Ladyhawke

by Joan D. Vinge

  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. “Daymare . . . 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 gue
sts; 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.

  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 rai
sed 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.