"Stephen Lawhead - Celtic Crusades 01 - The Iron Lance" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lawhead Stephen)

and deftly tied one end of the thread to the long bracken stem beside his
head. Then, with the most subtle of movements, he began to crawl again, paying
out the thread as he went.
Slowly, slowly, and with the icy cunning of a serpent, he moved, pausing to
unwind more string and then slithering forward again, head low under the
pungent green fronds, forcing himself to remain calm. To hurry now would mean
certain disaster.
'We know you are here!' shouted Torf. 'We saw you. Stand and declare, coward!
Hear me? You are a very coward, Murdo!'
'Surrender,' cried Paul, dangerously near. 'We will let you go free.'
'Give up, Stick!' added Skuli. 'You are caught!'
Murdo kept silent - and even when Paul's spear swept only a hair's breadth
from his head, he did not break and run, but hunkered down and waited for the
horse to move on. Reaching to the end of his thread ball, he lay still, trying
to determine where and how far away were each of his pursuers. Satisfied that
they were all at least ten or more paces away, he took a deep breath, pulled
the woollen thread taut ... and then gave a quick, sharp tug.
He waited, and jerked the string hard once more.
'There!' shouted Skuli. The other two whooped in triumph, wheeling their
mounts and making for the place.
But Murdo had already released the thread and was slithering down the hill as
fast as he could go. He reached the bank of the burn and risked a furtive look
back at the riders: all three stood poised in the saddle with spears at the
ready, shouting into the bracken for him to surrender.
Smiling, Murdo eased over the edge of the bank and lowered himself into the
burn. The water was shallow, and cold on his bare feet, but he gritted his
teeth and hastened on. While the riders demanded his surrender, Murdo made his
escape along the low stream bed.
It was Niamh who finally caught him; he was sliding quietly around the corner
of the barn, hoping to slip into the yard unobserved. 'Murdo! There you are,'
she scolded, 'I have been looking for you.'
'My lady,' Murdo said, snapping himself straight. He turned to see her flying
towards him, green skirts bunched in her fists, dark eyes flashing.
'A fine my ladyl Look at you!' she said, exasperation making her sharp. 'Wet
to the bone and muddy with it.' She seized him by the arm and pulled him
roughly towards her. A head or more taller than the slender woman, he
nevertheless delivered himself to her reproof. 'You have been at that cursed
game again!'
'I am sorry, mam,' he replied, his man-voice breaking through the boyish
apology. 'It's the last time, and-'
'Hare and hunter - at your age, Murdo!' she snapped, then looked at him and
softened. 'Ah, my heart,' she sighed and released his arm. 'You should never
let them treat you like that. It is neither meet nor fitting for any lord's
son.'
'But they could not catch me,' Murdo protested. 'They never do.'
'The abbot is here,' Niamh said, tugging his damp, dirty siarc and brushing at
it with her hands.
'I know. I saw the horses.'
'He will think you one of the servingmen, and who is to blame but yourself?'
'What of that?' Murdo replied sourly. 'It's never me that's going.'