"Elrod, P N - Keeper Of The King e-txt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

over six feet, and handsome. He had inherited his mother's eyes, so he was told,
of icy blue. He'd never seen her, for she had died bearing him, bleeding her
life away as he was rushed to the wet nurse, screaming. He had cried for three
days, whether from hunger or from grief no one ever knew. His fair hair came
from his father, as did his size and strength. Montague d'Orleans had gained his
place brutally over the bodies of many an enemy and not a few friends. His third
child came by his streak of cold determination honestly. If you knew the father,
you knew the son.
Richard's childhood had been no better and no worse than anyone else's of his
station. A wry grin crossed his face as he thought of it. His station! The third
son had no station. The first born inherited, the second went to the clergy, and
the third? The third simply went, the farther away the better, unless he could
earn his keeping.
Thank God for the tourneys. Early in his youth he had shown the unmistakable
signs of being a natural warrior. In play as children, his older brothers were
easy prey for one of his precocious strength and skill. In the course of his
years of training he went on to ever older, larger opponents, and beat them all.
Never once had he lost. When his body flagged, his brain saved him. He possessed
a tenacity and intelligence that, coupled with his size, made him a natural
champion. Pray God these qualities would not forsake him now. So long as he
could continue as the favored champion of Orleans, bringing glory and honor to
his family name, then his parsimonious father had good reason to allow him to
remain home. Anything less and he would be shown the door quickly enough.
Neither his father or oldest brother had said as much in so many words, but it
was clearly understood. The outcome of this tourney would decide many things for
them all for some time to come.
Richard d'Orleans looked to his callow opponent, studying him. The youth could
have been' no more than sixteen, the age of a squire, but was tall, muscled
beyond his years, and heavy-boned in broken and ill-fitting mail. His breathing
was labored as he leaned for a brief moment of respite on his sword. A bastard,
thought Richard, and all the more dangerous for that. Longing for honor. Longing
to make a name.
Because of his youth, he shouldn't have been allowed in the tourney, though
there were always exceptions. If the boy had had the good luck to capture a
noble of some rank on the battlefield, rather than submit himself to be ransomed
by an inferior, the noble would have knighted his captor on the spot, saving his
name from the humiliation. Richard didn't know or really care about this
adversary's past, his own future was all that mattered. The boy was nothing more
than an obstacle to overcome.
The trumpets sounded their strident calls. The defeated had been carried from
the field, either to be bandaged or buried, depending on their luck. Now it was
the time of champions. The crowd would be silent, awed by strength and savagery,
by the heat and the rush of blood and hope, until, as one of the champions fell,
a great roar would go up in exultation of the victor. Richard stood straight as
silence descended, facing his quarry, quiet as a statue. In past contests, so
simple a ploy had often been enough to unman even the boldest fighter. Soon he
would find out if this stripling was in that number.
The herald called their names out to the crowd, shouting what was already known,
that the victor of this single combat would win not only the tourney purse, but
all the arms and armor of the loser. Richard had little use for the boy's shoddy