"George R. R. Martin - 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 тАЬA Game of
ThronesтАЭ




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. тАЬAnother day
done,тАЭ he would sigh, тАЬand who knows what the morrow will bring us, eh, Dunk?тАЭ

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 heтАЩd 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 manтАЩs 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.

тАЬIтАЩd leave your sword, but it would rust in the ground,тАЭ he said at last, apologetic. тАЬThe gods will give
you a new one, I guess. I wish you didnтАЩt die, ser.тАЭ He paused, uncertain what else needed to be said.
He didnтАЩt know any prayers, not all the way through; the old man had never been much for praying.
тАЬYou were a true knight, and you never beat me when I didnтАЩt deserve it,тАЭ he finally managed, тАЬexcept
that one time in Maidenpool. It was the inn boy who ate the widow womanтАЩs pie, not me, I told you. It
donтАЩt matter now. The gods keep you, ser.тАЭ 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 manтАЩs
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