"Nancy Springer - Isle 03 - The Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

with gold. It was not that which gave her pause; she had seen finery before. But this youth had a proud
air about him, though he had not yet reached his full growth. He was not in her lord's service; she would
have noticed him if he were. Perhaps he was some lord's bard or herald, or even a lord's son? "What's
yer name?" Meg asked.

Cutting strips from his cloak, he answered her without looking up. "Trevyn."

"Oh," she replied. "Are ye from Laueroc, then? I have



heard that many young men there are named after the Prince."

"I am not named after the Prince," Trevyn stated, quite truthfully. "But ay, I am from Laueroc."

"Are ye in the Kings' service, then? What are ye doing in the Forest?" *

"Will you ask one question at a time!" He smiled at her as he knotted his makeshift rope. "Indeed, I am
at the Kings' service, but I am here on my own business. What is your name?"

"Meg."

"Margaret?"

"Nay. Megan."

"Ah." Trevyn slipped off his tunic and folded it as a pad for Arundel's neck. The girl stared at him. She
had not thought that a man could be muscular and graceful at the same time. Trevyn laid his sword belt
aside, fastened the rope around Arundel's shoulders, took the other end, and started into the pool of
mud. Meg aroused herself. "What must I do?" she called after him.

"Help Arundel pull." :

Trevyn reached the cow and looped the rope around her horns. Then he grasped Molly around her
heavy shoulders, braced his feet, and started to lift. As he wrestled the cow from her mucky bed, he
called to Arundel in that strange tongue Meg had heard him use before. The horse threw his weight
against the rope, and Meg tugged with all her might. Molly lurched forward, and Trevyn moved with her,
lifting, shoving. Within moments she was out. Meg ran to her, kissing her broad, pink nose and feeling for
injuries. Then she turned to Trevyn, who was gingerly putting on his tunic, scowling at the brown blobs on
the fine white cloth.

"Thank ye so much."

He smiled sourly, scraping mud, and suddenly she laughed, a sweet, healthy laugh. "Are we not pretty,
though!" she cried, so infectiously that he gave in to good humor and grinned at her. But then he buckled
on his sword and frowned, glancing around at the trees that stood, black and silent, on every side.



"What's to be done now?" he asked flatly. "Dark is scarcely an hour away."