"Bischoff, David - Night World" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bischoff David)

Harvest time had arrived: the wheat, corn, oats, barley, and other essential foodstuffs that had been sown in early spring had matured. Now they were being reaped, milled, and stored.

A traditional duty of the ruler of Fernwold Duchy was to oversee the harvest, to ensure that everything went properly. Dudley Dolan had, that year, assigned the northwest quadrant to Oliver, and, as the lad had taken interest in the grain harvest since he was old enough to walk beyond the castle walls, he had no difficulty supervising the harvest. Indeed, often he'd worn old clothes in the fields, driven the reapers, or helped to gather the grain, had tossed the crop harvest onto carts, and helped drive it to the silos.

The folk of Fernwold, for this and more, thought much of him. There were no strict stratifications of society in the walled town, but it was seldom that a person, of any rank, in command, would dirty his hands with the common lot of workers. It was generally agreed that Oliver would make a fine Viscount.

The harvest had gone well. The fields were almost bare. Another day or two of gleaning, some compost, a little manure, and the land would be ready to winter.

Come spring, the eternal cycle would begin once more.

To celebrate the bountiful offering of the land. Lord Dolan had declared that Field Feasts were to be held late that afternoon, the principal celebration to take place in the grassy gaming courts adjacent to the southern battlements. It was to be a simple enough gathering. People would bring their own food to be placed on long oaken tables for the enjoyment of all.

Dance, gaming, and song would provide the entertainment and the festivities would conclude with a short ceremony of thanksgiving led by a minister or two. Then the people would clean up after themselves, and be off to their various domiciles in Fernwold Town.

The morning's work went well. Oliver, pleased with the efforts of the townspeople, dismissed them before the noon meal to allow time to prepare for the Field Feast. This was not entirely for unselfish reasons, for he very much wished to speak to the man who had saved his life the previous evening.

Strolling purposefully along the hall adjacent to the bedrooms of the castle, after discarding his gritty work-clothes and donning comfortable black lamb's wool breeches and a soft cotton shirt, Oliver heard a sound from the chamber provided for Geoffrey Turner's use.

Though he'd been heading to the dining hall for lunch, thoughts of the delicious food troubling his stomach, he stopped a moment and listened.

The sound again . . . a groan! Concerned, Oliver eased the heavy oaken door open, quietly peered into the still darkness of the curtained room. Perhaps the brave fellow had sustained an injury he was too proud to admit.

The room smelled of sleep and stale liquor. Another groan was heard, deeper, longer, from the bed. He also heard another, stranger, fainter sound; a slight hum or a whir. A strange sort of snore, thought Oliver. "Mr. Turner," he whispered, vexed, wanting to speak to the man, yet not wanting to trouble him.

"Sir, are you all right?"

The young man tiptoed across the room, careful not to scuff the wood floor with his leather boots. It was far too dark to see, so he moved to the window and flung open the drapes. A shaft of light immediately angled onto the face of the man swathed in sheets and blankets.

"Arrgh!" Turner cried. "Close those bleeding things! Oooh, my head!" He threw a blanket over his face, burrowed his substantial form deeper into the soft feather bed. The springs creaked beneath his weight.

"Pardon me, Mr. Turner," Oliver said, sliding the Curtain almost closed. "I was passing, and I thought I heard you groan. Are you all right?"

"Yes," Tamer said, his voice muffled by the bedclothes. "Just a bit worse for wear; last night's ordeal, you know."

Oliver felt a pang of guilt. "Sir, I feel somewhat responsible. Shall I fetch a physician? Are you wounded?" He moved anxiously to the bedside. All he could see of Turner was a tuft of disheveled hair.

"What?" A bloodshot eye peeked out. "Oh, dear boy, not that ordeal. Goodness knows, that was but a trifle. I mean the incredibly potent mead with which your father waylays unsuspecting passersby. A bottle of that stuff's enough to eat a man's liver and I had two bottles' worth, at least. Ouch! Hurts to think."

Relieved, yet still concerned, Oliver remarked that a doctor might still be in order. The suggestion had a remarkable effect upon the man. Turner immediately sat up. "Oh, no. No. That's not necessary, lad. Uhm don't bother yourself. I'll live." He slowly peeled off the sheets and blankets and lay in the whiteness, looking like a beached whale. "A glass of water. That's what I need. And a brief visit to my van, where I've a few necessary, uhm, medicinal tools of healing, you know. And then something to eat. That'll fix me up just fine. Must face it. Can't stay here groaning all day. What time is it?"

Oliver checked his wristwatch. It was an ancient one. The devices were rare now, and repairing their spring-driven motors was an art. His mother had given one to him on his eighteenth birthday. "A little after one o'clock."

"Lord!" responded the fat man, heaving himself out of bed. "If you'll fetch me that water, I'll be dressed by the time you return."

Oliver nodded and departed the man, who was groaning and sighing as he slipped on his clothing.




"So then," said an obviously well Geoffrey Turner, after washing his last piece of steamy venison pie down with a swallow of foamy lager. "You promised me a turn about the premises."