"Sharon K. Penman - Here Be Dragons" - читать интересную книгу автора (Penman Sharon K)

one. We do not have them in my land, you see."
Stephen looked incredulous. "None at all?"
"Just those that were built by the Normans. Our people live in houses of
timber, but they're scattered throughout the mountains, not all clustered
together like your English villages."
It was obviously a novel thought to Stephen, that not all cultures and
societies were modeled after his own. They were both sitting on the bank by
the stream and he rolled over in the grass, propped his chin in his hands, and
said, "Tell me more about the Welsh."
Llewelyn no longer had any reservations about boasting of his bloodlines.
Stephen was so woefully ignorant that it was truly a charitable act to
enlighten him, he decided, and proceeded to acquaint Stephen with some of the
more legendary exploits of his celebrated grandfather, giving his imagination
free rein.
"And so," he concluded, having at last run out of inspiration, "when my
grandfather died, his sons fought to see who would succeed him. My father was
deprived of his rightful inheritance, and Gwynedd is now ruled by my uncles,
Rhodri and Davydd."
Welsh names were falling fast and freeto Stephen's unfamiliar ears, much like
the musical murmurings of Yokethul Brook. But one fact he'd grasped quite
clearly. A prince was a prince, be he Welsh or Norman, and he looked at
Llewelyn with greatly increased respect. "Wait," he begged. "Let me be sure I
do follow you. Your grandfather was a Prince of ... Gwynedd, and your lady
mother is the daughter of a Prince of . . . ?"
"Powys. Marared, daughter of Prince Madog ap Meredydd. My fa* ther was killed
when I was a babe, and ere my mother wed Hugh Corbet, we lived with her kin in
Powys ..."
Llewelyn had not begun talking until he was nearly two, and since then, his
mother often teased, he seemed bound and determined to
UP f┬░r a" ^at ^ost ^me- Now, with so satisfactory an audience as
ma hen and a subject that was so close to his heart, he outdid himself,
JI Stephen learned that among the Welsh there was no greater sin
^ to deny hospitality to a traveler, that Welshmen scorned the chain-
.j arrn0r of the English knight, that Llewelyn's closest friends were
s named Rhys and Ednyved, and the ancient Welsh name for
Shrewsbury was Pengwern.
The sun had taken on the dull, red-gold haze of coming dusk as Llewelyn
obligingly gave Stephen a lesson in the basics of Welsh pronunciation. "Say
Rhys like this: Rees. And Ed-nev-ed. Now try Gruffvdd; it sounds like your
Griffith. In Welsh, the double 'd' is pronounced as 'th.' So my little
brother's name is spelled A-d-d-a, but we say it as Atha, Welsh for Adam." He
paused, his head cocked. "Do you hear that? Someone is calling your name."
Stephen scrambled to his feet so fast he all but tumbled down the brook
embankment. "My brother! Jesii, but he'll flay me alive!" "Why?"
"I coaxed him into taking me with him to Shrewsbury this morn. We agreed to
meet at St George's bridge and I... I just forgot!" "Well, cannot you say
you're sorry and ..." Stephen shook his head, staring at the boys now mounting
the crest of the hill. "No, not with Walter. He ... he's not much for
forgiveness ..."
The approaching boys looked to be about fourteen. The youngster in the lead