Книга только для ознакомления
.
It was a mist at first, undecided between snow or rain,
though you could guess it would decide as soon as the
temperature dropped, the steam rising like mist from the
horses, from the breath of the soldiers, until we rode
through a fog and I could see no farther than Sir Heros in
front of me. I followed his horse and assumed he followed
the man in front of him, and he the man in front of him, and
somehow I reasoned that whoever led our column had
ridden out of the mist by now or at least had the wisdom to
know where he was going. And the ground turned to mud
beneath us - not that you could see it, but you could hear
the hooves of the horses suck and spatter within it. Had I
foresight I would have seen this as training for blindness.
But foresight in this country was as dim as the horseman
ahead of you.
And the footmen sang no songs about Huma's breast,
about the kingfisher, crown, sword or rose, or about the
high honor of battle, but a new drinking song picked up on
the march - a song the knights had hushed before because it
was an embarrassment to ladies, a song I suppose they
figured was no longer embarrassing because there were no
ladies among us. Perhaps you have heard it, the real song of
the army:
YOUR ONE TRUE LOVE'S A SAILING SHIP
THAT ANCHORS AT OUR PIER
|
