"Grant, Laurie - Lord Liar" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Laurie)

Lord Liar
by
Laurie Grant



Prologue.

Kingsclere, 1077

It had been quite an innocent action, in truth,
the attempt of one child to comfort another, for her heartbroken sobs at the
loss of her treasure quite unsettled his composure. What began as a childish
challenge-- "I dare you to walk out on that log that sticks out into the
middle of the brook, for I vow you are too affrighted to try, being but a
damsel, after all" --had ended in her falling into the cold water, though not
before she had reached the end successfully and was turning to walk back. He
had had to rescue her because her kirtle snagged on a submerged branch, so
both had ended up drenched and shivering in the cool April wind. Muddy, and
leaving a dripping trail, they had sought refuge in a small room off the
front of the barn where extra tack and blankets were kept for the mighty des
triers and sleek palfreys of Kingsclere. They were making use of those same
blankets to dry their chilled bodies when Aldyth discovered the loss of her
beloved green hair ribbon and set up a wail.

Of course, Aldyth had many adornments for her chestnut tresses, but the one
lost was the selfsame one that Ranulf had brought her from his trip to
London, saying that he had been compelled to purchase it because it matched
the jade green hue of her eyes. Now it was swept away by the spring- swollen
force of the brook, and she was quite devastatedly sure she would never have
anything as lovely again. In addition, her mother would probably beat her
for muddying her new forest green gunna and kirtle. The hem of the outer
garment also had a long, jagged rent.

All these upsetting thoughts added to her distress until Ranuff simply had
had to pull her close and soothe her. Her cool, clammy skin touched his, for
they had stripped, the better to huddle up in the blankets and warm
themselves before facing her mother's wrath.

Completely unaware in the carnal sense of the feel of her childish breasts
against his bare boyish chest, the boy shut his eyes and murmured endearments
to her, some in Norman French, some in English. The clean fragrant scent of
her hair blended in his nose with the stable aromas of horse, hay and
leather--not an unpleasing mixture for a lad of seven, about to leave home to
be fostered in the household of the Conqueror himself.

Aldyth had quieted under Ranulf's ministrations, having heard him pledge her
more such ribbons of the same color, but then piped up,

"But, Ranulf, the next time you will be in London is when you leave to join