"Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 02 - The Black Rood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

men just to pull it open. The room itself was big as a granary and hollowed
out of solid stone.' He mumbled in his bread for a moment, and then
added, 'God's truth, in those first days that room was never less than full to
the very top.'
I supposed him to be lying to make his sad story less pathetic than it might
have been by dreaming impossible riches for himself, and it disgusted me
that he should be so foolish and venal. But, Cait, it was myself who was
the fool that night.
Since coming to the East, I have discovered the truth of his tale.
With my own eyes, I have seen palaces which make the one at Khemil
seem like wicker cowsheds, and treasure rooms larger than your
grandfather Murdo's hall, and filled with such plunder of silver and gold
that the devil himself must squirm with envy at such an overabundance of
wealth.
That night, however, I believed not a word of his bragging. I fed him his
bread, and made small comments when they were required. Mostly, I just
sat by his side and listened, trying to keep my eyes from his ravaged and
wasted body.
'There was an orchard on our lands - pear trees by the hundreds -and three
great olive groves, and one of figs. Aside from the principal fortress at
Khemil, we owned the right to rule the two small villages and market
within the borders of our realm. Also, since the road from Edessa to
Aleppo ran through the southern portion of our lands, we were granted
rights to collect the toll. In all, it was a fine place.
'We ruled as kings that first year. Jerusalem had fallen and we shared in
the plunder. At Edessa, Count Baldwin was amassing great power, and
even more wealth. He made us vassal lords - Skuli and I were Lords of
Edessa under Baldwin - along with a score or more just like us. All that
first year, we never lifted a blade, nor saddled a horse save to ride to the
hunt. We ate the best food, and drank the best wine, and contented
ourselves with the improving of our realm.
'Then Skuli died. Fever took him. Mark me, the deserts of the East are
breeding grounds for disease and pestilence of all kinds. He lingered six
days and gave out on the seventh. The day I buried Skuli - that same day,
mind - word came to Edessa that Godfrey was dead. The fever had
claimed him, too. Or maybe it was poison ...'
He fell silent, wandering in his thoughts. To lead him gently back, I asked,
'Who was Godfrey?'
He squinted up an eye and regarded me suspiciously. 'Did Murdo never
tell you anything?'
'My father has told me much of the Great Pilgrimage,' I replied
indignantly.
The old man's mouth squirmed in derision. 'He has told you nothing at all
if you do not know Godfrey of Bouillon, first king of Jerusalem.'
I knew of the man. Not from my father, it is true - Murdo rarely spoke of
the crusade. Abbot Emlyn, however, talked about it all the time. I
remember sitting at his feet while he told of their adventures in the Holy
Land. That good monk could tell a tale, as you well know, and I never
tired of listening to anything he would say. Thus, I knew a great deal about
Lord Godfrey, Defender of the Holy Sepulchre, and his immeasurable