"Mary Stewart - The Arthurian Saga 02 - The Hollow Hills" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Mary)

which made me think of gold, and candle flames, and young lovers. Something, smelling not so sweet,
stirred beside me, and a rough young voice said: "Sir?"

I turned my head. I was lying on turf, in a hollow among furze bushes. These were full of blossom,
golden, sweet-smelling flames called out by the spring sun. Beside me a boy knelt. He was perhaps
twelve years old, dirty, with a matted shag of hair, and clad in some coarse brown cloth; his cloak, made
of skins roughly stitched together, showed rents in a dozen places. He had a stick in one hand. Even
without the way he smelled I could have guessed his calling, for all around us his herd of goats grazed
among the furze bushes, cropping the young green prickles.

At my movement he got quickly to his feet and backed off a little, peering, half wary and half hopeful,
through the filthy tangle of hair. So he had not robbed me yet. I eyed the heavy stick in his hand, vaguely
wondering through the mists of pain whether I could help myself even against this youngster. But it
seemed that his hopes were only for a reward. He was pointing at something out of sight beyond the
bushes. "I caught your horse for you. He's tied over there. I thought you were dead."

I raised myself to an elbow. Round me the day seemed to swing and dazzle. The furze blossom smoked
like incense in the sun. Pain seeped back slowly, and with it, on the same tide, memory.

"Are you hurt bad?"

"Nothing to matter, except my hand. Give me time, I'll be all right. You caught my horse, you say? Did
you see me fall?"

"Aye. I was over yonder." He pointed again. Beyond the mounds of yellow blossom the land rose,
smooth and bare, to a rounded upland broken by grey rock seamed with winter thorn. Behind the
shoulder of the land the sky had that look of limitless and empty distance which spoke of the sea. "I saw
you come riding up the valley from the shore, going slow. I could see you was ill, or maybe sleeping on
the horse. Then he put his foot wrong тАФ a hole, likely тАФ and you came off. You've not been lying long.
I'd just got down to you."

He stopped, his mouth dropping open. I saw shock in his face. As he spoke I had been pushing myself
up till I was able to sit, propped by my left arm, and carefully lift my injured right hand into my lap. It was
a swollen, crusted mass of dried blood, through which fresh red was running. I had, I guessed, fallen on it
when my horse had stumbled. The faint had been merciful enough. The pain was growing now, wave on
wave grinding, with the steady beat and drag of the tide over shingle, but the faintness had gone, and my
head, though still aching from the blow, was clear.

"Mother of mercy!" The boy was looking sick. "You never did that falling from your horse?"

"No. It was a fight."

"You've no sword."

"I lost it. No matter. I have my dagger, and a hand for it. No, don't be afraid. The fighting's done. No
one will hurt you. Now, if you'll help me onto my horse, I'll be on my way."

He gave me an arm as I got to my feet. We were standing at the edge of a high green upland studded
with furze, with here and there stark, solitary trees thrust into strange shapes by the steady salt wind.
Beyond the thicket where I had lain the ground fell away in a sharp slope scored by the tracks of sheep