Бертран молвил задумчиво:
– Много лет назад я вытащил стрелу из распятия. Кто-то из тех, кто хотел получить дар стрелять без промаха, совершил святотатство…
– Я слыхал о таком, – кивнул Эмерьо.
– А сам хоть раз делал подобное?
– Нет, – ответил Эмерьо. – Я католик.
– Ты стреляешь с нечеловеческой меткостью, Эмерьо. Даже меня это иной раз пугает. Скажи, разве не дьявол помогает тебе?
– Нет, – твердо сказал Эмерьо. – Он бродит неподалеку, но еще ни разу ему не удалось направить мою руку, потому что я отгонял его. – И дерзко посмотрел Бертрану в глаза. – Ах, мессен, вы так благочестивы, а ведь часто пользовались моим искусством, не спрашивая, кто помогает мне и почему.
– Отвечать-то тебе, – проворчал Бертран
(с) "Бертран из Лангедока"

"Отвечать-то тебе" - показательно...
Но я не о том сейчас. Вот интересно, а я бы "пустил стрелу в распятие", я бы совершил тот поступок, который сам счел бы святотатством, что бы достичь желанной цели?

@темы: цитата

---

Это плохая привычка, вспоминать во сне стихи.
Весь день строки гремят в ушах - не забыть, не отвязаться.
Как они выплывают в голове? Почему они? Не знаю...

---

Хотелось было написать злобно-пост о студентах, преподах и сотрудниках деканата.
Больше не хочется))
Настроение ползет вверх, на душе тепло.
Вот так бывает - прочитаешь добрые слова и весь мир вокруг сразу становиться лучше.

---

Зацепило

---

Хотел бы я знать, что за личный вопрос у студента к проректору...
Да еще если о нем заявляют с такой наглой рожей.
Пусть сам ищет.

---

Занятная статья о памятниках сатане. Чисто обзорная, коротенькая, но любопытная и написана с юмором.

---

Пятиминутка зла.

Почему эта старая швабра не читает требования к оформлению статей???
Вот все читают, а она особенная видите ли.
Хуй с ними с полями и даже со сносками (хотя с ними я сам не разберусь), но сказано же: УДК !!!
Сама нарвалась, ведьма. Пока не получу статью с УДК, ничего отсылать не буду. А времени уже нет.

---

Вот слушаю я этих уродов, моих коллег, и думаю "а вы, конечно б лучше сделали, вы б конечно все проблемы идеально решили". Раз они такие умные, так что ж они еще не у руля страны и не привели её к полному счастью и процветанию?
Как критиковать действия нашего советского руководства (под управлением которого мы победили (!) в войне), так это у них запросто... А как решить нынешние, сейчас стоящий проблемы - так вроде как не их дело и они не там, а на университетской кафедре. Один треп.
Но зато послушать их, так они б войну выиграли без крови и напряжения, и вообще в были СССР сплошные лузеры, которые ничего делать не умели.
Пиздец...

---

Начальница пришла с желто-синим лаком на ногтях.
Думаю, как это воспринимать в контексте политических событий =_=

---

Долбанулись власти города.
Нам что, церквей мало? Да на каждом шагу торчат, даже там где не ожидаешь.
Если этот проект реализуют вход через "Сенную" долго будет закрыт...

---

цифротест

И если это так, то почему ж я, ленивая задница, хуй на работе пинаю? Х)

и для поднятия настроения

Другие тесты и гадания от Шувани

---

Мой любимый Даринин рисунок, сделанный для меня много лет назад.

Боромир

@темы: Боромир

---

Ровно 700 лет назад казнили тамплиеров.

Круглая дата.

Кем бы Жак де Моле не был, мне он симпатичен. Хотя бы потому, что на последнем слушании заявил о невиновности ордена, зная, что пойдет на костер. Орден тамплиеров, конечно, много в чем был повинен, но явно не в том, в чем его обвиняли. А реальные его вины к его противникам относились в не меньшей степени.

Что же до легенды о проклятии - оно вполне могло иметь место. И даже сработать. Все просто: законы психологии работают во все времена. Проклясть было за что, а проклятые поверили. Результат: изменилась психологическая установка и снизилась сопротивляемость организма. Вполне возможно.



Как ни крути, но факт - фактом. Прошло 700 лет с события, о котором помнят 700 лет...

@темы: средневековье, политика, Париж

---

Спорно как и все у Уайльда, однако... "Люди бывают либо очаровательны либо скучны" - вот тут все и дело Х) Это ответ на многие мои вопросы.

---

Cambridge, late January 1353
Rain slanted across Michaelhouse’s yard in a steady hiss, drumming on the wooden roof of the stable and staining the College’s honey-coloured stone walls a deep amber. The cat, its fur soaked into black spikes, sat morosely under the meagre shelter of a leafless tree and watched a scholar clad in the ceremonial red robes of a University doctor splash his way across the muddy yard. The scholar paused for a moment to glance up at the dull grey sky before disappearing through one of the doorways that led to the rooms where the students and their masters lived.
‘We will be late,’ he warned, looking round the door of Brother Michael’s chamber and seeing that the monk was not yet ready to leave. Michael made no reply and stood in front of a strategically placed silver plate plastering his thin, light brown hair into place with dabs of water. This performed to his satisfaction, he turned his attention to his newly purchased Benedictine habit, brushing away imaginary dust with the head of a teasel.
Matthew Bartholomew sighed impatiently, striding across the room to lean out of the window. ‘The bell has already stopped ringing.’
Michael waved a dismissive hand and continued with his primping. ‘There is no point in attending these festivities if we do not look our best, Matt,’ he said, taking up an ornate cross of gold and hanging it round his neck, careful not to disturb his immaculate hair.
‘It is not you being installed as Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, Brother,’ Bartholomew pointed out. He gazed across Michaelhouse’s yard at the undergraduates hurrying from their lectures to the midday meal. ‘In fact, I do not understand why we should be there at all. I still have not finished Galen’s Prognostica with my third-year students, there is an outbreak of sickness among the river people, and I want to work on my treatise on fevers. This installation is a distraction I could do without.’
Michael gave an exasperated shake of his head. ‘You think of nothing but your work these days,’ he chided. ‘This grand installation will be good for you. You can see all the great and powerful of the University gathered together under one roof and watch the games being played.’
‘Over the past five years I have seen enough of the University’s games to last me a lifetime,’ said Bartholomew vehemently. ‘I want only to teach my students and attend my patients.’
Michael’s green eyes gleamed. He thrived on the intrigues and plots that were as much a part of University life as teaching, and loved nothing more than to attend an event like the installation of the new Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, where he could watch alliances being formed and plans being hatched to avenge ancient grievances. As well as being a Fellow of Michaelhouse, Michael was Senior Proctor, a position that meant he was well-placed to observe – and meddle in – the murky affairs of the University and its scheming scholars.
‘Besides,’ the monk said briskly, ignoring Bartholomew’s grumbling and turning his head this way and that as he studied his reflection in the plate, ‘all Fellows of Michaelhouse were personally invited by the Master-Elect. It would be ungracious to decline, especially if the reason is that you prefer teaching and seeing patients.’
He took a thick winter cloak from a hook on the wall and draped it over his shoulders, fiddling with it until he was sure the expensive cloth fell in even folds before carefully lifting the hood over his head. Then he stepped over to the plate once more and admired the finished product, adjusting a strand of hair here and a fold of his habit there. He glimpsed his friend’s morose expression as he continued to stare out of the window and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
‘Forget your students, Matt. Forget your patients, too. Enjoy yourself for once!’
‘With a group of men whose idea of fun is an all-night debate on the efficacy of Ockham’s Razor?’ asked Bartholomew gloomily. ‘Or, worse still, with those of our colleagues who will drink the new Master’s free wine until they are sick, violent or insensible?’
‘You are in a miserable mood today,’ said Michael, amused. ‘But you will make us late by keeping me here chattering. Come on, hurry up. We do not want to arrive last.’
Glumly, Bartholomew followed Michael down the wooden stairs and out into the yard, a morass of churned mud from the rain that had fallen almost incessantly since Christmas. The cat, seeing the door had been left open, tried in vain to reach it without getting its feet wet. Despite his ill humour, the physician could not help smiling when he noted a similarity between the cat’s dainty, careful footsteps and those of Michael, who held his habit clear of the ground with thumbs and forefingers. The monk cursed and swore at the brown slime that oozed over his carefully polished sandals in language that belied his contemplative vocation.
‘I have never seen such rain,’ he muttered. ‘We are a cursed race. First came the pestilence that claimed so many lives; then there was the drought of last summer when we baked under a sun that turned the whole country brown; and now we have endless rain. The crops will rot in the fields and there will be an even greater shortage of bread than there is now. You mark my words.’
‘Rain in winter should not be a problem,’ said Bartholomew, splashing along beside Michael, oblivious to the mud. He had dressed in his best scarlet robe when he had finished teaching – around ten o’clock that Saturday morning – but had been called out to tend to a patient with a winter fever. His feet were already wet inside his boots and avoiding puddles would make little difference to him now. ‘It is summer rain that rots the crops in the fields.’
Michael shot him a disbelieving glance and continued with his litany of complaints. ‘This rain is worse than snow. The roof leaks in my room and I can barely sleep for the noise of drips falling into the bucket.’
Bartholomew recalled pulling the bed-covers over his ears the night before in a vain effort to muffle the sound of Michael’s snores thundering from the room above his, and treated the monk’s words with scepticism.
‘And the dampness is unbearable. All my bones ache with it,’ Michael added, looking resentfully up to a lead-grey sky that made the noon light seem like late afternoon.
Bartholomew turned to him in concern. ‘Do they? Do you need a physic? I have a poultice that, if applied daily, can ease soreness in the joints.’
Michael sighed and gave a wry grin. ‘I am not so bad that I need a physic. It is nothing a dry blanket and a doze by a fire would not cure. But this foul weather must be hard on your older patients.’
Bartholomew nodded. ‘A number of them are complaining about painful joints. But it is this winter fever that worries me. I have never seen anything quite like it.’
‘It is not like the Death, then?’ asked Michael, picking his way cautiously around a gigantic puddle that shivered and rippled as the rain pattered into it.
Bartholomew shuddered. ‘No, thank God!’ Even after five years, Bartholomew had not forgotten his helplessness in the face of the plague that had defied all treatment and seemed to strike at random, carrying off at least a third of the population of Cambridge and completely annihilating the people who lived in the impoverished little settlement near the castle, where cramped and filthy conditions seemed to hasten the disease’s relentless progress.
They reached Michaelhouse’s great gates and unlatched the wicket door. Michael stepped into the lane and rinsed the mud off his feet in a puddle of cleanish water, wincing at its coldness. They walked up the lane and then along the High Street towards the Hall of Valence Marie. For a while, they were forced to abandon conversation and concentrate on avoiding the deep potholes that lurked unseen under the flooded surface of the road.
They passed St Michael’s Church, short, squat and an even darker grey than usual with the rain blackening its walls, and then St Mary’s with its creamy yellow stone and delicate traceried windows. The houses between them looked shabby in the wet, and the resin from their timbers leeched out to ooze in dirty brown trails down their whitewashed walls.
The Hall of Valence Marie, where Bartholomew and Michael were to attend the ceremonies for the installation of its new Master, stood just outside the town boundary near the Trumpington Gate. They were about to pass through it when a young man tore up to them, gasping for breath, his eyes wild and his clothes dishevelled.
‘Brother Armel is dying! It was not what we intended! You must believe me!’ He took a handful of Michael’s best cloak and tried to haul him back towards the town. Michael disengaged himself firmly, resentful at being manhandled after he had taken so much trouble with his appearance.
‘What are you shouting about?’ he demanded crossly, trying to brush the creases out of his sleeve. ‘Who is Brother Armel and what must I believe?’
The boy gulped for breath, clenching and unclenching his hands and clearly forcing himself to resist the urge to grab at Michael again in his agitation.
‘It will be quicker if you speak rationally,’ said Bartholomew gently, taking pity on the frantic student. ‘Tell us what has happened. Is someone ill? Do you need a physician?’
The young man nodded and then shook his head. He took a deep breath, screwed his eyes tightly shut and fought to gain control of himself. ‘We – I and the other students – were drinking in the Brazen George,’ he began, referring to a tavern near St Mary’s Church. Michael gave him an admonishing stare. Students were not allowed in the town’s taverns, chiefly because the University did not want bands of drunken undergraduates meeting gangs of equally intoxicated townspeople: the relationship between University and town was uneasy at best, violent at worst, and it took very little to spark off fights that resulted in bloodshed on both sides.
The young man continued. ‘A man sold us wine. We took it home and Armel drank from the bottle. Then he fell into a swoon. He was poisoned! You must come!’
The lad’s story was still far from clear, but Bartholomew guessed they would prise no more sense from him until one of them went to see Brother Armel. It occurred to him that not even the sensibilities of the Master-Elect of the Hall of Valence Marie could be offended if his excuse for being absent was that he was dealing with a medical emergency. He seized the opportunity with sudden enthusiasm.
‘You go to the ceremony,’ he said to Michael. ‘I will see Brother Armel.’
‘But he needs you both,’ pleaded the student, his hands furiously twisting the buckle on his belt to avoid laying hands on the august personage of the University’s Senior Proctor a second time. ‘He needs last rites and a physician.’ His self-control finally broke and he grasped Bartholomew’s cloak to haul him back up the High Street, evidently assuming Michael would follow.
‘Then you need a priest, not a monk,’ called Michael, standing firm. ‘One of the Gilbertines will oblige, or the Carmelites just across the road. I have pressing business to attend.’
‘You can give last rites!’ said the student accusingly, turning back to him without relinquishing his hold on Bartholomew. ‘You did so during the Death – Father Yvo told us how you gave last rites to his predecessor. And you have heard my confessions before now!’
The student was right. While friars lived and worked among the people, monks led contemplative lives in the cloister and were not authorised to hear confessions or give last rites. But Michael had been granted special dispensation by his Bishop so that he might attend the needs of the small number of Benedictines enrolled at the University. During the plague, he had been tireless in his spiritual duties and had trudged around the town with Bartholomew tending the hopeless cases. These days, however, he seldom drew on his authority, preferring to advance the Benedictines’ earthly interests rather than their spiritual ones.
‘Please!’ cried the student, desperation making his voice crack. ‘We need the Senior Proctor and a physician. Armel has been murdered!’
How poor Armel had gone so suddenly from a swoon to being a murder victim was unclear, but Bartholomew allowed himself to be led back along the High Street by the frightened student. Michael followed reluctantly, muttering bitterly about missing the installation ceremony to which he had been so looking forward. Bartholomew did not for an instant imagine they would find Brother Armel murdered, nor even poisoned. The student who tugged and heaved at his cloak to make him hurry was very young – no more than fifteen years old at the most – and Bartholomew was sure he would not be able to tell a drunken stupor from an unconsciousness brought on by poison. He wondered how much of the installation he might legitimately escape, although a backward glance at Michael’s black scowl suggested the answer would be very little if the monk had any say in the matter.
‘Which hostel do you live in?’ Bartholomew asked, more to soothe the student’s increasing agitation than to solicit information.
‘Bernard’s,’ said the student, hauling harder still as they drew closer to the dirty brown façade of St Bernard’s Hostel. ‘My name is Xavier.’
‘Bernard’s is a Franciscan institution,’ said Bartholomew, puzzled, ‘so why are you not wearing your friar’s habit?’
Xavier gave him a look of disbelief. ‘We could not go to the Brazen George wearing our habits! The landlord would know we were students and would refuse to serve us.’
Before Bartholomew could comment further, he was propelled into the building. A large room that opened directly off the street was occupied by six students, all arguing among themselves in apprehensive whispers. None of them wore either scholars’ tabards or the robes of Franciscan novices, and Bartholomew imagined the entire hostel must have been involved in the illicit trip to the tavern.
As they entered, the students parted to reveal someone lying on the floor with his eyes closed. Bartholomew knelt to examine him while Michael snapped questions at the others.
‘Where is Father Yvo? He is Principal here, is he not?’
Miserably the students nodded, some hanging their heads and none able to meet the stern visage Michael reserved for dealing with recalcitrant undergraduates.
‘He is at the installation, but Brother Henry has gone to fetch him home,’ said Xavier. ‘I came to find you. I was lucky to catch you before you reached Valence Marie.’
Michael’s grimace suggested he did not consider the encounter to be a fortuitous one. ‘I suppose you took advantage of Father Yvo’s absence to go visiting taverns?’ he surmised, eyeing the students’ odd assortment of secular clothes with proctorly disapproval.
They nodded again, exchanging guilty glances and shuffling their feet uncomfortably.
‘Well, Brother Xavier,’ said Michael, eyeing the sheepish undergraduates with weary reproach. ‘Now you have me here, tell me what happened properly.’
Xavier took a deep breath, less anxious now that Michael had assumed control of the situation. ‘We have all worked really hard this term and yesterday the last of us passed our disputations. It seemed as though we were being given a perfect opportunity to celebrate – with Father Yvo at the installation along with all the other Masters, Principals, and Fellows. And Proctors,’ he added, giving Michael a sidelong glance. ‘We meant no harm – just a tankard or two of ale and we would have been home. None of us intended to become drunk.’ This statement was confirmed vehemently by a chorus of agreement from the others. ‘Then a man offered to sell us some wine. He was asking a very reasonable price for claret from France and we thought we could bring it here and continue our celebrations more discreetly. We bought three bottles and came home.’
‘What did this man look like?’ asked Michael, reflecting with a distinct lack of enthusiasm on all the petty thieves he knew who might approach a gaggle of gullible undergraduates and sell them inferior wine under the pretence that it was fine quality stuff from abroad. He supposed the culprit would be well away by now, doubtless enjoying the congratulations of his cronies for having so easily cheated members of the University the townspeople so despised.

@темы: английский_чтение

---

Godric and the others could tell them no more about the mysterious Dympna, nor could they identify anyone in particular who wanted to harm Norbert, so Bartholomew and Michael made their farewells and walked back to Michaelhouse. As soon as they opened the gate they saw Bartholomew’s slight, dark-featured book-bearer picking his way across the yard towards them. The yard’s rutted, potholed surface was a danger at the best of times, but it was worse when snow camouflaged its hazards. Cynric gave a nervous grin as he approached, and Bartholomew felt a wave of apprehension that the normally nonchalant Welshman was so clearly uneasy.
‘It is cold today,’ said Cynric, glancing up at the heavy-bellied clouds above. ‘It will snow again tonight.’
‘What is wrong?’ demanded Bartholomew. Cynric never wasted time with idle chatter about the weather. ‘Is my sister unwell?’
‘No, but I have a message from her,’ replied Cynric. ‘Well, not her. From her husband, Oswald Stanmore. You know that I am married to his seamstress, and that my wife and I have a room at his business premises on Milne Street. He asked me to come here to see you.’
‘You are gabbling, Cynric,’ said Bartholomew, becoming alarmed. His book-bearer was never garrulous, and certainly did not normally waste breath telling people things they already knew, such as the names of their own brothers-inlaw and their servants’ domestic arrangements.
‘Sir Oswald has an unexpected guest,’ said Cynric. ‘A woman. Well, a woman and two men, actually. They arrived in Cambridge more than a week ago, but Mistress Stanmore only met them yesterday. They asked her to recommend a decent tavern, because they had been staying at the King’s Head, butone of the gentlemen found it was not to his taste.’
‘I am not surprised,’ said Michael, wryly. ‘The King’s Head is no place for decent folk.’
‘Mistress Stanmore felt obliged to invite them to stay with her,’ Cynric continued nervously. ‘She said it would have been rude not to, because the best inns are full at this time of year.’
‘Who are these folk?’ asked Michael, amused by Cynric’s rambling. ‘Joseph and Mary?’
‘I do not think the lady is pregnant,’ replied Cynric, quite seriously. ‘I could not tell under her cloak, but her husband is not a man who would turn a lady’s head.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Although I suppose he must have turned hers at one point, or they would not have wed.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Bartholomew, wondering whether Cynric had started his Christmas celebrations early, and had been at the ale. ‘Do I know him?’
‘Sir Walter Turke,’ said Cynric. ‘I do not believe that you have met.’
The name meant nothing to Bartholomew.‘Why are you telling me all this?’ he asked.
‘You knew Turke’s wife during the pestilence,’ replied Cynric uneasily. ‘She had the disease, but survived.’
‘There were not many of those,’ said Michael, unnecessarily unkind. ‘This woman should come leaping to your mind.’
But she did not, and Bartholomew gazed blankly at Cynric, searching the half-forgotten faces in his memory for a woman who had married a fellow called Turke. He tended to suppress thoughts of those black, dismal days, when his painstakingly acquired skills and experience were useless in the face of the wave of sickness that swamped most of the civilised world, and nothing came to him.
‘Actually,’ said Cynric, speaking reluctantly when he saw Bartholomew was not going to guess who he meant. ‘You were betrothed to her yourself. But after the Death, she went to London and wed Sir Walter Turke instead. Her name was Philippa Abigny.’
His message delivered, Cynric escaped to his other duties with obvious relief. A private man himself, he disliked witnessing the rawer emotions of others, and he had had no idea how the physician might react to the news. He need not have worried. Bartholomew did not react at all, too startled by the sudden incursion of his past into the present to know what he thought about the prospect of the beautiful Philippa Abigny touching his life again.
‘Philippa Abigny,’ echoed Michael in astonishment, watching Cynric all but run in the direction of the kitchen before Bartholomew or Michael could question him further. ‘I did not think she would ever show her face here again. What she did to you was not right.’
‘You mean because she broke our betrothal to marry someone richer?’ asked Bartholomew. ‘Perhaps it was for the best. Who knows whether we could have been happy with each other?’
‘You can probably say that about most things,’ said Michael philosophically. ‘But she was wrong to abandon you so abruptly. You could have applied to the Pope to have her marriage annulled, you know. You would have been within your rights, given that your betrothal had been of several years’ duration.’
‘But then I would have had to marry her,’ Bartholomew pointed out. ‘And I am not sure that is what I wanted.’
Michael chuckled.‘You prefer the lovely Matilde these days, I suppose. Well, whatever you think, it will be interesting to see Philippa again and to assess what you have missed by allowing her to slip through your fingers.’
Bartholomew nodded absently. He stood in the middle of Michaelhouse’s yard, with Michael sniggering lustfully beside him, and wondered how the sudden and unexpected arrival of someone who had played such an important part in his past would affect his future.

***
(из другой книги)

His attention arrested by Edreds hands in the chest, Bartholomew did not see Cynric sprawled across the floor, until he fell headlong over him. He heard Michael yell, and Edred swear under his breath. Bartholomew struggled to his knees, his hands dark with the blood that flowed from the back of Cynrics skull. Blind fury dimmed his reasoning and he launched himself across the room at the friar with a howl of rage.
Edreds hands came out of Bartholomews storage chest holding a short sword. It was one Stanmore had given him many years ago that Bartholomew had forgotten he had.
Edred swung at him with it, and only by dropping to one knee did the physician avoid the hacking blow aimed at his head. Edred swung again with a professionalism that suggested he had not always been in training for the priesthood. Bartholomew ducked a second time, rolling away until he came up against the wall.
Edred came for him, his face pale and intent as he drew back his arm for the fatal plunge. His stroke wavered as something struck him hard on the side of the head, and Bartholomew saw shards of glass falling around him.
Michael was not standing helplessly in the doorway like some dim-witted maiden but was hurling anything that came to hand at Edred.
While the friars attention strayed, Bartholomew leapt at him, catching him in a bear-like grip around the legs.
Edred tried to struggle free, dropping the sword as he staggered backwards. Michael continued his assault and Bartholomew could hear nothing but smashes and grunts.
Suddenly, Edred collapsed.
Bartholomew squirmed to free himself from Edreds weight. Michael came to his aid and hauled the unresisting friar to his feet. Edreds knees buckled and Michael allowed him to slide down the wall into a sitting position.
Bartholomew scrambled across the floor to where Cynric lay.
The Welshmans eyes were half open and a trickle of blood oozed from the wound on the back of his skull.
Bartholomew cradled him in his lap, holding a cloth to staunch the bleeding.
So, I am to die from a cowards blow, Cynric whispered, eyes seeking Bartholomews face. Struck from behind in the dark.
You will not die, my friend, said Bartholomew. The wound is not fatal: I have had recent personal experience to support my claim.
Cynric grinned weakly at him and closed his eyes while Bartholomew bound the cut deftly with clean linen, praying it was not more serious than it appeared.
Matt! came Michaels querulous voice from the other side of the room. Bartholomew glanced to where the monk knelt next to Edred.
I have killed him, Michael whispered, his face white with shock. Edred is dying!
Bartholomew looked askance. He cannot be, Brother. You have just stunned him.
He is dying! insisted Michael, his voice rising in horror. Look at him!
Easing Cynric gently on to the floor, Bartholomew went to where Michael leaned over the prostrate friar. A white powder lightly dusted Edreds black robe and the smell of it caught in Bartholomews nostrils sharply. The powder was on the friars face too, it clung to the thin trail of blood that dribbled from a cut on his cheek and stuck around his lips. Bartholomew felt for a life-beat in the friars neck and was startled to feel it rapid and faint.
Puzzled, he prised open Edreds eyelids and saw that the pupils had contracted to black pinpricks and that his face and neck were covered in a sheen of sweat.
Do something, Matt! said Michael desperately. Or I will have brought about his death! Me! A man of the cloth, who has forsworn violence!
The noise of the affray had disturbed those scholars whose rooms were nearby and they clustered around the door as Bartholomew examined Edred. Gray and Bulbeck were among them, and he ordered them to remove Cynric to his own room, away from the strange white powder that seemed to be killing Edred. He grabbed the pitcher of water that stood on the window-sill and washed the powder from the cut on Edreds face and from his mouth.

@темы: английский_чтение

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Закрытая запись, не предназначенная для публичного просмотра

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Сожалею. Мне стоило пойти на танцы не смотря ни на что.
Можно было б не танцевать, просто посидеть. По крайней мере, это было бы общение.

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Well, perhaps they will make fine bishops one day, remarked Bartholomew dryly.
Michael chuckled. I will go to Davids Hostel later today, he said, and see their Principal about those rowdy Scots. Then I will complain to the Principal of Godwinsson Hostel about those inflammatory friars.
Bartholomew nodded absently, walking briskly so that Michael had to slow him down again, so that they or rather the overweight Michael would not arrive too sweat-soaked at the Hall of Valence Marie.
As they approached the forbidding walls of the new College, Michael turned to Bartholomew and grimaced at the sudden stench from where the Kings Ditch was being dredged. Years of silt, sewage, kitchen compost, offal, and an unwholesome range of other items hauled from the dank depths of the Ditch lay in steaming grey-black piles along the banks. The smell had attracted a host of cats and dogs, which rifled through the parts not already claimed by farmers to enrich their soil. Among them, spiteful-eyed gulls squabbled and cawed over blackened strips of decaying offal and the small fish that flapped helplessly in the dredged mud.
Bartholomew and Michael turned left off the High Street, and made their way along an uneven path that wound between the towering banks of the Kings Ditch and the high wall that surrounded Valence Marie. Because Cambridge lay at the edge of the low-lying Fens, the level of the water in the Ditch was occasionally higher than the surrounding land; to prevent flooding, the Ditchs banks were levied, and rose above the ground to the height of a mans head.


Away from the High Street, the noise of the town faded, and, were it not for the stench and the incessant buzz of flies around his head, Bartholomew would have enjoyed walking across the strip of scrubby pastureland, pleasantly shaded by a line of mature oak trees.
You have been a long time, Brother, said Robert Thorpe, Master of the Hall of Valence Marie, as he stood up from where he had been sitting under a tree.
There was a hint of censure in his tone, and Bartholomew sensed Thorpe was a man whose authority as head of a powerful young college was too recently acquired for it to sit easily on his shoulders. I expected you sooner than this.
The beginnings of a street brawl claimed my attention, said Michael, making no attempt to apologise. Scots versus the friars this time.
Thorpe raised dark grey eyebrows. The friars again? I do not understand what is happening, Brother. We have always had problems with warring factions and nationalities in the University, but seldom so frequent and with such intensity as over the last two or three weeks.
Perhaps it is the heat, suggested Bartholomew. It is known that tempers are higher and more frayed when the weather is hot. The Sheriff told me that there has been more fighting among the townspeople this last month, too.

Perhaps so, said Thorpe, looking coolly at Bartholomew in his threadbare gown and dusty shoes. As a physician, Bartholomew could have made a rich living from attending wealthy patients. Instead, he chose to teach at the University, and to treat an ever-growing number of the towns poor, preferring to invest his energies in combating genuine diseases rather than in dispensing placebos and calculating astrological charts for the healthy. His superiors at the University tolerated this peculiar behaviour, because having a scholar prepared to provide such a service to the poor made for good relations between the town and its scholars. Bartholomew was popular with his patients, especially when his absent-mindedness led him to forget to charge them.
But tolerance by the University did not mean acceptance by its members, and Bartholomew was regarded as something of an oddity by his colleagues. Many scholars disapproved of his dealings with the townspeople, and some of the friars and monks believed that his teaching verged on heresy because it was unorthodox.
Bartholomew had been taught medicine by an Arab physician at the University of Paris, but even his higher success rate with many illnesses and injuries did not protect him from accusations that his methods were anathema.
Thorpe turned to the obese Benedictine. What word is there from the Chancellor about our discovery? he asked.
Master de Wetherset wants Doctor Bartholomew to inspect the bones you have found to ensure their authenticity, said Michael carefully. What the Chancellor had actually said was that he wanted Bartholomew to use his medical expertise to crush, once and for all, the rumours that the bones of a local martyr had been discovered.


He did not want the University to become a venue for relic-sellers and idle gawpers, especially since term was about to start and the students were restless. Gatherings of townspeople near University property might well lead to a fight. The Sheriff, for once, was in complete agreement: relics that might prove contentious must not be found. Both, however, suspected that this might be easier said than done.
The Hall of Valence Marie had been founded five years previously by Marie de Valence, the Countess of Pembroke and the Chancellor and Sheriff were only too aware of the desire of its Master to make the young Hall famous. The bones of a local martyr would be perfect for such a purpose: pilgrims would flock to pray at the shrine Thorpe would build, and would not only spread word of the miraculous find at Valence Marie across the country, but also shower the College with gifts.
The Chancellor had charged Michael to handle Thorpe with care.
Thorpe inclined his silver head to Bartholomew, to acknowledge the role foisted on him by the Chancellor, and walked to where a piece of rough sacking lay on the ground. With a flourish, Thorpe removed it to reveal a pile of muddy bones that had been laid reverently on the grass.
Bartholomew knelt next to them, inspecting each one carefully, although he knew from a glance what they were. Michael, too, had devoured enough roasts at high table in Michaelhouse to know sheep bones when he saw them. But Bartholomew did not want to give the appearance of being flippant, and was meticulous in his examination.
I believe these to be the leg bones of a sheep, he said, standing again and addressing Thorpe. They are too short to be human.

***
Strange business today, Michael interrupted. He laughed softly. I felt almost sorry for that greedy dog Thorpe when you told him his precious bones could not belong to that martyr he seems so intent on finding. He looked like a child who had been cheated of a visit to the fair: disappointed, angry, bitter and resentful, all at the same time.
Bartholomew sighed, regretful, but not surprised, that Michael was declining the opportunity to engage in what promised to be an intriguing medical debate. I suppose Thorpe wants to make money from dAmbreys bones as saintly relics, he said.
Michael nodded. There is money aplenty to be made from pilgrims these days. People are so afraid that the Death will return and claim everyone who escaped the first time, that they cling to anything that offers hope of deliverance. The pardoners and relic-sellers businesses are blossoming, and shrines and holy places all over Europe have never been so busy.
Bartholomew made an impatient sound. People are fools! Relics and shrines did not save them the last time. Why should they save them in the future?
Michael eyed his friend in monkish disapproval. No wonder you are said to be a heretic, Matt! he admonished, half-joking, half-serious. You should be careful to whom you make such wild assertions. Our beloved colleague Father William, for example, would have you hauled away to be burned as a warlock in an instant if he thought you harboured such irreligious notions.

 

@темы: английский_чтение

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Существует книга, которая меня интригует и озадачивает.
Её нет... То есть, как нет. Я держал её в руках. Я читал её. Но в интернете книги нет. Две другие переведенные книги из этой серии, этого автора есть, а одной вот нет. Нигде, кроме фальшивых файлообменников, с которых ничего нельзя скачать.
И книга-то ерундовая. Но просто интересно почему? О_О