"Clayton Emery - Robin & Marian - Dowsing The Demon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emery Clayton)

grasped the dowsing stick tight, thumbs pointed towards his chest. Robin noticed a red thread tied
around the fork as a charm against witches. He imagined the stick was rowan wood, mountain ash,
probably cut under a full moon with a blade of copper or brass. Robin wasn't certain whether he believed
in dowsing or not. Certainly this clown --
Denis moaned. The rod's tip began to vibrate. People at door and window gasped. The dowser's body
vibrated along with the stick. He crowed, "By the stones of Saint Stephen, by the arrows of Saint
Sebastian, by the flames of Saint Lawrence, show me the way, oh Lord, lead me to the traitors who've
committed this dastardly act and spilled these innocents' blood!"
Robin stared as the dowser howled, jerking his head back and forth as if struck by invisible blows,
writhing as if trying to free his feet of mud. Meanwhile, the mangy dog limped around the room, sniffed at
the bodies, lapped at blood, lifted his leg against the bed post. Evidently the mutt had seen it before.
Denis shivered, calling on every saint Robin knew and many he didn't. "By the cross of Saint Helen! By
the visions of Saint Hildegard! By the monster of Saint Cuthbert! --" Louder he yelled, until people
outside moaned in ecstacy with him. Even the dog barked, sharply, twice.
Denis snapped open his pop eyes, grimaced with horror and haunting. Then the dowsing stick lunged for
the doorway like a spear and Denis was towed behind it. People squealed and shrilled and dodged.
Denis, his dog hot behind him, cantered off down the street, barely able to keep up with his own dowsing
rod. "Saint Thomas `a Canterbury, send me grace! Saint Gregory, send me wisdom! Saint Ambrose, --"
Sheriff Martin hollered to his son to guard the house, and took off after Denis. Marian hiked her skirts
and followed. Robin grabbed his knife hilt and ran along, with the young merchant right behind.
People stared as the dowser plunged by, head down and stumbling, stick outright as if it were an arrow
and Denis tied to it. The crazy dog skipped along in its queer gait, first at one heel, then the other, until
Robin wondered how the man didn't step on the poor creature. The crowd would have followed, but the
sheriff waved them back with his club. When Robin wondered how the man didn't step on the poor
creature. The crowd would have followed, but the sheriff waved them back with his club. When Marian
drew alongside, skirts dancing and cheeks flushed, Sheriff Martin waved his club at her. But she flashed
him a winning smile, lighting up the street, and he let her be. Robin trotted behind the sheriff, out of sight.
Magician he might be, but fat Denis was no marathon runner, and he spent what breath he had calling on
saints, so it wasn't long before he fell to a trot, then a brisk walk. They neared the end of the street,
where the houses were all two stories, homes of more properous merchants, then struck the
marketplace. Dotted around the big square were stalls of winter vegetables, sheaves of salt hay,
paddocks with skinny horses and oxen, blacksmiths whanging on anvils, and tables and tables of bolts of
cloth, including the fabled Lincoln green and red. Everyone interrupted business as the dowser entered
the square.
Denis waggled the stick in a half-circle before him. He gabbled, "Saint Hugh, protect your people! Saint
Wolfgang, heal our sorrow!" Between his heels, the dog sniffed the ground and drooled, began to cock
his missing leg against his master's ankle and then recanted, jigged sideways, sat down.
"They make a good pair," Robin hissed to Marian, "both being afflicted with Saint Vitus's Dance."
His wife puffed her red cheeks. "Hush!"
Slowly, eeriely, Denis waved the stick around. The rod stopped as if arrested by an invisible hand.
"Thanks be to Saint Norbert, and Gregory the Seventh! Thy wills be done!"
They were off. On the far side of the marketplace were the mills, all kinds, grinding, sawing, and many
fulling mills, for here the River Witham took a right angle in the middle of town. Across a stone bridge
they clattered, four people watching the dowser and the dowser watching the stick before him. With the
dog skipping under his feet, Denis stumbled off the bridge and down the embankment, to stop where the
mucky bank dropped into the brown river. Rotten hulls and scraps of rope and trash dotted the mud.
"By Jonah!" he cried. "The dastards entered a boat!"
"Boat?" echoed the sheriff. He banged his club on an overturned hull in frustration. "Then we've lost
them!"
"Not if," Denis panted, "we can get a boat too!"