"Lawrence Watt-Evans - The Final Challenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Watt-Evans Lawrence)

to the throne."
"What of it, then? All the more honorable, then, to fight for what's his by right!"
"You think so?"
"I know it!" The guardsman made as if to rise.
The soldier did not; he shrugged, lifted his mug and drank, then put the tankard down empty and
wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The guard hesitated, then settled back into his chair.
"King's son or not," the soldier said, "the old king was one hell of a man, and a warrior to the end,
even when he was too old to use a blade."
The guard snorted.
"No, it's true!" the soldier insisted. "Listen, I was at Prince Philip's manhood feast-- His Majesty was
still the prince then, I mean no disrespect."
"Go on," the guard said. "I've heard the tale; let's hear your version. You say you were there?"
"That I was, lad, that I was. Not at the head table or anything-- no, I was just one of the guards at the
door, the old king had his own old regiment there as an honor, but whether for us or the boy I don't
know." He looked down into his empty mug and sighed. "That was when old Geoffrey fought his last
battle with the sword, that feast-- you've heard the story, you said. Did you know that the king was more
than sixty years of age at the time? Sixty-five, at least, I'd guess-- not the typical thing for the father of a
lad just coming of age, but what with the wars and the rest of it, he'd got a late start at siring sons. His
hair had gone grey, and his belly sagged, but he was still a fine man, with his own teeth and his eye still
bright."
"An old man," the guard said derisively. "Like you."
The soldier snorted. "If I should be half so formidable at that age, I'd thank God and sing His praises
half the day!"
"Still an old man."
"Aye," the soldier admitted. "An old man-- but the king, and still a warrior. He sat at the high table
with his councilors and his old cronies, the Red Duke and Tom o' the Axe and the rest, shouting and
drinking and carrying on..."
The guard muttered sarcastically, "Nothing like maintaining the royal dignity." His companions
chuckled.
"The old king never worried overmuch about his dignity, true enough," the soldier agreed. "Certainly
not then. He was having a fine time, he and his comrades taking turns telling stories. The boy-- Prince
Philip, that is-- was seated at the second table, in accordance with protocol, until the stroke of midnight,
when he'd be able to take his place with the men, and he had his own comrades about him. Some were
men from your own company, some were courtiers and courtiers' sons, and his mother's friends, and his
old playmates, all gathered about, making merry. If the truth be told, some were there because of their
names and fathers, rather than because the prince actually liked them or wanted them there." He winked
at the guard.
"I know the sort," the young man agreed.
"Whatever their excuses, there they all were, drinking and talking-- but being young, few of them had
any great tales to tell, and in large part they listened to the boasting of their elders."
"I know that sort, too," the guardsman muttered.
The soldier nodded. "Don't we all," he said. "At any rate, there was one lad there who had drunk
perhaps more than was good for him, a brawny fellow of twenty-three years or thereabouts, standing six
and a half feet when he was upright, and strong as an ox. Perhaps he was unused to strong drink, or
perhaps the excitement overcame him, or perhaps he was just a fool, but when the festivities grew loud,
he was loudest; when the boys at the second table became rowdy, he was the rowdiest; and at last, upon
hearing Lord Ashleigh's account of the defense of the Crimson Gate, he stood up and announced that the
tale was nonsense."
"Was it?" the guardsman asked.
The soldier shrugged. "I wasn't at the Crimson Gate," he said, "nor was this lad-- yet he went farther,