The Friar's Tale, стр. 67
A witch, perhaps? It was odd how only women were ever hanged as witches. Men always seemed to escape their fate, somehow...to the point where 'witch' was considered a female term.
Clorinda said it simply meant 'wise one'.
He was pushed towards the dais. He did not resist the crowd as they surged forward. It sometimes seemed that the hanging of a woman got more excitement than the death of a man.
She was not young, her hair streaked with grey. He could hear the guards say, "Don't let her say anything."
She broke free of them. "I will say what I want to say. I say this. That if our men don't return, there will be nothing for them to return to."
The guards grabbed her.
"Elizabeth Brewster. Guilty of speaking sedition and of witchcraft."
Tuck wondered if they had tossed in 'witchcraft' just because it could never be proven or disproven. It was always a good charge to add to make sure you could get away with killing somebody.
Was she the one they were supposed...and then the arrows flew. Whether she was or not, Robin had signaled his move.
Tuck was almost at the foot of the platform. He pulled himself onto it and his staff after, once the initial volley had landed. "Tuck. The cells behind the gallows."
So, it was not her, but they had decided not to allow anyone to die today. That voice was John's...he too had made his way to the front, better with staff than with bow.
Tuck cleared himself a path through the remaining guards, making his way into the cell. A blade caught in his sleeve and, from the sharp pain that followed, his arm. A flesh wound. He carried on, dropping down the far side of the dais.
The final holding cells were a temporary structure. He knocked out one last guard and simply started to open all the cells. He truly did not care if he let out a murderer or three. They all seemed very thin. Who had the food to give to prisoners condemned to death? If they starved before their hanging date, so be it. None were women except for the first one, but one was a greybeard...old enough, easily, to be Tuck's father.
What on earth had he done to be in a death cell? Tuck did not know and might never find out, but there was a vague similarity between him and an outlaw he did not know well, a man named Alan. Some relative, perhaps.
There were two rough looking outlaw types as well, and one more young man who simply looked at Tuck, then at his own hands. "Come on. We're getting out of here." He offered the man his hand.
"I..."
"Don't give me any deserve it crap. We're leaving."
The crowd, denied one form of entertainment, seemed remarkably content to accept another. Robin had come visible at one end of the dais...and as Tuck watched, he shot the noose from the gallows.
That might have elicited a boo or a rush. The mood of the country was such that he gained a cheer.
Somehow, in all of this, the hangman was just standing there. Tuck almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But then, had he really chosen that profession? Hangmen tended to be orphans, apprenticed young. Never allowed to build the kinds of connections that might lead them to be sympathetic to their victims.
Tuck decided he could feel sorry for him. But they were fading away in all directions. The two criminals and the boy faded with them. He was not sure where the witch had gone.
She would not have been unwelcome, but she seemed to have made her own escape.
Tuck only hoped that the two men who looked like murderers would not prove to be liabilities.
By the time the outlaws reached Nottingham again, the story had gone ahead of them. It had grown, as all stories grew.
Tuck sat in the tavern, trying not to laugh. According to the man expounding right now, for example, Little John was at least ten feet tall and used an entire, full grown tree as his staff.
He began to realize that their legend might even outlive them. It might even join with the stories of King Arthur. Become something that was part of England.
Was that what the Blue Lady wanted? To create a legend? To create something oppressed people could believe in?
Clorinda thought they should fight. She thought all of the peasants should fight. Take over where the lords were letting them down.
Tuck thought...oh, he knew what he thought they should do.
"And then there was the friar. He pointed at the cell doors and they opened."
Now that was almost too much. Tuck was being called a witch! Well, not exactly, for there was nothing negative about the man's speech. "Now, that is a little much to swallow. Magic?"
"God is with them. God has abandoned the kings and lords."
Tuck digested that. "If He has, it is only because some of them have abandoned Him."
"You would know that, Brother, I suppose. What do you think of this friar?"
"I think you are exaggerating your entire story." Tuck grinned. "But then, that makes it a better story."
Not that the truth was not a good story. Not that the truth was not, in some ways, the stranger story.
The stranger laughed. "Of course it does. More ale!"
The serving wench came over, refilled everyone's tankards including Tuck's. The stranger put his hand on her butt as she left. She didn't object, but rather grinned over her shoulder at him.
Well, serving wenches could get away with being like that. They could even, sometimes, get away with taking a man upstairs for a few coins. Heck, the largest brothels in London paid rent to the Church.
Sure, people disapproved, but it was normal. Men had needs. Most men, anyway. "Ten feet tall?"
The man laughed. "He sure looked it to