Black Horses for the King
- Автор: Маккефри Энн
- Язык: английский
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «Black Horses for the King». Краткое содержание книги:
After his father's death, young Galwyn Varianus is apprenticed to his uncle, who puts the boy to work on the high seas. But horses, not ships, are Galwyn's passion. Luckily, a passenger aboard, Lord Artos (later to rule as the legendary King Arthur), is bound for the great horse fair at Septimania. Risking his life, Galwyn abandons his uncle to serve the gallant leader. Galywn's calming way with horses quickly impresses Lord Artos and his men. But what no one expects is how crucial Galwyn will be to their upcoming battles--as he masters the secrets of the iron shoes that will protect the exotic horses' delicate hooves. . . .
"I'm learning how," I said with emphasis, and saw him relax his guard a trifle. Cornix pushed his nose at me for a caress and ducked his head so I could scratch his ears.
The boy's eyes widened. "He knows you."
"He should. He's been in my charge since Lord Artos bought him at Septimania."
"You went there with the Comes?" His surprise doubled and I could see a grudging respect in his manner, which I couldn't fail to appreciate. I smiled back, warming to the lad, seeing in him traces of what I had been like a scant year before.
"I was, and I sailed back with him, Cornix, and my pony Spadix, here." I could be proud of that adventure.
He gawped, his chin dropping as he was finally impressed by my bona fides. I slapped Cornix familiarly on his strong thick neck.
"I rode Cornix here-until Lord Artos claimed him on the road."
"So that's why you were up on Ravus," he said.
"The gray?"
He nodded.
"Yes, we changed mounts. That's a fine beast! Lovely gaits and a beautiful mouth. Do you have charge of him as well?"
He was ready to be civil now. "I'm Eoain Albigensis," he said, giving his formal name, and we clasped each other's forearms in the fashion of friends. "Are all the Libyans as grandly big as these?"
"Only the best would do Lord Artos," I said, trying to sound more matter-of-fact than pompous. "And the mares are every bit as fine as the stallions. You should see this year's foals. Fifteen were born in February, and every one sturdy. Cornix, here"-and the animal whuffled, pricking his ears forward at the sound of his name-"did his duty by every mare he covered. All of the fifty proven in foal."
"Fifty?" Eoain's eyes bulged at such a prodigious number.
"Well, we have to mount all the Companions on animals as good as these, don't we?"
He nodded his head, eyes still wide. "And you've to make sandals for 'em all?"
I laughed. "I won't be the only one, I assure you."
I was just about to ask him if there was a Cornovian named Iswy working in the stables when the slender young lad Lord Artos had called Arlo appeared in the stableyard, breathless from the speed of his run.
"Eoain, Lord Artos and his Companions will ride out on the Libyans to hunt after mass." Then he noticed me. "You're Galwyn?" he asked, not quite disrespectful, more uncertain. When I nodded, he added, "Because Lord Artos wishes you to wait upon Ilfor the smith after mass. About those horse sandals." Then he pivoted on one heel and raced back the way he had come. Arlo, it seemed, rarely walked anywhere.
"You have a chapel here?" I asked Eoain.
What with my broken arm and then all the work on the sandals with Alun and Canyd, I had not had the opportunity to get to mass at Deva as I had resolved to in the New Year. At the farm, one of the priests-usually an old one who better understood the peculiar attitude toward religion where most of the inhabitants were inclined toward a familiar semipaganism-made the trip to baptize infants or preside at a burial when needed. But they did not hold services. I was, therefore, almost hungry to attend a proper mass in a real church.
"Of course," Eoain said, obviously surprised that I would ask. He pointed to a high slate roof that could be seen from the stableyard, at the other side of the great hall. "Mass will be said shortly, so you'd better hurry."
"But if I'm to go to Master Ilfor-"
"You'd best go to mass first, Galwyn," he said firmly. "Master Glebus does and I will. Lord Artos and his Companions do."
My indecision lasted no longer than his final sentence. So that morning, and every morning thereafter of my stay at Camelot, I stood with the throng of worshipers in a church that was as perfect for Camelot as everything else about Lord Artos's castle. The church faced east and west, with high slit windows letting in a morning light that bathed the whitened walls in glorious shades of lemon yellow and pure white.
It was a joy to me to chant the responses, letting my heart savor the beautiful words. For one brief instant as the mass started, I thought I had forgotten the prayers, but then my tongue worked before my mind and the words came from the heart that had not forgotten them. If others merely mouthed the Latin, having learned the British tongue as their first language, I raised my voice- just slightly-to speak the purer sounds that had been drilled into me. The strength of my voice caused Eoain to give me a wondering look, and he sighed as if in relief.
By the Benedictus, I experienced a profound renewal of spirit, for I had not been aware of how much I had needed the benediction of the mass. I vowed to renew my religious duties with vigor, even if, at Deva, I would have to rise before dawn to attend. At least once a month. I promised that to God, if he would further Lord Artos's cause.
WHEN MASS WAS OVER, the lords made their exit first, passing through the lesser worshipers. Lord Artos cast his eyes to left and right as he proceeded, and he caught sight of me, giving his head a slow nod as if pleased to see me in the congregation. I was all the more glad that I had come this first morning in Camelot. I had been a sorry Christian these past few years and was joyous to have my faith also renewed today: another benefit of my service to Lord Artos.
When we, too, finally processed out of that lovely church into the sunlit morning, it was still early enough.
Mass evidently did not intrude on the business of the day.
Eoain pointed out to me the way to Ilfor's forge. I detoured first to my cubicle and collected my packs of horse sandals and tools. Pausing briefly in the kitchen, I took a handful of the cold meats and bread set out on the trestle tables, and these I munched as I strode to my appointment. The unfinished outer court was already crowded with people and stacks and piles of the supplies which had been among the loads brought in the day before. Workmen were struggling up ladders with tiles; nets of rock were being hoisted to the masons awaiting them on the heights, and carpenters banged merrily away at various other projects.
Alun's forge at Deva had been generous in size but Camelot's was immense: sprawling from one vast cavern to another across the one completed wall of the castle. I don't know how many smiths there were working metal at their anvils, but obviously Ilfor was an important person to have charge of so many.
Master Ilfor, however, broke off the orders he was giving two underlings and whirled on me as if I had lost an entire day's work. I had not seen him at mass and somehow did not think I ever would. Later, I would learn that religious tolerance was a part of Lord Artos's way of dealing with diverse people and attitudes.
"I want to see these sandals of Canyd's," he said, scowling. He had not seemed so critical the night before. But then, Lord Artos had been present. Now I was in the smith's own domain, and considerably inferior to him in rank. When I went to remove some sets from my packs, he shook his thick hand. "No, not ones you brought. Show me how you make them."
'I made," and I stressed that word slightly because Ilfor had the look of a bully and I would no longer let myself be a victim, "all those." I was also feeling extremely charitable after the cleansing effect of hearing mass.
"Show me," he repeated, and he gestured peremptorily at a handily empty anvil at the nearby fire. Then he folded his heavily muscled arms across his chest, obviously skeptical.
I shrugged; diffidence is a good defense against men of his temperament. I knew, as I withdrew my leather apron from my pack and laid out my tools on the anvil's pedestal, that I did not look as much a smith as he. I had neither his bulk nor his sinew. Nor could I fold metal for a sword and hammer the blade into shape, nor make arrows and lanceheads or shields and breastplates as he could. But horse sandals I could fashion quickly, deftly, and have them fit the horse that needed to be shod.