"Judith Tarr - The Isle of Glass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tarr Judith)

himself into his chair. The cord was still in his hand, fire and darkness,
heat and cold. For a long while he sat staring at it, stroking it with
trembling fingers. "Poor boy," he whispered. "Poor boy."
Jehan could not sleep. He lay on his hard pallet, listening to the night
sounds of the novices' dormitory, snores and snuffles and an occasional dreamy
murmur. It was cold under his thin blanket; wind worked its way through the
shutters of the high narrow windows, and rain lashed against them, rattling
them upon their iron hinges.
But he was used to that. The novices said that he could sleep soundly on an
ice floe in the northern sea, with a smithy in full clamor beside him.
For the thousandth time he rolled into a new position, on his stomach with his
head pillowed on his folded arms. He kept seeing Brother Alfred, now bent over
a book in the library, now weaving upon his great loom, now singing in chapel
with a voice like a tenor bell. All those serene faces flashed past and
shattered, and he saw the tall slight form running from the Abbot's study,
wearing such a look that even now Jehan trembled.
Stealthily he rose. No one seemed awake. He shook out the robe which had been
his pillow; quickly he donned it. His heart was hammering. If anyone caught
him, he would get a caning and a week of cleaning the privy.
THE ISLE OF GLASS
Big though his body was, he was as soft-footed as a cat. He crept past the
sleeping novices, laid his hand upon die door-latch. A prayer had formed and
escaped before he saw the irony in it.
With utmost care he opened the door. Brother Owein the novice-master snored in
his cell, a rhythm unbroken even by the creak of hinges and the scrape of die
latch. Jehan flowed past his doorway, hardly daring to breathe, wavered in a
turning, and bolted.
Brother Alf s cell was empty. So too was the Lady Chapel, where he had been
all through Compline, prostrate upon the stones. St. Ruan's was large and Alf
familiar with every inch of it. He might even be in the garderobe.
Jehan left the chapel, down the passage which led to the gateway. Brother
Kyriell, the porter, slept the sleep of the just.
As Jehan paused, a shadow flickered past. It reached the small gate, slid back
the bolt without a sound, and eased the heavy panel open. Wind howled through,
armed with knives of sleet. It tore back the cowl from a familiar pale head
that bowed against it and plunged forward.
By the time Jehan reached the gate, Alf had vanished into the storm. Without
thought Jehan went after him.
Wind tore at him. Rain blinded him. Cold sliced through the thick wool of his
robe.
But it was not quite pitch-dark. As sometimes happens in winter storms, the
clouds seemed to catch the light of die drowned moon and to scatter it,
glowing with their own phantom light. Jehan's eyes, already adapted to the
dark, could discern the wet glimmer of the road, and far down upon it a blur
which might have been Alfs bare white head.
Folly had taken him so far, and folly drove him on. The wind fought him, tried
to drive him back to the shelter of the abbey. Alf was gaining-Jehan could
hardly see him now, even in the lulls between torrents of rain. Yet he
struggled onward.
Something loomed over him so suddenly that he recoiled.