Ladyhawke (15 page)

Cezar sat motionless on his horse, staring into the shadowy forest with a brooding scowl of fear.

Phillipe finished changing his clothes beneath the dripping eaves of the barn, humming along contentedly with the music from the inn. He glanced toward the barn doors again, stopped humming as he listened for a voice or sound from within. It was pitch black in the woods beyond the stable; surely it must be well past sunset by now—

“Miss? My lady?” he said softly. There was no answer. “I’m coming in!” he called more loudly, and ducked back inside.

There was no sign of the hawk, or of anyone else, as he looked around the vast, shadowy interior. He listened, his heart beating harder, hearing only the snort of a horse, muted music and the drumming rain. “Miss?” he said again, uncertainly. His voice faded. “Miss, it’s me . . .”

Something brushed his arm from behind him. Phillipe yelped and spun around. Isabeau stepped out of the shadows, wearing the gown he had stolen for her. Her eyes were full of gentle gratitude as her hands touched the cloth of her long skirt.

Phillipe swallowed his embarrassment and smiled with pleasure, glancing down. “Phillipe the Brave, remember?” he said hesitantly.

Isabeau smiled in return, like a candle in the darkness, and nodded. She reached out to stroke Goliath’s arching neck fondly. Then she looked toward the door, out into the rain and night. “How . . . is he?”

Phillipe raised his head. He said, carefully, “Alive. Like you. Full of hope. Like you.”

“He’s taking us back to Aquila, isn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes.” Phillipe nodded reluctantly, and watched a dark foreboding shadow the brightness of her eyes. He took a deep breath and said more briskly, “He left you in my charge, as you can see by his sword over there. ‘Tell her we two speak as one,’ he said. ‘And she will follow your instructions as my own.’ ”

“Really.” She looked up, her mouth twitching as she studied the rafters for a long, thoughtful moment. She looked down at him again finally, and her smile returned. “What . . . do you recommend?”

“I recommend that you sit by a warm fire,” Phillipe said firmly. “That you drink a cup of sweet wine, and dance to bright music, cheerfully played.” He gestured toward the inn.

“Dance?” she asked, her voice as incredulous as if he had invited her to walk on clouds.

“Why not?” His own smile broke out again. She looked away through the stable door toward the light and music. He watched her face fill with wondering realization, and longing, and doubt—the face of a prisoner who had been shut away in black solitude until even the memory of music and human companionship was no more than a dream to her. The first strains of a new tune drifted in through the open doorway. Phillipe bowed quickly to Isabeau, offering her his hand like a gallant lord. “Shall we practice?”

Smiling with hesitant pleasure, she took his hand and made a graceful curtsy. He put his arm around her and began to guide her through the steps and turns of the lively peasant dance. At first she moved as uncertainly as if she were dancing on eggs. But each time her feet repeated the steps they grew more confident, until she was whirling as joyfully to the music as if she had been born dancing. Her pale cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone; as the dance ended she turned breathlessly to Phillipe, clapping her hands and laughing with delight.

Phillipe’s smile widened as her laughter filled his ears, more beautiful to him than the music of a hundred songs. It was the first time he had heard her laugh; and, looking at her astonished face, he knew that she was as surprised to hear that beautiful sound as he was.

Her hands tightened over his, her eyes shone like emeralds as they filled with unexpected emotion. He knew that she must have danced all her life in palaces and manor halls, wearing gowns of fine silk. But her eyes told him that none of those moments could ever mean as much to her as this moment she had just shared with him.

Phillipe turned away from her, letting go of her hands, his heart too full; he was suddenly afraid to test his chivalrous vows any further. He strode across the barn to the place where Navarre’s sword lay and knelt down to pick it up.

Isabeau’s smile was strangely maternal when he looked up at her again. “Ah, so you intend to be my protector as well? I’m flattered.”

Phillipe bobbed his head. “In a manner of speaking, my lady. The truth is”—his own smile turned sheepish—“he’ll kill me if I lose it.” He wrapped the sword carefully in a piece of burlap, to protect it from the weather and prying eyes.

Isabeau picked up a horse blanket and draped it over them both, her eyes alive with anticipation. They slipped out the stable door and ran toward the inn, heads down against the driving rain.

Suddenly a horse materialized out of the darkness; they ran blindly into its side, staggered back in surprise. Phillipe heard Isabeau’s gasp as she looked up. He raised his head; forgot to breathe at the sight of the stranger’s face.

A huge man with a black beard and scars below one eye glared down at them with the pitiless gaze of a death’s head. His face was streaked with blood, which even the rain had not been able to wash away completely. In a thick foreign accent, he said, “Watch where you’re going—” as if the next time the mistake might be fatal.

“Yes, sir,” Phillipe said meekly. “Thank you, sir.” He caught Isabeau’s elbow, trying to urge her on. But she stood paralyzed, staring past him, her face filled with horror.

Phillipe turned, and saw what she had seen. The hunter’s pack horse was piled high with freshly killed wolf pelts, a ghastly tangle of blood and fur and sightless eyes. Isabeau screamed, and Phillipe drew her to him, holding her in his arms, turning her face from the sight. “Isabeau! Isabeau . . .” he whispered.

The hunter’s lips pulled back into a mockery of a grin, showing broken teeth. “Isabeau?” he murmured. “Isabeau . . .” His grin widened.

Phillipe pushed Isabeau behind him and jerked the covering off Navarre’s sword. Raising it with an effort, he pointed the blade at the hunter’s face. “Lay one hand on her and you’ll find it on the ground next to your head. Now ride on.”

The hunter’s lips curled with amusement. He reached out in a sudden feint, jerked his hand back as Phillipe slashed at it. “Easy, little man. You wouldn’t cut someone for trying to make a living, would you?”

“Are you deaf?” Phillipe shouted. “Ride on!” He pricked the hunter’s horse in the rump with the sword point. The animal lunged forward and bolted away, carrying the hunter and his grisly load off into the night.

Phillipe turned back triumphantly. “Well. I guess we showed him what . . .” His voice faded. Isabeau was gone. He looked toward the barn, hearing a noise inside.

Isabeau burst from the stable entrance, riding the black. She dug her heels into the stallion’s sides, charging past Phillipe as if he were invisible. He flung himself aside, barely in time to keep from being trampled. She galloped on into the night, following the hunter.

Phillipe picked himself up from the mud and looked out into the empty darkness despairingly. “He’ll kill me,” he moaned, “he’ll kill me!”

C H A P T E R
Thirteen

I
sabeau rode through the darkness like a madwoman. Branches lashed her face as she forced Goliath through the undergrowth, and her wounded shoulder was on fire with pain; but the only thing that mattered now was the terrible fear inside her. The first gown that she had worn in two years hung on her like a muddy sack, nothing but an impediment. The shining light of the inn, the wonderful promise of wine and song that had shattered only moments ago, seemed to her like a hallucination. This was real—the darkness, the rain, the terror that somewhere in this forest of night the black wolf was in mortal danger.

She slowed Goliath suddenly, seeing something ahead, two blacker shadows against the darkness. She reined in. The wolf hunter’s two horses stood tied to a tree in a clearing, their backs turned to the wind. The rain was beginning to let up, and her visibility was slightly better; but there was no sign of the hunter. She rode forward cautiously and dismounted.

A wolf howled somewhere nearby. Her head snapped around; she stared futilely into the gloom.
No! Run! Run!
She wanted to scream it, knowing it would do no good. The wolf was her guardian by night, as the hawk was his by day. It would not leave her. But the wolf hunter had recognized her name . . . and so she knew with terrible certainty what he had been sent here to do. And she knew that this night could end in only one way. Reaching into one of Navarre’s saddlebags, she pulled out her dagger.

Clutching the knife tightly in her hand, she started into the trees. She was sure the hunter could not have gone far. He hadn’t had the time—and besides, she was sure he would be waiting for them. A dead branch snapped beneath her weight. She froze. There was no answering sound, only the soft patter of water dripping from the leaves. She cursed her clumsiness silently as she started on through the woods. Her father had taught her to ride and hunt like a man . . . but he had never had to hunt by night.

She froze again, suddenly seeing the ghostly outline of another figure just ahead. The hunter was crouched down in a tiny clearing. He raised his head, glancing from side to side like a suspicious animal. She held her breath. But he only crouched down again, for another endless moment, before he rose and disappeared into the darkness.

Isabeau slipped across the clearing, passing the place where the hunter had been crouching. Her foot brushed the edge of the heavy steel trap he had set and hidden . . . and she passed on, unsuspecting, into the trees.

Cezar, who always hunted by night, and had senses as sharp as any wolf’s, listened to Isabeau move past his own hiding place. He stepped out from behind a tree and quietly picked up a stone.

Isabeau stopped again, listening, in the eerie, dripping silence. And somewhere in the forest, the black wolf stopped to listen and sniff the air. Steam curled from his nostrils into the chill and damp.

Cezar hurled the stone. It struck the trap behind Isabeau; the jaws clanged shut.

Isabeau spun around in terror, raising her dagger. She peered into the darkness. Silence. Only silence.

The black wolf pricked his ears; he turned and trotted toward the sound.

Cezar hurled another stone. Another trap clanged shut. Isabeau spun back, panting. Silence. “Show yourself!” she cried. Silence. “Coward!” she screamed. Cezar crouched in the underbrush, waiting with merciless anticipation.

Another trap slammed shut, and a wolf screamed in anguish. Isabeau’s heart constricted; she stood motionless, paralyzed by the agony of her own horror.

Cezar leaped up from his hiding place and ran to the trap. A large wolf lay dead in it, crushed between steel jaws that had been designed to hold a bear. Cezar grinned in feral satisfaction. He released the wolf’s body and pulled it from the jaws; then he reset the trap with deft hands. He started to rise.

Something snarled, directly behind him. He turned, his eyes narrowing. An enormous black wolf stood watching him, its hackles rising. The wolf growled again, baring its fangs.

Cezar spun around, pushing to his feet to flee. Suddenly Isabeau was before him, her eyes dark with vengeance, blocking his escape. She tripped him with her knee and drove him backward into the trap’s waiting jaws. The jaws slammed together, choking off his horrified scream.

Isabeau stood where she was, gasping and drained. The wolf stared at her for a long moment with inscrutable amber eyes before it turned and bounded away into the woods. Behind her she heard the loud cracking noises of someone coming heedlessly through the trees. She turned, almost past caring, to see Phillipe emerge from the forest behind her with Navarre’s sword in his hands. He stopped, staring in appalled disbelief.

Isabeau started toward the dead wolf wordlessly, passing the hunter’s body in the trap. She stumbled suddenly as something caught her ankle. She looked down—and screamed, as the hunter’s bloody hand tightened in a death-grip around her leg. He raised his head; his lips pulled back in a snarl of defiance. His face fell forward again, and his hand slid down her foot. Isabeau did not move again for a long moment—could not; her trembling body was utterly strengthless.

Phillipe did not move either, frozen where he stood by his growing realization of all that had happened here.

“It isn’t him,” Isabeau said dully, as he stared at the wolf. She realized, although it did not matter, that the rain had stopped. A thin fingernail moon winked between the clouds. She looked at the dead wolf silently. She could not tell its color, but it had been a beautiful animal. The trap had destroyed its beauty, its intelligence, its life . . . pointlessly. She glanced at the dead hunter, at Evil struck down by its own tool in fitting retribution. She looked back at the wolf again; she went to where it lay and lifted its broken body as gently as she could, ignoring her own pain. Her eyes filled with tears, but they would not fall.

Phillipe came to her side, his face questioning and uncertain as he looked at the wolf, and up at her.

“I wish it were him,” she said, her voice raw.

“You don’t mean that, my lady,” Phillipe protested softly. “No one can wish for love to die.”

She looked back at him, at his boy’s face, his mooncalf eyes gazing at her with such shining certainty. Once, she had believed . . . She smiled bitterly, looking down. “Really?” she said. “And what do you know of love?” She turned away, dragging the wolf’s body toward the base of a tree.

“Nothing, I suppose,” Phillipe murmured behind her. “I’ve . . . never been in love. I have . . . dreams, of course,” he said wistfully, “but I’ve never lived the dream.”

She glanced up at him. “Then you’re a fortunate man.” She knelt, laying the wolf’s body down beneath the tree. She searched in the leaves for rocks to cover its body with a makeshift grave; she piled them up with sharp, desperate motions as helpless anger rose like a wave inside her. “I’ve lived the dream and I wish him dead. I wish us both dead. Tell him that.” Her voice trembled, as the past two years of living death, the grief and longing and rage that she had held back for so long, suddenly overwhelmed her. “Tell him I curse the day I met him. Tell him, in fact—I never loved him. Tell him . . .” She looked up into Phillipe’s eyes, and her own eyes suddenly overflowed with tears. Drowning in grief, she cried, “Oh, how can he go on, day after day, in pain and anguish as great as mine, and still pretend there’s an answer!”