ggk.asongforarbonne-第119部分

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　as　duke　of　Garsenc；　became　a　tool　for　Galbert's　schemes；　no　more；　and　at　times　rather　less。　It　was　all　a　long　time　ago。　Those　were　the　days　when　ale　and　wine　first　became　his　forts；　avenues　to　oblivion。
　　But　his　thoughts　do　not　linger　among　those　memories。　Even　as　he　parries　another　barrage　of　blows；　feeling　the　weight　of　the　king's　assault　jarring　his　arm　and　shoulder　almost　numb；　he　finds　his　mind　going　even　further　back；　much　further　actually。
　　Unlike　Blaise；　who　never　saw　her；　Ranald　has　a　memory　of　his　mother。
　　Two　or　three　images；　in　fact；　though　when　he　first　spoke　of　them　as　a　child　he　was　sternly　told　by　his　tutor　that　these　were　false　recollections；　unworthy　fantasies　for　a　warrior…to…be。　Ranald　was　two　years　old　when　his　mother　died。　Boys　that　age　could　not　remember　things；　the　tutor　decreed。　When　Ranald　tried；　not　long　after；　to　ask　his　father　about　the　recurring　image　he　had　of　a　red…haired　woman　singing　to　him　by　candlelight；　Galbert　flatly　forbade　him；　on　pain　of　a　whipping；　to　mention　it　again。　Ranald　was　six　years　old。　It　was　the　last　time　he'd　attempted　to　confide　something　of　importance　to　his　father。　Or；　he　realizes　abruptly　now；　to　anyone　else。
　　The　memory　of　the　red…haired　woman　has　stayed　with　him　all　these　years；　though　he　has　never　again　spoken　of　it。　It　occurs　to　him；　for　the　first　time；　that　he　might　have　mentioned　it　to　Rosala。　It　might　have　been　something　to　share　with　her。　He　guides　his　horse　with　a　quick　pressure　of　his　left　knee　and；　ducking　with　a　grunt　under　a　wide　side…sweeping　blow；　delivers　a　backhand　slash　of　his　own；　ringing　it　hard　off　Ademar's　armour。　The　king　is　prone　to　such　flat；　sidelong　blows　he　notes；　a　part　of　his　mind　still　registering　such　things；　as　if　there　is　anything　he　is　going　to　be　able　to　do　about　it。　I　should　have　told　her；　he　is　thinking。　Rosala　might　have　wanted　to　hear　of　such　a　memory；　in　the　beginning；　at　any　rate。　In　the　later　part　of　their　time　together　he　was　less　certain　of　her　interest　but　that；　truly；　was　his　own　fault。
　　Just　as　it　is　his　own　fault　that　he　is　short　of　breath　already。　He　is　feeling　the　effects　of　this　morning's　ale　as　a　thick　heaviness　in　his　limbs；　in　the　extra　pulse　of　time　between　his　awareness　of　a　threat　or　an　opportunity　and　his　body's　slow　response。　It　is　going　to　get　worse；　he　knows。　Ademar　is　not　even　breathing　hard　but　Ranald　is　grimly　aware　that　his　own　shield　and　armour　are　dented　already　by　the　king's　blows。　He　is　afraid　he　may　have　broken　ribs　on　his　left　side；　it　has　bee　difficult　to　do　much　more　than　parry。
　　Ademar　seems　to　be　aware　of　this。　Through　his　lowered　black　visor　the　king　of　Gorhaut　speaks；　contemptuously　giving　Ranald　a　respite。　Softly；　so　that　none　of　the　others　will　hear；　he　says；　〃I　could　almost　pity　you；　were　you　not　such　a　fool。　She　will　be　mine　tomorrow；　I　want　you　to　think　of　that。　I　hope　you　are　thinking　of　it　in　the　moment　I　kill　you。　Tomorrow　night；　when　her　hair　is　down　and　she　wraps　her　mouth　around　my　sex　in　the　way　that　I　shall　teach　her　do　you　think　she　will　mourn　the　poor；　sad；　drunken　man　she　once　had　to　lie　beside？〃
　　Ranald　would　reply；　but　he　lacks　the　breath　to　spare　for　taunting；　and　there　is　nothing；　actually；　he　can　think　of　to　say。　His　ribs　are　extraordinarily　painful　now；　each　breath　drawn　seems　to　slide　a　knife　into　his　side。　He　suspects　the　king　is　wrong；　though；　he　believes　Rosala　told　no　less　than　truth　when　she　said　she　would　die　before　lying　with　Ademar。　This　thought　makes　him　abruptly　aware　of　something：　if　the　king　kills　him　he　is　almost　certainly　killing　Rosala　as　well。　And…a　second　new　thought　like　a　lash　of　the　cold　wind…even　more　surely　killing　the　child。　The　son　he　has　never　seen。
　　I　am　everything　he　says　of　me；　Ranald　de　Garsenc　thinks；　and　now　there　is　bitterness。　I　have　wasted　my　life。
　　He　remembers…and　with　this　memory　as　well　there　is　sorrow　now…his　brother　Blaise　on　the　fogbound　drawbridge　of　Garsenc　only　a　little　time　ago：　You　don't　have　to　follow　him；　Ranald。　You　have　the　first　free　choice　you've　had　in　a　long　time。　He　answered　harshly；　he　remembers；　almost　choking　in　confused　fury。　Corannos　knew；　there　had　been　so　much　anger　in　him　that　night。　Wrongly　directed　though；　he　seems　to　have　turned　in　wrong　directions　all　his　life。
　　There　was　a　time　when　I　would　have　followed　you　to　the　end　of　the　earth；　Blaise　also　said　that　night。　I　never　knew　that；　Ranald　thinks；　his　eyes　warily　on　the　king　of　Gorhaut。　Blaise　is　here　too；　watching　him；　has　claimed　a　crown；　defied　their　father…even　named　Corannos　to　witness　his　doing　so。　He　is　walking　a　path　of　honour；　one　that　might　make　a　man　proud；　even　a　brother。
　　Ademar　lifts　his　sword　and　points　it　forward　like　an　executioner。　He　is　playing　to　the　armies　now；　Ranald　knows。　He　can　hear　them　to　the　north；　a　constant　murmur　of　sound　broken　by　sharp　sudden　cries。　It　is　about　to　begin　again。　And　end；　Ranald　de　Garsenc　thinks。　He　looks　up　for　a　moment　at　the　bright　sun　shining　above　the　fields　and　the　forests　of　this　land　of　Arbonne。
　　He　is　genuinely　not　afraid；　only　sorrowful　and　full　of　regrets；　but　it　really　is　too　late；　he　thinks。　There　would　never　have　been　enough　time　to　make　amends　for　so　many　errors　and　weaknesses。　He　thinks　of　the　red…haired　woman　singing　him　a　lullaby。　He　wonders　if　she　is　waiting　for　him；　if　the　god　might　allow　a　grace　like　that　to　such　a　man　as　he　has　been。　He　thinks　of　his　brother　again；　and　then；　lastly；　of　his　wife　and　the　child　he　has　let　slip　away。　Cadar。　A　strong　name；　one　of　honour　in　the　world。　Far　better　than　the　memory　of　his　own　name　will　be；　he　thinks；　and　it　is　this；　at　the　end；　that　hurts　most　of　all。　And　spurs　him　to　a　last　gesture；　an　attempt　at　redress。
　　Ignoring　the　pain　in　his　side　Ranald　thrusts　his　own　sword　above　his　head；　theatrical　and　arresting。　Ademar　hesitates。
　　Ranald　sucks　precious　air　and　cries　out　then；　as　loudly　as　he　can　through　the　open　visor　of　his　helm；　hoping　the　armies　can　hear：　〃Before　our　most　holy　god　I　name　you　a　false　king；　Ademar；　and　I　set　my　sword　against　you　in　the　name　of　Gorhaut。〃　He　hears　a　new　sound　rising　to　the　north　and　knows　his　words　have　carried。　He　stops；　sucks　air；　speaks　again；　to　a　coran　in　their　party　now；　one　of　his　own；　a　rasped　mand：　〃Bergen；　ride　back　to　the　army。　These　are　my　orders；　you　are　charged　with　them：　the　corans　of　Garsenc　are　not　to　fight　for　this　man。〃　He　pauses；　then　says　it：　〃Follow　my　brother　now。〃
　　It　is　done；　spoken；　and　not　actually　so　hard　as　he　would　have　expected　it　to　be。　He　takes　his　eyes　from　the　king　long　enough　to　meet　those　of　the　leader　of　his　corans。　He　sees　Bergen　hesitate；　then　nod；　a　movement　jerky　with　surprise　and　fear。　He　sees　him　twitch　his　horse's　reins　to　obey。　He　turns　back　then；　because　he　must；　to　deal　with　the　onrush　of　the　suddenly　enraged　king。
　　Ranald　de　Garsenc　offers　his　soul　then；　in　genuine　diffidence；　to　Corannos；　and　decides；　on　impulse；　to　do　one　last　thing；　more　for　the　bittersweet　irony　of　it　than　anything　else。　Something　from　childhood　to　leave　them　with。　He　wonders　if　anyone　will　actually　realize　or　recognize　what　it　is　he　is　doing。　Blaise　might；　he　thinks　wistfully；　and　then　stops　thinking　for　there　is　no　time；　Ademar's　sword　is　swinging　and　the　dance　is　nearly　done。
　　For　those　watching；　events　happened　very　quickly　then。
　　Blaise　had　turned　from　the　fight　when　Ranald；　sword　flamboyantly　raised；　shouted　to　the　armies　and　then　spoke　his　astonishing　instructions　to　Bergen；　the　long…time　captain　of　the　Garsenc　corans。　His　heart　jumped　as　he　realized　what　his　brother　was　doing；　and　he　saw　Bergen；　dead　loyal　all　his　life；　acknowledge　and　move　to　obey。
　　Bergen　of　Garsenc　was　felled　by　a　swordstroke　from　behind　before　he　had　even　fully　turned　his　horse。　Borsiard　d'Andoria；　elegant；　unsmiling；　slid　his　long　blade　carelessly　free　of　the　coran's　body　and　they　saw　Bergen　fall　to　the　ground。　The　Portezzan　looked　deliberately　over　at　Blaise；　and　then　he　did　smile。
　　There　came　a　shout　of　anger　and　unease　from　among　the　army　of　Gorhaut。　They　had　heard　Ranald's　cry　and　had　now　seen　the　Portezzan　slay　one　of　their　own。　Some　men　from　each　army　began　moving　closer；　which　was　dangerous。
　　Blaise　had　no　time　to　deal　with　that；　or　with　Bors