The outlaw's tale by Margaret Frazer Read Free Book Online Page B

greenwood, poaching an occasional deer."
    “Alas, not quite so simply as that, either."  He hesitated.  “But those are the questions you're going to ask and want answers for before you write to your uncle, aren't they?"
    Frevisse nodded.  They were indeed, and since Nicholas was not to hand, Evan's answers would do for a beginning.
    He had stopped playing.  Now he looked down at one of his hands laid aside on his knee.  A large hand, thickened across the knuckles, dark and rough with years of raw weather and hard work.  “I used to have some skill at the lute, but haven't the hands for it any more."  He turned his head to look at Frevisse.  “We're most of us like that here.  Not comfortable at what we're doing, not able to go back to what we were."
    “You were a minstrel?"
    Evan grinned his sideways grin.  “Not quite.  But it's not me you want answers for.  It's Nicholas."
    “You don't want pardon, too?"
    “Oh, very much.  But Nicholas is the pivot point.  If he receives pardon, we do, too."
    “So what do you do, if you're not robbers anymore?"
    “We gather gifts."
    Frevisse took a moment to absorb that idea, then asked, “From whom?  For what?"
    “From those well able to afford them.  They pay us and we see to it that no one else takes anything from them that they don't want to give.  They pay us and we protect them.  This is one of the safest parts of the realm."
    “You require folk to pay you not to rob them?  I think the definition of `rob' is strained a little there."
    “For what they pay us - and it's only modest sums from each, well within what they can afford - we see to it that neither we nor anyone else offends their property or person."
    “No robbers but yourselves within your territory.  Very apt.  How far does Nicholas's `influence' spread?"
    Evan shrugged, and slid away from the question.  “Far enough."
    “And your part is to go about as a seeming-peddler..."
    “Indeed I am a peddler.  And good at it."
    “I remember.  What use old Ela at the priory may have for green ribbons I cannot imagine, but you sold them to her."
    “Sold her one, gave her the other.  She'll never wear them, I doubt, but they'll glad her heart just because she has them."
    “And that matters to you?" Frevisse said, surprised.
    Evan touched his lutestrings in a tuneless, ragged run of notes.  “There's little enough gladness in the world.  I'll not begrudge it to anyone, and assuredly not so small a corner of it."
    “But still, while going about your peddler's ways, you spy and judge who would be likely to pay for Nicholas's 'protection', yes?"
    “Indeed yes.  And I keep an eye around for any who may need to be warned off our territory.  And advise which of our men should be sent where when time comes for collecting, that we not set up a pattern too easily guessed at."
    “In other words, Nicholas commands but it's through you that he knows what orders to give."
    Evan made a small gesture of agreement.
    “Evan!" one of the outlaws called from the edge of the clearing.  “Nicholas wants you.  Come."
    “If you'll pardon me?" Evan said, set his lute aside into a length of waxed canvas and wrapped it around for protection from the wet day, then ducked from the shelter and left Frevisse to her own thoughts.

* * * * *

    By midday those thoughts had turned to worry.  The persistent wet and chill had finally driven her to keep Sister Emma company by the fire, along with a huddle of outlaws.  Now as the day went by it was becoming plain that Sister Emma was not imagining the depth of her discomfort.  She could no longer breathe easily, and she huddled and shivered over the fire, complaining that she hurt; and when Frevisse ventured to lay a hand on her forehead below her wimple band, her skin was hot with fever.
    That was enough.  Frevisse went purposefully in search of Nicholas, and found him beyond the rough bushes that hid one clearing from another.  He was seated with Evan on logs