"Mary Stewart - The Arthurian Saga 02 - The Hollow Hills2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stewart Mary)

that look of limitless and empty distance which spoke of the sea. "I saw y
ou come riding up the valley from the shore, going slow. I could see you wa
s ill, or maybe sleeping on the horse.'Then he put his foot wrong-a hole, l
ikely-and you came off. You've not been lying long. I'd just got down to yo
u."
He stopped, his mouth dropping open. I saw shock in his face. As he spo
ke I had been pushing myself up till I was able to sit, propped by my left
arm, and carefully lift my injured right hand into my lap. It was a swollen
, crusted mass of dried blood, through which fresh red was running. I had,
I guessed, fallen on it when my horse had stumbled. The faint had been merc
iful enough. The pain was growing now, wave on wave grinding, with the stea
dy beat and drag of the tide over shingle, but the faintness had gone, and
my head, though still aching from the blow, was clear.
"Mother of mercy!" The boy was looking sick. "You never did that fallin
g from your horse?"
"No. It was a fight."

"You've no sword."

"I lost it. No matter. I have my dagger, and a hand for it. No, don't be a
fraid. The fighting's done. No one will hurt you. Now, if you'll help me onto
my horse, I'll be on my way."

He gave me an arm as I got to my feet. We were standing at the edge of a
high green upland studded with furze, with here and there stark, solitary tre
es thrust into strange shapes by the steady salt wind. Beyond the thicket whe
re I had lain the ground fell away in a sharp slope scored by the tracks of s
heep and goats. It made one side of a narrow, winding valley, at the foot of
which a stream raced, tumbling, down its rocky bed. I could not see what lay
at the foot of the valley, but about a mile away, beyond the horizon of winte
r grass, was the sea. From the height of the land where I stood one could gue
ss at the great cliffs which fell away to the shore, and beyond the land's fa
rthest edge, small in the distance, I could see the jut of towers.

The castle of Tintagel, stronghold of the Dukes of Cornwall. The impregn
able fortress rock, which could only be taken by guile, or by treachery from
within. Last night, I had used both.

I felt a shiver run over my flesh. Last night, in the wild dark of the s
torm, this had been a place of gods and destiny, of power driving towards so
me distant end of which I had been given, from time to time, a glimpse. And
I, Merlin, son of Ambrosius, whom men feared as prophet and visionary, had b
een in that night's work no more than the god's instrument.

It was for this that I had been given the gift of Sight, and the power
that men saw as magic. From this remote and sea-locked fortress would come
the King who alone could clear Britain of her enemies, and give her time to
find herself; who alone, in the wake of Ambrosius, the last of the Romans,
would hold back the fresh tides of the Saxon Terror, and, for a breathing
space at least, keep Britain whole. This I had seen in the stars, and heard