"Arthur H. Landis - Camelot in Orbit" - читать интересную книгу автора (Landis Arthur H)

Her dottle skidded to a whoooing halt within but six feet of us. We moved not a
muscle. 'Twould have been UnMarackian to do so. A second dottle arrived just as
precipitously, skidded, fat-fanny to the ground, at about fifteen feet to our right, deliberately.
Its lithesome rider, with the cowl of her cloak flung back to expose her flaming red hair, was
the Lady Caroween, dainty Valkyrie daughter to our Lord of Great Ortmund, Breen
Hoggle-Fitz. Rawl rose instantly to go to her.

The remaining six maidens of the entourage, one of whom held a trumpet and smiled
most sweetly, halted respectfully some twenty paces to the princess' rear. Their dottles
wheeed a greeting to our own.

The princess dealt a resounding whack to her mount's broad bottom so that it knelt
before me with a pained look in its big blue eyes. Its six paws were instantly tucked beneath
the warmth of its belly.

"My Lord Collin," she began, though her aura of urgency still allowed for a sparkling
eye and a baiting grin, "When last we spoke, sir, you said you'd had your fill of lance and
'flats'-'til Ormon's Day, come spring. But here you are again..."

She referred to my challenging colors, a sprig of violets against a field of gold, which
flew from a great lance in the midst of a half hundred or more pavilions, each flaunting the
blazonry of this lord or that. All around us on the line of a dozen lists, as many as a hundred
belted knights, or heggles, inclusive of the Lady Caroween's father, were unseating each
other in thunderous crashes of lance on shield, or were fighting a'foot with sword flats in
melees of screaming, cursing chaos.

From the corner of one eye I saw that the Lord of Breese, though mounted now, still
held back to sit and stare in our direction. I ignored him.

"My Lady," I said, absolving myself with a careless shrug of any guilt, "there's simply
nought else left to do." I'd moved forward to offer a hand, were she inclined to leave her
lacquered, wooden saddle. She wasn't. I winked deliberately, allowing a twinkle to touch my
right contact. Her returned stare was in every way as bold.

I sighed inwardly. Each new setting wherein I saw her renewed my belief that she was
truly the fairy-tale princess, right out of the archaic "Crock of Gold." She had golden hair,
golden fur, saucy blue-purple eyes, a quite elfish face, with dainty, slightly pointed
ears-though this last was no salient feature of Fregisians-and a forever demanding tilt to her
chin. Petite, she was beautifully formed. Pound for pound, she was also the match of any
warrior with sword or faldirk...

She wore a white and gold cloak with voluminous sleeves, furred inside and out and
reaching to her soft-booted calves. The cowl was thrown back. Being but loosely belted it
was open now, allowing for the sight of padded, blue-velvet ski pants, with pullover to match.
A white scarf was at her throat.

Beneath her altogether feminine boldness, however, I had sensed, indeed, knew
instantly, that my princess was a very worried female.

I offered my half-filled cup, said softly, "You've returned early, my love. I've missed