or nineteen, unless bound to an older man.
The townhouse was, like her, dressed like a rich merchant. A storefront occupied the lowest story, the family would live above. Right now, it was closed and boarded, but the sign indicated the merchant traded in spices.
Wealthy, then, and perhaps one of the few men made wealthier by the Crusades, for the Crusaders returned with such from exotic lands. On the other hand, fewer of the Saracen caravans moved. The most valued spices were those that came from fabled India, where it was rumored men rode upon behemoths.
He could not imagine how a man would control something many times the size of a horse. Or perhaps they followed their masters out of love? Ha. Hardly likely.
A spice merchant, then, was the man he sought. A friar would have little business with such except for one thing. One thing for which his friendship with Mary Michael might help. Clares, after all, seldom left their cloister except to die. For a friar to pick up something for their kitchen, or incense for their prayers, 'while I was going that way' would be reasonable. He trusted her.
She thought no better of those who abused their power and position than he did. This man...likely knew nothing at court. Perhaps Tuck was wrong, and he did not know who he was, although could he not? With the royal features stamped across his face? He did not envy him. It was far easier to be of common and unknown birth.
Finally, he walked up to the door and knocked.
It opened, the girl standing inside.
"When will you be open?"
She hesitated. "Tomorrow, when my father returns."
"Thank you." He did not want to push it, but this trapped him in Nottingham another day. "Do you know if he has or will have incense?"
"We have it. But I'd get into trouble if I sold it to you. He doesn't..." She tailed off.
He didn't trust her, and she had almost blurted that. Of course, she was very young. Younger than the fourteen he had guessed. More like twelve. She would be pretty, one day. Of course, she would not have her pick of suitors, not with the wealth her father displayed. Her husband was possibly already chosen. "I won't get you into trouble." Of course, it would look strange if he came back tomorrow, when there might be other spice vendors.
Unless, of course, he told them he had not been able to find any. They did not communicate that much or that swiftly as to catch him in such a lie. He assigned himself three Hail Marys in advance and left. But when he looked back, the girl was standing in the doorway. It was as if she had been left there alone, with no human company.
20
He slept the night in the Poor Clares guest house, although he did not impinge on them for food. A cell cost them nothing, but he could afford to eat at the Pilgrim. Could and did.
In the middle of the night, he heard hoof beats. Frantic ones, and in some number, as if a small band of cavalry rode through Nottingham's streets. Thus awakened, he found it hard to return to sleep. He lay there, reaching for the wooden beads of his rosary. Sometimes, he had found, counting the beads helped him achieve rest. Not their intended use, but perhaps a worthy one.
It did not help. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The feeling which came over him was peaceful but carried him no closer to repose.
It seemed, then, as if the walls of the cell faded away. He closed his eyes, opened them, saw the same featureless grey. Perhaps he slept after all, and this was a dream. As he had that thought, the grey faded back into green.
He stood, it seemed, on a hilltop. A high one, and it was winter. Snow had settled on the ground. Tough hill sheep grazed nearby, their heads in hillocks of grass. He did not, however, feel any cold.
"Where am I?"
At first, there was no answer, then he saw footsteps in the snow. Women's sized, and the feet bare, not even wearing the sandals of a nun. Lacking any other thought as to what to do, he followed them.
The sky was almost pure white, threatening more snow. A cold breeze blew, but he only knew it was cold rather than experiencing any chill.
There was a cairn, and the footsteps ended at it, as if the woman had vanished within. Or perhaps, fairy or angel, taken wing. His mind did not question.
It was, after all, obviously a dream. The cairn was made not of grey stones, but black ones. He followed the travelers tradition, grubbing around in the snow until he found a stone and then placing it on the cairn. Thus, it would remain for future travelers, marking the trail. The stone