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

spindle-legged foal; Sul was his pride, his heart's passion. He forgot all
else, and grabbed at Walter's arm as the older boy turned toward Sul. "He's
mine, to me! You leave him be!"
It was a grievous mistake, and he paid dearly for it. They were on him at
once, all three of them, and he went down in a welter of thudding fists and
jabbing elbows. He flailed out wildly, desperately, but he could match neither
his assailants' strength nor their size, and he was soon pinned down in the
trampled grass, Walter's knees on his chest/ his mouth full of his own blood.
"Misbegotten sons of Satan, the lot of you!" Walter panted "Bloody bastards,
not worth the hanging . . ." And if the profanity &
If consciously on his lips, flaunted as tangible proof of passage into
mysteries of manhood, the venom in his voice was not an affectawas rooted in a
bias that was ageless, breathed in from birth.
'"Know you what we mean to do now, Welsh rabbit? Pluck you as
i an as a chicken ..." He reached out, tore the crucifix chain from
I levvelyn's neck. "Spoils of war, starting with that chestnut horse you
tole You can damned well walk back to Wales, mother-naked, and just
thank your heathen gods that we did not hang you for a horse thief! Go
on Philip, I'll n┬░ld him whilst you get his boots ..."
Sul. They were going to take Sul. His bruised ribs, his bloodied nose, hurt
and humiliation and impotent furyall of that was nothing now, not when
balanced against the loss of Sul. Llewelyn gave a sudden frantic heave, caught
Walter off guard, and rolled free. But as quick as he was, the third boy was
quicker, and before he could regain his feet, an arm had crooked around his
neck, jerking him backward. And then Walter's fist buried itself in his
midsection and all fight went out of him; he lay gasping for breath, as if
drowning in the very air he was struggling to draw into his lungs.
"Walter, no!" Stephen had at last found his voice. "He's not a nobody, he's
highborn and kin by marriage to Lord Corbet of Caus! He's stepson to Hugh
Corbet, Walter, and nephew to Lord Robert!"
Suddenly, all Llewelyn could hear was his own labored breathing. Then one of
the boys muttered, "Oh, Christ!" and that broke the spell. They all began to
talk at once. "How do we know he's not lying?" "But Walter, do you not
remember? Lord Fulk was talking at dinner last week about a Corbet marriage to
a Welshwoman of rank, saying the Corbets hoped to safeguard their manors from
Welsh raids with such a union." "Will he go whining to Corbet, d'you think?"
"Since you got us into this, Walter, you ought to be the one to put it right!"
After a low-voiced conference, they moved apart and Walter walked back to
Llewelyn. The younger boy was sitting up, wiping mud from his face with the
sleeve of his tunic. He was bruised and scratched and sore, but his injuries
were superficial. His rage, however, was allconsuming, blotting all else from
his brain. He raised slitted, dark eyes to Walter's face; they glittered with
hatred made all the more intense by his inability to act upon it.
'Here," Walter said tersely, dropping the crucifix on the ground at
lewelyn's feet. The conciliatory gesture was belied by the twist of his
outn, and when Llewelyn did not respond, he leaned over, grasped
ewelyn's arm with a roughness that was a more honest indicator of his
tfue feelings.
Come, I'll help you up." Walter's voice softened, took on a hony malice. "You
need not be afraid," he drawled, and Llewelyn spat