Ladyhawke (10 page)

Phillipe crouched at the top of the hill, peering downslope. In the valley below he could vaguely make out figures moving, half hidden by the thick smoke of their fire. Their garbled speech reached him faintly. There seemed to be a lot of them. He half rose, hesitated, weighing caution against hunger.

A heavy hand closed on his shoulder, jerking him around.

Phillipe’s mouth fell open, but he had nothing to say to the burly guard whose hands gripped him like a vise. The guard grinned broadly. “Join us!” he said. He pushed Phillipe over the brink of the hill.

Phillipe tumbled crazily down and down, head over heels through the rocks and brush, until he hit the bottom. Lying sprawled on his back, he struggled to raise his head as another set of uniformed legs loomed over him. He blinked his eyes clear and looked up at his captor.

“Well, well,” Fornac said. “You’re a long way from the sewers, little rat. This time the drinks are on me.”

Phillipe rolled his eyes, let his head fall back with a small groan.

The other guards had come to stand around him in a group. Fornac grabbed him by his tunic and hauled him up to a sitting position. “Where’s Navarre?”

“Navarre, Navarre . . .” Phillipe shook his mind loose frantically. Fornac lifted a mailed fist, held it clenched in front of his face. “Ah! Big man, black horse? He went south, along the road to Aquila.” Phillipe waved a hand in what he hoped was the right direction.

One of the other guards smiled knowingly. “Then we ride north, right, sir?”

Phillipe sat up straighter. “It’s not polite to assume someone’s a liar when you’ve only just met him,” he said, indignant.

Fornac studied him, frowned. “And yet you knew we would . . .” he said slowly. “We ride
south
—toward Aquila!”

Phillipe cursed in silent frustration as his plan bit his own hand like a snake. Fornac’s men dragged him to his feet and propelled him back toward the campsite. He knelt numbly while two guards shackled his hands together behind him. They boosted him up onto a tethered horse and tied his feet together beneath its belly. He sat watching the guardsmen break camp with frightening speed, eager for the hunt—eager for it to end with Navarre’s death. Phillipe looked up into the sky, where heavy gray clouds were spreading across the sun. “I told the truth, Lord,” he said morosely. “How can I learn any moral lessons if You keep confusing me like this?”

Fornac trotted up alongside him and took hold of his horse’s reins. The guard troop rode out, heading south toward the Aquila road.

Navarre rode grimly down the Aquila road beneath a sky gray with lowering clouds. With or without the boy, he was going to the city. The Bishop of Aquila would die . . . or he would die, trying to reach the Bishop. It no longer mattered to him which; it only mattered that he was acting, now. He was through waiting for a sign which would never come . . . And always, in the back of his mind, he knew that no matter how that final encounter ended, he had already lost.

A wind chill with the promise of winter moaned through the trees, swirling up clouds of dry leaves and dust. Navarre raised his arm, shielding his eyes. The hawk perched on his other arm, just below his elbow; she huddled against his side for protection and warmth.

A dead branch crashed down into the road beside him. The stallion shied; the hawk took to the air with a startled cry. Navarre steadied his horse with a soft word, looking ahead again. He saw nothing but open fields, some domed granaries and a distant flock of sheep. He urged the black forward into a canter, and rode on unknowingly into ambush.

Fornac and his men lay silently in the underbrush along the roadside, waiting and watching as Navarre rode into view. Phillipe lay on his stomach, surrounded by guards, a gag in his mouth and his hands manacled behind him. He lifted his head, his eyes filled with sick terror as he watched Navarre riding to his death. Navarre might be a madman; but watching that proud figure on his black stallion, Phillipe only knew that the man who had saved his own worthless life twice did not deserve to die like this. And deep in his mind was the aching knowledge that somehow this was all his fault.

Fornac nodded, and Phillipe heard the soft clicks of crossbows being loaded all around him. Phillipe chewed on his gag, grimacing and twisting his face, forcing it into the center of his mouth. Down the road he saw the stallion’s ears prick forward, as if he sensed something ahead. Navarre slowed.

The gag slipped into Phillipe’s mouth. He glanced from side to side, blinking hard as he looked at the armed men all around him. They would kill him instantly if he made the slightest sound to warn Navarre. But if he didn’t, they would kill Navarre instead . . . Phillipe shut his eyes, still not quite believing what he was about to do, and took a deep breath.

Suddenly, far above, a hawk screamed. The stallion reared up in the road as Phillipe opened his mouth to shout. The guard next to him looked around—and jammed a hand into his mouth.

Phillipe bit down hard. The guard bellowed.

“Fire!”
Fornac shouted furiously.

A hail of arrows rained down on Navarre. Phillipe saw one strike him in the leg, saw blood splatter over his saddle. The hawk screeched in fury, diving down, as Navarre drew his sword and wheeled his horse around.

Phillipe, lying forgotten underfoot as the guards reloaded, heard shouting and screams as Navarre fought off his attackers. Phillipe rolled over, pushing himself up onto his knees, searching for a chance to make his own escape. He saw Fornac look up at the swooping hawk, his face filled with rage. Twice now it had saved its master from him, and Fornac would not let the bird escape to save Navarre again. The guard raised his weapon, taking aim.

Gritting his teeth, Phillipe arched his body and jerked his manacled hands down his back. He squeezed his body through the loop of the chain and flung himself at Fornac from behind. Throwing the chain over Fornac’s head, he pulled it tight. Fornac’s hands flew up to his throat, grasping the chain. Phillipe threw all his weight against it; but all his weight was not enough. Fornac jerked it down, flipping Phillipe over his head. Fornac clubbed him aside with a heavy fist and leaned down to catch up the crossbow. Mounting his horse, he searched the battlefield and the sky.

The hawk was out of his sight now, swooping and diving to Navarre’s aid, as the black stallion charged though the underbrush like a juggernaut. Navarre fought like a man possessed, driving the guards into retreat with the fury of his attack. But as they retreated, they suddenly left his back exposed, a perfect target in Fornac’s line of fire. Fornac’s eyes narrowed with satisfaction as he raised his crossbow for a shot that could not miss.

Phillipe struggled to his knees, seeing Fornac take aim. He caught up a rock and hurled it. It cracked against Fornac’s helmet; Phillipe saw the arrow go wild, in the split second before pain exploded in his own head as another guard’s crossbow smashed down on him.

He never heard the hawk’s shrill scream, as the random shot pierced her breast. But Navarre heard it. He looked up, driving the retreating guards before him, to see her drop from the sky in a flurry of feathers, her wings beating helplessly. He cried out as if the shot had struck his own heart; the stallion reared as he jerked convulsively on the reins.

Beyond the guards, he saw Fornac sitting on his horse in the road, with his crossbow in his hands. Fornac grinned savagely. Navarre drove toward him with a bellow of fury, swinging his sword. Fornac raised his crossbow and fired again.

The shaft drove deep into Navarre’s shoulder, knocking him from his saddle. His sword flew from his hand as he fell. He struck the ground hard; lay stunned for a long moment, gasping with pain. Lifting his head with an effort, he saw Fornac charge, raising his sword high.

Navarre pushed himself to his knees, weaponless and desperate. Looking down, he grasped the arrow shaft that protruded from his leg and yanked it out. He staggered to his feet with the arrow in his fist as Fornac’s horse bore down on him. Dodging under Fornac’s blade at the last instant, Navarre thrust the arrow up into his chest. The horse’s momentum drove the shaft into Fornac’s heart as the blow dragged him out of the saddle. Fornac was dead before he struck the ground.

The impact knocked Navarre away and down. He struggled to his feet again, covered with blood, his own and Fornac’s. Searching around him, he found his sword and picked it up. The few remaining guardsmen who were still standing began to back away from him. Throwing down their weapons, they caught their mounts and rode back toward Aquila.

Oblivious, Navarre stumbled through the carnage along the road to the place where the hawk had fallen. Goliath trailed him like a great shadow. The hawk lay in the dust, with the arrow bristling from beneath her bloodsoaked wing; her fierce golden eyes were glazed with pain. He drove his sword into the ground and sank to his knees beside her, his hands knotting. Blood from his wounds stained the dirt where she lay, but he felt nothing of his own pain now. He lifted her with trembling hands. Gently he tried to clean her wound, to see how deep the hurt was. Too deep. He looked up, looking toward the west, where the sun floated like molten gold just above the crest of the distant hills. Tears of grief and rage welled in his eyes. He looked down again at the hawk lying helplessly in his hands.
God help me,
he prayed, for the first time in years.
Help me—

A shadow fell across him. Startled, he looked up into the face of Phillipe Gaston. The young thief stood staring down at him, pale and dazed. Blood from a scalp wound trickled down his neck. A chain swung from his shackled hands. Phillipe’s dark eyes filled with sorrow as they gazed at the wounded bird. As they searched his own again, Navarre saw something unreadable flash in their depths. For a moment he thought the boy would turn and run away. But Phillipe stayed rooted where he was, like a dagger drawn to a lodestone.

Navarre had no idea what the boy was doing here. He had no time to care. Leaning heavily on his sword hilt, he pushed himself to his feet, with the bird cradled in his hand. He held the hawk out to Phillipe and said hoarsely, “Take the bird. Find help.”

“Me, sir?” Phillipe said in disbelief.

“I have no one but you.”

Phillipe bit his lip. “Sir . . . the poor thing is done for,” he said softly.

Navarre ignored the words, keeping his feet with an effort. “There’s an abbey on top of a mountain in those hills over there. In it you will find a monk. Brother Imperius. Bring him the hawk. Tell him she belongs to Charles of Navarre. He will know what to do.”

“Sir, I . . .” Phillipe raised his shackled hands.

“Kneel down.” Navarre set the hawk down gently as he spoke, and pulled his sword from the earth. Phillipe obeyed, wincing as Navarre split the heavy chain between his wrists with one blow.

“Take my horse and go, boy. Now!”

Phillipe got to his feet and turned to Goliath. The stallion’s ears flattened; he reared up, lashing out with his hooves. Phillipe leaped away. “But sir . . .” He looked back at Navarre. “You’re the only one who can ride him, and . . .”

Navarre shouted a furious command at the black. The stallion calmed instantly, stood waiting with his ears pricked forward. Navarre’s free hand caught Phillipe by the scruff of the neck.
“Do it, boy!”
He pushed him up into the saddle.

When Phillipe had settled himself, Navarre handed him the hawk, wrapped in a shirt from his saddlebag. Phillipe cradled the wounded bird gingerly in the crook of an arm. Navarre put the stallion’s reins into his hand. “And know this,” Navarre said, when the boy looked down at him again. “If you fail to reach that abbey, I will follow you the length of my days until I find you, and carve your wretched body into pieces fit for flies.”

Phillipe’s white face turned even paler. He nodded with absolute understanding, and started the horse away across the open field.

Navarre raised his hand to his shoulder, to the crossbow bolt still jutting from it. He jerked it out. He shuddered with pain; but his eyes never left the figure growing smaller in the distance.

C H A P T E R
Nine

P
hillipe looked back as he rode, saw Navarre standing like a monument carved from stone, his shadow thrown far across the battlefield by the setting sun. As Phillipe watched, the man of stone crumbled and fell. Phillipe looked ahead again toward the distant purple hills, his face set, urging Goliath on.

On the far side of the field he reached another road, which wound up into the hills Navarre had sent him toward. Goliath took the road willingly, seeming to know almost by instinct where they were headed. Phillipe held the bird as if it were made of glass.

Goliath moved as fluidly as water beneath him as they cantered up into the darkening hills, as if even the horse were trying to spare the hawk from pain. But the bird cried out, weakly, as they rode into the shadow of a massive stone cliff. Phillipe slowed the stallion, looking down at the hawk. “It’s all right,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.” He looked up the face of the mountain; his breath caught.

Above him on the heights stood the ruins of a once-imposing abbey, caught in the rays of the setting sun. The stark lines of its crumbling, weather-eaten walls of stone were softened by a mass of ivy and vines. Its bell tower, still intact, watched over the valley below like a silent sentinel. This was what Navarre had sent him to find. He glanced down at the bird again. The shirt that wrapped the hawk was stained with red; the arrow standing out from beneath its wing looked fatally large against its small, fragile body. “There it is . . . see? The abbey!” He cupped a hand tenderly under the hawk’s head, trying to reassure it. The bird’s sharp, hooked beak snapped at his fingers.

Phillipe pulled his hand away, startled. “Well,
that’s
gratitude . . . All right then,” he said, exasperated. “Let this Imperius fellow watch you die, I’ve got my own life to worry about!” He wondered irritably how even a madman could care so much for a thankless wild animal, “You’re a witness,” he told the stallion.