"Martin, George R R - The hedge knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

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