Miles Cameron - The Dread Wyrm
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- Название:The Dread Wyrm
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- Издательство:Orbit
- Жанр:
- Год:2015
- ISBN:нет данных
- Рейтинг книги:5 / 5. Голосов: 1
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Ser Henri tossed a purse to the keeper as the great hooded bird cleared the yard in its green and gold wagon. “I will not forget this inn,” he said. “My thanks, and those of every one of my knights.”
He trotted his great war horse-all the knights had mounted their heavy horses for the entry into Albinkirk-and rode out after his convoy.
The keeper went wearily into his common room, where half the village was being served a pint of ale. He upended half a year’s profits on the serving counter in front of his wife, who hugged him.
He turned to Helewise. “Gold, or ale?” he asked.
She smiled. “That was not enough of a favour to need repayment,” she said. She enjoyed her pint of ale, collected her daughters, and walked them home across the muddy fields along the still-frozen margins.
The Duchess of Westwall’s entry into Albinkirk was anything but spontaneous. Her men-at-arms glittered and any sign of travel stain or mud had been erased at the inn, and the whole column swept into town like an avenging army. Her men-at-arms wore matching green and gold; her wagons were gold and green, and the enormous bird, a tame monster of some sort, was itself badged in gold and green, like the duchess herself in her emeralds. Most of the population of Albinkirk was in the streets, and Captain Henri distributed largesse to the poor from his saddlebow.
The duchess rode in the middle of her column. She was greeted at the gate in blazing sunshine by Ser John, and escorted up through the narrow and winding streets to the citadel, where she and her immediate staff were to be housed.
She stood in the great hall under the timbered roof and smiled at Ser John, who felt the power of her like a stallion smelling a mare, and the bishop, who treated her more as a forbidden text, and saved his warmth for Sister Amicia, with whom he shared a chaste embrace.
“But where are my sons?” the duchess asked.
Ser John bowed. “Ser Gabriel and Ser Gavin are hard at work in my tiltyard,” he said.
“Send them to me when they are presentable,” Ghause said. She offered her hand to the Captain of Albinkirk. Over her shoulder, she said to Ser Henri, “Feel free to take Ser Aneas to his brothers.”
She put her arm through Amicia’s. “Come,” she said.
Amicia knew that she was being used for something. But she had little enough choice, and she went willingly with the duchess.
Four huntsmen brought the bird.
If the morning had been wet and filled with mourning, midday had been dryer and had been as physically hard as the morning had been on the spirit. The captain had seemed determined to unhorse every member of his company, and he rode his great war horse Ataelus on course after course. He’d stretched Ser John over his crupper early, as Ser John had to greet the man’s infernal mother. The Captain of Albinkirk knew his lower back would feel the force of the blow for days-but when the duchess swept regally to her rooms, Ser John led her household knights back into the yard, mounted with them, and rode to the tiltyard under the walls, facing south.
As he arrived, Ser Alcaeus unhorsed a young Occitan spectacularly, dropping the man without appearing to alter his own seat. He swept down the list with his unbroken lance tip high.
There were twenty women and a hundred men watching. They applauded.
Ser Michael entered the lists at the eastern end, and Bad Tom entered from the west. They were plainly armoured, without surcoats or fancy harness, and both wore great helms for jousting instead of their bascinets.
They flicked salutes at each other and the horses moved.
Ser Henri nodded approval. “These are very good,” he said.
They met-and passed. Both lances broke in a spray of ash splinters. Both men were as erect as equestrian statues.
Ser John smiled grimly. “They are very good,” he said. “If you’d care to play, just take a place in the line down there.” Below them was a chute, with a line of mounted men on war horses. War horses that fidgeted, farted, and threatened to kick or bite.
Ser Henri rode down into the chute, and so did Ser Aneas. A few of the other men-at-arms joined in. Others dismounted, gave their horses to grooms, and began to spar with swords or wooden wasters-or just to stop at the barriers and watch.
Ser Gavin broke a lance on Ser Bescanon, who got his lance tip on Ser Gavin’s helmet but failed to strike the crest.
Ser Phillipe caught a young knight from Jarsay in the shoulder, and his strike destroyed the other man’s pauldron and injured his shoulder. A dozen men took the injured knight away, and Ser Phillipe, visibly shaken, had his shield dismounted and withdrew.
Two unremarkable courses were run, and Ser Henri rode forward. He took a lance from Toby, who was serving every man-at-arms on that side of the lists.
Ser Gabriel was seen to move his horse forward, past Ser Francis Atcourt, who raised his visor and said something in derision.
Ser Henri saluted, and charged. Seconds later, he was lying unconscious on the sand, and the Red Knight all but rode over him returning. Ser Gavin was seen to speak sharply to his brother.
Ser Aneas, one of the youngest men to joust that day, readied himself to meet Ser Gavin, his brother. He conceded nothing; his horse rode at the very edge of the barrier, and he put his lance into his older brother’s visor.
Both spears exploded-and both men lost their helms, split by the blows, and rode bareheaded in opposite directions. They were wildly applauded.
Ser Henri was quick to recover, and insisted he’d never been fully unconscious.
Ser Gavin had an odd look when Ser John approached him. “That looked-rough,” Ser John said.
Ser Gavin looked away. “He was our jousting instructor. From boyhood.”
Ser John laughed. “A case of the biter bit?” he asked.
Ser Gavin met his eye. “Don’t let my brother face him again,” he said.
Ser John nodded. “I have run lists afore. But I’ll bear that in mind. Your lady mother wishes to see you both.”
Ser Gavin nodded. “So I gather from the string of pages we’ve had. But our mater wants to see Gabriel first, so I’ll cool my heels.”
Ser John scratched under his aventail. “In that case, I wonder if we might gather all the captains for a brief-mmm. A meeting before the council.”
Ser Gavin looked at Ser Henri, helmet off and a pair of pages serving him water. “That might be a fine notion,” he said.
Before three more courses had been run, a table was waiting in the outer yard and wine was served. Ser Gabriel sat in harness with Ser Gavin, Ser Michael and Ser Thomas. Ser Henri sat with Ser Aneas. Ser John sat with Ser Ricar Fitzalan. Ser Alcaeus joined them after a final course with Count Zac, who was perhaps the most unconventional jouster anyone had ever seen.
Ser John got straight to the point. “Gentles all-my thanks. The council is for politics. But it seems to me-with so many puissant gentlemen all gathered together-that we could send a small army into the field right now, and perhaps put the Wild back on its haunches.”
Ser Gabriel drank off his wine. “That’s blunt. You’d like to use my lances-my professionals-for free.”
Ser John nodded. “Yes.”
Ser Thomas the Drover raised an eyebrow. “And all my cousins, too? Who’ll command ’em? Hillmen don’t take orders from everyone.”
Gabriel laughed. “In my experience, from anyone.”
Bad Tom grinned.
Ser John looked at Ser Ricar. “The Captain of the King’s Guard will take the field.”
Ser Ricar rose. “If you gentlemen agree, I’ll call a muster. I’ll pay king’s wages for ten days. We’ll sweep the north bank of the Cohocton and cover the fair. With a hundred lances and the support of the sisters of the Order there’s not likely to be anything we can’t handle.”
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