"P. N. Elrod & Nigel Bennett - His Father's Son" - читать интересную книгу автора (Elrod P N)

Richard turned and, released from his sway, Ambert hurried ahead to disappear into another twisting of
the hall. It had -always been one of his greatest skills, not being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and
he practiced it now to perfection. Light spilled brightly from the chamber ahead, and like a moth to the
destructive flame, Richard went toward it.
The duke’s sanctum was quite large. Torches in their sconces along the walls provided some heat for the
cheerless room, along with all the light. Their smokes rose high, adding to the soot already coating the
ceiling. Several embroidered arras covered portions of the walls. Some stirred gently, doing their work of
cutting down drafts coming from the doorways they concealed. Off to the right was a huge oaken table.
Benches ran along each side of it, and at the far end where Montague now stood, crouched a massive
thronelike chair. No one ever dared to come near it. When he was a child, Richard had once been foolish
enough to crawl up and sit there, pretending to be a king of his own castle and lands. His father had seen,
and the outcome was a beating of such severity that many thought the boy would not live. Even now as
Richard looked at it, a tremor ran through him at the sick-making memory. It had been the first of many
other beatings, so many he could not count, but that particular one stood out by its right of place.
The room, full of its vile memories, was empty of people apart from the duke. That was a blessing. At
least there would be no witnesses to the coming censure.
Montague d’Orleans was a giant of a man in all ways: in stature, in reputation, and in deed. He was the
most powerful man in Normandy, and there was answerable for his actions only to God, and then but
rarely. He was a brutal pragmatist, a survivor. He had no time for failure, hating it as if it were a contagious
disease that might be spread to him and cause his downfall. Now more than ever before, he had no regard
for Richard, for his son had become a carrier of this contagion since the tourney.
“My lord.” Richard’s greeting was murmured low, and he bowed from the waist delivering it. “Father.”
Montague had his back to his son, and did not turn. “Who is it that calls me father?”
Richard stepped into the golden light cast by the torches, dropped to his knees, and spoke the words of
old ritual that were required of him. “It is I, Richard, your son. You sent for me and, as ever, I await your
pleasure.”
“My pleasure? My pleasure!” The old man turned and leveled what Richard could only assume was
meant to be a murderous look upon him. Unfortunately, the effect was ruined by the slurring of his voice
and a decided stagger as he came forward. He was very drunk. “My pleasure was to have the champion of
all the land within my own household. Within my own family.”
Richard kept quiet. Comment would only draw out the -process.
The old man loomed over his kneeling son, blood in his eye, building in his anger. “Once it was so. By
some miracle or witchcraft you were champion, but no longer. Now, I have only shame to distinguish my
household. My reputation lies in the dung heap!”
Richard stared straight ahead, keeping a stony face. He could not trade words here as he’d done with
Ambert. That would not stop or deflect the flow of bile.
Montague reeled to one side to refill his empty tankard from a keg on the table and swilled back a mighty
draught. “Explain yourself, boy.”
“I cannot.” Richard replied honestly, for although he knew that Sabra had had much to do with the
outcome of events that day, he also knew he would never disclose any of it. It would mean immediate death
both for him and his lady. “I was beaten.”
His father lurched toward him and bent until his face was close; the rank stench of his breath filled
Richard’s nostrils. “Clearly, you were never beaten enough!” He suddenly righted himself.
Richard saw the blow coming. His reactions were sharper, faster since the changing, and he could have
easily avoided it, yet something within him made him hold his ground and brace for it. No stinging
open-handed slap, Montague used the full power of his fist. The force of it knocked Richard flat on the
floor, but -surprisingly, he hardly felt any pain. It was no more to him than a sigh of air on a summer’s day.
Am I beyond being hurt or grown so used to it that I feel it not?
He waited a moment, expecting next to be kicked, but the old man drew away and gulped down more
drink. Richard got slowly to his feet, brushing at his clothing. He felt cold inside, very, very cold. Like the