Ladyhawke (5 page)

C H A P T E R
Four

D
uring 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.

The patrons went on talking in desultory tones, not even glancing up as Phillipe moved past. No one showed the slightest interest in him, or even his borrowed clothes. At first he was only relieved; but as the moments passed, his ego began to prickle. Surely they couldn’t get that many strangers in this town. He might be small, but he wasn’t invisible. After all, he was Phillipe Gaston, who had escaped from the dungeons of Aquila and lived to tell about it.

Impulsively, he pulled out his heavy money purse and dropped it on a table in front of the barmaid. “A drink of your most expensive,” he said in a loud voice. “And the same for anyone who’ll join me in a toast!” This time the patrons did glance up at him in curiosity; but only for a moment, before they all turned back to their own conversations.

The barmaid returned, carrying a heavy earthenware mug. Phillipe looked critically at her as he took the drink from her hand. “Not much of a recommendation.” He jerked his head at the drink. She shrugged and walked away without answering. Phillipe began to wonder uncomfortably whether the whole town was under some kind of spell.

“Let’s hear your toast,” a voice said suddenly, behind him.

Phillipe turned. An enormous, surly-looking man wearing a heavy cloak stood up, moving toward him.

“We drink to a special man, my friend,” Phillipe said recklessly. “Someone who’s been inside the dungeons of Aquila and lived to tell the tale.” He raised his mug and took a long drink.

The stranger’s mouth quirked in an unpleasant smile. “Then you drink to me, little man. My name is Fornac, and I’ve seen those dungeons.”

Phillipe looked the other man’s thick-necked, heavily muscled body up and down, nonplussed, and grinned at what he assumed was a joke. “A blacksmith, perhaps. A woodsman, or even a stonecutter. But a prisoner from Aquila?”

“I didn’t say I was a prisoner.” Fornac reached up to his throat, unhooking his cloak. He threw it off. Beneath it he wore the blood-red uniform of the Bishop’s Guard.

Phillipe froze, as other men began to rise from the tables, removing their cloaks. The regular patrons sat numbly, their faces taut with fear. Their strange behavior suddenly made perfect sense to him, now that it was too late. More than a dozen guardsmen had surrounded him, silently drawing their swords. A small curse escaped him as he watched Jehan rise from a dice game near the fire with the Captain of the Guard at his side.

“If you’d stuck to the woods you might have stood a chance, Gaston,” Marquet said.

“You’re right,” Phillipe said miserably. He stared at the half-eaten meal on a nearby table with a kind of desperate longing, before he cleared his throat. “That is . . . actually I was trying to find you, Captain.” Marquet stared blankly at him; he rushed on, stumbling over the words. “One of your men was cruelly murdered not far from here. But you’re in luck. I’m willing to exchange the name of his killer for a pardon from you.” Phillipe realized, hopelessly, that this time it even sounded unbelievable to him.

Marquet glanced at Fornac. “Kill him,” he said.

Fornac lunged forward with his sword out. Phillipe threw his drink into the guard’s eyes and dove under the nearest table, slipping away through the villagers’ legs like quicksilver.

A group of guards rushed for the heavy table and turned it over, dumping food, plates, and pitchers heedlessly over the patrons and onto the ground. There was no one beneath it.

“There he is!” Fornac shouted. Phillipe darted out from behind a man sitting at the next table—straight into the waiting arms of another guard.

“Got him!”

Phillipe squirmed wildly until he freed an arm. Planting a well-aimed elbow in the guard’s face, he broke away and disappeared back under the tables.

The guards leaped after him, searching every corner, upending tables and hurling chairs aside in heedless anger, throwing the courtyard into pandemonium. Patrons screamed and ran; the guards forced them back as they tried to flee the yard. But Phillipe the Mouse seemed to have disappeared into thin air.

A sudden silence fell, as Marquet glared with deadly intent from one frightened face to another. Then the silence was broken by a shriek from the edge of the courtyard. Phillipe crawled out from behind the voluminous woolen skirts of an immensely fat and immensely indignant middle-aged woman.

“Purely unintentional, madam,” he gasped in apology. Looking frantically right and left, he faced the gauntlet of guards that waited between him and the gateway. This time there would be no escape. He was a dead man even if he surrendered. He pulled his dagger defiantly, unable to think of anything else to do, and leaped back into the crowd, struggling toward the entrance of the yard and freedom.

Watching Phillipe’s progress, Marquet pushed through the patrons on a course of interception, as inevitable as night following day. A guard caught Phillipe’s arm just as Marquet arrived behind him, wrenching him around. Phillipe’s free dagger hand swung in a wide arc through the air—raking Marquet’s cheek with the tip of the blade.

Marquet stopped dead in front of his prisoner, his face frozen in a mask of rage. Blood trickled down his jaw from the jagged scratch. His hand rose slowly, touched the blood, confirming the reality of the wound.

Phillipe sagged in the guard’s grasp, equally aghast as he realized what he had done, and what it was going to mean for him. “I’m . . . so terribly sorry . . .” The words tumbled mindlessly out of his mouth.

Marquet gestured to his men. Two of them jerked Phillipe back against a roof pole, pinning him there; a third raised his broadsword over their helpless prisoner. Marquet grinned, lifting his hand.

Phillipe turned his face away, his eyes squeezed shut.
“May God help me!”
he cried.

Out of nowhere, a crossbow bolt struck the guardsman in the arm; he dropped his sword with a shout of pain.

“Marquet!”

Marquet froze, as he recognized the voice that called his name. He turned slowly, and his men turned with him, to see the figure of Navarre standing like a deadly shadow at the courtyard entrance. His broadsword swung ready in his right hand, and a loaded crossbow rested in the crook of his left arm.

Marquet’s eyes widened as they confirmed what his ears had told him. Phillipe slid to the ground as the guardsmen let him go, too stunned even to move. The yard around him was deathly still.

“One of my men told me you were back,” Marquet snarled, his eyes never leaving Navarre. “I wanted to cut out his tongue for lying, because I knew you weren’t that stupid.” He glanced at Jehan. “Forgive me, Jehan. You are restored to your former rank.”

Navarre shifted slightly, gestured to Phillipe. “You. Get out of here.”

“Yes, sir,” Phillipe mumbled. “Thank you, sir . . .” Pulling himself together, he stumbled to his feet and ran out of the courtyard.

C H A P T E R
Five

N
avarre stood like an obsidian statue, blocking the courtyard entrance while the young thief ran past him into the street. Then he called out abruptly, “Marquet. Look at me.” Marquet’s eyes came back to him from watching the boy flee. They burned with deadly hatred—almost as deadly as his own hatred for Marquet. He gazed at the man who had stolen the life that was his by right, and helped to destroy everything that had ever had any meaning for him: Marquet, the sadistic, craven bully; the Bishop’s willing henchman. “I promised God my face would be the last thing you ever saw.”

But as he lifted his crossbow a guard rose from behind an overturned table, aiming his own weapon, and fired. Navarre caught the motion from the corner of his eye, turned and fired almost simultaneously. The guard’s arrow whizzed past him, inches from his face. His own bolt did not miss. The man crashed down behind the table with a cry.

Navarre spun back, searching for Marquet—and found himself face to face with another guard, a man he recognized. The guard raised his sword; lowered it again as their eyes met, his face filling with uncertainty and deep regret. “Captain,” he murmured to Navarre, “I . . .”

Marquet’s heavy boot slammed savagely into the guard’s back, shoving him forward, impaling him on his former commander’s sword. Marquet leaped aside, roaring at his men to attack. To a man they obeyed.

Navarre fought with the furious intensity of someone obsessed, as if this fight were all that he had been living for. But even with his almost inhuman reflexes, he was only one man, armed with one sword, against more than a dozen. The guards pressed him hard on every side, cutting off any retreat, driving him back through the mass of fleeing patrons toward the fire. He ran another man through—not one that he knew, this time. Sparks flew from the clash of steel on steel; his sword arm ached from the shock of a hundred blows. But his skill never faltered. He gave ground slowly, and one by one there were fewer attackers to surround him.

But Marquet was a man equally obsessed. His nemesis had returned, and set free the prisoner whose life was worth more to the Bishop than his own. Navarre had come back, to reclaim all that was rightfully his; and Marquet’s hatred doubled with his secret fear. He elbowed his way through the panic-stricken crowd, as Navarre was forced back to the very edge of the firepit, barely clear of the flames.

Navarre looked up to see Marquet advancing, murder in his eyes. Navarre killed another man almost instinctively, shoved him at Marquet as he pulled his sword free. Continuing the arc of his motion, he swung his sword at Marquet’s head. His sword glanced along the captain’s helmet, slicing off the golden eagle wings, the insignia of his rank. Marquet’s face contorted with fury as he realized that Navarre had done it intentionally.

Navarre smiled grimly. Reaching behind him, he jerked a blazing branch from the firepit and drove it at Marquet’s face. Marquet leaped aside, lost his balance, and tumbled into the fire. Guards rushed to his aid, dragging him from the pit and beating out the flames on his cloak. Navarre seized his chance in the confusion and began to fight his way back toward the exit.

Outside in the street, Phillipe pushed himself away from the wall of the nearest building and forced his leaden feet to move, stumbling with shock and exhaustion. He looked back at the tavern, still hardly able to believe what had just happened, or that there were still no guards in sight. Turning the corner blindly, he blundered into the tethered horses the guardsmen had hidden in the stableyard beside the tavern. He jerked to a stop, keeping his feet by an effort of will; he was struck with the sudden inspiration that one of these horses would probably improve his now shaky escape chances by one hundred percent.