"Morgan Llywelyn - Lion Of Ireland" - читать интересную книгу автора (Llywelyn Morgan)

but Brian backed away. He was not about to accept punishment from a girl who was merely the daughter
of his fatherтАЩs herdsman.
тАЬThe geese are all right,тАЭ he told her confidently, trying to shade his boyish treble so that she would
recognize it as a kingly voice. тАЬI can protect them; I can protect all this!тАЭ He gestured expansively to
indicate his kingdom.
But Brigid was a hard-working girl with chores of her own, resentful at being summoned from them to
fetch an errant child, and she had no interest in a little boyтАЩs pretend world. She stood before him with
her hands on her hips, her tangled chestnut hair whipped about her face by the rising wind. тАЬAnd how
would you be knowing theyтАЩre all right, when you probably havenтАЩt laid eyes on them all afternoon? You
come with me right now, and weтАЩll try to get them back to Boruma before this storm blows them away.тАЭ
She extended a red-knuckled hand to him and, after a brief hesitation, he took it. The two of them
started down the hill as the first dropтАЩs of rain splattered about them. Brigid checked her stride and
looked at the little boy.
тАЬAnd did you come out with no warm clothes? What have you done with your bratt?тАЭ
Brian stared blankly up into her stern face, then looked around him. A few yards distant, crumpled and
forgotten, lay his bratt, the heavy cloak that was a necessity in the damp climate. Until Brigid mentioned it
he had been unaware of the cold, but suddenly the red wool looked inviting.
He retrieved it quickly and handed it to her to pin around him with the silver brooch that was his only
personal wealth. The wind, which seemed to have been waiting until the child
was snugly wrapped, responded with a rising howl that sent Brian and Brigid plunging headlong down the
slope together, anxious to get the geese to their pen and themselves under a roof.
They trotted hand in hand through the rain until they caught up with the scattered flock, grazing in the
marshy grass at the riverтАЩs edge. Brigid, twice BrianтАЩs age and size, moved after them with the dogged
persistence of one who knows a task will get done somehow. Brian darted about like quicksilver,
second-guessing the nimble geese, turning and maneuvering them with a skill beyond his years.
To Brigid his antics were annoying; she was afraid he would scatter the birds and delay them both in the
increasingly chill rain. But Brian was not herding geese; in the well-lit inner landscape of his mind he was a
general, marshaling his troops, wheeling and driving them with the expertise of a battlefield veteran. His
imagination quickly reduced Brigid to the role of second in command, so that he was angered when she
guided the geese according to some plan of her own.
тАЬNot that way!тАЭ he shouted to her. тАЬTake them up the path through the trees!тАЭ Open country was not
safe, his army could be spotted too easily by enemy scouts!
тАЬAnd lose half of them in the woods before we get them home?тАЭ Brigid countered indignantly. тАЬYour
mother would have my hide for the pot! Do come along, Brian, and quit playing around; the both of us
will be soaked before we get these stupid birds penned!тАЭ
Actually, Brian was right. The path through the trees was shorter and more direct, and once the geese
were headed home, their awakening memory of grain was sufficient to keep them going in the right
direction. But Brigid had never seen them taken by any course but across the meadow, so that was the
way they must go. Flapping her sodden skirt at them, clucking and shooing, she drove them before her as
Brian watched in frustration.
тАЬShe thinks I donтАЩt know anything,тАЭ he fumed to himself, wiping a lock of dripping red hair from his
freckled forehead. тАЬNobody ever listens to me.тАЭ He kicked at a small stone that
lay invitingly near his foot, then turned to gaze once more at his chosen line of march; he shrugged his
shoulders and set off in the wake of Brigid and the flock. тАЬNext time,тАЭ he promised himself under his
breath, тАЬIтАЩll bring them my own way.тАЭ
The thatched roofs of home glowed golden through the rain. Set in a magnificent grove of oak and pine,
Boruma had been built by the princes of the Dal Cais on the ruins of an old ring fort, or dun, utilizing its
earthen wall and deep ditch as the perimeter of their personal compound. In keeping with his status as
tribal king, CennediтАЩs round timber-and-wattle dwelling was the largest of the buildings. It occupied a
central position opposite the gate, surrounded by the homes of his noble kinsmen and domestic buildings