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

Moans, which had been inaudible moments before, now filled the stone street, and
those casualties who could cry out for aid entreated every aid they could think of; at
least three called for their mothers; one—the Egyptian—continued to beg God. The
old man with the donkey cart lay still on the paving stones, blood congealing around
him. His donkey, his off-hind leg broken, gave off a series of soft, high squeaks. The
Bourgess was huddled against the wall, his garments reduced to rags, his face leaden.
"Sir?" the sarjeant said, and Rainaut jumped at the sound.
"I thought you were—" Rainaut accused, to cover his own sudden lack of bravery.
It had happened to him before, this unaccountable nausea and chill that seized him
now; as always, he felt shamed by it, and vowed it would not possess him again.
"That was amazing, sir," the sarjeant said with honest humility. "I never saw
anyone stand up to Templars that way. Not without full harness on, anyway."
Rainaut tried a ghost of a smile. "It had to be stopped," he said distantly, reaching
out as he did to steady himself against the wall. "It went too far."
 The sarjeant grinned without mirth. "Well, stop it you did, sir. But you had better
be on guard."
"Why?" Rainaut asked, anticipating the answer.
"Because the Templars won't forget. They're the rulers here, for all they tell you
otherwise. That devil Saladin is less feared than they are. They're supposed to fight to
defend the honor of Christ and the Holy Sepulcher—they fight for the love of battle,
not the love of Christ. And they're not all well-born, the way Hospitaler Knights are.
There's all manner of graceless sorts who—"
"Yes; I know." Rainaut dropped the broken rod he had been holding, watching it as
it hit the flagstones and split down half its length. "Do you know who they were?"
"I can find out. There aren't that many Spaniards in the Holy Land, not with all
those Moors in Spain," he scoffed.
"Why are they here, then, if what they want is to fight Islamites? Aren't there
enough in Spain for them, that they must come* here to find them?" Rainaut slapped
the front of his surcote, noticing for the first time that it was blood-spattered. "I will
have to have this washed." The stain would never leave it, but treated with urine, it
would fade.
The sarjeant led the way cautiously down the street, taking care not to touch any of
those who had fallen to the Templars. "As to that, sir, there's no saying what that
Spaniard would do in Spain. If he is a priest's son, he would come here now that the
Church has made him a bastard. If he is a bastard already, then he would not be
welcome among the company of knights in Spain. They send only legitimate sons to
chase out their Islamites."
"Foolish of them," said Rainaut absently. He had stopped beside a man in German
dress. "His shoulder is out of its socket. We should lend him some aid."
"It's not wise, sir," warned the sarjeant.
"Hospitalers are mandated to care for Christians, to protect them. This man is a
German merchant, from the look of his clothes. He is a Christian and…" He was
troubled that he had not rendered more assistance during this fracas, and now he
wanted to make amends, if only through something as minor as this token gesture to
this one injured merchant.
"There will be a place for him," sighed the sarjeant, knowing that it was pointless
to argue with a knight. "We can sling him between us—we haven't far to go."
A few of the upper windows had been opened once more, the shutters folded back
against the stone fronts of the houses. At one of the windows a pair of curious faces
appeared.