"Cecilia Dart-Thornton - The Bitterbynde 02 - The Lady of the Sorrows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dart-Thornton Cecilia)

fenestrations of latticed glass, and greater opulence reigned within them than in former days. The
transformation from fortress castle to residential palace had also involved the creation of ornamental
gardens around the keep.
Somewhere within the vitals of that keep, Tamlain Conmor, the Most Noble the Duke of Roxburgh,
Marquess of Carterhaugh, Earl of Miles Cross, Baron Oakington-Hawbridge, and Lord High
Field-Marshal of the DainnanтАФto name only his principal titlesтАФstrode into the richly furnished suite he
always occupied when at Court, calling for his junior valet and his squire.
"Ho, John! Where is my lady wife?"
"The Duchess Alys-Jannetta is at her bower with her ladies, Your Grace," piped the valet.
"So. Have you laid out some clean clouts for the evening?"
 "The scarlet hose or the puce, Your Grace?"
"I care not, just as long as they are serviceable enough that they don't split along the crotch seam
and let my backside hang out. Wilfred, is Conquest well-polished?"
"Conquest is oiled and polished, sir," replied that young man.
"Give him here." The Dainnan Chieftain stroked the broadsword lovingly; held it up to the light.
"Good." He handed the weapon back to his squire. "See that the new scabbard is maintained as
bravely. Who's that at my door? Enter."
A footman opened the sitting-room door. A messenger ran in, went down on one knee before the
warrior and bowed, offering a silver salver on which a leaf of parchment flapped. Roxburgh read the
note, scratching his bluff chin.
"Very well." He sighed. "Conduct this lady to the Chamber of Ancient Armor. She may await me
there. My wife is at her bower, you say?" Crumpling the parchment into a ball, he threw it at John, who
ducked too late. The messenger bobbed his head in answer and ran out.
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As the sun dipped, the clouds in the west parted, allowing a gleam of bronze to lance the lofty
windows of the Chamber of Ancient Armor. The room overlooked a walled courtyard of fountains and
statues. Across the tapestries on its walls, scenes from history and legend spread themselves, all with a
bellicose theme. Here, two cavalry brigades charged at one another, pennants streaming, helmet plumes,
manes, and tails flying, to clash in a tangled mass of armored brawn and rearing, screaming war-horses.
There, Dainnan archers in disciplined rows fired a deadly rain of darts, the back line standing with legs
astride, braced to shoot, while the front, having spent its arrows, reloaded. On another wall, Warships
locked each other in combat among a ferment of storm clouds above a city. Farther on, the infantry of
the Royal Legion raged about a trampled field. Their enemies lay thick on the ground and the colors of
Eldaraigne fluttered high above.
Afternoon light spilled like brandy across an acorn-patterned carpet at the daintily shod feet of the
visitor who sat waiting in a chair heaped with brocade cushions. A page boy in the livery of Roxburgh,
gold and gray, stood stiffly at her shoulder.
Filigree brass lamps hung on chains from the ceiling and jutted in curled brackets from the walls. A
servant scurried about, kindling them to amber glows. Disappointed, the last of the sunrays withdrew. As
they did so, a white-wigged footman entered, wearing black pumps and an iron-gray tail-coat with gold
trimmings. He bowed.
"Your Ladyship, His Grace will see you now." He held the door open. The dark-haired, masked
widow passed through and was guided deferentially to a larger chamber: the Duke of Roxburgh's
audience-room. In a loud voice the footman announced, "Lady Rohain Tarrenys of the Sorrow Islands."
The visitor was ushered in.
A hearthful of flames flung warmth into this room, cheerily bouncing their glow off polished walnut
furniture and silver-gilt. A pair of cast-bronze andirons with eagle motifs supported a burning giant of the
forest. They matched the decorated fender, the pokers, the tongs. Crossed swords, broad-bladed
hunting knives with deer's-foot handles, and other trophies of arms enlivened the walls alongside a
mounted boar's head with formidable tusks and the masks of other game.