"Mary Jacober - The Black Chalice" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jacober Mary)

 He was wrong, of course. It was Karelian himself who never understood, and never
saw his danger; Karelian who was too proud, too sure of his good sword-arm and his
sophisticated mind and тАФ yes, one had to say it, shameful though it was тАФ too little the
master of his own base appetites. Too willing to take a harlot's favors, and then, ensnared
by his desires, to pay for them with any coin she named.
Paul shuddered. How could she have come here, to this sacred place, inside these
hallowed Benedictine walls, where the footsteps of saints still whispered across the
stones? How was it possible?
"Jesus, savior of the world, protect me . . . !"
It was so hard to pray. Memories kept intruding, sharp as spears of light, as though
thirty-one years had not passed, and he were a youth again, in love with a dream. So
splendid a dream it was, and so quick to fade. A kingdom of heaven upon earth. A ruler
who was more than a king, more than a conqueror, more than a man. A lord who would
pass on to his sons and his grandsons, through all the centuries of time, a sacred heritage.
A royal house of God ....



Much later, in the icy darkness before lauds, he carried the quill in a pair of tongs to
the refectory fireplace and flung it in, piling chunks of wood and kindling on it and
watching until the hearth was roaring with flame. He went to chapel then, and afterwards
to breakfast. When he returned to his cell, the quill was lying on his desk as before. He
went rigid with shock, and yet he was not surprised.
For a week he did not touch it. He asked for a new one from the abbot. It promptly
disappeared, and he did not ask for another. Finally, knowing how dangerous it was, and
knowing also that in the end he would have no choice, he sat down with a fresh piece of
parchment, and began to write again.


On the twenty-fourth day of November, in the year of Our Lord 1103, in the forests of
Helmardin, there did my lord and master Karelian of Lys, knight of the Reinmark,
kinsman and vassal of Gottfried the Golden, come with his companions тАФ



He stared at the paper. He had written the same words as before: fall thrall to the
powers of darkness. He had framed them in his mind, and formed them with his hand.
Dear Jesus . . . !
It was not a spoken prayer. He could not speak. He was sick with fear, and not the
least part of his fear was a terrible fascination, a hunger to know what the next words
would be. He watched his hand moving. He watched but did not believe as the words
spilled across the page like uncaged birds, like bloodstains, like tears:


. . .There did Karelian of Lys come with his companions to the castle of the Lady of the
Mountain, a castle which no one finds except those whom she will welcome there. He was
the greatest knight in the Reinmark, save only for the duke himself, and he had covered
himself with glory in the great victory of Christendom, when we took back Jerusalem
from the dark hands of the infidel. For this and many other services the duke lavished my
lord Karelian with honors, and named him count of Lys.