"Swithin, Antony - Perilous Quest for Lyoness 01 - Princes of Sandastre" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swithin Antony)

Moreover, as I grew older, my situation worsened; or so I considered. When father went off to fight in the border wars, I was be left behind in the safety and boredom of our manor house of Holdworth, a boredom broken only by my daily ride to Sheffield Castle. There I was given instruction, not in the martial skills for which I yearned, but in manorial administration and accounting, the speaking and writing of Latin and the intricacies of religious doctrine. I was a reluctant pupil but Lord Furnival's chaplain was a firm and formidable teacher. Despite my unenthusiasm, I learned much from him.

On his return my father, who was no sort of scholar, enthused over my abilities with book and pen in a fashion I found ominous. When I besought him once again to have me trained as a soldier he did not definitely refuse, but nor did he respond positively to my plea. He seemed unwilling to quench my ardour for such training, but equally unwilling to permit me to proceed with it, instead advancing reasons for delaying any decision--reasons that were clearly quite specious. Uneasily I suspected that he was intending I should enter the church--a common enough fate of second sons of gentlemen.

However, I was determined that it should not be my fate. Insofar as I could, I had long been striving to give myself the training that my father was denying me, the training proper to a knight's son. This was not easy. I had acquired an old sword but, having no one with whom I could practise, I found it hard to improve my swordsmanship. To fence with one's shadow, and fiercely to attack bushes and trees, is not enough; I knew myself to be an execrable swordsman.

Nor did I fare much better in my attempts to train for tournaments. In one of our upland pastures, ringed by horse-chestnut trees that both protected me from view and served as targets, I practised secretly with a long ash-pole that I had fashioned into a lance. However, a tree is a very different thing than a mobile, mounted opponent and, for all my flourishes of horsemanship, I felt I was making little real progress.

So I taught myself other skills. I could throw a stone further and more accurately than most, by hand or with a sling. In addition, by standing long with heavy cross-stave in outstretched hand and by persistent exercising at the butts, I had made myself into a fair archer, able to outshoot most of the Hallamshire yeomen. My father knew of these abilities but, since they were not considered proper skills for a gentleman, he discounted them.

I had a third skill, learned from a Genoese traveller who had strayed into northern England and been engaged to tutor me in French; but that skill I kept secret, since I knew father would despise it also.

Nevertheless, though my oddities troubled my father and his over-protectiveness troubled me, our mutual affection did not diminish. Indeed--perhaps because of that deprivation brought to all three of us by my mother's death--there was a great love between my father, my brother and me.

My father had long been a close friend of Henry Percy, that handsome, forceful, passionate warrior whom men called "Hotspur". He had been at Henry Percy's side when Henry Bolingbroke was brought back to be king. The two had shared in the early triumphs of that monarchy, but they had shared also in the disillusionment that followed. As the rift between King Henry and the Percys grew ever wider, my father had of course given his support to his friend. Though father was no great noble but a mere knight, he spoke forcefully and well; and, because he was Hotspur's friend, he was listened to. In consequence, the King had marked him down as an enemy.

By spring of the year of our Lord 1403, the quarrel had become so bitter that Hotspur was gathering an army about him. It was inevitable that my father and Richard should ride west, with what levies they could recruit, to join Hotspur's camp.

The number of those levies, unfortunately, was few. Old Lord Furnival had no strong links with Hotspur, nor with the King for that matter; he was sitting tight in Sheffield Castle and showing no favour to either disputant. The ironworkers, smiths and knifegrinders of Hallamshire cared too little about what went on beyond their valleys to be involved in this conflict; they would not rally to such a cause. Though my father's renown as a warrior was great, our fief of Holdworth was not extensive and there were few who owed him fealty. Only thirty local men could be persuaded into following him.

My father's squire had been killed at Homildon, yet he would not accept me as his squire, preferring instead to promote John Stacey to that position. Nor would he permit me even to join that meagre band. Father was apologetic, but firm; I was too untrained a warrior and, since someone had to be left in charge of the demesne--who better than I, whom he could trust? However, as we both knew, he had accepted other, equally untrained soldiers into his following. The truth was that father could not bring himself to risk his beloved younger son in the bitter affrays of civil war.

So I watched them ride away, father and Richard in scarlet surcoats and bearing the scarlet shields with the three silver badgers of the Branthwaites, their followers in a motley collection of surcoats, some scarlet, some azure and hastily stitched with the Percy emblem (the five golden fusils joined in fess), most jacketed in leather or in cloth unadorned. Well, this might only be a small contribution to Hotspur's army, but many others would rally to his cause. Since that cause was just, it was sure to prevail! So I believed, as I watched them ride away that spring morning.



The weeks went slowly by and grew into months; spring burgeoned into summer; and the quarrel between Hotspur and the king ripened toward the civil war that all were expecting. A steady trickle of news flowed over the hills into Hallamshire. Sir Richard Venables of Kinderton and Sir Richard Vernon of Shipbrook, two worthy warriors, had rallied to Hotspur's standard; the Earl of Worcester had joined him also and Hotspur's father, the Earl of Northumberland, was raising a second army. The Welsh under Glendower had promised to rise against the king and Hotspur's former prisoner, Earl Douglas, was rallying the Scots to invade England yet again, this time in Hotspur's support. Some said even that the Prince of Wales, who had been Hotspur's friend, would side with the rebels against the king; but always I doubted that, for what would be the Prince's fate if his father were dethroned? Yet it did seem as if an irresistible tide was rising to overwhelm the Bolingbroke; and since I was sure Hotspur was invincible--and especially so when my beloved father was at his side--I had no fears about the outcome of the imminent conflict. Rather did I wish it might be swiftly over and my father and brother triumphantly home again.

There was, in truth, little for me to do during those weeks. Old Walter Tinsley, our steward, Peter the bailiff and Cerdic the reeve had the affairs of our demesne well under control. I would check the accounts with Walter once a week, ride around the manor each morning and discuss the farming plans for the next day with Cerdic, and each evening dine at the high table with Walter and Peter to discuss the day's doings. It had been father's custom always to invite them to dine with him, except when he had guests; and, in father's absence I was glad of their company. However, I could have wished their concerns were less parochial and their conversation more stimulating.

In the afternoons, whatever the weather, I would exercise for an hour or more. First I would practise slashing with my heavy, blunt sword at an upright wooden post till my wrist and shoulder ached. Then I would shoot arrows at a "saracen" cut from an old board. I did this from progressively greater distances, with, across or against the wind, to see how my arrows would behave in flight and with what force they would hit the target, so this exercise was more interesting. Only occasionally would I take my horse to that secluded pasture and practise with my "lance"; I had become bored with that endeavour.

When my practising was done, I would wander off on most days into the woods that choked our Pennine valleys, up along the gritstone edges or across the bleak moors behind, to look for badgers or buzzards or whatever else I might sight. Though I took my bow, usually I returned emptyм-handed; and the servants would puzzledly shrug their shoulders yet again.

What was hardest during those weeks was being deprived of the company of my peers. There was indeed nowhere for me to go. Though I did once ride into Sheffield, it was to put in hand an order I wished executed privily, not to visit the Castle. Until the coming conflict was resolved, I could expect no welcome there.

From my mother's family there had developed an estrangement so profound that I could not seek companionship at Pontefract Castle either. My uncle, Sir Hugo Waterton, was now its seneschal. He was a restless, discontented and land-greedy man whom I had never liked; even when I was small, father told me, I had bawled in dismay whenever I encountered him. Of late, however, he had given us good cause for a much stronger distaste. Sir Hugo had obtained or fabricated--we were not sure which--a document that, he claimed, gave him title to our feofdom. As he well knew, his claim had little justice. However, as he knew also, it would be settled, not in court but in the coming battle. If the king won, his malice would ensure that his judges granted Sir Hugo the title; if Hotspur won, the claim was assuredly lost. In the meantime Sir Hugo held Pontefract for the king. Had I tried to visit that castle--and I had no desire whatsoever to do so--I would have been turned from its gates.

July came and with it, at last, the news of the proclamation of revolt. Men said that Hotspur had rallied an army of 15,000 already. He was advancing on Shrewsbury and the Prince, who held that town, must soon capitulate. Meantime, Northumberland's army was marching south and the Scots also. The climactic battle must be at hand, surely? Yet the days passed and it did not happen. My restlessness became ever more extreme, as I became ever more impatient for the good news that I was confident must come. Our demesne received little of my attention in those weeks.

Then came the tiding that the special order I had placed had been fulfilled; and, one bright Monday morning, I mounted my horse to ride into Sheffield again. There had been no rain for a week or more, yet the day was humid. Moreover, there seemed a tension, an expectancy, in the air. Was there a storm coming, or was this tension merely a product of my own thoughts?

My horse was a handsome white stallion, a full fourteen hands high--a big horse for one so small as I, and of such uncertain temper that he had been named Firebrand. For that reason, father had left him behind; but I knew I could trust Firebrand and was proud to ride him. I had put on a surcote of scarlet silk from Genoa, which had been carefully emblazoned with the three silver badgers of the Branthwaites. It was much the most expensive garment that I possessed and more suited to a tourney than to a country ride. However, when I would be riding so close to Sheffield Castle and the vacillating Lord Furnival, somehow I felt it necessary not just to indicate, but to stress, my family identity.

Because that ride, in a sense, marked the end of my childhood, I remember it well. Eastward I headed, out of our demesne lands; through the hamlet of Holdworth where were clustered the cottages of our villeins, the children calling merrily to me as I passed and exclaiming at my bright cloak; then down among the dappled light and shade of Loxley Chase, to follow the banks of the little River Loxley till it tumbled into the Rivelin. After so dry a spell, even their combined waters were shallow; Firebrand was only fetlock deep when we forded the river, to follow the well-beaten track along the west bank of the Don into Sheffield.

It was Fair Day. I lingered in the shade of the castle walls, examining the stalls of velvet, wool, ribbons and furs; harking to the cheapjacks as they pattered to the crowds about medicaments which, they claimed, would cure all ills; watching a juggler as he tossed more and more balls ever higher and higher; and listening with pleasure to a group of goliards who were making music on shawm, pibcorn and psaltery.

Since this was such a small fair, I was startled to encounter a man bearing a square frame about his shoulders, on each corner of which a hooded hawk was perched. I bargained with him a while for a splendid goshawk, but its price was too high for me.