The Friar's Tale, стр. 62
He finally tore himself away, walking to the edge of camp. He sensed her presence suddenly, abruptly, flowing around him. "What do you want?"
The Blue Lady did not respond. It was simply the sense that she was there, watching.
Supporting. "You should tell me who you are." Then he wouldn't be afraid, or would he? Would he rather be able to fool himself into thinking she was no spiritual threat or know that she was?
Or know that she was not?
No answer.
"You really don't like telling anyone anything, do you?" He tried not to sound amused, but it came through. She was almost like a recalcitrant child. Or like somebody who enjoyed leading people up the garden path.
He hoped that she was not that last. It would bother him to know he was being used by a spiritual entity that might well be leading him to hell.
Bother? Now there was an understatement. "Yes. I'm scared of you."
He saw her, then. She stood with one hand on a tree. A garland of flowers was twined into her raven black hair. Her blue gown almost touched the ground; he could see the toes of one bare foot. She seemed no more than sixteen, all of a sudden.
How old had Mary been when she married Joseph? Little older than that, likely. Or maybe a little older...perhaps Joseph had been forced to wait for his bride until his shop was established.
Perhaps... Tuck shook his head. He wanted to believe that was who she was.
"All truths lead to the truth, Tuck." Her voice was rich and warm.
"That's not good enough," he responded. "Why won't you tell me who you are?"
"Because I am who you need me to be."
That implied a heresy more profound than any he had even imagined. All gods being the same god? That was a ridiculous idea. The Saracens might claim to serve the same God he did, but they saw Him so differently.
So differently. Did Clorinda even see the same woman? And what...if the Saracens did serve the same God, but saw Him differently...
"You begin to understand." And she was gone.
Tuck shook his head. "I think I prefer the company of my mule."
Tuck dodged to the side with the agility of a far smaller man. The stall overturned, spilling bread rolls and butter pats out into the aisle of the marketplace.
The man who had overturned it was advancing on a guardsman. "No. I will not give you anything." The poor owner was...trying to hide behind Tuck. Given there was plenty of space back there, the friar did not entirely blame him.
Plenty of space, but he did not need a hanger on. Not that he could get rid of him. Or blame the poor man for acting as he was.
This was not the only altercation. Gisbourne's men were attempting to raid the Nottingham market. They were taking whatever they wanted and not leaving payment.
The people were exploding. Tuck could have predicted this, could have warned them had they listened to him.
He wished himself safe in the greenwood. The stallholder elected to run.
Tuck did not. One did not run from a riot, he had noticed. It tended to get you chased down. To get you hurt. He rested his staff across his hands and waited.
The guard looked at him once, decided he was not a target worth messing with, drew his sword and turned towards the big man.
"You going to bring in the harvest yourself after you've killed everyone? Oh wait. What harvest...there was nobody to plant it."
He was exaggerating, but not by much. As little food as there had been last year, there was likely to be less this. Less seed, fewer hands for the planting.
The guard ran the man through. Tuck tried to react, but he was not close enough.
"You want to be next, friar?"
"Not particularly." He kept his staff ready, sure and certain he could take the guy down if he needed to. "I was trying not to be used as a human wall here."
The guard laughed, wiping his sword off on the dead man's tunic. "Go. Get out of here before you get hurt."
Tuck made as if to take his advice, moving away from the area. He did not, however, plan on going far. The riot was getting worse, growing as isolated incidents became less so. He could hear a woman's high screams, screams of utter loss. A child had been injured or killed; he was certain of it. Or possibly her husband.
There was going to be nothing left of England at this rate. Nothing but darkness and chill. Nothing but pain.
No. They would put everything back together. He wished the news had been of Richard's death. Raising the ransom had likely took whatever John had left, plus a large loan from the Jews of London and York.
"It's time for them to come home!" A woman's voice. A goodwife by her dress, but she stood on one of the tables in the alehouse, which creaked under her. The wind threatened to give the men around her a view of things only her husband should see. "All the men should come home, harvest the crops. Forget the Holy Land!"
Tuck edged closer. Would the guards dare to shoot a woman? If they did, then they would not get out of here alive. He was sure of it. That was probably what went through their mind.
"We will not pay any more ridiculous taxes. We will not give you any more of our sons to fight Saracens and bleed out in the desert sand."
Most of the desert was rock. He was not about to destroy her image, though. Whoever she was, she knew how to speak. He sometimes wondered if they should not let nuns give sermons. She proved a woman was capable of it.
"We want a king who stays