"Peter David - Sir Apropos 01 - Sir Apropos Of Nothing" - читать интересную книгу автора (David Peter)

leaned against one of the thick oak bedposts, trying to compensate for my fairly useless right leg. I must
have been quite the sight at that moment. At that age, I was thin and gawky. My arms were well muscled
from years of hauling myself around while compensating for the lameness of my leg. My ears stuck out
too much, and I didn't have normal hair so much as a thick, wild mane of red that proved annoyingly
difficult to brush or style. My nose was crooked from the times in the past that it'd been broken. My best
feature remained my eyes, which were a superb shade of gray, providing me with a grim and thoughtful
look whenever I put my mind to it. However, I suspect at that point that he wasn't exactly concerned
with admiring my orbs.

We stood there, frozen in time for half an ice age it seemed. I don't even think he quite focused on me
at first, as if his brain was so overheated that he needed time to fully process the information. "I...know
you!" he said at last. "You're Umbrage's squire! You clean out stables! You're Appletoe!"

"Apropos," I corrected him, and then mentally kicked myself. As if I wasn't in enough of a fix, I had to
go and remind him of my name. Why didn't I just stick my neck out and offer to hack it through for him?

Then I realized he wasn't waiting for an invitation, as I heard the sword being drawn before I actually
saw it. I took a step back, making sure to play up my limp so that I could seem as pathetic as possible.

His eyes were fixed on me, but he was clearly addressing his nude wife. "A squire? You cuckold
me...for a squire? For a shoveler of horse manure?For this you shame me?! "

Rosalie was not going to be of any help. Her mouth was moving, but no sounds were coming out.

There was no point denying the actual cuckolding. I can be a dazzling liar given the right
circumstances, but these were certainly not they. So I felt my only hope was to try and address the other
side of the equation. "Now...now t...t...technically, mi...milord," I stammered out, "there's been no, uh,
actual shaming, as it were. No one knows. You, Rosalie, me...that is all. And if we can agree to,
uh...keep this among ourselves, then perhaps we can just, well...forget this all happened, sweep it under
the carpet until...until..."

I was going to say, "Until we're all dead and gone." Unfortunately, at that moment Rosalie found her
voice.

"Until you leave again," she suggested.

He swung his sword around and bellowed like a wounded boar. I tried to back up. Not only did my
limp impede me, but also my feet became tangled in the sheets and I tumbled to the floor. Rosalie let out
a shriek.

I considered telling him at that point that he might or might not be my father, but that statement--albeit
true enough--seemed to smack so much of a desperation move that I figured it would be perceived as a
ploy. So I chose to appeal to the one thing which might serve as his weak spot.

"Where's the honor in this?!" I shouted.

He was standing directly over me, his sword drawn back and over his head, ready to bring it
slamming down like a butcher slaughtering a bull. This was no ordinary sword, it should be noted. The
damned thing had teeth: jagged edges running down either side, particularly useful for ripping and tearing.
It was also formidable for a good old-fashioned slicing. If the blow had landed, it would have cleaved me