"Sharon K. Penman - The Sunne In Splendour" - читать интересную книгу автора (Penman Sharon K)

"I didn't run away, Edmund. I got lost following my fox. . . . You remember, the one I tamed. . . . While I
was waiting for Ned to come back ..." His words trailed off; he looked sharply at Edmund, chewing his
lip.
"I should have guessed," Edmund said softly, and then, "That damned fool. When he knows how our
father does feel about taking our pleasures with the women of the household!" He broke off, looked
down at Richard with a fleeting smile.
"You haven't any idea what I'm talking about, do you? Just as well, I daresay."
He shook his head. Richard heard him repeating, "The damned fool," under his breath and after a while,
Edmund laughed aloud.
They rode in silence for a time. Richard had understood more than Edmund realized, knew that Ned had
somehow done something that would much displease their father.
"Where is he, Edmund?" he asked, sounding so forlorn that Edmund ruffled his hair in a careless gesture
of consolation.
"Looking for you, where else? He sent your Joan back to the castle for help when dark came and they
still couldn't find you. We've had half the household scouring the woods for you since dusk."
Silence fell between them again. When Richard was beginning to recognize landmarks, knew they would
soon be in sight of Ludford Bridge, he heard Edmund say thoughtfully, "No one knows yet what
happened this afternoon, Dickon. No one has talked to Ned yet, and the girl was so distraught it was
hard to get anything sensible from her. We just assumed you took off on a lark of your own." He
hesitated and then continued, still in the unfamiliar yet intriguing confidential tones of one adult to another.
"You know, Dickon, if our lord father were to think that Ned had left you alone in the meadows, he'd be
none too happy about it. He'd be most wroth with Ned, of course. But he'd blame your Joan, too, I fear.
He might even send her away."
"No!" Richard twisted in the saddle to look up at his brother. "Ned
didn't leave me alone," he said breathlessly. "He didn't, Edmund! I ran after the fox, that's all!"
"Well then, if that be true, you needn't worry about Ned or Joan. After all, if the fault was yours, none
could blame Ned, could they? But you do understand, Dickon, that if the fault was yours, you'll be the
one to be punished?"
Richard nodded. "I know," he whispered, and turned to gaze into the river currents flowing beneath the
bridge, where he'd sacrificed a coin so many eventful hours ago, for luck.
"You know, Dickon, I've been meaning to ask you. . . .Would you like me to make you a slingshot like
the one George has? I cannot promise you when I'll get around to it, mind you, but-"
"You don't have to do that, Edmund. I'd not tell on Ned!" Richard interrupted, sounding somewhat
offended, and hunched his shoulders forward involuntarily as the walls of the castle materialized from the
darkness ahead.
Edmund was distinctly taken aback, and then bit back a grin. "My mistake, sorry!" he said, looking at his
brother with the bemused expression of an adult suddenly discovering that children could be more than
nuisances to be tolerated until they were old enough to behave as rational beings, could even be distinct
individuals in their own right.
As they approached the drawbridge that spanned the moat of lethal pointed stakes, torches flared to
signal Richard's safe return, and by the time Edmund passed through the gatehouse that gave entry into
the inner bailey, their mother was awaiting them upon the ramp leading up into the great hall. Reining in
before her, Edmund swung Richard down and into her upraised arms. As he did, he flashed Richard a
grin and Richard was able to derive a flicker of comfort from that, the awareness that he, for once, had
won Edmund's unqualified approval.
RICHARD was sitting on a table in the solar, so close to the east-wall fireplace that the heat from its
flames gave his face a sunburnt flush. He winced as his mother swabbed with wine-saturated linen at the
scratches upon his face and throat, but submitted without complaint to her ministrations. He was rather
pleased, in fact, to so thoroughly command her attention; he could remember few occasions when she
had treated his bruises with her own hand. Generally this would have been for Joan to do. But Joan was