"1 - Ghost King (v1.0)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gemmel David)

The king had never recovered from the death of Alaida. He rarely laughed and only came alive when hunting either beasts or men. He had plenty of opportunity in those bloody days for the Saxons and Jutes were raiding in the south and the Norse sailed their Wolfships into the deep rivers of the East Country. Added to this there were raiders aplenty from the smaller clans and tribes who had never accepted the right of the Romano-British warlords to rule the ancient lands of the Belgae, the Iceni and the Cantii.
Gwalchmai could well understand this viewpoint, being pure-blood Cantii himself, born within a long stone's throw of the Ghost Cliffs.
Now he watched as the noblemen cantered towards the wooded hills, then returned to his quarters behind the long stables. His eyes scanned the Deicester men as they lounged by the alehouse and he began to grow uneasy. There was no love lost between the disparate groups assembled here, though the truce had been well-maintained - a broken nose here, a sprained wrist there, but mostly the retainers had kept to themselves. But today Gwalchmai sensed a tension in the air, a brightness in the eyes of the soldiers.
He wandered into the long room. Only two of the king's men were here, Victorinus and Caradoc. They were playing knuckle-bones and the Roman was losing, with good grace.
'Rescue me, Gwal,' said Victorinus. 'Save me from my stupidity.'
"There's not a man alive who could do that!' Gwalchmai moved to his cot and his wrapped blankets. He drew his gladius and scabbard from the roll and strapped the sword to his waist.
'Are you expecting trouble?' asked Caradoc, a tall rangy tribesman of Belgae stock.
'Where are the others?' he answered, avoiding the question.
'Most of them have gone to the village. There's a fair organised.' 'When was this announced?' 'This morning,' said Victorinus, entering the conversation. 'What has happened?'
'Nothing as yet,' said Gwalchmai, 'and I hope to Mithras nothing does. But the air smells wrong.'
'I can't smell anything wrong with it,' responded Victorinus.
'That's because you're a Roman,' put in Caradoc, moving to his own blanket roll and retrieving his sword.
‘I’ll not argue with a pair of superstitious tribesmen, but think on this: if we walk around armed to the teeth, we could incite trouble. We could be accused of breaking the spirit of the truce.'
Gwalchmai swore and sat down. 'You are right, my friend. What do you suggest?'
Victorinus, though younger than his companions, was well respected by the other men in the King's Guards. He was steady, courageous and a sound thinker. His solid Roman upbringing also proved a perfect counterpoint to the unruly, explosive temperaments of the Britons who served the king.
'I am not altogether sure, Gwal. Do not misunderstand me, for I do not treat your talents lightly. You have a nose for traps and an eye that reads men. If you say something is amiss, then I'll wager that it is. I think we should keep our swords hidden inside our tunics and wander around the Keep. It may be no more than a lingering ill-feeling amongst the Deicester men for Caradoc here taking their money last night in the knife-throwing tourney.'
'I do not think so,' said Caradoc. 'In fact, I thought they took it too well. It puzzled me at the time, but it did not feel right. I even slept with one hand on my dagger.'
'Let us not fly too high, my friends,' said Victorinus. 'We will meet back here in an hour. If there is danger in the air, we should all get a sniff of it.'
'And what if we find something?' asked Caradoc.
'Do nothing. If you can, walk away from trouble. Swallow pride.'
'No man should be asked to do that,' protested the Belgae.
'That may be true, my volatile friend. But if there is to be trouble, then let the Deicester men start it. The king will be less than pleased if you break the truce; he'll flay the skin from your back.'
Gwalchmai moved to the window and pushed open the wooden shutters.
'I do not think we need to concern ourselves about hiding weapons,' he said softly. The Deicester men are all armed.'
Victorinus swept up his blanket roll. 'Gather your gear now and follow me. Swiftly.'
'There are about a dozen of them coming this way with swords in their hands,' said Gwalch-mai, ducking down from the window. Gathering his belongings, he followed his two companions to the rough-carved wooden door leading to the stables. Drawing their swords they stepped through and pulled the door shut behind them. Swiftly they saddled three horses and rode out into the yard.
'There they are!' someone shouted and soldiers rushed out to block the riders. Victorinus kicked his mount into a gallop, crashing into the crowding warriors, who scattered and fell to the cobbles. Then the trio were thundering under the beamed gateway and out into the snow-swept hills.
They had not travelled more than a mile when they came upon the bodies of their comrades, lying in a hollow by a frozen stream. The retainers had been armed only with knives, but at least eleven of the seventeen had been killed by arrows. The rest had been hacked to death by swords or axes.
The three men sat their horses in silence. There was no point in dismounting. They gazed at the dead faces of those who had been their friends, or at the least their comrades in war. By a gnarled oak lay the body of Atticus, the rope-walker. Around him the snow was stained with blood, and it was obvious that he alone of all the retainers had managed to inflict wounds upon the attackers.
'At least three men,' said Caradoc, as if reading the thoughts of his companions. 'But then Atticus was a tough whoreson. What do we do now, Victorinus?'
The young Roman stayed silent for a moment, scanning the horizon. 'The king,' he said softly.
'And the boy!' said Gwalchmai. 'Sweet Juno! We must find them - warn them.'
They are dead,' said Victorinus, removing his bronze helm and staring at his own distorted reflection. That is why the retainers were lured away and murdered, and why the king was invited on the stag-hunt. It was a royal stag they hunted. We must get back to Caerlyn and warn Aquila.'
'No!' shouted Caradoc. 'This treachery cannot go unpunished.'
Victorinus saw the pain in the Belgae's eyes. 'And what will you do, Caradoc? Ride back to Deicester and scale the walls to find Eldared?'
'Why not?'
'Because it would be futile - you would die before getting within a yard of Eldared. Think ahead, man. Aquila does not expect the king back until spring and he will be unprepared. The first sight he will see coming from the north is the Deicester army and any allies Eldared has gained. They will seize Eboracum and the traitor will have won.'
'But we must find the king's body,' said Gwalchmai. 'We cannot leave it for the crows; it is not fitting.'
'And suppose he is not yet dead?' offered Caradoc. 'I would never forgive myself for leaving him.'
'I know what you are feeling, and I grieve also. But I beg you to put aside emotion and trust Roman logic. Yes, we could bury the king - but what of Eboracum? You think the king's shade would thank us for putting his body before the fate of his people?'
'And if he is not dead?' persisted Caradoc.
'You know that he is,' said Victorinus sadly.

CHAPTER TWO
Thuro was lost. It had happened soon after the riders left the castle, when the dogs had picked up a scent and raced into the dark wood with the hunters thundering after them. Having no intention of galloping into the trees in hot pursuit, he had reined in the mare and followed at a sedate canter, but somewhere along the trail he had taken a wrong turn and now he could no longer even hear the hounds. The wintry sun was high overhead and Thuro was cold through to his bones . . . and he was hungry. The trees were thinner here, the ground slowly rising. The wind had dropped and Thuro halted by a frozen stream. He dismounted and cracked the ice, dipping his head and sipping the cold fresh water. His father would be so angry with him - he would say nothing, but his eyes would show his displeasure and his face would turn away from the boy.
Thuro cleared the snow from a flat rock and sat down, considering all the options open to him. He could ride on blindly in the hope of stumbling upon the hunters, or he could follow his own tracks back to the castle. It was not hard to find the right course of action with options such as these. He mounted the mare and swung her back to the south.
A large stag stepped lightly on to the trail and stopped to watch the rider. Thuro reined in and leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. 'Good morning, prince of the forest, are you also lost?' The stag turned contemptuously away and continued its leisurely pace across the trail and into the trees. 'You remind me of my father.' Thuro called after it.
'Do you often talk to animals?' Thuro turned in the saddle to see a young girl, dressed like a forester in green hooded woollen tunic, leather leggings and knee-high moccasins fringed with sheepskin. Her hair was short and a mixture of autumnal colours - light brown, with a hint of both gold and red. Her face was striking, without a hint of beauty and yet. ...
Thuro bowed. 'Do you live near here?' he asked.
'Perhaps. But obviously you do not. How long have you been lost?'