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

inspiration, he bent and picked one up as the relentless mob drove him on. As a
skinny man with a scarred face lurched against him, Rainaut fended him off with the
short stick. In that moment, he steadied himself against the human tide and turned to
face the Templars, the rod held in both hands, angled across his body. This time, as
he was jostled, he did not move.
It did not take long for the mounted Templars to reach him; one instant they were
five paces away, the next they were within striking distance: four mounted knights,
swords reddened, horses blowing.
"Stop," Rainaut ordered, not at all certain he could be heard over the noise.
A muffled, angry burst came from one of the following Templars, and a maul was
lifted.
The Templar in the lead motioned for his companion to be still. "A Hospitaler?" he
asked, his Norman French flavored with the whispering accents of Burgos. "Stops
us?"
Stung by the Templar's amused contempt, Rainaut lifted his makeshift weapon a
little higher. "Whatever has happened here now is over."
Two of the Templars laughed, and the leader cocked his head the little bit his
armor permitted. "Do you tell me that you protect swine like these cowards?" The
gesture with his sword indicated all the people who ran from them.
"That is our mandate," said Rainaut, adding quickly, "Put that down!" to the last
Templar who was drawing his mace-and-chain from its holster.
"But to waste your courage for filth…" The Spanish Templar sighed. "A
Hospitaler. From?"
"Saint-Prosperus-lo-Boys, sworn vassal of His Grace Henry of England." He did
not let go of the broken staff he held to touch the hilt of his sword, although it was
proper he do so.
 "Ah." The Spanish Templar signaled to the others and they put up their weapons.
"No more sport today, my lads. We're answerable to this… fellow." Whatever he had
intended to say first, he prudently substituted a less inflammatory word. With obvious
disappointment the Templars did as they were ordered, one of them grumbling about
milksops in armor. Rainaut pretended to misunderstand. "Tell me," the Spanish
Templar went on when he had wiped the blood from his sword and sheathed it.
"What would you do with that bludgeon of yours? We have swords and maces and
mauls. What would you do with that?"
"I would have smashed your horses' legs with it." He said it bluntly; he knew that
for knights in the Holy Land, horses were more rare and valuable than wives, and the
damage of one was worse than the loss of armor.
"So." The Spanish Templar regarded Rainaut in the silence of restrained fury. "So.
I will not forget you, Hospitaler from Saint-Prosperus-lo-Boys." His accent was
stronger and Rainaut had the uneasy sensation that he could see the shine of dark
eyes behind the shadow of the heavy cervelliere-with-aventail which effectively
concealed his features.
"Nor I you," Rainaut said, but with less certainty. He could not see the Spaniard's
face, and aside from the Spanish accent, he had no means to identify the voice.
As if acknowledging this, the Spaniard laughed. "We have done for now." He
raised his arm and signaled his men to turn and leave. "God give you good day,
Bonsier," he said in mockery, dragging his horse around with a tug on the rein and a
jab from one of his long-roweled spurs.
As the Templars clattered down the street, those unfortunate enough to lie in their
path were run over with less concern than if they had been dead geese.