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

10
Judith Tarr
It lived and breached, a monstrous shape that stank tike Hell's own midden.
A voice rose over the wind's howl, sounding almost in his ear. "Jehan-help me.
Take the bridle."
Alf. And the shape was suddenly a soaked and trembling horse with its rider
slumped over its neck. His numbed hands caught at the reins and gentled the
long bony head that shied at first, then pushed against him. He hunted in his
pocket and found the apple he had filched at supper, and there in the storm,
with rain sluicing down the back of his neck, he fed it to the horse.
"Lead her up to the abbey," Alf said, again in his ear. The monk stood within
reach, paying no heed to the wind or the rain. Warmth seemed to pour from him
in delirious waves.
The wind that had fought Jehan now lent him all its aid, almost carrying him
up the road to the gate.
In the lee of the wall, Alf took the reins. "Go in and open up."
Jehan did as he was told. Before he could heave the gate well open, Brother
Kyriell peered out of his cell, rumpled and unwontedly surly. "What goes on
here?" he demanded sharply.
Jehan shot him a wild glance. The gate swung open; the horse clattered over
the threshold. On seeing Alf, Brother Kyriell swallowed what more he would
have said and hastened forward.
"Jehan," Alf said, "stable the mare and see that she's fed." Even as he spoke
he eased the rider from her back. More than rain glistened in die light of
Brother Kyriell's lamp: blood, lurid scarlet and rust-brown, both fresh and
dried. "Kyriell-help me carry him."
They bore him on his own cloak through the court and down the passage to the
infirmary. Even when they laid him in a cell, he did not move save for the
rattle and catch of tormented breathing.
Brother Kyriell left with many glances over his shoulder. Alf paid him no
heed. For a moment he paused, buffeted by wave on wave of pain. With an effort
that made him gasp, he shielded his mind against it. His shaking hands folded
back the cloak,
THE ISLE OF GLASS
caressing its rich dark fabric, drawing strength from the contact.
The body beneath was bare but for a coarse smock like a serf's, and terrible
to see: brutally beaten and flogged; marked with deep oozing burns; crusted
with mud and blood and other, less mentionable stains. Three ribs were
cracked, the right leg broken in two places, and the left hand crushed; it
looked as if it had been trampled. Sore wounds, roughly tied up with strips of
the same cloth as the smock, torn and filthy and too long neglected.
Carefully he began to cleanse the battered flesh, catching his breath at the
depth and raggedness of some of the wounds. They were filthy and far from
fresh; yet they had suffered no infection at all.
Alf came last to the face. A long cut on the forehead had bled and dried and
bled again, and made the damage seem worse than it was. One side was badly
bruised and swollen, but nothing was broken; the rest had taken no more than a
cut and a bruise or two.
Beneath it all, he was young, lean as a panther, with skin as white as Alf's
own. A youth, just come to manhood and very good to look on. Almost too much