"George R. R. Martin - The Hedge Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

and shouldered through the door.

At this hour, he would have expected the inn to be crowded, but the common room was almost empty.
A young lordling in a fine damask mantle was passed out at one table, snoring softly into a pool of spilled
wine. Otherwise there was no one. Dunk looked around uncertainly until a stout, short. whey-faced
woman emerged from the kitchens and said, “Sit where you like. Is it ale you want, or food?”

“Both.” Dunk took a chair by the window, well away from the sleeping man.

“There’s good lamb, roasted with a crust of herbs, and some ducks my son shot down. Which will you
have?”

He had not eaten at an inn in half a year or more. “Both.”

The woman laughed. “Well, you’re big enough for it.” She drew a tankard of ale and brought it to his
table. “Will you be wanting a room for the night as well?”

“No.” Dunk would have liked nothing better than a soft straw mattress and a roof above his head, but he
needed to be careful with his coin. The ground would serve. “Some food, some ale, and it’s on to
Ashford for me. How much farther is it?”

“A day’s ride. Bear north when the road forks at the burned mill. Is my boy seeing to your horses, or has
he run off again?”

“No, he’s there,” said Dunk. “You seem to have no custom.”

“Half the town’s gone to see the tourney. My own would as well, if I allowed it. They’ll have this inn
when I go, but the boy would sooner swagger about with soldiers, and the girl turns to sighs and giggles
every time a knight rides by. I swear I couldn’t tell you why. Knights are built the same as other men, and
I never knew a joust to change the price of eggs.” She eyed Dunk curiously; his sword and shield told
her one thing, his rope belt and roughspun tunic quite another. “You’re bound for the tourney yourself?”

He took a sip of the ale before he answered. A nut brown color it was, and thick on the tongue, the way
he liked it. “Aye,” he said. “I mean to be a champion.”

“Do you, now?” the innkeep answered, polite enough.

Across the room, the lordling raised his head from the wine puddle. His face had a sallow, unhealthy cast
to it beneath a rat’s nest of sandy brown hair, and blond stubble crusted his chin. He rubbed his mouth,
blinked at Dunk, and said, “I dreamed of you.” His hand trembled as he pointed a finger. “You stay
away from me, do you hear? You stay well away.”

Dunk stared at him uncertainly. “My lord?”

The innkeep leaned close. “Never you mind that one, ser. All he does is drink and talk about his dreams.
I’ll see about that food.” She bustled off.

“Food?” The lordling made the word an obscenity. He staggered to his feet, one hand on the table to
keep himself from falling. “I’m going to be sick,” he announced. The front of his tunic was crusty red with
old wine stains. “I wanted a whore, but there’s none to be found here. All gone to Ashford Meadow.