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

“Yes . . . I—”
“That is good.” Richard withdrew a few steps and waited.
It took only a little time for the duke to regain himself, and when he did his first action was to rise and fill
his tankard again, growling like a bad-tempered bear. He shot a belligerent glare at Richard. “Well? Why do
you tarry? You’ve leave to go, take it!”
Richard pressed his hand to his brow, and the ache there lessened. The beguilement had been difficult,
but worth it. Relief washed over him, and he recalled the other reason why he’d come. “Then I give you
my farewell, Lord Montague.”
The old man sneered. For all his lapse bending to Richard’s will, he was well recovered back to his
original foul humor. “Keep your farewell. I want it not, and will be glad to see you gone.”
Richard blinked once at this brusque dismissal. What did I hope for? A fond embrace? A fallen tear?
Pushing away the old and futile hurt, he bowed deeply and backed a pace or two toward the main door
before turning.
“Bad riddance to thee!” Montague threw after him. “You should never have been born.”
How often had he heard that one? Never again, God ’a mercy. He kept going.
“In all of your miserable life, you’ve brought me nothing but grief from the very beginning,” the duke
continued, his voice rising. “I curse the day you were conceived and the day you came forth.” It was his
favorite torment, though he usually took more time to work up to it. His drunkenness must have altered the
pattern. “The day you took my wife from me!”
The effect of this all-too-familiar attack on Richard was immediate and impossible to hide behind his
usual wall of silence and nonreaction. He knew where the duke was leading and how -impossible he was to
stop.
“Better if you had died instead, you murdering—you were the one that did it. You killed your own
mother!”
No! I did not kill her! I did not! I did not! His steps faltered as the old agony seized him once more.
“Killed her, I say. Ripped her from the inside and left her screaming with her blood pouring out.”
In all the years that he’d been lashed by the tale, Richard had held himself in check. He’d endured every
kind of variation, delivered by every kind of utterance from whispered baiting to blistering shrieks, time and
time again, knowing that any objection, denial, or rage to the contrary would only make it worse. As a child,
he’d seek solitude and weep out his grief; as a man, he’d swallow back the anger to release it on the
practice field with fighting, or get drunk.
But now . . .
For want of a sword, his hand sought the dagger on his belt. In that moment he wanted nothing else but
to stop the tearing rasp of the old man’s voice. A quick strike, slide the blade through his throat and watch
the blood spurt . . .
He felt the heat sear his face and with it came blinding, unquench-able fury born of the helpless anguish
he kept within his soul. Always he’d been able to hold it back—but it was . . . was different now.
“Your fault—”
Far, far different.
“You damned—”
His corner teeth . . . budding . . .
“—murdering—”
Richard came to a stop, bewildered by his body’s unexpected response to the torment. A hot breath
seemed to touch his brow, clouding his vision. The torches burned steadily, but the golden cast of their light
appeared to be tainted with crimson. He closed his eyes tight, knowing that they’d gone red as hellfire, and
lowered his head, giving in to a shudder as he fought what was happening inside.
“—coward!”
He raised his hands, palms out as though to push the words away, and placed all his thought upon
mastering himself. I will not let him win. Not after all this time.
“Your fault!”