Черная стрела

УДК 372.8
ББК 81.2 Англ-93
С 80

ISBN 978-5-9925-1182-6

Стивенсон, Роберт Льюис.

С 80 Черная стрела: Книга для чтения на английском язы
ке / Р. Л. Стивенсон. — Санкт-Петербург : КАРО, 2017. — 
384 с. — (Classical Literature).

ISBN 978-5-9925-1182-6.

Предлагаем вниманию читателей повесть знаменитого ан
глийского писателя-романтика Р. Л. Стивенсона «Черная стрела», посвященную событиям Войны роз, потрясавшей Англию 
во второй половине XV века.

Текст повести снабжен комментариями и словарем. Книга 

предназначена для студентов языковых вузов и всех любителей английской литературы.

УДК 372.8

ББК 81.2 Англ-93

© КАРО, 2017

Prologue

John Amend-All

On a certain afternoon, in the late springtime, the 

bell upon Tunstall Moat House was heard ringing at an 
unaccustomed hour. Far and near, in the forest and in 
the fields along the river, people began to desert their 
labours and hurry towards the sound; and in Tunstall 
hamlet a group of poor country-folk stood wondering 
at the summons.

Tunstall hamlet at that period, in the reign of old 

King Henry VI1, wore much the same appearance 
as it wears to-day. A score or so of houses, heavily 
framed with oak, stood scattered in a long green valley 
ascending from the river. At the foot, the road crossed 
a bridge, and mounting on the other side, disappeared 
into the fringes of the forest on its way to the Moat 
House, and further forth to Holywood Abbey. Halfway up the village, the church stood among yews. 

1 King Henry VI — король Англии Генрих VI (1421–

1471), в его правление началась Война алой и белой розы, 
на которой он и был убит

On every side the slopes were crowned and the view 
bounded by the green elms and greening oak-trees 
of the forest.

Hard by the bridge, there was a stone cross upon 

a knoll, and here the group had collected — half a 
dozen women and one tall fellow in a russet smock — 
discussing what the bell betided. An express had gone 
through the hamlet half an hour before, and drunk a 
pot of ale in the saddle, not daring to dismount for the 
hurry of his errand; but he had been ignorant himself 
of what was forward, and only bore sealed letters from 
Sir Daniel Brackley to Sir Oliver Gates, the parson, 
who kept the Moat House in the master’s absence.

But now there was the noise of a horse; and soon, 

out of the edge of the wood and over the echoing 
bridge, there rode up young Master Richard Shelton, 
Sir Daniel’s ward. He, at the least, would know, and 
they hailed him and begged him to explain. He drew 
bridle willingly enough — a young fellow not yet 
eighteen, sun-browned and grey-eyed, in a jacket 
of deer’s leather, with a black velvet collar, a green 
hood upon his head, and a steel crossbow at his back. 
The express, it appeared, had brought great news. 
A battle was impending. Sir Daniel had sent for every 
man that could draw a bow or carry a bill to go posthaste to Kettley, under pain of his severe displeasure; 
but for whom they were to fight, or of where the battle 

was expected, Dick knew nothing. Sir Oliver would 
come shortly himself, and Bennet Hatch was arming 
at that moment, for he it was who should lead the 
party.

“It is the ruin of this kind land,” a woman said. “If 

the barons live at war, ploughfolk must eat roots.”

“Nay,” said Dick, “every man that follows shall have 

sixpence a day, and archers twelve.”

“If they live,” returned the woman, “that may very 

well be; but how if they die, my master?”

“They cannot better die than for their natural lord,” 

said Dick.

“No natural lord of mine,” said the man in the 

smock. “I followed the Walsinghams; so we all did down 
Brierly way, till two years ago come Candlemas. And 
now I must side with Brackley! It was the law that did 
it; call ye that natural? But now, what with Sir Daniel 
and what with Sir Oliver — that knows more of law 
than honesty — I have no natural lord but poor King 
Harry the Sixt1, God bless him! — the poor innocent 
that cannot tell his right hand from his left.”

“Ye speak with an ill tongue, friend,” answered 

Dick, “to miscall your good master and my lord the 
king in the same libel. But King Harry — praised be 
the saints! — has come again into his right mind, and 
will have all things peaceably ordained. And as for 

1 King Harry the Sixt — (уст.) король Генрих VI

Sir Daniel, y’are very brave behind his back. But I will 
be no tale-bearer; and let that suffice.”

“I say no harm of you. Master Richard,” returned 

the peasant. “Y’are a lad; but when ye come to a man’s 
inches, ye will find ye have an empty pocket. I say no 
more: the saints help Sir Daniel’s neighbours, and 
the Blessed Maid protect his wards!”

“Clipsby,” said Richard, “you speak what I cannot 

hear with honour. Sir Daniel is my good master, and 
my guardian.”

“Come, now, will ye read me a riddle?” returned 

Clipsby. “On whose side is Sir Daniel?”

“I know not,” said Dick, colouring a little; for his 

guardian had changed sides continually in the troubles 
of that period, and every change had brought him 
some increase of fortune.

“Ay,” returned Clipsby, “you, nor no man. For, in
deed, he is one that goes to bed Lancaster and gets 
up York1.”

Just then the bridge rang under horse-shoe iron, 

and the party turned and saw Bennet Hatch come 
galloping — a brown-faced, grizzled fellow, heavy of 

1 goes to bed Lancaster and gets up York — ложится

спать Ланкастером, а просыпается Йорком (две ветви 
королевской семьи, боровшиеся за королевский трон; 
на гербе Ланкастеров была алая роза, на гербе Йорков — 
белая, отсюда и название войны)

hand and grim of mien, armed with sword and spear, 
a steel salet on his bead, a leather jack upon his body. 
He was a great man in these parts; Sir Daniel’s right 
hand in peace and war, and at that time, by his master’s 
interest, bailiff of the hundred.

“Clipsby,” he shouted, “off to the Moat House, and 

send all other laggards the same gate. Bowyer will give 
you jack and salet. We must ride before curfew. Look 
to it: he that is last at the lych-gate Sir Daniel shall 
reward. Look to it right well! I know you for a man of 
naught. Nance,” he added, to one of the women, “is 
old Appleyard up town?”

“I’ll warrant you,” “replied the woman. “In his field, 

for sure.”

So the group dispersed, and while Clipsby walked 

leisurely over the bridge, Bennet and young Shelton 
rode up the road together, through the village and 
past the church.

“Ye will see the old shrew,” said Bennet. “He will 

waste more time grumbling and prating of Harry the 
Fift1 than would serve a man to shoe a horse. And all 
because he has been to the French wars!”

The house to which they were bound was the last in 

the village, standing alone among lilacs; and beyond it, 

1 Harry the Fift — (уст.) Генрих V (1387–1422), ко
роль Англии, вел войну с Францией, победил в битве 
при Азенкуре (см. В. Шекспир «Генрих V»)

on three sides, there was open meadow rising towards 
the borders of the wood.

Hatch dismounted, threw his rein over the fence, and 

walked down the field, Dick keeping close at his elbow, 
to where the old soldier was digging, knee-deep in his 
cabbages, and now and again, in a cracked voice, singing 
a snatch of song. He was all dressed in leather, only 
his hood and tippet were of black frieze, and tied with 
scarlet; his face was like a walnut-shell, both for colour 
and wrinkles; but his old grey eye was still clear enough, 
and his sight unabated. Perhaps he was deaf; perhaps he 
thought it unworthy of an old archer of Agincourt to pay 
any heed to such disturbances; but neither the surly notes 
of the alarm-bell, nor the near approach of Bennet and 
the lad, appeared at all to move him; and he continued 
obstinately digging, and piped up, very thin and shaky:

“Now, dear lady, if thy will be, I pray you that you 

will rue on me.”

“Nick Appleyard,” said Hatch, “Sir Oliver commends 

him to you, and bids that ye shall come within this 
hour to the Moat House, there to take command.”

The old fellow looked up.
“Save you, my masters!” he said, grinning. “And 

where goeth Master Hatch?”

“Master Hatch is off to Kettley, with every man 

that we can horse,” returned Bennet. “There is a fight 
toward, it seems, and my lord stays a reinforcement.”

“Ay, verily,” returned Appleyard. “And what will ye 

leave me to garrison withal?”

“I leave you six good men, and Sir Oliver to boot,” 

answered Hatch.

“It’ll not hold the place,” said Appleyard; “the num
ber sufficeth not. It would take two score to make it 
good.”

“Why, it’s for that we came to you, old shrew!” 

replied the other. “Who else is there but you that could 
do aught in such a house with such a garrison?”

“Ay! when the pinch comes, ye remember the 

old shoe,” returned Nick. “There is not a man of you 
can back a horse or hold a bill; and as for archery — 
St. Michael! if old Harry the Fift were back again, he 
would stand and let ye shoot at him for a farthing 
a shoot!”

“Nay, Nick, there’s some can draw a good bow yet,” 

said Bennet.

“Draw a good bow!” cried Appleyard. “Yes! But 

who’ll shoot me a good shoot? It’s there the eye comes 
in, and the head between your shoulders. Now, what 
might you call a long shoot, Bennet Hatch?”

“Well,” said Bennet, looking about him, “it would 

be a long shoot from here into the forest.”

“Ay, it would be a longish shoot,” said the old fellow, 

turning to look over his shoulder; and then he put up 
his hand over his eyes, and stood staring.

“Why, what are you looking at?” asked Bennet, with 

a chuckle. “Do you see Harry the Fift?”

The veteran continued looking up the hill in 

sil ence. The sun shone broadly over the shelving 
meadows; a few white sheep wandered browsing; all 
was still but the distant jangle of the bell.

“What is it, Appleyard?” asked Dick.
“Why, the birds,” said Appleyard.
And, sure enough, over the top of the forest, 

where it ran down in a tongue among the meadows, 
and ended in a pair of goodly green elms, about a 
bowshot from the field where they were standing, 
a flight of birds was skimming to and fro, in evident 
dis order.

“What of the birds?” said Bennet.
“Ay!” returned Appleyard, “y’are a wise man to go 

to war, Master Bennet. Birds are a good sentry; in 
forest places they be the first line of battle. Look you, 
now, if we lay here in camp, there might be archers 
skulking down to get the wind of us; and here would 
you be, none the wiser!”

“Why, old shrew,” said Hatch, “there be no men 

nea rer us than Sir Daniel’s, at Kettley; y’are as safe as 
in London Tower; and ye raise scares upon a man for 
a few chaffinches and sparrows!”

“Hear him!” grinned Appleyard. “How many a 

rogue would give his two crop ears to have a shoot