Ladyhawke (7 page)

Navarre made no comment, but Phillipe watched dubiously as their potential hosts for the night came forward to meet them. He had seen too many people like these—old before their time, embittered by hardship. The man’s scrawny body was twisted from years of backbreaking labor on a starvation diet; the fat, blowsy woman in the grimy apron stared at him with eyes that were dull and dead, her heavy face a map of suffering. He had met far too many people like these . . . and too many people who had tried to make one of them out of him. He pulled his ill-fitting stolen tunic back onto his shoulders self-consciously.

Navarre swung down out of the saddle. Phillipe slid down after him, barely keeping his feet as he landed. His body ached in so many places by now that the pains almost seemed to cancel each other out.

“Good day,” Navarre said courteously. “I wish to impose on you for shelter tonight. For myself and”—he glanced at Phillipe—“my comrade-in-arms.” Phillipe beamed and straightened his shoulders.

The man looked Navarre up and down cautiously, as if trying to decide how dangerous he was, or how much he might eat. “We have no food to share,” he said. “But there’s straw in the barn—for a price.” His eyes never even touched Phillipe.

Stung, Phillipe pulled out his stolen money purse, jingling the coins patronizingly. “Bravely said, my dear fellow. But don’t be frightened. We’re not above compassion for those in misery—” He broke off. The gesture had not had the effect on the Pitous that he had intended. Instead of acknowledging that he was one with Navarre, and not with them, they merely stared as if mesmerized at the money pouch.

Navarre glanced sharply at him. He stepped between Phillipe and the Pitous, cutting off their view. “Your dinner will be payment for our lodgings,” he said. “Tonight you stuff yourself on rabbit!” He turned, signaling the hawk with an upraised arm. “Hoy!” The hawk exploded from the saddle, soaring up into the late-afternoon sunlight.

Within the hour they had not one, but two freshly killed rabbits for their dinner feast. Phillipe gathered wood and built a fire in the yard, at Navarre’s orders, while the older man skinned the rabbits and spitted them on sticks. Navarre seemed uneasy about entering the Pitous’ house, preferring to eat his meal out of doors. Phillipe was completely in agreement, all too familiar with the vermin and the stench they would probably find inside.

The Pitous joined them as the smell of roast rabbit filled the air. Phillipe had barely been able to control himself until the rabbits had finished cooking; the scent of freshly roasted meat made him dizzy with hunger. But the Pitous elbowed him aside, getting to the meat first; they ate ravenously and loudly, like wild animals. Watching them, he had forced himself to swallow his own meal with at least a semblance of calm and indifference. It was easier than he expected; his empty stomach had shrunken to the point where it held far less than he remembered.

Navarre ate desultorily, though he had not eaten at all during the afternoon, even after his battle at the tavern. The hawk sat perched on the peak of the barn above him. She screeched once, flaring her wings restlessly, and looked away toward the setting sun. Navarre raised his head at her cry, looked off toward the horizon as if he were following her gaze. He tossed a bone into the fire and rose slowly to his feet.

Phillipe glanced up at him. As he looked up, Pitou’s bony hand snatched a half-eaten piece of meat from his plate. Phillipe looked back as the motion caught his eye. He shrugged with casual arrogance. “We eat like this every night.” The knowledge that he would eat like this every night from now on made the lie more convincing.

He looked back at Navarre, who was still standing. Navarre’s face, ruddy with sunset and fireglow, was the stark face of a man awaiting execution. A profound sadness welled behind his eyes. He walked silently past the fire and away, his tall, dark figure silhouetted against the bloody rays of the sun.

Phillipe stared after Navarre with curiosity that was half concern. Watching Navarre, he missed the speculative glance that Pitou gave to his own puzzled face. Pitou looked away at Navarre, and then at his wife, with a barely perceptible nod; her face tensed.

Navarre strode out past the ramshackle barn to where the black stallion grazed patiently among the weeds. He began to rummage in his saddlebags, heedless of the others or what they might think. His hands found the fluid softness of cloth and the cold curve of burnished metal with the ease of long familiarity. He drew out a woman’s gown of periwinkle-blue silk, and the golden-winged helmet he had worn once in his rightful place as the Captain of the Guard. He stared at them for a long moment, lost in memory, before he looked up again at the setting sun. “One day . . .” He repeated the vow that he had made to himself—and to her—before so many sunsets, that gave him the strength to face the night ahead.

Phillipe rose from his place at the fire, abandoning the rabbit remains to the Pitous, and followed Navarre quietly across the yard. He got to within an arm’s length of Navarre’s back; the other man did not even hear him. Phillipe halted uncertainly, peering past Navarre’s shoulder. He blinked in surprise as he saw a woman’s fine silk dress neatly packed among the supplies. Navarre’s hands pushed past it, searching for something hidden deeper in the bag. He pulled out a worn piece of parchment and unfolded it carefully. The writing had grown so faint that Phillipe could make out nothing but a single capital letter I. Navarre’s hands trembled.

“Sir?” Phillipe whispered.

Navarre spun around with the speed of a striking snake. Phillipe saw tears shining in his eyes, in the split second before those eyes filled with furious rage.

Phillipe fell back a step, his heart constricting with the same terror he had known when he first saw Navarre. He opened his mouth, but for a moment nothing at all would come out. “If . . . there’s nothing else I can do,” he managed, “I think I’ll turn in.”

Slowly Navarre’s face changed. The storm passed through his eyes, and was gone as suddenly as it had come. He ran a hand through his close-cropped, sandy hair. “There’s a stall in the barn,” he said brusquely. “Before you gather more firewood, see to my horse.”

Phillipe swallowed a hard lump of unexpected irritation, nodded as agreeably as he could. He reached out for the black’s reins with an uncertain hand, trying his best to imagine an ancient, docile cart horse. “C’mon, old girl, let’s . . .”

The horse reared with an angry snort and shied violently away, jerking the reins from his hand. It fixed Phillipe with a furious stare, for all the world as though he had insulted it.

Phillipe smiled nervously. “Spirited little lady, isn’t she? Ah . . . what’s her name?” he asked, hoping that if he could get on more personal terms with the creature things would go better.

“His name is Goliath,” Navarre said.

Phillipe flushed. “Pretty name,” he said, refusing to back down.

Navarre took the stallion’s reins and handed them to Phillipe. “Go with him,” he told the horse.

Phillipe was almost disappointed when the horse did not nod. He led the stallion away gingerly, talking all the while in what he hoped was a forthright manner. “Listen, Goliath. Before we get to know each other better, I feel I should tell you a story about this tiny fellow called David . . .”

Navarre watched Phillipe and the stallion disappear into the creaking barn. A grin pulled his reluctant mouth up. Somehow the boy kept slipping past his guard, making him smile in spite of himself. He turned away, saw a patch of sunflowers still blooming among the weeds outside the barn door. He crossed slowly to them, looked down at their bright orange faces washed by the glow of sunset. He studied them wistfully, leaned down to pluck the largest one. He twirled it gently between his fingers, gazing out into the dusk, his thoughts far away from his present place and time.

The Pitous watched him from their place by the fire, glanced at each other with a knowing smile. Pitou slashed another piece of meat from the rabbit with a savage motion, and they went on eating noisily.

By the time Phillipe had finished his clumsy attempts at bedding down Goliath, darkness had completely fallen. Navarre was nowhere in sight, and even the Pitous had disappeared into their hovel for the night. Phillipe looked back at the barn with longing; the musty hay inside suddenly seemed softer than a down-filled mattress. Everyone on earth must be asleep now, except him . . .

Navarre was not asleep, however; and Phillipe had the feeling that even if he were here to plead with, it wouldn’t make any difference. The man was completely pitiless, with no compassion at all for the ordeal he had been through these past few days. Phillipe rubbed his burning eyes and trudged wearily into the forest at the edge of the clearing. He began to collect dead branches and brush, grateful that at least he had bright moonlight to work by.

After what seemed like an eternity, he started back through the trees toward the farm with an awkward armload of branches. The wood caught in his clothing and on every imaginable obstacle, and every time he bent down to pick up a branch that he had dropped, two more fell out of his arms. He staggered on toward the barn, muttering angrily. “ ‘Comrade in arms.’ ‘Slave’ is more like it.” He deepened his voice in a mocking imitation of Navarre, “ ‘See to the fire, feed the animals, gather the wood . . .’ ” Navarre was no better than the rest. He looked up imploringly. “Look at me, Lord. I was better off in the dungeons of Aquila. My cellmate was insane and a murderer, but at least he
respected me!”

He broke off, suddenly remembering that he didn’t know where Navarre was. Navarre might even be watching him now, as he had apparently watched him for the last two days. Phillipe glanced back over his shoulder uneasily. “He’s a strange one, Navarre,” he muttered, more to himself than to God. He was no longer certain that Navarre was quite sane. “And he wants something from me. I can see it behind his eyes.” Now that he had the time to think about it, he was sure that Navarre had not told him the real truth. He had been a fool to believe even for a moment that someone like Navarre actually considered him a fellow warrior. He was nothing to Navarre but a thing to be used.

He stopped moving all at once, clenching his teeth, as the unbearable tension of the past week suddenly overwhelmed him. He threw down the wood in angry refusal. “Whatever it is, I’m not going to do it!” he said loudly. “And besides, being in the service of a moving target is not my idea of steady employment!” Nothing answered him but the wind. “I’m still a young man, you know!” he shouted back toward the barn. “I’ve got
prospects!”

A twig snapped loudly somewhere in the darkness nearby. Phillipe froze, listening. He heard more rustling in the bushes, suddenly chilled by the thought that something—or someone—actually was watching him. “Hello?” he called, wanting and not wanting to hear an answer.

Silence. Another tiny
snap
. Silence again. Phillipe’s eyes narrowed as he looked around him, seeing nothing but impenetrable darkness between the trees. He cursed himself for not bringing his dagger, or even a light. All he had to defend himself with was his wits. “Who do you think’s out there?” he said loudly. “Pierre, you’d better draw your sword! Ah, Louis, you brought your crossbow! We’ll
all
go back to the barn now.”

He answered himself in muffled voices, “Right! . . . Yes . . . Okay.” He turned, listening; heard the sounds behind him in the woods more clearly now as they moved his way like measured steps. Whatever or whoever was stalking him was not impressed. The back of his neck prickled. He backed up a few steps, turned around again, and began to walk quickly in the direction of the barn. The presence followed him, matching his pace. Struggling to stay calm, he began to jog. Whatever was behind him picked up speed, keeping perfect time.

Phillipe panicked and ran. He bolted blindly through the trees, swatted by branches and scratched by thorns. His pursuer crashed through the brush after him. At last he burst out of the woods into the clearing, pulled himself up short with a gasp of relief. He turned, looking back—

Moonlight gleamed on the razor-sharp blade of the sickle in Pitou’s hand. The farmer’s eyes shone maniacally as he brought it down in an arc toward Phillipe’s head. Phillipe threw up his hands, crying out.

A ghastly snarl filled his ears as something huge and black sprang past him. Phillipe gaped in disbelief as an enormous wolf struck Pitou down, its fangs tearing at the farmer’s throat. He stood for an endless moment staring, as Pitou struggled futilely in the vise of its jaws. Then he turned and ran to the barn. “Sir! . . . Come quickly, sir! . . . Wolf! . . . Wolf!” He crashed through the entrance, flinging the barn doors wide. “Sir! You must come!” Navarre was nowhere in sight. Phillipe slid to a stop, spun around desperately. Navarre’s longbow rested against the barn wall in a shaft of moonlight. Phillipe grabbed it up, snatched an arrow from the quiver, and ran to a wide crack between boards. He peered through, sweat trickling into his eyes. Outside the screaming had stopped, but the snarls continued as the wolf crouched over Pitou’s body, finishing its grisly work. Phillipe wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and nocked the arrow in the bowstring. Taking aim at the wolf, he tried to draw the bow. His arms strained until they shook; the heavy arch of wood barely gave. He relaxed his grip, panting; realizing, exasperated, that the bow belonged to a man twice as strong as he was. He raised the bow again, throwing all the strength of his panic against the unyielding wood. Slowly, the bow began to arch.

A hand draped in black reached past him and flicked the arrow from the bowstring.

Phillipe spun around. “But sir! There’s a . . .” He broke off, struck dumb by the sight before him.

Navarre’s black-and-crimson cloak shrouded the ethereal figure of a slender young woman. Beneath the folds of its hood her skin was as white as alabaster in the moonlight, her hair shone like silver; her luminous green eyes studied him with a strange fascination, as if she had not looked on another human face in a long time. He stared back at her, because he had never in his life seen a face as beautiful as hers. The beauty was not so much in the perfection of her features, he thought, as it was in the radiant spirit that shone in her eyes. In her hand she held the golden blossom of a sunflower, twirling it between her long, delicate fingers as she smiled back at him in gentle bemusement. “I know,” she said, and for a moment Phillipe couldn’t even remember what it was she knew.