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

dead.
“You’ve disgraced me, brought humiliation to my house,” the duke continued. “Wise you were to skulk
away afterward. You missed all the sly looks, the hidden laughter from the others when I had to give the
purse to that damned bastard pup. That you yielded at all was defaming enough. Couldn’t you have had the
wit to cede to a full-grown man?”
He stared without expression at Montague.
“Well, boy? Give me answer!”
“The new champion will serve you honorably and with much heart,” said Richard, astonished at how
steady his voice sounded.
“That is no answer. Why did you yield?”
“He offered me quarter. I accepted rather than—”
“Rather than die,” Montague concluded for him. “Aye, showing the world the kind of coward I sired.”
Richard clenched his jaw hard to keep back the sudden protest that wanted to spring forth at this
unfairness. He’d begun the tourney as one of a hundred other fighters and managed to last until but two
remained: himself and the boy. To survive for so long in such a struggle was not the achievement of a
coward. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. This is of no matter. There could have been a
thousand of us and the duke would still speak to me so.
“You don’t deny it, either. Pah!”
“I am my father’s son,” Richard muttered. “But what part of you is in me?”
“What say you? What was that?” he snarled, pausing in the act of raising his tankard.
“I await my lord’s pleasure,” Richard said more clearly, hoping the duke would soon finish his ravings
and make his formal dismissal.
“Your lord’s pleasure would be to see you dead.”
How often has he voiced that wish? It’s come true and he knows it not. Richard hadn’t lost his life in
battle, but in the throes of passion with Sabra to make his rebirth possible—something the old man would
never understand.
“You smile? Do you mock me, boy?”
“No, my lord.” I’m five and thirty years, old enough to have sons and grandsons of my own, and
still he calls me boy. Is it to belittle me or to keep his own age and death at bay? Or both? For
Richard’s father was ancient, being a few years past fifty. Many thought the only reason he’d not yet died
was that heaven wouldn’t have him, and the Devil didn’t want to contest with him for the rule of hell.
But he will die eventually, and I will continue. The realization got him through the next few moments
as his father ranted on. Richard no longer heard the words, but looked long at the man whose blood flowed
in his veins, the man who had given him life, and saw only another whose cruelty shielded a sad, empty
spirit. For all that, Richard could feel no pity, only contempt.
“Well, boy?” Montague’s last words rang through the stillness of the castle and into Richard’s
consciousness. “What do you have to say?”
That he’d not listened mattered little; any reply would be the wrong one. “I’ve nothing to say, my lord.”
“Pah!”
The hair abruptly stood on the back of Richard’s neck as he became aware they were no longer alone.
He could sense another presence here, another drawing of breath, another scent on the smoky air. Out of
the corner of his eye he glimpsed the slightest movement of the heavy arras covering the wall to his left. It
was not a draught or a trick of the torchlight. Someone had come silently and was listening, watching.
Richard relaxed as he comprehended who it was, and knew that there would be no interference.
“My lord, as I have failed thee, I ask leave to depart from your service.” There, it was out at last. The
old man could rail all he liked, but eventually he must grant his permission. This had been coming for years.
“Ceding again, are you?”
“My lord the duke is above keeping company with those who displease him. I would shame you no more
and depart quietly.”
“Think you such flattery will make favor with me?”