"Cornwell, Bernard - Vagabond" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cornwell Bernard)

spent the autumn night in a pig pen and when dawn came thick
and white with fog, he went to his knees and thanked God for the
privilege of sleeping in fouled straw. Then, mindful of his high task,
he said a prayer to Saint Dominic, begging the saint to intercede with
God to make this day's work good. As the flame in thy mouth
lights us to truth" he spoke aloud, 's o let it light our path to
success." He rocked forward in the intensity of his emotion and his
head struck against a rough stone pillar that supported one corner
of the pen. Pain jabbed through his skull and he invited more by
forcing his forehead back against the stone, grinding the skin until
he felt the blood trickle down to his nose. Blessed Dominic," he
cried, blessed Dominic! God be thanked for thy glory! Light our
way!" The blood was on his lips now and he licked it and reflected
on all the pain that the saints and martyrs had endured for the
Church. His hands were clasped and there was a smile on his
haggard face.
Soldiers who, the night before, had burned much of the village
to ash and raped the women who failed to escape and killed the
men who tried to protect the women, now watched the priest drive
his head repeatedly against the blood-spattered stone. Dominic,"
Bernard de Taillebourg gasped, oh, Dominic!" Some of the soldiers
made the sign of the cross for they recognized a holy man when
they saw one. One or two even knelt, though it was awkward in
their mail coats, but most just watched the priest warily, or else
watched his servant who, sitting outside the sty, returned their
gaze.
The servant, like Bernard de Taillebourg, was a Frenchman, but
something in the younger man's appearance suggested a more
exotic birth. His skin was sallow, almost as dark as a Moor's, and
his long hair was sleekly black which, with his narrow face, gave
him a feral look. He wore mail and a sword and, though he was
nothing but a priest's servant, he carried himself with confidence
and dignity. His dress was elegant, something strange in this ragged
army. No one knew his name. No one even wanted to ask, just as
no one wanted to ask why he never ate or chatted with the other
servants, but kept himself fastidiously apart. Now the mysterious
servant watched the soldiers and in his left hand he held a knife
with a very long and thin blade, and once he knew enough men
were looking at him, he balanced the knife on an outstretched
finger. The knife was poised on its sharp tip, which was prevented
from piercing the servant's skin by the cut-off finger of a mail glove
that he wore like a sheath. Then he jerked the finger and the knife
span in the air, blade glittering, to come down, tip first, to balance
on his finger again. The servant had not looked at the knife once, but
kept his dark-eyed gaze fixed on the soldiers. The priest, oblivious to
the display, was howling prayers, his thin cheeks laced with blood.
Dominic! Dominic! Light our path!" The knife span again, its wicked
blade catching the foggy morning's small light. Dominic! Guide us!
Guide us!"
On your horses! Mount up! Move yourselves!" A grey-haired