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

 "You take his legs," Rainaut instructed. "I will try to carry him so that I will not
pull on his shoulder any more. It is fortunate for him that he has swooned." He did his
task efficiently; only the darkening of his face revealed the effort of his work.
The sarjeant, the merchant's feet caught in the crooks of his elbows, toiled along,
puffing with each step. "The turn's coming up, sir. Have a care. The street is a busy
one."
"Not as busy as this one has been, I reckon," said Rainaut grimly. "Who tends to
the streets when we have gone?"
"It will be done," said the sarjeant vaguely. "There are those who…"
The next street was more than twice the width of the covered one they left. Here
the sun was merciless where people bustled and jostled.
"This is a griddle," Rainaut protested as he and the sarjeant lugged the German
merchant toward the hospice of the Knights Hospitalers.
"Not much further, Bonsier," panted the sarjeant. "Have a care—there's goats
ahead of you."
Rainaut had heard the animals in the general din of the street. "Thank you,
sarjeant." He continued to back up, and though the German merchant seemed to grow
heavier with each step Rainaut took, he did not permit himself to complain of it.
"Where now?"
"Five more steps," the sarjeant told him. "Bonsier, my back is aching like I've
fallen down stairs."
"You say it's not much farther." It took an effort to speak evenly.
"A little way, yes, Bonsier," the sarjeant said, suddenly resigned to his situation.
"Not much more. Have a care, Bonsier." This last warning was for a pushcart filled
with hot stuffed breads; the man behind it, a slave, struggled with the unwieldly
vehicle while his owner walked at the front, clearing the way and crying his wares
into the cacophony of the street.
"Offer the ache to God," Rainaut recommended when the food vendor was safely
past them.
"The church will be on your right, Bonsier. Take him there. There are those who
will know what to do." The sarjeant's steps were faltering and he grunted with the
effort of walking.
"Tell me the way, sarjeant," Rainaut ordered.
A gaggle of ill-dressed children hurtled, screaming and laughing, down the street,
careless of where they went. One of them knocked against the German merchant, and
the unconscious man seemed to moan.
 "A bit more to the right. There are three steps, and the narthex opens immediately
to your right." He took a deep, ragged breath. "Hey, you there! Get us some help!"
Rainaut heard steps behind him rush, echoing, away. The shadow of the church
fell across him, blocking out the hot weight of the sun. Then, as he struggled up the
steps, he heard footsteps approaching, and a voice at his side said, "We will take him,
my son." As confused as he was relieved, Rainaut gave over his burden to the priest
and two men in the black-and-white cote of the Knights Hospitaler of Saint John,
Jerusalem. "Be careful," Rainaut said. "His shoulder's out."
"We'll tend to it," one of those beside him said.
"Deo gratias," Rainaut said, blessing himself with an effort.
A Premonstratensian monk approached Rainaut, his face worn as leather and his
head all but bald. "God give you good day, sir knight. You have had a most
propitious beginning here."
Rainaut was suddenly too fatigued to respond.