The Friar's Tale, стр. 54

What could that mean? That his contribution would blend into the rest? That who he was would be forgotten? Or... He did not know.

The wind stopped. The moor vanished, faded away, the baaing of the sheep appearing further and further distant and then gone. There was only the black cairn.

He frowned. Black was generally bad. Black was also the color of the black friars, a different order.

Then, abruptly, he was back on the hard cot, in the guest cell. He felt as rested as if he had, indeed, slept.

The dream, however, stayed with him. Its details did not fade, as dreams are prone to do, leaving only the faint knowledge that one had, indeed, dreamed.

No. It clung to him, and he found himself looking for stones, black or white. The only ones he saw were mud colored.

A white stone on a cairn, turning black. Good intentions turning to bad. He could think of no logical explanation other than that.

It was a warning. It was a warning not to approach the spice merchant. Instead, therefore, he found a quiet place to watch the man's return. Two wagons, one driven by a rough laborer, a man with a red face, blonde hair and Saxon features. Too red, that face. The consumption of much ale lay behind it. Or perhaps whiskey, that harsh drink favored by the Scots. Tuck would not touch that stuff, fearing he might learn to like it too well. But yes. He thought that was a face that came of whiskey, shaded to the color of drink.

The spice merchant. Now Tuck studied him, he did not much resemble Coeur de Lion. His was, rather, the generic face of Norman nobility and royalty, the aquiline features so many at court boasted. His daughter came out to greet him, the two embraced for a moment.

Why did he feel that it was dangerous to approach, even to merely talk? He did not feel there could be any danger, not in his rational mind.

Building a black cairn. A cairn was a marker for those who were lost. It could also be a gathering point. Finally, it could be a grave.

A grave. That was the thought. Contributing to a death, of a person, of a concept, of a relationship.

He knew he must not talk to the spice merchant. That if he did, people would die. That the message came, not from God, but from the Blue Lady.

She cared, he thought, about England. Possibly about him. Or she intended to use him. To what end?

If he let her do so, he might be sacrificing his soul. He had a need to know why, to know what she sought.

He turned to walk away, heading for the market square. There, those merchants who were transient or could not afford store fronts were setting up shop.

His entire reason for coming here had been negated now. He at least had to have something to take back to the band. Perhaps he could purchase something useful. Weapons would be too suspicious.

Ale might work, but they had plenty. He moved through the stalls, thus, with the air of one who did not know what he wanted.

"Good brother."

He turned. There was a man selling relics. Inwardly, Tuck rolled his eyes. There was easily enough wood of the true cross floating around to build a man of war. Maybe more than one. He did not like relic sellers. At all. This one was a hunchback, which did not help. The unfortunate individual squinted up at Tuck.

"What is it?"

"Just a moment of your time."

"I'm not buying." He hated to be so firm, although having said that, why would the relic seller target him instead of the wealthy in the crowd? There were certainly enough of those.

The relic seller shook his head. "I'm not selling...to you." He gave Tuck a conspiratorial wink.

Tuck sighed. "What do you want?" He glanced around. A few heads were turning at the scene.

Softly, he lowered his voice, "I'm looking for the friar who walks with outlaws."

"And what do you have to say to that one?"

"Richard is in a Saracen jail."

"If that was the case, half of England..." Tuck tailed off. No. John might well sit on the news. Especially if he did not have money for the king's ransom. Which was entirely likely.

Tuck hoped, though, that it was not true. For all his dislike of Richard, he wished jail on nobody. Even if it tended to make for good time to contemplate.

If Richard did not return... Then John would be king, for Richard and his wife had no children. There was even a rumor around the court that there could be no children, for that would require consummation of the marriage. Tuck had even heard that Richard preferred boys.

No proof of that...and he no longer cared about such things, sins as they were.

But the relic seller was gone.

If Richard was in prison, then John would be obligated by duty, if not brotherly love, to raise the ransom. Where would it come from? The people already had nothing left. The treasury was empty.

Which meant, that Gisbourne and his ilk would squeeze the peasantry further. That would trigger the revolt they feared.

The relic seller either thought they wanted the revolt or thought warning would help prevent it.

Who was the spice merchant? Naturally, Richard had illegitimate siblings. One was in the church. The other had been ennobled. Neither, thus, was the spice merchant.

Tuck shook his head. The Blue Lady had warned him away from the man. Why she would do so, he did not know and was not sure he cared to know.

He might even fear to know. He had barely escaped torture more than once, and he was not a brave man when it came to such things. A clean fight, not a problem. As long as he had his staff and the space to swing it.

Was that relic seller going around...yes. He saw the man approach a