The Friar's Tale, стр. 78
"Either cooperate or die. I'd honestly prefer you did the latter."
Tuck studied the man. "I'd prefer you disappeared." He felt no sense of anything. Not of God's presence, not of the Blue Lady's. As if neither could reach him here, in the heart of London.
Or as if they knew he did not need them. God did not have such limits on Him and Tuck suddenly felt buoyed up.
"I'm not leaving."
"But you aren't attacking, either." Did he think that doing so would make him look like the outlaw himself, with people watching? Likely. Tuck let out his breath. "This can be resolved in a better way."
"You could let me search the inn and then come with us. If you aren't who I think you are, you'll be released by dusk."
"Touch me and you'll have the Church down on you."
"If you're guilty, they won't care. If you're innocent, you'll be released before they can get here." Logical enough.
Then there were more hoof beats. More hoof beats and a sense of her presence. The Blue Lady, sweeping up the street.
Tuck could not see who was actually coming, but his grip on his staff relaxed a little. He felt reassured.
He felt that whatever was about to happen had to be for the best.
32
Tuck sat inside the wagon, his head on his hands, his elbows on his knees. He trusted her, of course he did, but there was a saying about frying pans and fires that came to mind.
They were going to the palace alright, but as prisoners. The royal men had decided to just haul everyone involved in and sort it out later. At least Clorinda was being given the courtesy of her own carriage. Which Tuck knew had weapons hidden in every nook and cranny.
For now, though, they were more or less heading in the direction they wanted to go. Escape was an option for the future.
They could still salvage this. John had to know what was going on, even if he found out through his jailers.
Yet, Tuck emphatically did not want to rot in jail or be hanged. He was going to escape somehow. Just after they had got the information where it would do the most good. If it did any good at all.
A bit of a bleak mood had come over him. He was not the only one. There was complete silence inside the wagon. Will was not there. Will had not been captured, it seemed. Which was some hope. The minstrel was competent. He might be able to do something about this disaster.
The disaster Tuck had caused. It was only he who had been bound by oath to a dead man.
The wagons pulled up into a courtyard. It was the prison at Fleet Street. Tuck's heart fell further. It reached rock bottom when he saw just who was talking to the jailer.
He knew that face. He knew that face entirely too well. What the man was doing in London, he did not know, but he could not deny that it was the same lord who had once imprisoned him and threatened to flog him. The same man. "Psst."
"What?"
"That man. He's bad news."
"Then we'll deal with him."
It was Much next to him, and Tuck relaxed, but only slightly. There was a big part of him that would cheerfully slit that man's throat. He pulled his hood up...knowing they would likely order him to pull it down again, but it might buy time before he was recognized.
How did they get to the prince now? They had to prove they were not exactly who they were, but Gisbourne was there first.
Gisbourne. Somebody else who's throat Tuck would cheerfully slit and take any extra time in purgatory it earned him.
If he was not...and he smelled the fragrance of roses. She was here, although he could not see her.
So, he thought, how do we get to see John?
Trust me. He heard her voice in his mind, not his ears. Trust me.
Trust an entity who had never been entirely honest with him, yet who had always bailed him out of the tough spots before. It was almost amusing. Yet, he would trust her. He had no choice about doing so. No other to whom to turn. He thought of God, but that presence seemed as far away as ever.
Or was it? Confusion flowed through him again. Fear. Doubt. Doubt of himself, of his own place in the world. Of his own being.
How could he trust anyone if he could not trust himself? Perhaps it was time to take off the habit after all.
He looked towards the tower lord again. The man whose name he had never obtained. He was turning to leave, but their eyes met.
That sense of evil returned, that sure and certain knowledge that this man was far outside of normal morality.
"Get behind me, Satan," Tuck murmured, out loud. A direct quote, translated, few non-scholars would have recognized it.
It seemed to work...a shadow passed across the man's face, and he turned to leave. Tuck felt himself relax.
Then they were being herded out of the wagons, but not into the prison. "So. We finally have the famous Outlaw of Sherwood. Impersonating a nobleman...and a noblewoman."
Clorinda. She shook off the hands of the men holding her, still wearing her gown. She had blood on her face, and he doubted much, if any of it was hers. "I am a noblewoman."
"You're a witch. Long overdue to be executed as such, according to Lord Gisbourne."
Clorinda just smiled. "And I escaped then, did I not?"
"From a provincial castle. Besides. We don't need to bother with a trial this time."
The man speaking was well spoken, his accent strongly Norman. His French, no doubt, was more fluent than his English.
He would probably have preferred to be on the other side of the Channel.
"A provincial castle?" That voice was oh, so familiar.