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

and goats. It made one side of a narrow, winding valley, at the foot of which a stream raced, tumbling,
down its rocky bed. I could not see what lay at the foot of the valley, but about a mile away, beyond the
horizon of winter grass, was the sea. From the height of the land where I stood one could guess at the
great cliffs which fell away to the shore, and beyond the land's farthest edge, small in the distance, I could
see the jut of towers.

ThecastleofTintagel , stronghold of the Dukes of Cornwall. The impregnable fortress rock, which could
only be taken by guile, or by treachery from within. Last night, I had used both.

I felt a shiver run over my flesh. Last night, in the wild dark of the storm, this had been a place of gods
and destiny, of power driving towards some distant end of which I had been given, from time to time, a
glimpse. And I, Merlin, son of Ambrosius, whom men feared as prophet and visionary, had been in that
night's work no more than the god's instrument.

It was for this that I had been given the gift of Sight, and the power that men saw as magic. From this
remote and sea-locked fortress would come the King who alone could clearBritain of her enemies, and
give her time to find herself; who alone, in the wake of Ambrosius, the last of the Romans, would hold
back the fresh tides of the Saxon Terror, and, for a breathing space at least, keepBritain whole. This I
had seen in the stars, and heard in the wind: it was I, my gods had told me, who would bring this to pass;
this I had been born for. Now, if I could still trust my gods, the promised child was begotten; but because
of him тАФ because of me тАФ four men had died. In that night lashed by storm and brooded over by the
dragon-star, death had seemed commonplace, and gods waiting, visible, at every corner. But now, in the
still morning after the storm, what was there to see? A young man with an injured hand, a King with his
lust satisfied, and a woman with her penance beginning. And for all of us, time to remember the dead.


The boy brought my horse up to me. He was watching me curiously, the wariness back in his face.

"How long have you been here with your goats?" I asked him.

"A sunrise and a sunrise."

"Did you see or hear anything last night?"

Wariness became, suddenly, fear. His eyelids dropped and he stared at the ground. His face was
closed, blank, stupid. "I have forgotten, lord."

I leaned against my horse's shoulder, regarding him. Times without number I had met this stupidity, this
flat, expressionless mumble; it is the only armour available to the poor. I said gently: "Whatever happened
last night, it is something I want you to remember, not to forget. No one will harm you. Tell me what you
saw."

He looked at me for perhaps ten more seconds of silence. I could not guess what he was thinking. What
he was seeing can hardly have been reassuring; a tall young man with a smashed and bloody hand,
cloakless, his clothes stained and torn, his face (I have no doubt) grey with fatigue and pain and the bitter
dregs of last night's triumph. All the same the boy nodded suddenly, and began to speak.
 "Last night in the black dark I heard horses go by me. Four, I think. But I saw no one. Then, in the early
dawn, two more following them, spurring hard. I thought they were all making for the castle, but from
where I was, up there by the rocks, I never saw torches at the guard-house on the cliff top, or on the
bridge going across to the main gate. They must have gone down the valley there. After it was light I saw