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

Chapter Four
A few days later, as soon as he felt well enough, Trevyn rode out to see Meg.

The cottage stood at the Forest's fringe. The goodman, Brock Woodsby, Meg's father, took his name
from that fact. Working in the yard, he was the first to see the visitor approach, and he stumped over to
the rickety gate to meet him. Watching from within the cottage, Meg put her hands to her mouth in
consternation. She could not hear her father's words, but she recognized the stubborn set of his back.

"Who might it be?" Brock gruffly addressed his visitor.

Perhaps the man was a trifle dense, Trevyn thought. He introduced himself by name and title, still sitting
on his horse, waiting for the gate to open. But Brock Woodsby did not move.

"I thought as much," he stated. "I thank ye for the sake of the lass, Prince. She says she'd have been lost
without ye. But ye're mistaken to come gallanting hereabouts. Ye'll be the ruin of the girl. Already folk are
saying ye've had yer way with her. I think not, if I know my lass, but that's the talk. And what else might
ye want with her indeed?"

What indeed? But Trevyn was too young to be amused or



intrigued by the aptness of Brock's question. He bristled and fixed the goodman with an icy green glare.
"What, are you denying me admittance, then?" he demanded.

"Mothers defend us!" Meg whispered. The small cry brought her own mother to her side. Glancing out
the window, the goodwife fluttered like a partridge. The youth outside the gate wore a bright sword, and
he looked tempted to use it on her husband.

"I deny hospitality to no one," Brock replied stiffly. "I only ask you to think. Think of the girl." As he
spoke, the maiden in question came out of the cottage and approached him, walking serenely. He
rounded on her. "Get back in the house!"

"What? Stay out of the Forest, ye tell me, and is it stay out of the yard now? Ye'll be keeping me in the
chimney corner next." Meg faced her father sunnily, and Trevyn grinned at her, all his chagrin suddenly
forgotten. He slipped down from Arundel and opened the gate for himself, though a moment before he
had been determined to make Brock do it. The .quarrel no longer seemed worth pursuing.

"Rafe's not allowing me in the Forest, either," he re┬мmarked to Meg. "Small fear I shall disobey him in
that regard."

"Nay?" she said slowly. She missed the Forest; she missed the foxes that would come and follow by her
feet, the wild doves that would light on her shoulders. She felt hurt by her Forest, betrayed, that any of its
creatures could turn against her as the wolves had done. But she could not explain this, and especially not
to Trevyn. She didn't want him to think her queer, as so many others did.

Her mother saved her from further response. The goodwife came bustling out, having settled her hair and
flung on a shawl. "Come in, young master, have some fresh, hot scones!" she beseeched Trevyn. She did