"George R. R. Martin - A Song of Ice and Fire 0.1 - The Hedge Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

The Hedge Knight
A Tale of the Seven Kingdoms

George R.R. Martin


The story offered here takes place about a hundred years prior to the events described in УA Game of ThronesФ



The spring rains had softened the ground, so Dunk had no trouble digging the grave. He chose a spot on the western slope of a low hill, for the old man had always loved to watch the sunset. УAnother day done,Ф he would sigh, Уand who knows what the morrow will bring us, eh, Dunk?Ф
Well, one morrow had brought rains that soaked them to the bones, and the one after had brought wet gusty winds, and the next a chill. By the fourth day the old man was too weak to ride. And now he was gone. Only a few days past, he had been singing as they rode, the old song about going to Gulltown to see a fair maid, but instead of Gulltown heТd sung of Ashford. Off to Ashford to see the fair maid, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, Dunk thought miserably as he dug.
When the hole was deep enough, he lifted the old manТs body in his arms and carried him there. He had been a small man, and slim; stripped of hauberk, helm, and sword belt, he seemed to weigh no more than a bag of leaves. Dunk was hugely tall for his age, a shambling, shaggy, big-boned boy of sixteen or seventeen years (no one was quite certain which) who stood closer to seven feet than to six, and had only just begun to fill out his frame. The old man had often praised his strength. He had always been generous in his praise. It was all he had to give.
He laid him out in the bottom of the grave and stood over him for a time. The smell of rain was in the air again, and he knew he ought to fill the hole before the rain broke, but it was hard to throw dirt down on that tired old face. There ought to be a septon here, to say some prayers over him, but he only has me. The old man had taught Dunk all he knew of swords and shields and lances, but had never been much good at teaching him words.
УIТd leave your sword, but it would rust in the ground,Ф he said at last, apologetic. УThe gods will give you a new one, I guess. I wish you didnТt die, ser.Ф He paused, uncertain what else needed to be said. He didnТt know any prayers, not all the way through; the old man had never been much for praying. УYou were a true knight, and you never beat me when I didnТt deserve it,Ф he finally managed, Уexcept that one time in Maidenpool. It was the inn boy who ate the widow womanТs pie, not me, I told you. It donТt matter now. The gods keep you, ser.Ф He kicked dirt in the hole, then began to fill it methodically, never looking at the thing at the bottom. He had a long life, Dunk thought. He must have been closer to sixty than to fifty, and how many men can say that? At least he had lived to see another spring.
The sun was westering as he fed the horses. There were three; his swaybacked stot, the old manТs palfrey, and Thunder, his warhorse, who was ridden only in tourney and battle. The big brown stallion was not as swift or strong as he had once been, but he still had his bright eye and fierce spirit, and he was more valuable than everything else Dunk owned. If I sold Thunder and old Chestnut, and the saddles and bridles too, IТd come away with enough silver to. . . Dunk frowned. The only life he knew was the life of a hedge knight, riding from keep to keep, taking service with this lord and that lord, fighting in their battles and eating in their halls until the war was done, then moving on. There were tourneys from time to time as well, though less often, and he knew that some hedge knights turned robber during lean winters, though the old man never had.
I could find another hedge knight in need of a squire to tend his animals and clean his mail, he thought, or might be I could go to some city, to Jannisport or KingТs Landing, and join the City Watch. Or else . . .
He had piled the old manТs things under an oak. The cloth purse contained three silver stags, nineteen copper pennies, and a chipped garnet; as with most hedge knights, the greatest part of his worldly wealth had been tied up in his horses and weapons. Dunk now owned a chain-mail hauberk that he had scoured the rust off a thousand times. An iron halfhelm with a broad nasal and a dent on the left temple. A sword belt of cracked brown leather, and a longsword in a wood-and-leather scabbard. A dagger, a razor, a whetstone. Greaves and gorget, an eight-foot war lance of turned ash topped by a cruel iron point, and an oaken shield with a scarred metal rim, bearing the sigil of Ser Arlan of Pennytree: a winged chalice, silver on brown.
Dunk looked at the shield, scooped up the sword belt, and looked at the shield again. The belt was made for the old manТs skinny hips. It would never do for him, no more than the hauberk would. He tied the scabbard to a length of hempen rope, knotted it around his waist, and drew the longsword.
The blade was straight and heavy, good castle-forged steel, the grip soft leather wrapped over wood, the pommel a smooth polished black stone. Plain as it was, the sword felt good in his hand, and Dunk knew how sharp it was, having worked it with whetstone and oilcloth many a night before they went to sleep. It fits my grip as well as it ever fit his, he thought to himself, and there is a tourney at Ashford Meadow.

Sweetfoot had an easier gait than old Chestnut, but Dunk was still sore and tired when he spied the inn ahead, a tall daub-and-timber building beside a stream. The warm yellow light spilling from its windows looked so inviting that he could not pass it by. I have three silvers, he told himself, enough for a good meal and as much ale as I care to drink. As he dismounted, a naked boy emerged dripping from the stream and began to dry himself on a roughspun brown cloak. УAre you the stableboy?Ф Dunk asked him. The lad looked to be no more than eight or nine, a pasty-faced skinny thing, his bare feet caked in mud up to the ankle. His hair was the queerest thing about him. He had none.
УIТll want my palfrey rubbed down. And oats for all three. Can you tend to them?Ф
The boy looked at him brazenly. УI could. If I wanted.Ф
Dunk frowned. УIТll have none of that. I am a knight, IТll have you know.Ф
УYou donТt look to be a knight.Ф
УDo all knights look the same?Ф
УNo, but they donТt look like you, either. Your sword beltТs made of rope.Ф
УSo long as it holds my scabbard, it serves. Now see to my horses. YouТll get a copper if you do well, and a clout in the ear if you donТt.Ф He did not wait to see how the stableboy took that, but turned away and shouldered through the door.
At this hour, he would have expected the inn to be crowded, but the common room was almost empty. A young lordling in a fine damask mantle was passed out at one table, snoring softly into a pool of spilled wine. Otherwise there was no one. Dunk looked around uncertainly until a stout, short. whey-faced woman emerged from the kitchens and said, УSit where you like. Is it ale you want, or food?Ф
УBoth.Ф Dunk took a chair by the window, well away from the sleeping man.
УThereТs good lamb, roasted with a crust of herbs, and some ducks my son shot down. Which will you have?Ф
He had not eaten at an inn in half a year or more. УBoth.Ф
The woman laughed. УWell, youТre big enough for it.Ф She drew a tankard of ale and brought it to his table. УWill you be wanting a room for the night as well?Ф
УNo.Ф Dunk would have liked nothing better than a soft straw mattress and a roof above his head, but he needed to be careful with his coin. The ground would serve. УSome food, some ale, and itТs on to Ashford for me. How much farther is it?Ф
УA dayТs ride. Bear north when the road forks at the burned mill. Is my boy seeing to your horses, or has he run off again?Ф
УNo, heТs there,Ф said Dunk. УYou seem to have no custom.Ф
УHalf the townТs gone to see the tourney. My own would as well, if I allowed it. TheyТll have this inn when I go, but the boy would sooner swagger about with soldiers, and the girl turns to sighs and giggles every time a knight rides by. I swear I couldnТt tell you why. Knights are built the same as other men, and I never knew a joust to change the price of eggs.Ф She eyed Dunk curiously; his sword and shield told her one thing, his rope belt and roughspun tunic quite another. УYouТre bound for the tourney yourself?Ф
He took a sip of the ale before he answered. A nut brown color it was, and thick on the tongue, the way he liked it. УAye,Ф he said. УI mean to be a champion.Ф
УDo you, now?Ф the innkeep answered, polite enough.
Across the room, the lordling raised his head from the wine puddle. His face had a sallow, unhealthy cast to it beneath a ratТs nest of sandy brown hair, and blond stubble crusted his chin. He rubbed his mouth, blinked at Dunk, and said, УI dreamed of you.Ф His hand trembled as he pointed a finger. УYou stay away from me, do you hear? You stay well away.Ф
Dunk stared at him uncertainly. УMy lord?Ф
The innkeep leaned close. УNever you mind that one, ser. All he does is drink and talk about his dreams. IТll see about that food.Ф She bustled off.
УFood?Ф The lordling made the word an obscenity. He staggered to his feet, one hand on the table to keep himself from falling. УIТm going to be sick,Ф he announced. The front of his tunic was crusty red with old wine stains. УI wanted a whore, but thereТs none to be found here. All gone to Ashford Meadow. Gods be good, I need some wine.Ф He lurched unsteadily from the common room, and Dunk heard him climbing steps, singing under his breath.
A sad creature, thought Dunk. But why did he think he knew me? He pondered that a moment over his ale.
The lamb was as good as any he had ever eaten, and the duck was even better, cooked with cherries and lemons and not near as greasy as most. The innkeep brought buttered pease as well, and oaten bread still hot from her oven. This is what it means to be a knight, he told himself as he sucked the last bit of meat off the bone. Good food, and ale whenever I want it, and no one to clout me in the head. He had a second tankard of ale with the meal, a third to wash it down, and a fourth because there was no one to tell him he couldnТt, and when he was done he paid the woman with a silver stag and still got back a fistful of coppers.
It was full dark by the time Dunk emerged. His stomach was full and his purse was a little lighter, but he felt good as he walked to the stables. Ahead, he heard a horse whicker. УEasy, lad,Ф a boyТs voice said. Dunk quickened his step, frowning.
He found the stableboy mounted on Thunder and wearing the old manТs armor. The hauberk was longer than he was, and heТd had to tilt the helm back on his bald head or else it would have covered his eyes. He looked utterly intent, and utterly absurd. Dunk stopped in the stable door and laughed.
The boy looked up, flushed, vaulted to the ground. УMy lord, I did not meanЧ