Phillipe cleared his throat. “If . . . you don’t mind, sir, perhaps you could explain a certain loyalty which you seem to feel to me.” This time Navarre did not respond, or even look back. Phillipe went on, pressing for an answer that was suddenly important to him. “It’s just that you’ve saved my life twice and . . . I’m nobody!” Realizing how that sounded, he added, “Well, I’m somebody, of course . . .”
Navarre rode in silence for another long moment, thinking carefully. Thinking about the truth, and about why he needed this remarkable mass of contradictions who clung to the saddle behind him. Weighing what he had seen of Phillipe Gaston’s potential so far against the possibility of telling him that truth. The words rose up inside him—the sudden, terrible need to share his burden with someone . . . But not this one. Not yet. He forced himself to remember that the boy was only a common thief, a quick-tongued liar with no honor and probably no future. He had seen enough of those to know better than to trust one, even one with such spirit.
He closed his mouth and thought for another moment, remembering their first meeting. He smiled to himself, out of Phillipe’s view. “I began thinking about what you said to me that day on the bridge.”
“Aha,” Phillipe said, “I see.” There was a moment of silence. “What did I say?”
“That I would be needing a good man to watch my flank.”
He felt Phillipe straighten up behind him with sudden surprise and pride. “One does what one can,” Phillipe murmured, in a fair imitation of modesty. After another moment he asked, nonchalantly, “Did you happen to notice that wicked gash across Captain Marquet’s cheek?”
Navarre swiveled in his saddle, looking back in curiosity.
“He asked for it.”
Navarre’s eyes turned bleak, as he thought of how much more Marquet deserved. But seeing the boy’s expression, he only nodded gravely, one warrior acknowledging another. He looked ahead again, to hide the smile that suddenly eased the tight, bitter line of his mouth.
C H A P T E R
Six
Fornac stood in the road outside the tavern with a hand pressed to his bandaged, aching head, overseeing the bloody job of loading the dead bodies of his fellow guardsmen onto an oxcart. Marquet had ridden back to Aquila to report to the Bishop. Jehan had taken the handful of men who were still able to ride and gone in pursuit of Navarre and Gaston. Fornac had been left in command of the cripples and the dead, which he realized was more of a rebuke than a compliment.
He shouted at the driver as the last body was dropped into the cart. The driver cracked his whip, and the cart lumbered away on its long journey to Aquila. Watching it go, he noticed an unexpected figure coming in his direction. A fat, wheezing old man in the brown robes of a monk stopped to cross himself as the cart passed by. Then he continued along the muddy lane, precariously but resolutely. Fornac turned away and went in search of his horse, having come too close to needing last rites today for a conversation with a holy man.
The road was empty by the time Brother Imperius reached the spot where the guard had been standing. He stopped there, wiping his brow, gazing at the ruins of the tavern yard. For a moment guilt showed in his weary, bloodshot eyes. Shaking his head, he slipped his winesack from his shoulder and drank until it was empty. Then he started toward the tavern with the uncertain gait of a man who had drunk far too much already.
The innkeeper crouched in the courtyard, searching through the broken debris for anything salvageable. There was not much reward for his effort. He heard the sound of tankards clanking behind him and turned, shouting furiously, “Get away from that wine, you filthy bastards!” Too late he saw that the man who stood behind a charred table, pouring himself an enormous drink, was a monk. The innkeeper’s face reddened. “Sorry, Father,” he muttered.
The monk’s shocked expression faded. “God has already forgiven you, my son,” Imperius said kindly. He lifted the tankard and drained its contents before he said, “They tell me Etienne Navarre stopped by here not long ago.”
“You might say that,” the innkeeper answered sourly, thinking that word traveled fast.
“Did you happen to notice the direction he was headed in? It’s crucial I find him.”
“I’ll tell you what I noticed, Father,” the innkeeper said. “Swords, arrows, fire, and blood!” He flung a broken plate against the wall and watched it shatter.
Imperius nodded sadly and poured himself another drink. He downed the second tankard and wiped his mouth. “May God have mercy on you, and on those desperate enough to drink this wine.” He put the tankard down and staggered out of the yard toward the road. The innkeeper shook his head.
Farther up in the hills, and later in the day, an isolated farm in a weedy forest clearing also received unexpected visitors. The middle-aged couple who eked out an existence there looked up from their endless round of labors as two men on one enormous black horse rode slowly out of the trees.
The woman, sweeping a futile cloud of dust out the front door with a ragged broom, stopped and stared, wiping her brow with greasy hands. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the two men. The man in front, the one she could see clearly, looked dangerous . . . but he didn’t look poor. “Pitou! Pitou!” She ran across the yard, calling shrilly to her husband. Pitou studied the strangers from where he stood in the field beside the barn. His own eyes told him much the same story. The sickle he had been sharpening still hung in his grasp, and dark speculation filled his eyes. He ran a finger along the sickle’s razor-sharp curve until a tiny line of blood formed on its tip. He put the finger into his mouth and sucked it thoughtfully.
Phillipe glanced around the farmyard as Navarre reined in the black. The tumbledown barn, the filthy yard, the cottage with its peeling walls and rotting thatch—this was not the sort of place he had anticipated spending the night in. But any human habitation was hard to come by this far up into the hills—and he knew that Navarre was just as much a hunted man as he was now. From Navarre’s manner, and the weapons he carried, Phillipe suspected that he might have been a fugitive much longer. They had to take what they could get, for now. And besides, at this point he would gladly spend the night in hell itself just to get down off this horse.
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!” H
e 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.