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
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
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