Tuck by Stephen R. Lawhead Page B

all to hear—but then attacked us anyway.”
    “They were lying in wait for us,” said Siarles, joining them. “Hiding in the forest.”
    “Gysburne and his men showed themselves for the black devils they are,” said Scarlet.
    “Aye, and the sheriff too,” added Siarles. “Dressed up as monks, some of ’em.”
    “Even so, we honoured our part,” said Iwan. “We did not draw on them until they attacked Bran.”
    “Was anyone hurt?” Tuck glanced quickly at the other archers trooping into the settlement. There was no blood showing; all seemed to be in ruddy good health.
    “No hurt to anyone but themselves,” Scarlet pointed out. “A fella’d a thought they’d have learnt a little respect for a Welsh bowman by now. Seems they are a thick lot, these Ffreinc, say what you will.”
    The friar heard these words, and his heart fell like a stone dropped into a bottomless well. The slender hope that the abbot would accept the offered peace sank instantly, swallowed in the knowledge that Abbot Hugo would never be appeased. In light of this new outrage, he felt the fool for even imagining such a thing possible.
    “You did what Christian duty required, and it will be accounted to your credit,” Tuck assured them lamely. “God will yet reward you for remaining true to your part.”
    “No doubt, Friar,” replied Siarles. “The same way he helps them who help themselves, methinks.”
    “I do not blame you for being disappointed,” Tuck said, “but you should not place the failure at the Almighty’s feet, when it—”
    “Spare us, Tuck,” snapped Bran. He and Odo, the last to arrive, passed the others as they stood talking. “I am not of a mind to hear it.” Addressing the men, he said, “Get something to eat, all of you. Then I want my advisors to come to me and we will hold council again—this time it is a council of war.”
    The six archers moved off to find some food, leaving Tuck, Mérian, and the others looking on in dismay.
    “I feared this might happen,” said Mérian. “Still, we had to try.” She looked to the friar for assurance. “We did have to try.”
    “We did,” confirmed the priest. “And we were right.” He glanced at the young woman beside him. How lovely she was; how noble of face and form. And how determined. A pang of regret pierced him to see her once-fine clothes now stained and growing threadbare from their hard use in the greenwood. She was made for finer things, to be sure, but had cast her lot with the outlaw band; and her fate, like all who called the forest home, was that of a fugitive.
    “Ah, my soul,” he sighed, feeling the weight of their failure settle upon him. “So much hardship and sadness could have been avoided if only that blasted abbot had agreed.”
    “I had my hopes, too, Friar,” offered Mérian. “My father has ruled under Baron Neufmarché these many years—to the benefit of both, I think. It can be done—I know it can. But Hugo de Rainault is a wicked man, and there is no reasoning with him. He will never leave, never surrender an inch of ground until he is dead.”
    “Alas, I fear you’ve struck to the heart of it,” confessed Tuck, shaking his head sadly. “No doubt that is where the trouble lies.”
    “Where, Friar?”
    “In the hearts of ever-sinful men, my lady,” he told her. “In the all-too-wicked human heart.”
    After the men had eaten, those who were counted among King Raven’s advisors joined their lord in his hut. As they took their places around the fire ring, Bran said, “We need more men, and I am going to—”
    More men , thought Tuck, and remembered what it was that he had learned from the abbot. “Good Lord!” he cried, starting up at the memory. “Forgive me,” he said quickly as all eyes turned towards him, “but I have just remembered something that might be useful.”
    Bran regarded him, waiting for him to continue.
    “It is just that—” Glancing around, he said to Iwan, “How many soldiers did you