"R Garcia Y Robertson - Strongbow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robertson R Garcia Y)

might disappoint Edmund. She desperately needed a more promising plan, one not
requiring her gory demise.

Her fingers dug at cold hard stone. Beyond the Ebbw, green Welsh hills rose and
fell, a great timbered sea receding into misty distance. Within the walls people
walked lightly. The lord of Caeradar lay dying, leaving everyone unsure of their
station. But beyond the walls things were no better. All England was in an
uncertain state. Indeed, all Christendom lay in disarray. The Lord God Almighty
-- never unjust, but often not easy to understand -- had let the infidel Saladin
take Holy Jerusalem. Kings and emperors had gone off on Crusade, along with
hordes of lesser folk. Good King Richard Lionheart went with them, leaving
behind a hated regent and a treacherous brother who were happily at each other's
throats.

No one could know what was coming. Not she. Not Edmund. Not even Prince John,
the brother to King Richard. Only the wild Welsh in the surrounding hills knew
what to make of it. They had already risen up in revolt.

Witch's Night

CLARE KNELT in the sick chamber, eyes closed, hands clasped, smelling burnt wax,
frankincense, and the deathly sweet odor of disease. She could hear the women at
their prayers, whispering words over and over again. Her own prayers were
varied, but heartfelt. She begged for her stepfather's life. Not just because he
had been pious and decent -- but out of horror at what Edmund would do. By now
she knew which of Edmund's threats were real and which were made just to terrify
her. At the absolute best he would brutalize her -- in ways he was not allowed
to so long as his father lived. Afterward, if she was lucky, he would lock her
up in a nunnery to keep her from her inheritance.

Clare knew something of a nun's life from visits to her mother. They had shaved
heads and slept on board beds, beneath itchy hair blankets. Bells woke them at
Lauds, in the darkest hour of morning. They put on black habits -- the same ones
they would be buried in -- and went to the chapel to pray, stretched out on the
cold stones in total submission to Christ, their lord and husband. Then they
filed back to their cells for an hour of rest before Prime. Breakfast was bread
and water. Dinner not much better. They never knew a man's love, never had
children, never enjoyed a free day to do as they pleased. A bleak life at best.
But Edmund had the means to make it seem like heaven.

The Matins bell rang. Clare crossed herself and rose. Women muttering prayers
watched her leave. Last spring, she had turned thirteen, and been the castle
pet, indulged and doted on by everyone save Edmund. Now her least action had
grave meaning. For good or ill, Caeradar's future resided in her body.

She mounted the spiral stairs leading to the top floor of the keep. The heart of
Caeradar was the castle's great rectangular Norman keep. Sitting atop a
limestone ridge above the river Ebbw, the four-story keep dominated the
landscape, dwarfing the little Welsh round towers and hill forts, seeming to
have been raised by titans. Her stepfather's sickroom was adjacent to the