cubicle. He fingered the heavy lock thoughtfully, then slipped his dagger point into its keyhole and probed. In a matter of seconds the ancient mechanism clicked open.
Phillipe opened the door quietly and entered the room. And stopped, staring in disbelief.
There was no longer a hawk on Imperius’s cot. Instead, the fair woman who had haunted his nights lay there, covered with a fur robe, her arms spread in imitation of the hawk’s wings. The crossbow bolt protruded from her shoulder.
Her eyes flickered open at the sound of his footsteps. She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes filled with agony. She tried to raise herself up. “Navarre! . . . Where is he? Is he . . .”
“He’ll be fine, my lady!” Phillipe said hastily, holding up his hands. “There was a terrible battle with the Bishop’s guards. Navarre fought like a lion. The hawk was . . .” He broke off, as his leaping thoughts suddenly caught up with the truth. He shook his head. “But . . . you know that, don’t you?” he whispered.
The woman lay back. “Yes,” she murmured, after a long moment.
Phillipe moved timidly to stand beside the cot. He looked down at her, astonished again at the heartbreaking beauty of her face. “Are you flesh?” he asked slowly. “Or are you spirit?”
Her fever-bright eyes fell away from him, staring at nothing. “I . . . am sorrow.”
The door opened behind him. Imperius entered the room and stopped, aghast. “How did you . . . ?” He crossed the room, seizing Phillipe by the arm. “Get out, damn you! And stay out this time!” The monk shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.
Phillipe stood still in the hall for a moment, then suddenly leaned back against the door’s solid support, breathless and weak as the reaction to what he had just seen finally hit him. From inside the room he heard Imperius’s voice again, like a prayer: “Holy Father—after all that’s happened, You couldn’t possibly have brought her here to die.” Phillipe pushed himself away from the door and went hurriedly down the corridor, in desperate need of some fresh air.
He found his way out into the garden, stood studying the overgrown field and the makeshift outbuildings of the abbey yard in the bonfire’s flickering light. A mule and some goats drowsed in a pen; chickens muttered and pecked after grubs. On a scarred weather-gray tabletop he saw a curious assortment of apples and oranges arranged in rings, as if the monk had been playing some sort of game. He wandered down the hill to the table and sat on a bench, his fingers rapping on the wood, studying the fruit arrangements with half his mind . . . He supposed living alone in a ruin didn’t provide many interesting pastimes. He glanced up again at the looming skeleton of stone high on the hill above him; searched out the abbey’s single lighted room with restless eyes. A woman’s anguished moan carried faintly to his ears. Phillipe turned back to the table. He picked up an apple and bit into it nervously.
Imperius stood at the table in his room, mashing the herbs with a pestle, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Her own eyes were closed, and her arms shone with perspiration. She stirred and moaned again, drifting into a fevered dream. Imperius set down the pestle to lay a cool, wet cloth across her burning forehead. He returned to his work, held a candle beneath the mortar’s bowl to warm the poultice he had made. Somewhere in the night beyond the abbey walls a wolf howled mournfully; the woman’s body twitched beneath the coverings. Imperius glanced up, set the steaming poultice on the table. Turning back to the woman’s side, he packed the poultice around the wound as gently as he could. The woman opened her eyes, gazing up at him as he reached for the arrow with a reluctant hand.
In the garden, Phillipe took another bite from the apple, blinking tensely as he stared out into the darkness.
Imperius’s hand closed over the arrow and pulled
Phillipe opened the door quietly and entered the room. And stopped, staring in disbelief.
There was no longer a hawk on Imperius’s cot. Instead, the fair woman who had haunted his nights lay there, covered with a fur robe, her arms spread in imitation of the hawk’s wings. The crossbow bolt protruded from her shoulder.
Her eyes flickered open at the sound of his footsteps. She lifted her head to look at him, her eyes filled with agony. She tried to raise herself up. “Navarre! . . . Where is he? Is he . . .”
“He’ll be fine, my lady!” Phillipe said hastily, holding up his hands. “There was a terrible battle with the Bishop’s guards. Navarre fought like a lion. The hawk was . . .” He broke off, as his leaping thoughts suddenly caught up with the truth. He shook his head. “But . . . you know that, don’t you?” he whispered.
The woman lay back. “Yes,” she murmured, after a long moment.
Phillipe moved timidly to stand beside the cot. He looked down at her, astonished again at the heartbreaking beauty of her face. “Are you flesh?” he asked slowly. “Or are you spirit?”
Her fever-bright eyes fell away from him, staring at nothing. “I . . . am sorrow.”
The door opened behind him. Imperius entered the room and stopped, aghast. “How did you . . . ?” He crossed the room, seizing Phillipe by the arm. “Get out, damn you! And stay out this time!” The monk shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.
Phillipe stood still in the hall for a moment, then suddenly leaned back against the door’s solid support, breathless and weak as the reaction to what he had just seen finally hit him. From inside the room he heard Imperius’s voice again, like a prayer: “Holy Father—after all that’s happened, You couldn’t possibly have brought her here to die.” Phillipe pushed himself away from the door and went hurriedly down the corridor, in desperate need of some fresh air.
He found his way out into the garden, stood studying the overgrown field and the makeshift outbuildings of the abbey yard in the bonfire’s flickering light. A mule and some goats drowsed in a pen; chickens muttered and pecked after grubs. On a scarred weather-gray tabletop he saw a curious assortment of apples and oranges arranged in rings, as if the monk had been playing some sort of game. He wandered down the hill to the table and sat on a bench, his fingers rapping on the wood, studying the fruit arrangements with half his mind . . . He supposed living alone in a ruin didn’t provide many interesting pastimes. He glanced up again at the looming skeleton of stone high on the hill above him; searched out the abbey’s single lighted room with restless eyes. A woman’s anguished moan carried faintly to his ears. Phillipe turned back to the table. He picked up an apple and bit into it nervously.
Imperius stood at the table in his room, mashing the herbs with a pestle, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Her own eyes were closed, and her arms shone with perspiration. She stirred and moaned again, drifting into a fevered dream. Imperius set down the pestle to lay a cool, wet cloth across her burning forehead. He returned to his work, held a candle beneath the mortar’s bowl to warm the poultice he had made. Somewhere in the night beyond the abbey walls a wolf howled mournfully; the woman’s body twitched beneath the coverings. Imperius glanced up, set the steaming poultice on the table. Turning back to the woman’s side, he packed the poultice around the wound as gently as he could. The woman opened her eyes, gazing up at him as he reached for the arrow with a reluctant hand.
In the garden, Phillipe took another bite from the apple, blinking tensely as he stared out into the darkness.
Imperius’s hand closed over the arrow and pulled
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