"Robin McKinley - The Outlaws of Sherwood" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKinley Robin)

not so strong as he had been. No one thought anything of Robert LongbowтАЩs death
but sorrow to see a good man gone; and Robin had known better than to mention
the unnecessary call that came one stormy midnight after his father was already
sickening. When Robert came back late the next morning, he was wet through, and
he took to his bed, and did not leave it again alive.
 His friends knew that the Chief Forester was hardly RobinтАЩs favourite person, but
they knew little more than that. Let them think the unpleasantness was minor, left
over from the old romantic story of how his father and the Chief Forester had
courted the same woman, and his father had won her, despite the Chief ForesterтАЩs
better standingтАФand private income. HeтАЩd bring his bow to the fair, and enter the
archery contest, and try not to miss at least his first shot. Even if Bill Sharp was not
there, he was always at his worst with a lot of people watching him. But he really
wanted to see Marian win.
He resettled his bow on his shoulder and gave another shake to his quiver, that it
would hang straight, and not tease the back of his neck: he spent far too much of his
daily life walking to be comfortable with an arrow-sack looped around his belt and
banging against one leg in the common manner. That done, he set off solemnly
through the treesтАФtrying to feel that his decision was not only final but a good one,
and that he was pleased with it besides. It was a long way to the town of
Nottingham; it was probably foolish of him to have taken the time for target practice,
particularly when practice wasnтАЩt going to tell him anything he didnтАЩt already know.
He tried to whistle, but gave it up as a bad job.
He knew no other life than forestry, and if he left Nottingham he would have no
choice but to give up his fatherтАЩs holding. His fatherтАЩs pride in England had
extended to include his pride in tenant ownership of a cottage and small bit of
landтАФland for a garden, and the cottage large enough to have separate rooms for
eating and sleeping. There was even a separate coop for his wifeтАЩs chickens, built
against one outside wall of the cottage, where the birds were not only out from
underfoot in the house, with their dirt and their feathers, but safe from foxes and
other marauders as well. It was not only RobinтАЩs motherтАЩs family who was
conscious that sheтАЩd married beneath her.
There was another reason Robin would not leave Nottingham, nor voluntarily give
up his loosening hold on his fatherтАЩs land: Marian. And he could not help it that he
often recalled that his gentry-bred mother had chosen to marry a mere forester with
no prospects. But while the present Chief Forester remained, there was no chance of
marriage for Robin, neither to a member of the gentry nor to the humblest village girl,
who would never contemplate sleeping apart from her chickens were she so
fortunate as to own any.
Robin knew the Nottingham woods hereabouts so well he did not need to think
about where he was going, and his feet carried him responsibly forward while his
mind was elsewhere. But he was not in the mood for any meeting with his fellows,
and he was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of voices: one of them Tom
MoodyтАЩs, the Chief ForesterтАЩs great friend and crony, and another Bill SharpтАЩs.
Robin stopped, but it was too late, for they had seen him. There were half a
dozen of them together, and they sat and watched him so expectantly that he
wondered if they had been waiting for him, and what they intended to do.
Bill stood up to his full if insignificant height, and leaned casually against a tree by
the narrow, tree-crowded path. Robin, if he continued, would have to pass so near
him their sleeves might brush; and there was no graceful nor inconspicuous way to
leave the path altogether. The others sat where they were; Tom had a very large grin