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
Phillipe 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 b
ird 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.
Goliath merely turned from the road, picking his way up the narrow trail that wound to the top of the peak.
Phillipe halted before the abbey’s arching gate, studied its heavy wooden door. He looked up dubiously at the silent stone walls. “Hello! Hello in there!” he called. Sparrows flitted in and out of the ivy, the only sign of life he saw. What if the monk had gone . . . ? “For pity’s sake—” he shouted, “hello!”
“Lower your voice out there, damn you!” someone shouted back. “Do you think I’m deaf?” A wild-haired old man in the brown-and-gray robes of a monk peered owlishly from a parapet of the ruins. The monk’s eyes roved at random across the shadowed landscape, completely ignoring both horse and rider.
“Over here, Father!” Phillipe called. “Imperius—?”
The bloodshot eyes found him at last. The monk gazed down on him blearily. “Curious,” he mumbled, “that’s my name too.”
Phillipe realized with a twinge of dismay that the man was drunk. “I was told to bring you this bird. She’s been wounded.”
“Good shot!” Imperius cried heartily. “Bring her in and we’ll dine together.”
“We can’t eat this bird!” Phillipe shouted, his anger rising.
“We can’t?” Imperius shook his head. “Oh my God, is it Lent already?”
Phillipe took a deep breath. “This is no ordinary hawk, Father,” he said insistently. “She belongs to Etienne Navarre.”
Imperius blinked, stared down at them as if his mind had abruptly cleared. “Mother of God,” he whispered. “Bring her in! Quickly!” He turned away, pulling on the rope that unbarred the door below.
Phillipe dismounted, slowly and with difficulty, holding the hawk steady all the while. He turned, looking up at the stallion. “Wait here,” he said.
The stallion whinnied suddenly, swung around, and galloped away down the hill.
“Tell him we got here!” Phillipe yelled. “Tell him I did my part!”
“Hurry up, you cretin!” Imperius called. “Get her up here!”
Phillipe turned back and hurried through the gate. Striding up through the inner courtyard, he saw a drawbridge lying open before the abbey’s main entrance. Imperius stood on the bridge waiting impatiently for him.
As he started across the bridge, Imperius reached out, grabbing his arm. “Careful, you lummox!”
Phillipe looked down at the wide planks, seeing nothing abnormal, as Imperius pulled him over to the left side of the bridge.
“Walk on this side,” Imperius insisted.
Phillipe shrugged and obeyed, following him into the abbey.
Imperius led him through dim, drafty corridors and empty cells, up steps worn into hollows by countless feet. Phillipe wondered fleetingly why anyone, even a monk, would choose to live in this dismal ruin all alone.
At last they reached a small room behind a massive, decaying wooden door. Yellow candlelight showed him a plain, solid table and chairs, books and writing implements, a cot covered by sheepskins—Imperius’s own quarters, he guessed.
“Over there on the cot . . . easy . . .” Imperius directed.
Phillipe laid the bird on the bed with careful hands.
“Leave us alone,” Imperius snapped.
“But . . .” Phillipe protested, remembering Navarre’s threat with sudden vividness.
“Get out!”
Phillipe backed reluctantly toward the doorway and went out. The door slammed behind him, and he heard the sound of a lock clicking shut. He sat down on the stone floor of the hallway and pulled his dagger out of his boot. With its tip, he began to work at the locks on his manacles. Behind the door, he heard Imperius say softly, “Don’t be frightened. Navarre was right—I can help you . . . But we must wait.”
The monk came out of the room again and glanced down at Phillipe.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Phillipe asked.
“No, boy,” the monk said brusquely. He shut the door and pointedly locked it from the outside before he hurried away down the hall. Phillipe went on working at his shackles.
Out in the monastery’s weed-grown garden, Imperius worked by the light of a bonfire, gathering herbs. His mind was perfectly clear now; he moved with confidence among the plants, hurriedly clipping the perfect leaves, in the precise amounts he needed. As he worked he looked out again and again across the valley, looking westward, his face furrowing with concern. He watched the final flash of day send streaks of ruddy afterglow lancing up between the clouds. The sun had set. Placing the last of the herbs into a small stone mortar, he started back up the hill toward the abbey.
The second shackle dropped from Phillipe’s wrist and clattered to the floor. He grinned with the satisfied pride of a skilled professional and shook out his hands. Climbing to his feet, he went back to the door of Imperius’s cubicle. He fingered the heavy lock thoughtfully, then slipped his dagger point into its keyhole and probed. In a matter of seconds the ancient mechanism clicked open.
Phillipe opened the door quietly and entered the room. And stopped, staring in disbelief.
There was no longer a hawk on Imperius’s cot. Instead, the fair woman who had haunted his nights lay there, covered with a fur robe, her arms spread in imitation of the hawk’s wings. The crossbow bolt protruded from her shoulder.
Her eyes flickered open at the sound of his footsteps. She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes filled with agony. She tried to raise herself up. “Navarre! . . . Where is he? Is he . . .”
“He’ll be fine, my lady!” Phillipe said hastily, holding up his hands. “There was a terrible battle with the Bishop’s guards. Navarre fought like a lion. The hawk was . . .” He broke off, as his leaping thoughts suddenly caught up with the truth. He shook his head. “But . . . you know that, don’t you?” he whispered.
The woman lay back. “Yes,” she murmured, after a long moment.
Phillipe moved timidly to stand beside the cot. He looked down at her, astonished again at the heartbreaking beauty of her face. “Are you flesh?” he asked slowly. “Or are you spirit?”
Her fever-bright eyes fell away from him, staring at nothing. “I . . . am sorrow.”
The door opened behind him. Imperius entered the room and stopped, aghast. “How did you . . . ?” He crossed the room, seizing Phillipe by the arm. “Get out, damn you! And stay out this time!” The monk shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.
Phillipe stood still in the hall for a moment, then suddenly leaned back against the door’s solid support, breathless and weak as the reaction to what he had just seen finally hit him. From inside the room he heard Imperius’s voice again, like a prayer: “Holy Father—after all that’s happened, You couldn’t possibly have brought her here to die.” Phillipe pushed himself away from the door and went hurriedly down the corridor, in desperate need of some fresh air.
He found his way out into the garden, stood studying the overgrown field and the makeshift outbuildings of the abbey yard in the bonfire’s flickering light. A mule and some goats drowsed in a pen; chickens muttered and pecked after grubs. On a scarred weather-gray tabletop he saw a curious assortment of apples and oranges arranged in rings, as if the monk had been playing some sort of game. He wandered down the hill to the table and sat on a bench, his fingers rapping on the wood, studying the fruit arrangements with half his mind . . . He supposed living alone in a ruin
didn’t provide many interesting pastimes. He glanced up again at the looming skeleton of stone high on the hill above him; searched out the abbey’s single lighted room with restless eyes. A woman’s anguished moan carried faintly to his ears. Phillipe turned back to the table. He picked up an apple and bit into it nervously.
Imperius stood at the table in his room, mashing the herbs with a pestle, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Her own eyes were closed, and her arms shone with perspiration. She stirred and moaned again, drifting into a fevered dream. Imperius set down the pestle to lay a cool, wet cloth across her burning forehead. He returned to his work, held a candle beneath the mortar’s bowl to warm the poultice he had made. Somewhere in the night beyond the abbey walls a wolf howled mournfully; the woman’s body twitched beneath the coverings. Imperius glanced up, set the steaming poultice on the table. Turning back to the woman’s side, he packed the poultice around the wound as gently as he could. The woman opened her eyes, gazing up at him as he reached for the arrow with a reluctant hand.
In the garden, Phillipe took another bite from the apple, blinking tensely as he stared out into the darkness.
Imperius’s hand closed over the arrow and pulled it free. The woman screamed piercingly.
Phillipe jerked around, looking up; the apple fell from his nerveless fingers.
In Aquila Castle, His Grace the Bishop lunged upright in his canopied bed, wracked with terrifying pain. He stared wildly into the shaft of blinding illumination that spotlighted him in his private darkness; he looked down at himself in horror, and then in disbelief, as he found no wound, no blood, no assassin’s dagger. The coils of nightmare fell away from him, and he realized that it had been no more than a dream . . . this time. He clutched the silken sheets and embroidered comforters, gasping for breath. Slowly his hands loosened; he wiped perspiration from his face as his eyes adjusted to the light. He was in his own bed, safe within the castle walls . . . and a frightened young acolyte stood in the hallway outside his open door.
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