"Esther M. Friesner - Hallowmass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

perform any of a dozen needless errands to justify their continued presence
underfoot. Master Giles saw with horror how the woman raised her stick,
threatening to treat the children after a fashion that was unfit to treat a
donkey.

"Go home, children," he said gently, stepping into their midst and placing his
towering body as a shield between them and Margaret's stick. "Off with you now,
you're wanted home." The children giggled and darted away, all save one.

"Who are you?" Margaret demanded of the stonecutter, her lips thin as meat cut
at a poor man's table.

"I am Master Giles, in the service of my lord bishop."

"Oh." Her mouth was small and hard as a prunepit. "You. The clerk said you pay
rent and you work to finish the cathedral. My lord bishop would rather not have
you moved."

"My lord bishop is kind," said Master Giles in such a way that he let her know
how alien he thought kindness was to her heart.

"My lord bishop may command me," Margaret said drily. "So you are to stay, then,
since it does nothing to inconvenience him. How much longer must you live here?"

"Until I have finished birthing my saints."

"Birthing? How dare you speak so of the holy ones?" Margaret squawked like a
goose caught under a style. "As if they were slimed with the foulness of a
sinful woman's blood? Ugh! I will report this blasphemy to the bishop and you
will be made to leave my house before another sun sets."

Master Giles's eyes lost their tolerant warmth. "You may say what you like into
whatever ears will hear it. I will deny it all. Do you think my lord bishop will
risk the promised beauty of his cathedral for the sake of a lone woman's
rantings?"

"I have truth to speak for me," Margaret said, stiffer than the carven draperies
that clothed Master Giles's stone children.

"That's as may be," he replied. "But I have my saints, and my saints have my
lord bishop's ear." He turned from her proudly and almost sprawled over the
huddled body of the boy who crouched against the doorframe of dead Agnes's
house.

"Go home, child," Master Giles told him. "Why do you linger here?" The boy
looked up at the stonecutter with eyes as stony and unseeing as those of the
master's carved saints and a face as beautiful as heaven. A blind man's staff
leaned against his hollow shoulder but he did not have the shabby air of a
beggar. His garb was well worn, simple, sufficient, and there was a bundle of
belongings at his feet.