"Chelsea Quinn Yarbro - Olivia 2 - Crusader's Torch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Yarbro Chelsea Quinn)

"This is supposed to be a Christian city, not one of those godless Islamite camps
where—" He stopped, staring at Rainaut, knowing that such words in the presence of
a knight were inexcusable.
 "In the heat of battle," said Rainaut with a grim twitch of his lips which was
intended to be a smile, "a man forgets."
At the far end of the street a shriek went up, and in an instant the crowd changed.
Those who had been trying to push forward were now as anxious as the most
timorous to escape. Shouts of outrage became cries of alarm.
"What is it?" Rainaut asked, baffled at the abrupt shift.
"Templars," said the sarjeant comprehensively. "We'd better leave as quickly as
we're able." He attempted to get away from the shelter of the door. "Hurry. If they
catch us—"
"We're Hospitalers," said Rainaut. "We're fellow-knights."
"Say that when you have seen how they do their work," the sarjeant insisted,
plucking at Rainaut's sleeve. "Hurry. They will be upon us soon."
At the far end of the covered street there was, impossibly, the sound of iron-shod
hooves, and the unmistakable clang of steel. High wails and prayers rose above the
rest of the clamor.
"They'll be upon us shortly," said the sarjeant, blessing himself automatically.
"But…" Rainaut tried to see over the crowd in order to learn if what the sarjeant
claimed could be true.
"Hurry." This time he tugged Rainaut's arm without apology.
"We ought to await them," said Rainaut, but with less certainty. He stared down at
the flagged streets where three men now lay, two of them trying to escape the kicks
and blows of those still standing, one of them quite still.
"If we don't leave, they'll have us," said the sarjeant, his plain, hound's face now
sagging and pale. "Now, Bonsier."
Reluctantly Rainaut moved into the crowd as if he were entering a swift-running
river. He tried to choose his way, to find where there were breaks in the pack of
bodies, but even as he moved the crowd shifted, and once again he and the sarjeant
were at the mercy of the others, tossed like boats on a flood. Quickly they were
separated, the sarjeant all but disappearing in the narrow way: Rainaut, less than two
arm's-lengths from him, could neither see nor reach him.
Where the old man with the donkey-cart had been there was now a mounted,
armored knight, his sword drawn; his white surcote was blazoned with the red cross
of the Knights Templars. As Rainaut watched, the Templar clove a path for himself
and his horse with the relentless scything of his sword.
A man in Egyptian garments beside Rainaut began to recite prayers in a
monotonous sing-song as he sank to his knees.
 Rainaut turned to the fellow but was plucked away from him by the increased
flight of the crowd. Now that it was clear that the Templars would maim anyone in
their path, everyone trapped in the confines of the street rushed to flee them.
The windows above the street were empty and shuttered.
Rainaut stared in dismay as the relentless knights came nearer. Pride and his
schooling told him that no Templar would harm him, but there was blood on the
flagstones. He hesitated, then was tugged away by others running from the knights.
The Egyptian had fallen over, and the drone of his prayers were interrupted with a
high, brief shriek.
Two broken support rods of a hastily abandoned vendor's stall rolled and clattered
under Rainaut's feet. He almost tripped on them, then, more out of habit than