"Springer, Nancy - Book Of The Isle 3 - Sable Moon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Springer Nancy)

seriously as she had ever spoken to him. "I'd love to, Trev. But I have no dress, and I wouldn't know how to behave. Ye'd better ask a girl who is better prepared."
"Act like yourself, and you'll please me well enough. And as for the dress-" He frowned. Rafe was unmarried, so there was no woman to help him. "It's not quite proper, I dare say, but will you not let me take care of it?"
"What? Make it yerself? Ye'll prick yer fingers and cry. . . ."
"Nay, nay, little jester, I'll pay for it! Humor me?"
"I must ask my parents," Meg said.
They consented, though not without some argument from the goodman. It took the determined persuasion of both females to get him to agree to the plan. Rafe did not like it much better than Brock.
"Half the country will say you are betrothed!" he sputtered when Trevyn asked him the name of a dressmaker.
"I dare say worse things could happen."
"Ay! They could say she is your mistress!" ,"
The dressmaker was a terse, tight-skinned old woman, straight and proud. The manor folk stood in awe of her, saying she had Gypsy blood. When Meg shyly presented herself in her baggy frock and heavy peasant boots, the old seamstress looked her up and down without smile or comment.
"What does the Prince like best in you?" she asked. And, although Trevyn had never told her, Meg knew the answer at once. "I make him laugh," she replied. There was a trace of bitterness in her voice, and the old woman glanced into her eyes. In an instant the Gypsy saw what Megan had so carefully hidden from everyone else.
Without a word she got her tape and carefully measured every part of Megan's slender body. Trevyn had already chosen the goods: a soft silk, dusky rose with a thread of gold, well fit to bring out the color of Meg's thin cheeks and the lights in her muted hair. The old woman held it up, and Meg stroked it speechlessly. "What sort of dress do ye want out of this, now?" the seamstress asked her.
"I know nothing of it," Meg faltered. "I have never had such a dress."

"Will ye leave it to me, then?"
"Ay, surely." It did not matter, Meg thought, what sort of dress she wore. She had never known a dress to flatter her.
"Ye will trust me in this." There was something gentle in the Gypsy's voice, and Meg looked at her and smiled.
"Ay, indeed* I will. But you will have to work hard, Grandmother, to have it done in time."
"Ay, even so. But 'twill be done, little daughter."
The evening of the dance, Trevyn rode Arundel out through the frosty night to fetch Meg. The stars glowed clear as a thousand candles, and the night was full of whispering, jostling light. Over the snow the square of the cottage window shone like a beacon, near even from afar. At long last Trevyn reached it, and beams from within picked out Arundel's form, silver as a spirit of the night. Trevyn found the door and stepped inside. Then he stopped, thunderstruck. A shining sprite awaited him.
Meg's dress made no effort to conceal her thinness; quite the opposite. Tiny tucks drew the fabric snug over her small round breasts, then released it to fall in soft, clinging folds over her waist and hips. Her skirt swept the floor, and long sleeves embraced her slender arms nearly to her fingers. Only her neck was bared, and the tender curve of her collarbone below. Somewhere she had got delicate slippers to peep from under her skirt. She was lovely, and she knew it. Her eyes glowed as warm as the firelight. She met Trevyn's stare almost merrily, then turned to fetch her old brown mantle. He stopped her and took off his. bright cloak of royal blue, putting it around her shoulders and fastening it with his golden brooch that bore the Sun Kings' emblem.
"Ye must be the hard one to keep in cloaks!" whispered Meg. Trevyn restrained his smile.
"I will have her back to you before midnight," he told Brock Woodsby, and they departed.
Meg moved through the evening in a happy trance. Any girl in Lee would gladly have taken her place, but their envy could not taint her with foolish triumph; it was Trevyn himself who lit the flame of her joy. He watched her, talked with her, danced only with her, guiding her through the circling patterns of the courtly carole. Megan could not hide her love

this night. It glowed in her wide eyes, misty brown as a forest vista. Trevyn looked, and saw, and Megan felt quite certain that something answered her gaze in his. They drifted away from the dancers to the dim reaches of the great hall, and they scarcely noticed at first when the stately notes of lute and viol faltered to a stop.
"What bard is that?" Trevyn murmured.
A dark, feral voice was singing, chanting out a harsh ballad that rang like a blast of wintry air through the warm room.
"Out of shadowed Lyrdion The sword Hau Ferddas came; By Cuin the heir Dacaerin won For Be van of Eburacon, To win him crown and fame.
And won him fame, and won his land, And nearly dealt Cuin doom; And Bevan of the Silver Hand Went over sea to Elwestrand, Where golden apples bloom.
So Cuin Dacaerin seized the cares To which his sword gave claim, High King in Laueroc, and his heirs Held sway for half a thousand years, Until the warships came. ?
Mighty sword of Lyrdion, Golden blade of Lyrdion, Bloody brand of Lyrdion, Long your shadow falls."
"What tale is that?" Meg wondered. "I have never heard it."
"Few people have," Trevyn exclaimed under his breath. "The magical sword of the High Kings still lies where my uncle Hal left it; he would not use its tainted power. But only he and my father knew of it, I thought!" The Prince moved

closer to see the singer's face, but the crowd stood in his way, held rapt by the strange song.
"Claryon was the High King's name Who died without a wound; Culean, his son of warlike fame Who took Hau Ferddas, bright as flame, Where fortune importuned.
It won him woe, it won him shame, And cozened him to slay him, By his own hand himself to maim To keep the sword by his own blame, And in a barrow lay him.
And in a barrow of the Waste Hau Ferddas still lay gleaming, And Isle, her land by war disgraced, Lay at the feet of foes abased, Hope lost beyond all dreaming.
Mighty sword of Lyrdion, Golden blade of Lyrdion, Bloody brand of Lyrdion, Long your shadow falls."
Rafe made his way to Trevyn, parting the crowd in his wake. At last Trevyn and Meg were able to see the husky-voiced singer, looking like a ruffian in his brownish wrappings. "Do you know that fellow?" Rafe asked the Prince in a low voice. "He walked straight in and started his song, and I haven't the heart to stop him, though he sounds like branches in a wind. There's an elfin look about him in a way."
"Son of a-" Trevyn groaned. It was Gwern, meeting his eyes without a hint of expression as he finished his ballad.
"Till, half ten hundred turnings done, A Very King returned, And Alan of the Rising Sun

And Hal, the heir of Bevan, won The crowns their mercy earned.
And scorned Hau Ferddas, spurned her calls, And still the sword lies gleaming, And long and fair her shadow falls, And sweet her golden song enthralls When warrior blood falls streaming;
And seers have said that, years to dawn, If hand can bear to loose her, The mighty sword of Lyrdion Must to the western sea begone, Or stay our fair seducer.
Mighty sword of Lyrdion, Golden blade of Lyrdion, Bloody brand of Lyrdion, Still your shadow falls."
The listeners applauded, bemused, but heartened by the names of their Kings. Gwern turned away indifferently and headed toward the dainty foodstuffs arranged on long tables by the walls. He started to eat ravenously, grabbing sweetmeats with his grimy fingers. Meg stared at him in wonder.