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

strength. Montague d'Orleans had gained his place brutally over the bodies of many
an enemy and not a few friends. His third child came by his streak of cold
determination honestly. If you knew the father, you knew the son.
Richard's childhood had been no better and no worse than anyone else's of his
station. A wry grin crossed his face as he thought of it. His station! The third son
had no station. The first born inherited, the second went to the clergy, and the third?
The third simply went, the farther away the better, unless he could earn his keeping.
Thank God for the tourneys. Early in his youth he had shown the unmistakable
signs of being a natural warrior. In play as children, his older brothers were easy
prey for one of his precocious strength and skill. In the course of his years of
training he went on to ever older, larger opponents, and beat them all. Never once
had he lost. When his body flagged, his brain saved him. He possessed a tenacity
and intelligence that, coupled with his size, made him a natural champion. Pray God
these qualities would not forsake him now. So long as he could continue as the
favored champion of Orleans, bringing glory and honor to his family name, then his
parsimonious father had good reason to allow him to remain home. Anything less
and he would be shown the door quickly enough. Neither his father or oldest brother
had said as much in so many words, but it was clearly understood. The outcome of
this tourney would decide many things for them all for some time to come.
Richard d'Orleans looked to his callow opponent, studying him. The youth could
have been' no more than sixteen, the age of a squire, but was tall, muscled beyond
his years, and heavy-boned in broken and ill-fitting mail. His breathing was labored
as he leaned for a brief moment of respite on his sword. A bastard, thought Richard,
and all the more dangerous for that. Longing for honor. Longing to make a name
.
Because of his youth, he shouldn't have been allowed in the tourney, though there
were always exceptions. If the boy had had the good luck to capture a noble of
some rank on the battlefield, rather than submit himself to be ransomed by an
inferior, the noble would have knighted his captor on the spot, saving his name from
the humiliation. Richard didn't know or really care about this adversary's past, his
own future was all that mattered. The boy was nothing more than an obstacle to
overcome.
The trumpets sounded their strident calls. The defeated had been carried from the
field, either to be bandaged or buried, depending on their luck. Now it was the time
of champions. The crowd would be silent, awed by strength and savagery, by the
heat and the rush of blood and hope, until, as one of the champions fell, a great roar
would go up in exultation of the victor. Richard stood straight as silence descended,
facing his quarry, quiet as a statue. In past contests, so simple a ploy had often been
enough to unman even the boldest fighter. Soon he would find out if this stripling
was in that number.
The herald called their names out to the crowd, shouting what was already known,
that the victor of this single combat would win not only the tourney purse, but all the
arms and armor of the loser. Richard had little use for the boy's shoddy equipment,
but he wantedтАФneededтАФthat purse of gold and all the important honors that went
with it. Then would he have the freedom he craved, to make the choice to stay in his
fathers court or to move on to serve in another, better house.
Despite his secure position as the firstborn with a son of his own to carry on the
title, his oldest brother had made no secret of his jealousy for Richard's abilities. The
teasing rivalry they'd once shared as children had grown spiteful over the years, at
least on his brother's part. All too aware of his dependence on the good will of their