Ladyhawke (14 page)

Navarre rode in through the ruined gate and up the hill. He stopped before the abbey entrance. Imperius came across the drawbridge without hesitation and hurried toward him.

Navarre felt his face freeze as he met the eyes of the man whose weakness had caused so much suffering, to himself and the woman he loved. His fist clenched over the reins. Imperius stopped, seeing his expression. The two men studied each other for a long moment, face to face for the first time in two years.

At last Navarre said, “I thought you might be dead, old man. There were times when I wanted to kill you myself.” He took a deep breath, and found the strength to say, “I’m grateful for what you’ve done here.”

Imperius nodded, and looked down. “Vengeance—like forgiveness—is the privilege of God,” he said. “And He has forgiven me.” He sounded as though he actually believed it.

“I am not God,” Navarre answered bitterly. “I have not forgiven you. And I cannot forget.” He dismounted. From the corner of his eye he saw Phillipe appear at the entrance; the boy stood watching them silently.

“What will you do, then?” Imperius asked querulously. “Kill me? His Grace?” He glanced at the hawk. “Kill her, perhaps?”

Navarre stared at him. “Perhaps.”

Imperius shook his disheveled head. “That is not how your story ends! Only
I
know how it ends! God has told me how the curse may be broken!”

Navarre stiffened. His hand shot out, grasping the monk by the front of his ragged robes, pulling him close. “Betray me again, old man?” he whispered, his voice like acid. “Torture me with false hopes?”

With quiet certainty, Imperius said, “Three days hence, in the Cathedral of Aquila, the Bishop hears the confession of the clergy. You have only to confront him
—both
of you, as man and woman, in the flesh, and the curse will be confounded. Broken. The Evil One will seize his prize, and you are free.”

Navarre stared at Imperius, searching his eyes for a sign of betrayal or doubt, finding none. It was said that a curse was always imperfect, by its very nature. There was always a flaw, a way it could be broken . . . if the flaw could only be found. “It’s not possible. As man and woman. Together in the flesh. Impossible.” And yet he had believed it was impossible to escape from the dungeons of Aquila . . . He glanced at Phillipe, standing mesmerized in the entrance.

“As long as there is night and there is day.” Imperius nodded. “But three days hence you’ll have your chance. In three days, at Aquila, there will be a day without night, and a night without day.”

Navarre stared at the old man a moment longer, turning the words over and over in his mind . . . feeling the sudden blossom of hope wither and die inside him. His gaze turned as cold as a killing frost. “Go back inside, old man,” he said in disgust. “Back to your wine. God has not forgiven you. He has simply made you mad.”

Imperius opened his mouth to implore Navarre to listen. But he only shook his head and turned away, unable to face the relentless despair in the younger man’s eyes. He started slowly back into the abbey. Phillipe ventured out as the old monk retreated, passing him on the bridge.

Navarre pulled himself together, in control again as the boy stopped before him. He held out his hand. “I am in your debt.”

Phillipe shook hands shyly. “Me, sir? Not a bit.” He looked up into Navarre’s rigidly expressionless face; his own face clouded with concern. “She . . . wanted me to deliver a message,” Phillipe said hesitantly. He glanced at the hawk, up again at Navarre. “To say she still has hope. Faith. In you.”

Navarre’s eyes searched Phillipe’s face questioningly, almost ruthlessly; searching for another betrayal. The boy did not flinch or look down. His own eyes shone with belief, until at last Navarre believed it too. With a deep sigh, he looked down at the hawk sitting on his arm. She cocked her head, looking back at him in curiosity.

Phillipe stood where he was, as if he were waiting for something more. Navarre turned back to him again. “You’re free to go.”

Phillipe nodded. “I know that, sir.” He didn’t move.

“Do what you like,” Navarre said, a little uncomfortably.

“Yes, sir.” Phillipe nodded again, hesitated. “Then you and . . . Ladyhawke will be continuing on?”

Navarre looked down at the bird. A gentle, fleeting smile eased his mouth. “Ladyhawke . . .” he murmured. He looked up, remembering the boy again, and the future. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “To Aquila.”

Phillipe straightened his shoulders. “As it so happens, I’m . . . heading in that direction myself.”

Navarre shrugged noncommittally, past caring why the boy suddenly wanted to commit suicide. “Suit yourself.” Taking hold of Goliath’s reins, he started back down the hill. Phillipe followed at his side, grinning. “Take one of the guards’ horses,” Navarre said. “You’ll tend to the animals as before. Keep a decent fire going. Cook the meals . . .”

“That’s my lot in life, sir,” Phillipe said cheerfully. “Common as dirt. I cut my first purse when I was seven years old. From a gentlemen going to Notre Dame for High Mass. I thought I’d better get him on the way in, while he still had a few coins left. That night my mother cooked meat for the first time in two years. My family sort of invented poverty, you know, and . . .”

Navarre finally looked back at him again. He wondered briefly whether Phillipe even knew where the lies began and ended in his life. “Still feeling sorry for yourself, eh, boy?”

Phillipe’s smile faded. “Born sorry, Captain,” he said.

Navarre started, hearing himself called by his old rank. He looked curiously at the boy, trying to read his face.

Phillipe smiled again suddenly. “And sure to die that way.”

Navarre laughed, shaking his head.

Phillipe rode out with Navarre into the morning, his head high. He rode his own mount, a fact which no longer terrified him, but only improved his spirits. Phillipe the Brave, Navarre’s comrade-at-arms and Isabeau’s protector, could handle a horse. And perhaps somehow he might even find a way to change Navarre’s mind . . .

All morning they followed a circuitous route through the foothills, avoiding the Bishop’s patrols. The main road to the city was too well guarded now; they would have to find another way to approach Aquila. Navarre stopped for sleep in the middle of the day, exhausted and still weak from his wounds. Phillipe slept beside him, having become a complete partner in the inside-out world that he shared with Isabeau.

By the time Navarre woke, Phillipe had a fire going, and they ate a small meal together. Phillipe had watched the edge of a storm moving in from the west while he waited for Navarre to wake, and as they rode on again, clouds darkened the afternoon sky. Thunder began to roll in the distance. Phillipe put out a hand, waiting for the first drop of rain. “Looks like a big one, Captain. We’re going to get soaked.”

Navarre glanced up out of his own brooding thoughts and studied the sky between the trees. “Find shelter,” he said. “The sun is going down.”

Phillipe looked toward the cloud-gray horizon. “How can you tell?” he asked.

Navarre halted Goliath and swung down. “After so many sunsets—how can I not?” He handed his sword, and then the stallion’s reins, to Phillipe.

The hawk fluttered down to perch on Navarre’s wrist. He held her and stroked her soothingly, then passed her into Phillipe’s arms. “Take care of Ladyhawke.” He turned and started away into the woods, limping slightly.

Phillipe watched him go with a strange mingling of sorrow and pride. He wondered fleetingly what it would be like to roam the woods all night, a wild beast living on instinct, with all memories of a human existence forgotten. And yet, even the wolf remembered Isabeau, and the hawk, Navarre. He wondered what Navarre and Isabeau remembered . . . He cradled the bird against him, holding the sword as tightly as if it were a part of his arm. Navarre stopped, turned to look back at him.

Phillipe grinned confidently, and raised the sword in a salute.

Navarre returned the salute with a brief smile, then walked on into the woods. As Phillipe sat watching, lightning struck a tree somewhere nearby with an earsplitting crack. Phillipe jerked around, startled. When he looked back, the woods were empty. Slowly his frozen smile came unstuck. His arm trembled with the weight of the sword; he let it drop with a sigh of relief.

Cold rain began to fall as he rode on. But before he had ridden far he heard eager voices and soon saw a group of laughing young villagers hurrying along the road ahead of him. They were dressed in their festival best and heading for a small roadside inn. Following them cautiously into its yard, he took thankful refuge in its vast, moldering barn as the rain began to come down in earnest. The hawk flew up into the rafters and settled there, shaking out her wings and preening. He unsaddled the two horses and put them into stalls, gave them each an armload of hay. They shook themselves and stamped, their breath clouding whitely.

Lightning and thunder cracked and danced. The rain fell in a silvery sheet beyond the stable entrance. It also dripped insistently though countless small holes in the barn’s neglected roof. Phillipe settled wearily onto a pile of damp straw, Navarre’s sword lying safely at his side. Muscles he never knew he had seemed to have been stretched beyond endurance after a day in the saddle. He looked up as the bird fluttered down onto the edge of a stall beside him. “Hungry?” he asked. The hawk looked away. He pushed up onto his knees. “Do you understand me, Ladyhawke?” He watched her golden eye, waiting for a sign of recognition. The bird glanced at him with complete lack of interest. “You know,” he went on stubbornly, “it’s my favorite thing for dinner, hawk. I’ve eaten thousands of them. Used to kill one every day, just for practice.” The hawk stared at him impassively.

Phillipe shrugged and sat back, hugging his knees, shivering inside his sodden clothes. “Serves me right for getting involved in this nightmare. Nightmare . . .” he muttered. “
Day
mare . . . and then . . . ‘It will be neither night
nor
day . . .’ ” He snorted. “Why not? Makes about as much sense as the rest of it.”

He looked up again as the hawk ruffled her feathers. She shuddered restlessly, as if strange sensations were stirring inside her.

Sunset
. Phillipe climbed to his feet, feeling sudden uncertainty and distress of his own. Navarre had charged him with protecting the hawk . . . but the hawk was about to turn into a woman. “Listen,” he said, feeling his face redden, “I’ll just . . . wait outside, all right?” He got to his feet and slipped quietly out the stable door into the darkness.

He huddled under the overhang of the roof, rubbing his arms and shivering as the rain blew in on him and his cold, wet clothing became even colder and wetter. He looked away at the inn as a cart decked with wedding garlands pulled up to its door. The laughing, flower-wreathed bride and groom climbed down, followed by more brightly dressed wedding guests; together they ran up the steps toward the inn’s entrance. Light poured out into the yard like warm honey from beneath the inn’s covered porch. Phillipe heard more laughter as the young couple were welcomed by the crowd of guests already waiting there. The lilting music of a lute filled the darkening yard as the celebration began and dancers chose their partners under the dripping eaves.

Phillipe stared at the dancers with longing; he glanced back at the stable entrance. He flexed his hands as his body began to tingle with sudden inspiration. Taking a deep breath, he darted across the yard to the waiting cart, which was heaped with gifts for the new bride and groom. Crouching down, he groped among the covered boxes and bags. After a moment of searching he pulled out a long homespun gown dyed sea blue, a rust-colored jerkin, and a linen shirt. Grinning, he bundled them together and ran back to the barn.

The hawk still perched uneasily on the edge of a stall. Phillipe laid the gown out on the hay, smoothing it with his hands. He glanced up at the bird. “I can’t vouch for the fit, but . . .” He smiled, embarrassed. “Take your time,” he murmured, and stepped outside into the rain again.

Navarre trudged through the darkening woods and the same pouring rain. He followed the road in the direction Phillipe and the hawk had taken, staying under cover among the trees; unable to resist the compulsion that made him follow, even if he had wanted to. The uncanny physical sensations of the change grew more intense throughout his body, the stirring of strange instincts in his mind grew more insistent, as sunset neared. He pulled off his gauntlets one by one, loosened his doublet; discarding his clothing, the symbol of his humanity, which was nothing but an impediment to the beast he would soon become.

At least this night would be different in one way from all the nights before . . . at least Isabeau would not spend it alone and friendless in the dark. For the first time they had an ally . . . the unlikeliest one he would ever have expected to find loyally at his side. An unwilling gratitude filled him as he remembered Phillipe’s farewell salute, and a sharp twinge of hopeless envy.

Navarre looked behind him suddenly, as his awakening animal senses told him that he was no longer alone in the forest. He stopped in the middle of a small clearing, searching, listening. A horse was approaching . . . two horses . . . one man, with the smell of wolves about him—and the smell of death.

A prickle of panic stirred in Navarre’s mind as he realized his vulnerability.
Not now . . . why did it have to be now?
He started to run, stripping off his clothes with awkward haste. Behind him he heard the hunter ride into the clearing, pull up short as he glimpsed motion. Navarre looked back; for a heartbeat his eyes met the deadly gaze of a man dressed in wolfskin and reeking of blood and he froze. Navarre flung away his shirt and ran on, desperately trying to lose himself among the sheltering trees.

The change caught him in midstride as he fled. A force beyond his control seized him in its supernatural grip, crushing the flesh and bone of a man into the body of a beast, transforming even thought itself. A shimmering wave of dark oblivion swept over him . . . and when it passed Navarre was gone. An enormous black wolf bounded on into the trees.