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
P hillipe 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 bird 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
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
P hillipe 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 bird 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
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