The Friar's Tale, стр. 76
The liberty of London sometimes seemed to equate to the liberty to cause trouble.
The city, though, flowed around him. It was more dangerous than the greenwood and less attractive, but it had its own energy. The energy that came from all of these people.
Tuck wondered how large, for a moment, a city might grow. This was probably about the limit. The stripped countryside outside could produce little more food for these people, and there was little space to grow it within the walls. He did hear, through the other noise, the occasional sounds of chickens. Those did not need much space...and no doubt other yards had cages of rabbits, too, which betrayed their presence with no sound.
The shout caused him to turn. "Thief!"
A ragged boy was running through the crowd with a purse that clearly did not belong to him. Tuck was in no position to stop the lad and might not have if he had been. The kid clearly needed the money more than the fat, well-clad merchant pursuing him. Judging by the reactions of others, Tuck was not the only one who felt that way.
"Third time this month old Weaver there has been robbed," a feminine voice muttered.
It was the fact that it came from a woman that caused Tuck to turn. She wore the garb of a guildswoman, of one of those rare females who held rank and status of her own right. Not a brewmaster, either. A dyer, he guessed, from the bright and exceptionally beautiful colors she wore.
He could not resist answering. "Indeed. Maybe he should carry less money with him."
If he'd been robbed more than once, then he might have a reputation for carrying a fat purse...a foolish thing in most cities, let alone in London.
"Man will never learn." The Weaver...no doubt job title, not name, was now stalking along the street, but the thief was long gone.
Tuck detached himself and headed up the street, amused by the brief diversion.
Tomorrow they would try and get an audience. With somebody. Likely not the prince himself, but they might get to somebody who could, at least, listen to them. Just a little.
He shook his head, and wondered if wandering past the actual palace of St. James might not be a good idea. There was no telling, of course, if the prince was in residence. He was not the king, he did not warrant the royal flag. It might be interesting, though, to know if he thought he could anyway.
Instead, he made his way back towards the tavern, only to run into Much coming out of it.
"Tuck. Thank God."
"What happened?"
"Reginald got himself arrested."
If anyone was going to end up in a London jail cell, Tuck thought sadly, it was Reginald. The boy was good, but he was reckless. "What did he do? Flirt with the wrong girl?"
"Insulted a man's clothes...and the man turned out to be a Guildmaster."
Tuck sighed. "Can we bail him out?" Likely the Guildmaster would take some small recompense in return for pretending it hadn't happened.
"Likely. But we need to do so without it being associated with us. Or let him stew until after the meeting."
"I'm inclined," Tuck commented as they went back into the inn. "To leave him there for a couple of days. Might get some restraint into the lad."
But he had chosen the wrong time to do something embarrassing. "Likely," Will mused, "The Guildmaster will get hold of him, make him do a couple of days of menial labor, let him go. He's too old to be bound into apprenticeship."
Which commonly happened to troublesome boys with no family. Might be the best thing for them, but they did rather need Reginald back. He was trouble, but he had his uses. "You know what. Let me handle it."
"We need you for the meeting."
"Then we let him stew." Or escape. Hopefully if he did give his jailers the slip, he'd know better than to come back here.
Tuck thought that if he did he would likely get lost, anyway. London was a complicated enough place if you had been there before.
"Okay. Well. In that case, Robin wants you upstairs."
Tuck went up the back stairs of the inn. One of its few private rooms had been rented to Robin and Clorinda. The latter sat there in her nightdress. She seemed remarkably unconcerned to be seen by the two men in a state most would consider to be half naked. Maybe three quarters.
Well, she knew by now that neither was interested in her.
"I'm going to switch that lad when we find him," Robin grumbled.
"I'll hold him for you," Tuck offered, his tone wry. "But the meeting?"
"Our cover is that we need money. Assistance. Once we're in there, we tell the full story, slightly edited."
Tuck nodded. "You want me there."
"Having a Churchman there, even if he's only a friar, would definitely help. It might make us look less like ragged Saxons and more like legitimate nobles."
"Clorinda's clearly not a ragged Saxon." Tuck flickered her a grin.
She laughed. "Ragged Normans aren't much better."
"But you and I are, as are most of our retainers. If asked, Clorinda was the fourth of four daughters. I was the best match her family could find for her and the convent turned her down."
Clorinda grinned mischievously. "Convents. Plural. They were willing to sell me to the highest bidder."
Given how she'd acted in public on the trip, it was entirely feasible. She had channeled her irritation at having to act like a normal woman into a very convincing performance as a spoiled noblewoman with a sharp tongue.
Tuck grinned. "Be careful, or we might just do that. You'd be worth a lot to a Saracen prince."
"Is it true that some of them have as many as fifty wives?"
"Well. Women. Wives and concubines. Their religion speaks against it, but when