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

УThief,Ф Dunk said, trying to sound stern. УTake off that armor, and be glad that Thunder didnТt kick you in that fool head. HeТs a warhorse, not a boyТs pony.Ф
The boy took off the helm and flung it to the straw. УI could ride him as well as you,Ф he said, bold as you please.
УClose your mouth, I want none of your insolence. The hauberk too, take it off. What did you think you were doing?Ф
УHow can I tell you, with my mouth closed?Ф The boy squirmed out of the chain mail and let it fall.
УYou can open your mouth to answer,Ф said Dunk. УNow pick up that mail, shake off the dirt, and put it back where you found it. And the halfhelm too. Did you feed the horses, as I told you? And rub down Sweetfoot?Ф
УYes,Ф the boy said, as he shook straw from the mail. УYouТre going to Ashford, arenТt you? Take me with you, ser.Ф
The innkeep had warned him of this. УAnd what might your mother say to that?Ф
УMy mother?Ф The boy wrinkled up his face. УMy motherТs dead, she wouldnТt say anything.Ф
He was surprised. WasnТt the innkeep his mother? Perhaps he was only Сprenticed to her. DunkТs head was a little fuzzy from the ale. УAre you an orphan boy?Ф he asked uncertainly.
УAre you?Ф the boy threw back.
УI was once,Ф Dunk admitted. Till the old man took me in.
УIf you took me, I could squire for you.Ф
УI have no need of a squire,Ф he said.
УEvery knight needs a squire,Ф the boy said. УYou look as though you need one more than most.Ф
Dunk raised a hand threateningly. УAnd you look as though you need a clout in the ear, it seems to me. Fill me a sack of oats. IТm off for Ashford alone.Ф
If the boy was frightened, he hid it well. For a moment he stood there defiant, his arms crossed, but just as Dunk was about to give up on him the lad turned and went for the oats.
Dunk was relieved. A pity I couldnТt . . . but he has a good life here at the inn, a better one than heТd have squiring for a hedge knight. Taking him would be no kindness.
He could still feel the ladТs disappointment, though. As he mounted Sweetfoot and took up ThunderТs lead; Dunk decided that a copper penny might cheer him. УHere, lad, for your help.Ф He flipped the coin down at him with a smile, but the stableboy made no attempt to catch it. It fell in the dirt between his bare feet, and there he let it lie.
HeТll scoop it up as soon as I am gone, Dunk told himself. He turned the palfrey and rode from the inn, leading the other two horses. The trees were bright with moonlight, and the sky was cloudless and speckled with stars. Yet as he headed down the road he could feel the stableboy watching his back, sullen and silent.

The shadows of the afternoon were growing long when Dunk reined up on the edge of broad Ashford Meadow. Three score pavilions had already risen on the grassy field. Some were small, some large; some square, some round; some of sailcloth, some of linen, some of silk; but all were brightly colored, with long banners streaming from their center poles, brighter than a field of wildflowers with rich reds and sunny yellows, countless shades of green and blue, deep blacks and greys and purples.
The old man had ridden with some of these knights; others Dunk knew from tales told in common rooms and round campfires. Though he had never learned the magic of reading or writing, the old man had been relentless when it came to teaching him heraldry, often drilling him as they rode. The nightingales belonged to Lord Caron of the Marches, as skilled with the high harp as he was with a lance. The crowned stag was for Ser Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm. Dunk picked out the Tarly huntsman, House DondarrionТs purple lightning, the red apple of the Fossoways. There roared the lion of Lannister gold on crimson, and there the dark green sea turtle of the Estermonts swam across a pale green field. The brown tent beneath red stallion could only belong to Ser Otho Bracken, who was called the Brute of Bracken since slaying Lord Quentyn Blackwood three years past during a tourney at KingТs Landing. Dunk heard that Ser Otho struck so hard with the blunted longaxe that he stove in the visor of Lord BlackwoodТs helm and the face beneath it. He saw some Blackwood banners as well, on the west edge of the meadow, as distant from Ser Otho as they could be. Marbrand, Mallister, Cargyll, Westerling, Swann, Mullendore, Hightower, Florent, Frey, Penrose, Stokeworth, Daffy, Parren, Wylde; it seemed as though every lordly house of the west and south had sent a knight or three to Ashford to see the fair maid and brave the lists in her honor.
Yet however fine their pavilions were to look upon, he knew there was no place there for him. A threadbare wool cloak would be all the shelter he had tonight. While the lords and great knights dined on capons and suckling pigs, DunkТs supper would be a hard, stringy piece of salt beef. He knew full well that if he made his camp upon that gaudy field, he would need to suffer both silent scorn and open mockery. A few perhaps would treat him kindly, yet in a way that was almost worse.
A hedge knight must hold tight to his pride. Without it, he was no more than a sellsword. I must earn my place in that company. If I fight well, some lord may take me into his household. I will ride in noble company then, and eat fresh meat every night in a castle hail, and raise my own pavilion at tourneys. But first I must do well. Reluctantly, he turned his back on the tourney grounds and led his horses into the trees.
On the outskirts of the great meadow a good half mile from town and castle he found a place where a bend in a brook had formed a deep pool. Reeds grew thick along its edge, and a tall leafy elm presided over all. The spring grass there was as green as any knightТs banner and soft to the touch. It was a pretty spot, and no one had yet laid claim to it. This will be my pavilion, Dunk told himself, a pavilion roofed with leaves, greener even than the banners of the Tyrells and the Estermonts.
His horses came first. After they had been tended, he stripped and waded into the pool to wash away the dust of travel. УA true knight is cleanly as well as godly,Ф the old man always said, insisting that they wash themselves head to heels every time the moon turned, whether they smelled sour or not. Now that he was a knight, Dunk vowed he would do the same.
He sat naked under the elm while he dried, enjoying the warmth of the spring air on his skin as he watched a dragonfly move lazily among the reeds. Why would they name it a dragonfly? he wondered. It looks nothing like a dragon. Not that Dunk had ever seen a dragon. The old man had, though. Dunk had heard the story half a hundred times, how Ser Arlan had been just a little boy when his grandfather had taken him to KingТs Landing, and how theyТd seen the last dragon there the year before it died. SheТd been a green female, small and stunted, her wings withered. None of her eggs had ever hatched. УSome say King Aegon poisoned her,Ф the old man would tell. УThe third Aegon that would be, not King DaeronТs father, but the one they named Dragonbane, or Aegon the Unlucky. He was afraid of dragons, for heТd seen his uncleТs beast devour his own mother. The summers have been shorter since the last dragon died, and the winters longer and crueler.Ф
The air began to cool as the sun dipped below the tops of the trees. When Dunk felt gooseflesh prickling his arms, he beat his tunic and breeches against the trunk of the elm to knock off the worst of the dirt, and donned them once again. On the morrow he could seek out the master of the games and enroll his name, but he had other matters he ought to look into tonight if he hoped to challenge.
He did not need to study his reflection in the water to know that he did not look much a knight, so he slung Ser ArlanТs shield across his back to display the sigil. Hobbling the horses, Dunk left them to crop the thick green grass beneath the elm as he set out on foot for the tourney grounds.

In normal times the meadow served as a commons for the folk of Ashford town across the river, but now it was transformed. A second town had sprung up overnight, a town of silk instead of stone, larger and fairer than its elder sister. Dozens of merchants had erected their stalls along the edge of the field, selling felts and fruits, belts and boots, hides and hawks, earthenware, gemstones, pewterwork, spices, feathers, and all manner of other goods. Jugglers, puppeteers, and magicians wandered among the crowds plying their trades... as did the whores and cutpurses. Dunk kept a wary hand on his coin.
When he caught the smell of sausages sizzling over a smoky fire, his mouth began to water. He bought one with a copper from his pouch, and a horn of ale to wash it down. As he ate he watched a painted wooden knight battle a painted wooden dragon. The puppeteer who worked the dragon was good to watch too; a tall drink of water, with the olive skin and black hair of Dorne. She was slim as a lance with no breasts to speak of, but Dunk liked her face and the way her fingers made the dragon snap and slither at the end of its strings. He would have tossed the girl a copper if heТd had one to spare, but just now he needed every coin.
There were armorers among the merchants, as he had hoped. A Tyroshi with a forked blue beard was selling ornate helms, gorgeous fantastical things wrought in the shapes of birds and beasts and chased with gold and silver. Elsewhere he found a swordmaker hawking cheap steel blades, and another whose work was much finer, but it was not a sword he lacked.
The man he needed was all the way down at the end of the row, a shirt of fine chain mail and a pair of lobstered steel gauntlets displayed on the table before him. Dunk inspected them closely. УYou do good work,Ф he said.
УNone better.Ф A stumpy man, the smith was no more than five feet tall, yet wide as Dunk about the chest and arms. He had a black beard, huge hands, and no trace of humility.
УI need armor for the tourney,Ф Dunk told him. УA suit of good mail, with gorget, greaves, and greathelm.Ф The old manТs halfhelm would fit his head, but he wanted more protection for his face than a nasal bar alone could provide.
The armorer looked him up and down. УYouТre a big one, but IТve armored bigger.Ф He came out from behind the table. УKneel, I want to measure those shoulders. Aye, and that thick neck oТ yours.Ф Dunk knelt. The armorer laid a length of knotted rawhide along his shoulders, grunted, slipped it about his throat, grunted again. УLift your arm. No, the right.Ф He grunted a third time. УNow you can stand.Ф The inside of a leg, the thickness of his calf, and the size of his waist elicited further grunts. УI have some pieces in me wagon that might do for you,Ф the man said when he was done. УNothing prettied up with gold nor silver, mind you, just good steel, strong and plain. I make helms that look like helms, not winged pigs and queer foreign fruits, but mine will serve you better if you take a lance in the face.Ф
УThatТs all I want,Ф said Dunk. УHow much?Ф
УEight hundred stags, for IТm feeling kindly.Ф
УEight hundred?Ф It was more than he had expected. УI... I could trade you some old armor, made for a smaller man. . . a halfhelm, a mail hauberk...Ф
УSteely Pate sells only his own work,Ф the man declared, Уbut it might be I could make use of the metal. If itТs not too rusted, IТll take it and armor you for six hundred.Ф
Dunk could beseech Pate to give him the armor on trust, but he knew what sort of answer that request would likely get. He had traveled with the old man long enough to learn that merchants were notoriously mistrustful of hedge knights, some of whom were little better than robbers. УIТll give you two silvers now, and the armor and the rest of the coin on the morrow.Ф
The armorer studied him a moment. УTwo silvers buys you a day. After that, I sell me work to the next man.Ф
Dunk scooped the stags out of his pouch and placed them in the armorerТs callused hand. УYouТll get it all. I mean to be a champion here.Ф
УDo you?Ф Pate bit one of the coins. УAnd these others, I suppose they all came just to cheer you on?Ф

The moon was well up by the time he turned his steps back toward his elm. Behind him, Ashford Meadow was ablaze with torchlight. The sounds of song and laughter drifted across the grass, but his own mood was somber. He could think of only one way to raise the coin for his armor. And if he should be defeated... УOne victory is all I need,Ф he muttered aloud. УThatТs not so much to hope for.Ф
Even so, the old man would never have hoped for it. Ser Arlan had not ridden a tilt since the day he had been unhorsed by the Prince of Dragonstone in a tourney at StormТs End, many years before. УIt is not every man who can boast that he broke seven lances against the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms,Ф he would say. УI could never hope to do better, so why should I try?Ф
Dunk had suspected that Ser ArlanТs age had more to do with it than the Prince of Dragonstone did, but he never dared say as much. The old man had his pride, even at the last. I am quick and strong, he always said so, what was true for him need not be true for me, he told himself stubbornly.
He was moving through a patch of weed, chewing over his chances in his head, when he saw the flicker of firelight through the bushes. What is this? Dunk did not stop to think. Suddenly his sword was in his hand and he was crashing through the grass.