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

The seven men stood for a moment like a tableau in a Christmas pageant; and
then Tom said thickly, тАЬWe shall not wait for the fair; we shall have our shooting
match here. And by my faith, if you do not shoot as you choose to boast you can,
be sure that I shall take great pleasure in basting your ribs till your sides are as red as
any flayed deerтАЩs.
тАЬCome,тАЭ said he, turning on his heel. тАЬWhat shall we use as mark?тАЭ He spoke,
not to Robin, but to his friends; yet even they quailed before the fierceness of his
gaze. Bill backed cautiously away from him, as if Tom might order him strung up
kicking for a more challenging target. тАЬThere,тАЭ he said, and RobinтАЩs heart sank in
him as Tom pointed. тАЬSee the gnarled oak tree, two score rods distant, I judge, or
thereabouts? And see the crotch halfway up that tree, and the small black burl
beneath the crotch? At that we shall aim.тАЭ He strode over to where his bow and
quiver lay, next to the small open cask on the ground, and he snatched them up,
tumbling the quiver through the loop on his belt, his knuckles white where they held
the bow.
тАЬAs the challenged, I go first,тАЭ he said; but Robin was too sick to protest that it
was not this test he had offered as challenge; nor, he knew, would a protest have
done him any good. At such a range he would be lucky if his arrows did not
bounceтАФif they struck the correct tree at all. The anger that had borne him up
drained away as suddenly as it had risen, and he was cold and weary, and knew he
had been a fool. He wondered if Tom meant to kill him after. There was no doubt
that Tom was the better archer, any more than it was uncommon knowledge that
Robin was not the archer his father had been; Bill had made his ears burn often
enough on this subjectтАФfor all that Bill himself could barely hit the broad side of a
barn at six paces. Robin thought sadly that he had not known the old wound could
still hurt so sorely.
Robin turned heavy eyes to Tom as the bigger man took his stance and pulled his
arrow powerfully backтАФbut he noticed that the manтАЩs hands were not quite steady.
With anger? Robin thought. Or with ale? Either way he will take joy in beating me
senseless.
тАЬThree arrows each we may try,тАЭ Tom said between his teeth, and let go his first
shaft. It flew straight, but a little awry, for it buried itself at the left edge of the burl,
and not the center. The second struck so near to the first that their feathers vibrated
together; and this second one was nearer the burlтАЩs center. But the third, which
should have struck nearest of all, went wild, and sank in the trunk a fingerтАЩs-breadth
from the burl. Tom threw his bow down savagely and turned to Robin. тАЬLet us see
you shoot yet half so well,тАЭ he said threateningly.
Robin slowly moved forward to take his place, slowly unslung his bow, bent it to
slip the string into its notch, and pulled an arrow from his quiver. But his hands were
steady as he drew the bowstring back and sighted down the arrow.
His first arrow struck the far right side of the treetrunk, a good handтАЩs-breadth
from the burl. There was a snicker behind him. It might be Bill; he doubted it was
Tom. And yet his arrow was, for him and indeed for most archers, good shooting. It
was not for his archery that RobinтАЩs father had called Tom Moody bad. He notched
and drew his second arrow, and it flew beautifully, to strike at the veriest right-hand
edge of the burl; and yet it was nearer the mark than only one of TomтАЩs, and Robin
had already shot two.
He fitted his last arrow to the string, staring at his hands, which went fairly about
their familiar work without acknowledging the trouble that they and the rest of Robin
were in. The arrow was his best; from the same fine-grained bit of pine he had made