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

The pain in his arm subsided so slowly that Llewelyn did not at once realize
he was free. Time passed. He was alone in the meadows now, but he did not
move, not until he felt a wet muzzle on the back of his neck. It was Sul,
nuzzling his tunic, playing their favorite game, seeking out hidden apple
slices. Only then did tears well in Llewelyn's eyes. He welcomed them, needing
to cry, but it was not to be; this was a hurt beyond tears, and they trickled
into the blood smearing his cheek, dried swiftly in the dying heat of the
setting sun.
Priding himself on his horsemanship, Llewelyn had never felt the lack of a
saddle before. Now, with his right arm all but useless, with no saddle pommel
to grip, the once-simple act of mounting was suddenly beyond his capabilities.
Again and again he grasped Sul's mane, struggling to pull himself up onto the
gelding's back. Again and again he slid back, defeated. But Sul's placid
temperament stood him in good stead; the chestnut did no more than roll its
eyes sideways, as if seeking to understand this queer new game Llewelyn was
set upon playing, and at last, sobbing with frustration, Llewelyn was able to
pull himself up onto Sul's withers. He was promptly sick, clinging to Sul's
mane while his stomach heaved and the sky whirled dizzily overhead, a surging
tide of sunset colors spinning round and round like a child's pinwheel, until
the very horizon seemed atilt and all the world out of focus.
He headed the gelding back toward Caus Castle; he had nowhere else to go.
Village life ceased at dusk, for only the wealthy could afford the luxury of
candles and rushlight, and the little hamlets were deserted, his passage
heralded only by the barking of dogs. It was well past nightfall by the time
he approached Westbury. He had a hazy, halftormed hope that he might somehow
sneak unseen into the castle bailey, and then up into the keep, to the upper
chamber where Robert orbet's three young sons slept. How he was to accomplish
this mirac┬░us feat, he had no idea, and it was rendered irrelevant now by the
sudden appearance of a small body of horsemen.
Llewelyn drew rein, for he'd recognized the lead rider. Hugh CorDet his
mother's new husband.
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"Llewelyn! Where in the name of Jesus have you been, boy? YOU mother's frantic
and little wonder. We've been out looking for you sinc Vespers!"
The search party carried lanterns, and as Hugh reined in beside Llewelyn, a
glimmer of light fell across the boy's face, only a flicker of illumination,
but enough. Hugh drew in his breath sharply. "My God lad, what happened to
you?"
THERE was some talk of summoning a doctor from Shrewsbury, but it was finally
decided that Llewelyn's need was not so great as that. As the lady of the
manor, Emma Corbet was, of necessity, a skilled apothecary, as adroit in
stitching up wounds, applying poultices, and brewing healing herbs as any
physician. It was she who applied a salve of mutton fat and resin to
Llewelyn's bruised ribs, bathed his swollen eye in rosewater, and washed the
blood and dirt from his face.
No, his shoulder was not dislocated, she said soothingly. If it were, he'd be
unable to move the arm at all. She did feel certain, though, that his wrist
was sprained; see how it was swelling? She'd need cold cornpresses for the
eye, hot towels for the wrist, and her cache of herbs, she directed, and her
maids speedily departed the bedchamber, leaving Llewelyn alone with Emma and