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

Gods be good, I need some wine.” He lurched unsteadily from the common room, and Dunk heard him
climbing steps, singing under his breath.

A sad creature, thought Dunk. But why did he think he knew me? He pondered that a moment over his
ale.

The lamb was as good as any he had ever eaten, and the duck was even better, cooked with cherries
and lemons and not near as greasy as most. The innkeep brought buttered pease as well, and oaten
bread still hot from her oven. This is what it means to be a knight, he told himself as he sucked the last bit
of meat off the bone. Good food, and ale whenever I want it, and no one to clout me in the head. He had
a second tankard of ale with the meal, a third to wash it down, and a fourth because there was no one to
tell him he couldn’t, and when he was done he paid the woman with a silver stag and still got back a
fistful of coppers.

It was full dark by the time Dunk emerged. His stomach was full and his purse was a little lighter, but he
felt good as he walked to the stables. Ahead, he heard a horse whicker. “Easy, lad,” a boy’s voice said.
Dunk quickened his step, frowning.

He found the stableboy mounted on Thunder and wearing the old man’s armor. The hauberk was longer
than he was, and he’d had to tilt the helm back on his bald head or else it would have covered his eyes.
He looked utterly intent, and utterly absurd. Dunk stopped in the stable door and laughed.

The boy looked up, flushed, vaulted to the ground. “My lord, I did not mean—

“Thief,” Dunk said, trying to sound stern. “Take off that armor, and be glad that Thunder didn’t kick you
in that fool head. He’s a warhorse, not a boy’s pony.”

The boy took off the helm and flung it to the straw. “I could ride him as well as you,” he said, bold as you
please.

“Close your mouth, I want none of your insolence. The hauberk too, take it off. What did you think you
were doing?”

“How can I tell you, with my mouth closed?” The boy squirmed out of the chain mail and let it fall.

“You can open your mouth to answer,” said Dunk. “Now pick up that mail, shake off the dirt, and put it
back where you found it. And the halfhelm too. Did you feed the horses, as I told you? And rub down
Sweetfoot?”

“Yes,” the boy said, as he shook straw from the mail. “You’re going to Ashford, aren’t you? Take me
with you, ser.”

The innkeep had warned him of this. “And what might your mother say to that?”

“My mother?” The boy wrinkled up his face. “My mother’s dead, she wouldn’t say anything.”

He was surprised. Wasn’t the innkeep his mother? Perhaps he was only ‘prenticed to her. Dunk’s head
was a little fuzzy from the ale. “Are you an orphan boy?” he asked uncertainly.

“Are you?” the boy threw back.