"Melanie Rawn - Salve Regina" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rawn Melanie)

"I do thank you, Most Blessed LadyтАФ"

"But not like that!" she exclaimed. "Groveling with your face in the dirt
displeases me. Stand upright! Lift up your hands to the warmth of the
sun!" Berthilde did as bidden; the Lady smiled. "Much better. Now you
show your gratitude with joy, not fear. Take the water, Bright One, and
return as often as you have need. The water and I will always be here."

Berthilde dipped her two buckets deep into the stream. As she turned
to say her thanks again, she was alone but for the sighing of the
summer-memory breeze in the willows and the dance of sunshine on the
water.
~oOo~

She walked swiftly, light of step and heart for sureness that soon her
children would be well, the grass would grow, the orchard would bloom,
the crops would flourish, the cattle would fatten and give sweet milk.
These first two buckets would be for her children, then the sickest of the
village and, of course, the priest. After that, the rest of the people and then
the animals and the land itself would drink, and be healed.

Still, as she passed the withering apple trees, she could not but stop,
and set down her buckets, and cup in her hands water for one tree that
was special to her. Beneath its branches, heavy with spring leaves and
white blossoms and the promise of sweet fruit, her husband had kissed her
for the first time. She sprinkled the dry earth at its roots with water, and
stood back. She waited, holding her breath.

The apple tree quivered, seeming to shake off the blight and the cold.
Tender green shoots appeared. She cried out in wonder and snatched up
the buckets, hurrying home anxious to watch the miracle occur to her
children.

Yet caution slowed her steps as she neared the village. Last moondark,
the tanner, trudging the long miles home from the Chate├вu, was set upon
by cloaked men who stole the flour that had paid him for repairing
Monseigneur's favorite saddle. If people saw this fresh water, would she,
too, crawl to her doorstep bruised and bloodiedтАФand lacking something
even more precious than flour for a single loaf?

She could not risk it. She was sorry to be suspicious of anyone, but she
must think of her children first, and the bloom of health that would
replace the hectic fever in their cheeks. So she took the long way around
the village so that none would see her. None did, and she crossed her own
threshold at last.

The children were alone. Their father's sister had not stayed as she
promised. Berthilde was angry for a moment, then shrugged, for it did not
matter. Swiftly she took a cupтАФtheir wedding cup, made by her husband
of good pewter polished to silver's gleamтАФfrom the shelf above the cold