Ladyhawke

by Joan D. Vinge

  Somewhere in the land of his dreams the sun was shining, as it always was, warmly on his back. “It’s summer,” he murmured, with a sigh. “The bright hot sun dances like a child on the blue water. And . . . she appears.” He saw her clearly now, her hair more dazzling than the sun, her fair young face more beautiful than the roses and lilies beside the lake. His heart filled with joy as she kissed him tenderly and vowed that she would never leave him. “Oh, Phillipe, I love you so . . . I never knew a moment’s happiness but for you . . .”

  In the morning, when he woke, he discovered that the weather, at least, had relented. His hopes brightened with the sunrise. He climbed down from the tree, moving like an arthritic old man. Stretching the cramps from his arms and legs, he ate a handful of squashed berries and started away through the woods.

  The morning was sunny, and warm for fall. His clothes dried out for the first time in days. Around noontime he was finally able to creep up close enough to a solitary cottage to steal a loaf of bread that had been left to cool on a window shelf. He didn’t stop to say a grace before he devoured it, hoping that the Lord would recognize his gratitude by the speed with which it disappeared.

  Strengthened by his first substantial meal in longer than he could remember, he moved on toward the hills. He had not seen any guardsmen all morning, and he began to hope that he had outdistanced or at least outwaited them. Surely they must have given up hunting a single worthless thief by now. He would not feel slighted in the least if they had.

  Late in the afternoon he dared to stop beside a small river to rest and clean himself up. The pouring rain had already washed away the most repulsive part of the filth and stench he had brought with him out of the city. A cloud with a small silver lining, he thought, not as grateful as he might have been. His tunic and pants, which had been old and worn to begin with, were in rags now; but so were many people’s, these days. And with luck, he could steal some better ones. If he could make himself halfway presentable, with the coins in his money pouch he could pass for an honest traveler and not a hunted fugitive. He pictured himself eating good hot stew, drinking mulled wine until his wits were numb, sleeping in the warm bed of an inn tonight instead of a tree . . . he smiled contentedly.

  He settled down on a warm rock, half hidden among the weeds and rushes of the riverside. He rubbed his aching feet, savoring the view of the setting sun framed in the bridge’s arch. Then, very carefully, he stripped off his ruined shirt, grimacing as the coarse cloth scraped the angry, half-healed welts on his back. He reached around and touched them gingerly, wincing. Before his capture, he had led the Bishop’s Guard on a wild and furious chase through Aquila’s maze of streets. But they had caught him in the end, and had beaten him thoroughly in retribution.

  He threw his shirt down, some of his good mood fading. “You’ve sent them all against me, Lord,” he said, lifting his chin, taking a certain stubborn pride in his martyrdom. “But still I survive. You see before you a modern-day Job . . .” He splashed his face with icy river water, gasping with the cold as he scrubbed his skin with his hands.

  He watched his reflection emerge for the better in the gleaming mirror of the water. His clean face smiled back at him from under an unkempt thatch of dark brown hair—really rather a handsome face, he thought. A little too thin, of course . . . but then, considering the manner of his recent escape from the dungeons, he supposed he should be grateful that he hadn’t been overfed these last few weeks. He ran a hand that was still covered with green-and-purple bruises along his smooth cheek. The features of his face were quite sensitive and refined, actually . . . they suited the face of a noble’s son who had been stolen away at birth by treacherous enemies and raised by humble peasants as their own. His father, the Duke, had no idea that his long-lost heir still lived, and so he had never bothered to search for him. But someday they would meet, and the father would recognize his son instantly from the incredible resemblance between them . . .

  The lost lord’s dark eyes widened as a sudden noise above and behind him startled him back into reality. Phillipe spun around, grabbing his shirt, looking up the hillside. Far above, two horsemen in the unmistakable crimson uniforms of the Bishop’s Guard were riding down the hill toward the river’s edge. He took a deep breath and leaped into the water.

  Jehan and a second guardsman rode down to the river through the tall, ripened grasses. Jehan beat at the reeds by the waterside with the flat of his sword; he searched the surrounding countryside with weary eyes and rising frustration. “I could swear I saw somebody—!” He sat back, dropping his reins, and sheathed his sword.

  The second guardsman shifted restlessly in his saddle, without finding a soft spot. “How much longer, sir?” His horse moved forward and began to graze beside Jehan’s, yanking up tufts of tender young rushes at the water’s edge.

  “Until Captain Marquet has been satisfied—that the Bishop has been satisfied,” Jehan said truculently.

  Their barely intelligible voices carried dimly to Phillipe, lying on his back beneath the water’s surface among the rushes. He breathed shallowly through the hollow stalk of a reed, watching foam from the mouths of the grazing horses drift lazily downward toward his face. Why me, Lord? he thought.

  And then the reed was jerked abruptly from between his teeth. A horse had torn it free, along with a mouthful of rushes. Suddenly breathless, Phillipe barely stopped the gasp of shock that would have drowned him. He clutched frantically at the rushes, holding himself down against his frenzied need to leap up and fill his lungs with air.

  “Marquet’s life hangs in the balance,” Jehan droned somewhere up above, “and he knows it.”

  Leave! Leave! Phillipe’s mind screamed. Any minute his lungs would burst . . . any second—

  Jehan’s horse plunged its nose into the water again, rooting among the weeds. All at once a violent spout of spray exploded into its face. The horse lunged backward with a snort of panic, nearly throwing Jehan into the river. Jehan pulled leather frantically, saving himself from a fall. Getting his mount under control, he turned back to the water’s edge.

  Before his astonished eyes there suddenly stood the equally astonished figure of Phillipe Gaston. Jehan stared, his face filling with recognition and rage.

  “I’m sorry,” Phillipe gasped, not quite rationally. “That’s entirely my fault. Here, let me dry your horse off . . .” He stumbled toward the shore in a daze of fear.

  “It’s him!” the second guard shouted.

  “No, it’s not!” Phillipe shrieked.

  Jehan’s sword was already in his hand. “Get him!”

  Phillipe turned to dive back into the river, but the other guard was there before him, cutting him off, driving him back to the shore. As he scrambled up the bank, Jehan bore down on him, the guardsman’s sword shining and deadly in his hand. Phillipe yelled hysterically as the blade came down to cut him in two. But instead its flat struck him hard on the rump and knocked him sprawling in the grass. He rolled onto his back, looking up in disbelief. Jehan’s face loomed above him, grinning savagely. Then he understood: They were playing a game of cat and mouse . . .

  Phillipe scrambled to his feet and bolted up the hill, running harder than he had ever run. Above him was the bridge; if he could only get to the bridge . . .

  The two horsemen followed him at an easy canter, letting him run himself out. Their laughter goaded him like a lash.

  He reached the top of the hill at last, just as he had decided it was endless. Sobbing for air, he threw himself onto the bridge and began to run across it. The flat wooden planks gave him fresh speed; but behind him he heard the clatter of hooves burst onto the wood. He looked back, futilely, as he ran, and his foot caught on a loose board. He pitched forward onto the hard planks, knocking the last of his breath out of him. He lay still for a long moment, paralyzed by the knowledge of his imminent death. But no sword fell, no blinding instant of pain ended his terror. An uncanny silence stretched on and on around him, until finally he dared to
raise his head. His jaw dropped.

  His head rested between the steel-shod hooves and muscular forelegs of an enormous black war-horse. The hooves shifted slightly; wisps of steam curled from the great beast’s nostrils into the chill air. Dark eyes rolled to look down at him with almost human suspicion from its finely formed head. The horse was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen. And then he saw the black-clad leg of a rider pressing its side.

  Phillipe pushed himself up slowly, jerked upright as the fierce, golden-eyed hawk resting on the rider’s gauntlet screamed suddenly. It hissed at him, flaring its wings. Phillipe sat back on his knees, gaping at the man who controlled both hawk and horse. The looming, hooded figure, dressed all in black, could only be the Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse. His black cloak was lined with flaming red, like a glimpse of hellfire as he shifted in his saddle to look down at Phillipe. He held a gleaming broadsword in his free hand, and the cold blue eyes that shone in his shadowed face were as distant and threatening as the land of Death. Phillipe tore his gaze away from the silent figure and looked back over his shoulder.

  The two guardsmen sat on their horses, momentarily frozen with the same awe. Their mounts pranced and backed nervously, as if even they sensed the aura of danger that hung about the man in black.

  At last Jehan roused himself and said, “Clear the bridge.”

  The stranger made no reply, sitting motionless on his horse. The rising wind moaned uneasily in the trees.

  “The man’s an escaped prisoner.” Jehan raised his voice. “We’re taking him in.”

  “On whose authority?” the stranger asked at last.

  “His Grace, the Bishop of Aquila.”

  Only Phillipe saw the fleeting, involuntary twitch of the stranger’s mouth that might have been a smile. And then the war-horse lunged forward, the hawk rose shrieking into the air. Phillipe threw himself aside, barely avoiding being trampled.

  The second guard charged forward to meet the man in black, his sword raised. The stranger’s horse reared, with all the fury and splendor of a mythological beast. One deadly sweep of the stranger’s sword cut through the guardsman’s ribcage, sent him sideways off his horse and over the edge of the bridge. His scream echoed as he plummeted toward the river below.

  Before the first man struck the water, the stranger had turned on Jehan, unhorsing him in one swift motion. Jehan crumpled to the planks of the bridge; he tried to rise again, only to find the stranger standing over him with his sword point jammed at his throat. Jehan swallowed hard, looking up with white-ringed eyes into the face of Death.

  The man in black pushed back his hood. Jehan’s face turned even paler as he recognized the man who stood over him. “Return to Marquet,” the stranger said. “Tell him Navarre is back.”

  Jehan nodded, speechless with fear. He got to his feet and ran back the way he had come. The man called Navarre stood watching as Jehan mounted his horse and galloped away into the dusk. At last the stranger turned back and remounted his own horse. The hawk spiraled down out of the indigo heights of the sky and settled on his wrist again. He sat for a moment, gazing curiously at Phillipe, who still stood weak-kneed with awe where he had left him. Then he nudged his horse forward, riding toward the small, silent, waiting figure.

  Phillipe shook himself out of his daze, pulling himself up until he was almost standing on his toes. “Magnificent, sir!” he shouted. “A dazzling display! As I’m sure you could tell, I was in the process of luring them onto the bridge when you arrived, and . . .”

  Navarre reined in his horse, staring down at Phillipe with a cryptic smile. “An escaped prisoner from Aquila?” he said, almost to himself. “Not from the dungeons.”

  “Why not from the dungeons?” Phillipe asked.

  “No one ever has.” The man spoke the words like someone who knew why it ought to be impossible.

  Phillipe raised his eyebrows, considering the possibility that he had actually done something remarkable. But he only shrugged, too much of a gentleman to brag about his exploits.

  Navarre leaned forward across his saddlebow, studying Phillipe thoughtfully. Then all at once he looked up again, away toward the west, where the sun was disappearing behind the hills. His face turned grim and tight. Prodding his mount with his spurs, Navarre started on across the bridge, passing Phillipe silently, as if he had ceased to exist.

  Startled, Phillipe reached up, not quite daring to put a hand on the other man. “Sir? Wait . . .” Navarre did not even glance down. Phillipe trotted after him, calling out, “You see, the truth is I’ve been thinking of taking on a traveling companion . . .” Still no response. More desperately, he shouted, “There are more guards out there! You’ll need a good man to watch your flank!” He was running.

  The stranger rode away into the darkness without looking back.

  Phillipe stopped running, letting his hands drop. He glanced down at himself. “Oh, shut up, Mouse,” he muttered. He turned around and walked back to the bridge, trying to ignore the nameless ache that was suddenly filling his chest. He peered down past the edge of the wooden planks, seeing the body of the dead guard drifting in the reeds. He shook his head ruefully. “You were severely outclassed, my friend. You never had a chance.” He glanced back in the direction the stranger had gone, with a brief smile of gratitude and regret. And then he went on across the bridge to the guard’s waiting horse, to unhook the purse from its saddle. “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” He glanced back at the body. “Don’t mention it,” he called, as he started on his way again.

  C H A P T E R

  Four

  During the midnight hours the rain returned with a vengeance. Phillipe wondered dismally whether two years of drought had really come to an end just to make his life miserable. He spent another wretched night in a tree, startled awake out of dreams of a magnificent warrior in black by flashes of lightning and the rumble of thunder. Once he would even have sworn that it was a horse’s scream which woke him; that he saw the mighty black rear up on a distant hilltop—riderless—and disappear into the storm.

  But by dawn none of it was more than the fading memory of a nightmare. Phillipe dropped to the ground and set out again, moving upslope. He was in the foothills now, where he hoped he could safely elude the Bishop’s pursuit at last. He scrambled up and down the muddy hills of the roughening terrain, picking his way through russet-colored brush and the slippery yellow leaves of the oak forest. Even here he kept one part of his mind always alert for any sign of horsemen. The fact that he now knew why the Bishop’s guards were so determined to recapture him did not make him any more willing to give them the chance. But in spite of his caution, he never saw the rider in black reappear on a ridge behind him shortly after dawn; never realized that the stranger followed him all through the morning.

  At last Phillipe reached a small village nestled in a narrow mountain valley. The farming here was even poorer than in the drought-stricken plain around Aquila. The dismal warren of mudbrick-and-plaster houses that squatted inside a crumbling stone wall was proof enough of the poverty of the villagers’ lives. But Phillipe, crouched shivering behind a ramshackle shed just inside the walls, observed that they were still better off than he was. It was shortly after noon, and few of the villagers seemed to be in sight. He supposed they must be in their homes, warm and dry, eating their midday meals . . . The thought of food made his throat ache. If no one else was outside, miserable and starving, then now was the perfect time to get himself some decent clothes. “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” he muttered, and darted out of hiding to snatch a pair of boots left to dry on a doorstep.

  Safely back under cover, he pulled off the ruins of his soft-soled shoes and pushed his feet into the damp leather of the boots, wrapping the bindings tightly around his legs to keep them on. He stood up, grinning with satisfaction. He was Phillipe the Mouse, the only man who had ever escaped from the dungeons of Aquila. For
him, this was child’s play. Quickly he visited another yard, yanking a hooded woolen tunic from a clothesline, rejecting a pair of pants nearly as ragged as his own.

  The tunic engulfed him like a shroud as he pulled it on. Rolling the sleeves up until his hands were free, he made his way on around the edge of the village. Behind a house that was either under construction or collapsing, he found another clothesline with a better-preserved pair of pants on it. He crept into the yard, straightened briefly to inspect them at close range. He made a face. “His tailor could be a better friend to him, but . . .” Shrugging, he jerked the pants from the line. He glanced away suddenly, as he caught the odor of food and woodsmoke in the air. Between the houses he spotted a sagging tavern. Smoke wafted from its chimney. Barely stopping long enough to change his pants, he hurried down the muddy street.

  Villagers sat outside the dark tavern entrance, enjoying the last of the outdoor half of the year. They ate and drank at wooden tables beneath the shelter of a vine-hung lattice in the squalid yard. A crackling blaze in a central firepit took a little of the chill from the air. Phillipe glanced from face to face surreptitiously as he entered the walled tavern yard. The patrons seemed oddly subdued; the range of expressions that he saw ran from mean to indifferent. A sullen barmaid moved silently among the tables. Just beyond the wall a blacksmith worked at a stable forge.