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

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in his face. It was utterly unpremeditated, surprising Llewelyn almost as much
as it did Walter, and he realized at once that his Corbet kinship would avail
him little against an offense of such magnitude. But for the moment the
incredulous outrage on Walter's face was worth it, worth it all.
Walter gasped, and then lunged. Shock slowed his reflexes, however, and
Llewelyn was already on his feet. He sprinted for Sul, and the gelding raised
its head, expectant, for this was a game they often played, and Llewelyn had
become quite adroit at vaulting up onto the horse's back from a running jump.
But as he chanced a glance back over his shoulder, he saw he was not going to
make it; Walter was closing ground with every stride. Llewelyn swerved,
tripped, and sprawled facedown in the high grass. There was no time for fear,
it all happened too fast; Walter was on top of him, and this time the older
boy was in deadly earnest, he meant to inflict pain, to maim, and his was the
advantage of four years and fully forty pounds.
"Walter, stop!" The other boys had reached them, were struggling to drag
Walter off him. Llewelyn heard their voices as if from a great distance; there
was a roaring in his ears. His right eye was swelling rapidly, and an open
gash just above the eyelid was spurting so much blood that he was all but
blinded. Through a spangled crimson haze, he caught movement and brought his
arm up in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. But the expected explosion of
pain did not come; instead the voices became louder, more strident.
"Jesus God, Walter, think what you do! Did you not hear your brother? The
boy's not fair game, he's kin to the Corbets!"
"He's talking sense, Walter. You've got to let the boy be!"
"I intend to ... as soon as he does beg my forgiveness." Walter was now
straddling Llewelyn, holding the boy immobile with the weight of his own body,
and he shifted his position as he spoke, driving his knee into Llewelyn's
ribcage until he cried out in pain. "We're waiting on you. Tell me how sorry
you are . . . and whilst you be at it, let's hear you admit the truth about
your God-cursed kinfolk, that there's not a Welshman born who's not a thief
and cutthroat."
Pain had vanquished pride; Llewelyn was frightened enough and hurting enough
to humble himself with an apology. But it was unthinkable to do what Walter
was demanding.
"Cer i uffern!" It was the worst oath Llewelyn knew, one that damned Walter to
the fires of Hell. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his face was
pressed down into the dirt and his arm twisted up behind his back. He'd been
braced for pain, but not for this, searing/ burning, unendurable. The shouting
had begun again. Walter's mouth
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gainst his ear. "Say it," he hissed. "Say it, or by Christ I'll damned well
break your arm!"
Mo No, never. Did he say that aloud? Someone was gasping, no. rrv " Surely no*
h's v┬░ice- "Welshmen are . . . thieves . . ." No,
not him.
"Again . . louder this time."
"Enough, Walter! It was different when we did not know who he as But Philip
and I want no part of this. You do what you want with him, but we're going
home ... and straightaway!"