Chapter 10 | Friar Tuck
“Blasphemy!” I shouted breathlessly. The word came out of my mouth before my brain could even take in Marian’s concession.
Everyone turned to me.
“He’s a good man,” I admitted, flustered. “The one priest who stood with me when I . . . needed an ally. Before I joined this group.”
John stood forward next. “Agreed. While imprisoned in Nottingham, Bishop Sutton was the one person to show me any hint of kindness.”
Will said, “I don’t trust what anyone says until I have my blade against their throat.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Perhaps we should hear the whore out.”
Robin scowled at him, then back to Marian.
Marian said, “Why would I lie about this?”
“To shift blame to someone else other than the true culprit,” Robin chided. “Sheriff George. The true villain here. You don’t know what George did to . . .” She trailed off, flicking her eyes over to Little John, which made me double take. “. . . to the Merry Men.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt George is in the middle of this,” Marian said, evidently not picking up the odd glance to our former leader. “But there can be more than one villain, Robin, as I’m sure you know.”
“Aye. George, Sutton, Guy, you,” Robin snarled. “Far as I’m concerned, you’re all evil!”
We were at risk of losing this thread. Going down a hole we couldn’t claw back from—and it was all, predictably, started by Maid Marian.
I couldn’t believe her words on face value. Much like the others, I didn’t trust her. Even when I tried to see the best in everyone, and give them second chances, some people simply didn’t deserve them. Marian had proven time and time again that she did not have the Merry Men’s interests at heart.
So why this admission? Could she truly be trying to earn our trust? Could she be this torn over discovering the flesh trading she was inadvertently apart of? Could Maid Marian be showing remorse and guilt, at long last?
“None of us are evil, lass,” Marian said, almost softly, endearingly. “We are simply human. Are some of us more prone to showing our treacherous sides? Yes. But it is all in the name of ambition. Bishop Sutton’s ambition is second to none.”
“Prove it,” I growled.
She turned her wily green eyes on me. “Does it not make sense, friar? Bishop Sutton holds the perfect cover: a doddering old man with a kind smile, giving alms to the poor and homes to the needy. A true paragon of Christ.”
“Exactly.”
“And yet, I’ve heard stories of the man behind the mask. Using his reputation of benefaction for wicked purposes—this sex slave operation being the worst of it. The final straw that brought me here.” She lifted a finger. “Because, you see, Sutton owes money to the Knights Templar. He has borrowed vast sums to build his churches and cathedrals, beyond his purview as a bishop. And the toll has come due.”
John muttered, “He did tell me in prison that he was planning on building a church in Cornwall soon . . .”
“Aye. It’s already begun. Somewhere along the way, he lost money. Construction halted. Now he needs it back. Enter greedy foreigners and noblemen who want nothing more than fresh meat to shove their cocks into. And they’re willing to pay a high price for those holes . . . especially if they’re attached to former heiresses of vast estates.” Her eyes landed on Robin as she finished, gleaming.
I reeled at her grotesque description. My eyes moved to Robin and the rest of the crew, who all glanced around guiltily. I knew what they were thinking.
The gold coins we found under the floorboards of the carriage. Perhaps the girls were not the true treasure . . . but rather the gold hidden away, being shipped secretly across borders to other lands for his “good deeds.” Or, for repayment of his debt.
I did not like what I was hearing.
Still, it was Maid Marian doing the telling. I couldn’t trust her, even if I wanted to. None of us could.
“Who has told you these stories of Bishop Sutton?” Robin asked—the only one to pick up on that first part of Marian’s catapult.
“Sir Guy of Gisborne.”
“Ah. Of course. Seems you’re rather close to him these days.” Robin said it as if it explained everything. I knew she hated the man, yet also knew we couldn’t shut this information out just because of who was telling it.
Even if Guy did have ulterior motives—which I was sure he did—and even if he sent Marian here to tell us all this, that didn’t make it untrue.
“Of course I am,” Marian said simply, shrugging. “Who do you think helped me with your estate? Who do you think has helped me climb the social ladder? I couldn’t have done it on my own. After all, Robin, I’m only a woman in a man’s world. You should know how that feels.”
Their eyes locked together. Robin stepped closer to Marian, until their chests nearly bumped together.
I shook my head when I saw Little John step between them again, to defuse their imminent brawl.
“I . . . I need to think on this,” I said. Truthfully, I needed to speak to God about this, if He would listen. “We all need sleep. Might I recommend we reconvene later this evening, when we are better rested and have our wits about us, gang? Perhaps even tomorrow?”
Will and Alan nodded. Even John did, eventually.
Robin flared her nostrils at Marian one last time. “Fine. But we’re not letting this wretched woman out of our sight.”
I put a hand on her tense shoulder. “Of course not, little heathen. We wouldn’t dream of it.”
I SLEPT THROUGH THE morning and afternoon, only waking and praying at nightfall. Robin, John, and Will slept, too. Only Alan stayed awake, to watch over Marian, because he hadn’t been on a midnight adventure to the Oak Boys’ camp or Ravenshead.
Prayers got me nowhere, as expected. I kept playing things over in my head, and kept running into dead ends.
Could Bishop Sutton really be nothing like I thought? Could he be even wickeder than the rest of the bastards in Nottingham? Pulling the strings from behind the curtain—the true villain guiding Sheriff George?
I supposed he could be. I hadn’t known the man in years. After all, he had been entirely willing to execute men such as Dan the Dove when he knew they weren’t Merry Men, simply to appease the ravenous crowds and their bloodlust. To go along with the lies that Sheriff George peddled.
Yet I allowed him to live when I found him during that battle. I let him scurry away. And now . . .
Robin came to my tent as I was preparing to exit, wrapping my habit around my body and cinching it at the waist with a belt.
“What do you think, Tuck?” she asked earnestly. “You know Bishop Sutton better than any of us, sounds like.”
“Lass, I’m not sure if I do.” I let out a heavy sigh and brushed past her, outside. It was chilly, with campfires cooking meat and stews. The Oak Boys had brought a veritable feast of deer and hare.
I found myself gravitating toward a particular campfire where Wulfric and the Oak Boys’ cook, Bess, sat whispering to each other in hushed tones. Chuckling like schoolchildren. They seemed to be in good spirits, and Bess kept shouldering Wulfric’s skinny hide out of the vicinity of the fire.
I wanted to learn from Bess. I was a good cook, but she was excellent. More than that, I needed some sense of normalcy so I could try and work this out in my mind.
Robin joined me at the fire, sitting next to me on a log.
I said, “I’m not sure what to believe, Robin. I wish I did. Just know that we will follow you, whatever you believe. Even if it is against a holy man such as Sutton.”
Robin gulped and nodded. She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thank you, Tuck. And . . . I’m sorry.”
“For what, lass?”
She stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “I know how bad it feels to be betrayed by people you trust. And I can tell you trusted Bishop Sutton, at one point in your life. So . . . I’m sorry.”
With that, she left for a different fire. I felt a burn of tears behind my eyes, but flapped fire-smoke out of my face and pretended it came from that.
The old lady Bess said, “You look nice and round, priest.”
I grunted at her. “So I’m told.”
“And a surly one. Guess you’re the cook of this lot, which is why you’re over here?”
I nodded. “I was hoping you could share your secrets. I need to get my mind off things.”
“I don’t share my recipes,” Bess said. She shouldered Wulfric again, and he nearly toppled over. “No matter how much this rapscallion tries to woo me into handing them over.”
I quirked a sad smile when Wulfric howled with laughter. “Oh, Madam Bess, you truly do rile my bones. How I love it.”
“Maybe you’d love it if we cooked up one of your hounds, eh?”
Wulfric gasped, hand to his chest. “For shame, old crone!”
“Hoy!”
Wulfric reeled back where he sat, as if worried Bess might throw a punch at him.
“I’m a hag,” she said, “not a crone.”
Wulfric chortled again, smiling a wide toothy grin at our newest cook. “She has said I can contribute with some little-known ingredients of my own, though.”
“In time, dark chicken. Maybe when I trust you more.”
“Dark chicken, ma’am?” Wulfric asked. “Bit on the nose, don’t you think?”
“Why? You hobble around like a rooster with your bowed legs, man.”
The healer howled once again, slapping his knee.
I couldn’t help but smile. These two were nothing alike, yet everything I needed in that moment to quickly help take my mind off more pressing matters. I didn’t want to think about Sutton or treachery or slaves. I supposed I had the privilege to put it behind me until morning. Those poor girls on that carriage weren’t given that same privilege.
My eyes slowly veered over to another fire, where Alan-a-Dale was playing his lute. In front of him in a circle were about ten girls in question—all pretty, young lasses—enraptured by his playing and crooning voice.
I smiled at the sight, knowing Alan had the same idea as me: Protect those girls by showing them something sweet, after all the nastiness they’d been forced to endure.
Maid Marian, whether she had intended or not, had reopened a vile wound. If we let it sit for too long without making a decision, it would fester.
Part of me thought Marian relished the chaos she brought everywhere she went. The other part of me wondered if she had truly turned over a new leaf, and if this discovery of hers was really the “last straw,” as she had claimed it was.
Marian was a woman first, after all. Instead of being a whore herself, now she conducted whores. In a way, Marian was protecting her women who sold their bodies, giving them a safer, more comfortable place to trade their wares.
I was not so righteous to think there wasn’t some benefit to what she provided. Will Scarlet could call them whores and raise his chin at them all he wanted, yet I knew what Marian had said was true: The girls at the Teahouse weren’t evil . . . they were simply people. Doing their best to make it in this vile world, and find some semblance of peace.
Maybe the ladies of the night at Madam Marian’s Teahouse believed they were more likely to find high-class suitors there, lock them down, and start a family.
Stranger things had happened.
As Wulfric and Bess colluded and cooked an earthy-smelling stew for supper, I felt a tug at the sleeve of my arm.
I turned to find a skinny young waif I recognized, with ear-length brown hair and a heart-shaped face. Furrowing my brow, I said, “Aye, little lady? How can I help you?”
“My name is Maria.”
I smiled warmly. “Hail, Maria. Apologies for not remembering that. You’ve been here since . . .”
“Much the Miller’s Son died.”
My heart plummeted to my stomach, and I realized then where I recognized her from: the carriage when we brought Much’s body back to camp. Maria had been the young love Much often spoke fondly of. She had been in that carriage meant for sex slaving.
A damned shame the lad only got to see her one final time before his life was snuffed out. Thanks to that fucking slave caravan. I bristled, and Maria looked suddenly scared.
I leaned forward where I sat and put a hand on her shoulder, guilt rushing through me. “Apologies, Maria. I did not mean to grow angry. It’s not you, lass.”
She gave me a sad smile and ducked her head. She was a shy one, I could tell, and had come over to me from the fire where Alan played his lute. She showed bravery, and I wanted to reward her for it.
“How can I help you, lass?”
“You’re a priest, right?”
“I used to be. Not any—”
“How do you believe in God?”
I blinked, taken aback. Pouted. “Hrm? How do you mean, Maria?”
“I mean, after all the bad things that happen. I feel like I used to believe in Him. But now . . . I don’t think I can. Am I broken?”
My heart ripped in two. I thought about her words for a long moment. Her innocent face stared into mine. I saw the deep well of sadness behind her eyes, and realized I was wrong. This is not an innocent girl, because that innocence was stolen from her. First when she was taken from her home to be traded on the flesh market, and then when she watched the young man she fancied die in her lap.
“You are brave, Maria, for asking such questions. You are not broken.” I leaned forward, giving her all my attention, and folded my hands in my lap. “Can I let you in on a secret?”
She nodded quickly.
“I struggle with my faith, too. All the time. Every day, in fact.”
“You do?” Her brow furrowed. “Then how can you call yourself a priest?”
I gave her a wry grin. “Well, I don’t. Not anymore.”
“So you’re broken.”
My smile widened and I let out a chuckle. Leave it to the younger ones not to pull any punches. “I don’t think so, Maria. I think I am simply human. And, being human, means acknowledging and reconciling the gamut of emotions we feel—even on a daily basis.”
“What do you mean, Friar Tuck?”
“Anger, happiness, sadness, laughter, pain.” I swept my arm out, trying to show it to her in a picture in the air. “These feelings are what make us human, and different than any other being on earth. You see? When I think of that, and how special we are—and unique, in our own ways—I’m reminded of God. I’m reminded how He put us here.”
“Then why is there so much suffering?” she asked. “Why did He let Much die in my arms, for instance? If we’re so special, wouldn’t He want to stop that from happening?”
My soft smile faded, and I nodded sagely. “You’re wise, Maria. And true. As humans, we can’t explain God’s reasoning. Often he throws these horrible situations at us in order to see how we persevere. To test us and our faith. And some . . . well, they never recover from it. Their questioning becomes doubting, and they lose sight of God.”
Her head drooped, chin to her collar. “I fear I’m one of them, Friar Tuck. One of the people losing hope, I mean.”
I put a hand on her shoulder, and she tilted her chin to look up at me. Tears made her eyes glassy. “Even if you lose hope at times, lass, God will be there. He won’t lose hope in you. He may not always protect you, but you will always feel stronger with Him in your heart. If that’s what you want. Otherwise . . . you turn out like him.” I pointed down to another fire, where Will Scarlet sat alone, sliding his whetstone against one of his swords.
Maria chuckled. “He doesn’t seem so bad. I think he puts on more of a fa?ade of meanness than anything.”
I leaned back and laughed heartily. “You’re right about that, Maria!” Then my mood mellowed as I got to the crux of it. “Will has dealt with loss, like the rest of us. With him, however, it broke his faith. He no longer believes.”
“And he’s still your friend?”
I sighed, giving Will a faraway stare. “One of my best, lass. So you see? Those of us who believe must hold ourselves to a higher standard. We can’t let our faith guide our helping hand, because the truth is, we all need help at times. Like you. Like me. Even Will Scarlet and the other faithless ones.”
She gulped and nodded again. “Thank you, Friar Tuck. I believe I understand better. But I want to think about it some more.”
I smiled at her and patted her shoulder to send her off. “I’m the one who should be thanking you, Maria. I think you might have even been sent by God to me, in this moment.”
She gasped in surprise. “Me? How, Father?”
“Because you’ve made me see the light again, when it was getting pitch black.”