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

sidled, threatening.
He gentled her with a touch and said, "I'll stable her myself."
None of the men responded. The rider led the mare forward, and they parted,
falling into step behind.
The stable was full, but a man led a horse out of its stall to make room for
the mare. The rider unsaddled her and rubbed
16
Judith Tarr
her down, and fed her with his own hands; when she had eaten her fill, he
threw his cloak over her and left her with a few soft words.
Alone now, he walked within a circle of armed men, pacing easily as if it were
an honor guard. But the back of his neck prickled. With an effort he kept his
hand away from his sword. Fara was safe, warding his possessions, among them
the precious signet. He could defend himself. There was no need to fear.
The shadows mocked his courage. Cold hostility walled him in.
It boded ill for his embassy. Yet Lord Rhydderch had summoned him, and
although the baron had a name for capricious cruelty, the envoy had not
expected to fail. He never had.
They ascended a steep narrow stair and gathered in a guardroom. There the
men-at-arms halted. Without a word they turned on their captive.
His sword was out, a baleful glitter, but there was no room to wield it. Nor
would he shed blood if he could help it. One contemptuous blow sent the blade
flying.
Hands seized him. That touched his pride. His fist struck flesh, bone. Another
blow met metal; a sixfold weight bore him to the floor, onto the body of the
man he had felled.
Rare anger sparked, but he quenched it. They had not harmed him yet. He lay
still, though they spat upon him and called him coward; though they stripped
him and touched his body in ways that made his lips tighten and his eyes
flicker dangerously; even though they bound him with chains, rusted iron,
cruelly tight.
They hauled him to his feet, looped the end of the chain through a ring in the
ceiling, stretched his arms taut above his head. His toes barely touched the
floor; all his weight hung suspended from his wrists.
When he was well-secured, a stranger entered, a man in mail. He was not a tall
man, but thickset, with the dark weathered features of a hillman, and eyes so
pale they seemed to have no color at all. When he pushed back his mail-coif,
his hair was as black as the bristle of his brows and shot with gray.
THE ISLE OF GLASS
17
He stood in front of the prisoner, hands on hips. "So," he said. "The rabbit
came to the trap."
The other kept his head up, his voice quiet. "Lord Rhydderch, 1 presume? Alun
of Caer Gwent, at your service."
"Pretty speech, in faith, and a fine mincing way he has about it." Rhydderch
prodded him as if he had been a bullock at market. "And a long stretch of limb
to add to it. Your King must be fond of outsize beauties."
"The King of Rhiyana," Alun said carefully, "has sent me as his personal
envoy. Any harm done to me is as harm to the royal person. Will you not let me
go?"