"P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennet - Keeper of the King" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

KEEPER OF THE KING
By
Nigel Bennett & P. N. Elrod

CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve


Chapter One
Orleans, Normandy, the Beginning


An old man, and he was only thirty-five.
His arms felt like lead, his back ached, and sweat streamed into his eyes, creating
false tears. He'd fought the whole morning and well into the afternoon and felt every
harsh moment, but he couldn't show any weakness. Not to this crowd, not with so
much at risk.
A hundred men had started the great tourney and now the numbers were whittled
down, as they always were, to the final two. Himself, Richard, third son of
Montague, the Duc d'Orleans, seasoned, hardтАж and that damned boy.
Richard had managed by a series of strategies, alliances, and pure skill to defeat
some seventeen men. They had been strong, yet he had been stronger or smarter or
both. But now, as he faced his final opponent across the shattered turf, now he was
tired. More tired than he could remember. Every inch of him was bruised and his
helmet, grown heavy from the constant battle, chafed around his neck.
Richard looked across to the galleries of the old Roman-built arena taken over for
the contest. They had been nearly empty for most of the morning, but as the day's
climax neared, they fluttered with the movement of the onlookers. Even the duke his
father had deigned to show his face at last along with his fat firstborn, swollen even
now with the expectation of his inheritance. No such joy for the third son of most
houses. For him was the bitterness of a few thin gold coins and the polite request to
leave. Richard would go, eventually, but on his own terms and with honor. He would
make a show for them they'd never forget.
It had been his only real misfortune, Richard d'Orleans, to be third born. Nothing
other than that accident of timing could have marred him. He was tall, over six feet,
and handsome. He had inherited his mother's eyes, so he was told, of icy blue. He'd
never seen her, for she had died bearing him, bleeding her life away as he was rushed
to the wet nurse, screaming. He had cried for three days, whether from hunger or
from grief no one ever knew. His fair hair came from his father, as did his size and