The Friar’s Tale A Novel of Robin Hood Jennifer R. Povey Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer R. Povey All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Author’s Note Acknowledgments Other Books by Jennifer R. Povey 1 The straightness of the road revealed its origins, dating all the way back to the time of the Romans. The surface, however, was not as it had been in that time. It was churned up into an unpleasant mud, heavy with the clay soils of the valley. A single set of hooves plodded down the road, the sound echoing, and then a two-wheeled cart emerged from the trees. A particularly scruffy mule, so out of proportion that it looked to be the result of accidental congress between a small donkey and a warhorse, hauled the cart. The cart's driver and sole occupant was a man of considerable girth. His rotund form was wrapped in brown robes, with a rope for a belt, and his head was tonsured. These features revealed him as a monk or, more likely, a friar. A closer inspection would reveal that the contents of the cart were road supplies and ale...more of the latter than one would expect a single man to consume. From the fact that the extremely rotund friar was singing a hymn at the top of his voice, and with several of the words incorrect, one might also get the impression quite a bit of the ale had already been consumed. The forest closed in on the road. The mule made its way along with basically no guidance from the driver. It simply walked along the road, towing the scruffy cart behind it. Then, it exploded upwards into a crow hop. The cart overturned, spilling ale, food and friar onto the road...and the mule bolted, pulling the empty vehicle behind it. For a long moment, the friar did not get up. The reason for the mule's rather sensible reaction, however, moved towards him, surrounding him. He looked up to see a ring of hard faces. Four men surrounded him, and his bulk would have made two of three of the four. All four were clad in rough clothing of hues of green and brown...the better to blend into the forest. "Good friar. We have need of a priest." He sat up, checking that all of his parts were still there. "Catch my mule and I'll give whatever rites you wish." The friar knew these men were outlaws. Wolfsheads. Those who walked outside of the law of civilized men. They might just as easily slit his throat for his ale as truly seek his services. On the other hand, he would almost prefer the company of outlaws to that from which he had come. The man who had spoken whistled. The friar heard somebody moving through the trees, somebody he had not seen. A rather large band. They might well have legitimate need of a priest...although most likely for a duty the friar would not relish. There was also the very real possibility he would yet need that duty himself afterwards. Would they let him live after he had seen them? It depended. Some bands thrived on secrecy. Others liked to let people go to pass on their reputation so that their next victims would not fight. On the surface of it, the friar saw no reason yet to fight. If they tried to kill him, then they would get a surprise, for the staff lying across the cart seat was neither decorative nor the tool of an old man. "Come," the slender outlaw leader said. The friar was not surprised to note that one of the outlaws...not the leader...had slightly broader hips than might have been expected. It would not be the first woman who walked and fought alongside men he had encountered. Most especially recently. The leader, though? Definitely a man, although not a large one. He seemed to leave size to one of the others...a man well over six feet tall and broad through the shoulders. The Friar followed, but not until he saw one of the outlaws returning with his mule and cart. Another started to pick up what casks of ale had not shattered and spilled. He did not expect to see that again. They might leave him the mule, as unfortunate a specimen as it was. Possibly even the cart. His ale, however, would vanish into their stash, that which was not drunk by the end of the night. He mourned it briefly. The outlaws moved silently. Most of the noise he heard came from himself. He was no woodsman. However, he could also hear the cart behind him. His staff was, he hoped, still in the cart. The trail was barely wide enough for it, and he suspected that their normal routes would be narrow deer trails, lined by brambles and stinging nettles. If he could get to it, then he could win free of them. Assuming he needed to. "What do you bring here?" A different voice, a rough one that spoke of age and ill use. "A priest for Simon." "A priest." The old man stepped out of the trees. "And what will we do with this priest afterwards, now he has seen your base?" The emphasis on the pronoun showed bitterness. The young leader narrowed his eyes. "Speak such again, Richard, and I will banish you." Richard. The same name as the pitiful excuse for a king who preferred the crusades to his own people. Not the man's fault he shared it. The old man snorted and vanished back behind the trees. "He brings up a good point. What should I do with you?" "I place all I see under the seal of the confessional." Not
