The Friar's Tale, стр. 72
Then, perhaps, they could tell him what was really going on. They might even be able to do so without breaking their cover.
The mule's gait was rough. Tuck almost thought he should have walked...but he was so pleased he had been able to find the animal after having to let him go, that he did not want to leave him behind.
It was spring now, the winter having faded away, but the showers of April kept threatening from otherwise clear skies. A jay scolded them from the trees, perhaps worried they might disturb what remained of her winter stash of acorns. Then a second one joined in, from further down the road.
Tuck had observed jays carefully burying acorns. And not recovering all the ones they had buried. The ones they lost, perhaps, would grow into oak trees. The greenwood was a web, and breaking any piece of it could be disastrous. He worried a little about the increased clearing. Would that break some strand they had not perceived? Yet, people had to eat. The greenwood produced food, but not as much as carefully rotated fields.
As long as there were people to harvest and people to plant, that was.
They had traveled far south from Nottingham, now, but they saw only a slight increase in prosperity. The buildings were a slightly different style and there seemed to be more stone churches. More steeples. Steeples were an expensive proposition, and Tuck doubted any villages were building them at the moment. Still, they were also landmarks. It would be far harder to get lost in a country where every church had a steeple.
Not that that would happen. Some communities preferred flat towers. Felt steeples were an ugly extravagance. Tuck had realized long ago that churches were not built for God. They were built for man. God did not really care where you were when you prayed, but being in a church helped one to concentrate. Besides, the churches provided space for preachers to give their sermons and the mass.
They rode into a village. The small convoy stopped, but Tuck, at the back, could not well hear the conversation. Will was the lead outrider, his silver tongue placed where it could do the most good.
The one Tuck felt sorry for was Clorinda. Robin could come out and ride a spare horse, but the woman was trapped in the carriage. If she rode as an outrider, her sex might be betrayed, and that would cause drama they did not need.
Clorinda in skirts was a sight Tuck had thought he might never see. The words being exchanged had become somewhat sharp and also somewhat uncertain. Eventually, the man stepped aside and let them pass, but he looked daggers at the outriders, only softening his gaze a little at Tuck. Of course, he saw them as nobles. As the cause of all ills. And a Churchman...but he had softened his gaze. Perhaps because Tuck wore no jewels and was not in the wagon with the lady, but with the baggage train. He was not putting on airs, in other words. He smiled at the man, knowing that would disarm hatred faster than any other gesture.
"Two more days to London," Robin commented as they dismounted in the inn courtyard. Tuck caught the look Clorinda gave him. She was not happy about this, even understanding the necessity.
"Would your lady appreciate the assistance of my daughter?" came a voice.
The innkeeper was a man, a stout one. His offer was in no way unusual, and it might be suspicious to refuse, but the hairs rose on the back of Tuck's neck. He caught Clorinda's gaze. She simply nodded to him.
Of course, if the girl's intent was robbery, then she would get a very nasty surprise. Tuck could think of four places Clorinda could hide weapons in that gown, and was sure she had used them all, plus a few that had not occurred to him.
He elected not to worry about her. It was also likely that the 'maid' would try to pocket a jewel or two...and she probably needed them more than they did.
Inside, the place was almost too clean. A hunchback cleared one of the tables as they entered, favoring Tuck with a glance surprisingly cheerful for one with such an affliction. Well, maybe he was not doing so badly. He was, after all, here, not a beggar in a city, starving on handouts. Tuck's opinion of the innkeeper revised upwards slightly.
Perhaps it was only the girl who was bothering him. Bothering him, however, she was. He could not escape the feeling that she was the kind of trouble they could not afford.
He sniffed at both ale and stew before sampling them, thus. The ale was mediocre, the stew was excellent. Usually, the average inn, these things were the other way around. In fact, the ale seemed a little stale. Perhaps they did not brew their own...a stupid decision for any tavern.
Perhaps their brewster was sick and off her stroke. Either way, he was not tempted to get more. He was, in fact, not even tempted to finish the tankard he had.
"You too?" John asked as he sat down. Clorinda was noticeable by her absence. So was Robin. Perhaps he had noticed something odd about the maid as well and was staying close.
Tuck tapped the tankard. "I think their brewster must be sick."
"No. I think its a bad batch of hops. They're probably just trying to get rid of it."
He might be right there. Tuck let out a breath. "For some reason, I'm not comfortable here."
"I'm not comfortable anywhere." John sat back a little, causing the chair to creak under his weight.
Tuck wondered if he was talking literally or metaphorically. It was, in either case, more than he normally got out of the big man. He swallowed some more of his stew. "I don't know. Something is a