Faerie (34 page)

“This time she demanded her payment, a husband for Lady Leonie. She chose you.”

“Why me?”

Rufus shrugged. “Who can tell? But her choice was the right one. I knew it in that very moment. But Philippe, the lady must be in grave danger. You must find her.”

“But how, Sire, if she can pass through walls? How can anyone do such things, save by magic?”

“I said there are other beings. Do you not imagine a dog must think people strange because they walk on only two legs? These strange folk do things we cannot. ’Tis not magic so much as what comes to them naturally.”

Philippe shook his head. “But then how can I find her?”

Rufus’s eyes began to gleam. “You must, Philippe. I know you can do it. You have a sense for tracking. If you fail, this kingdom could fall.”

Was it so dire? He knew it was dire for Leonie.

But he knew as well that somehow his long-held secret was also a part of this entire mystery. If he told, it would be the end of him. Haps it would take that to save Leonie’s life.

Whatever it cost him, he would do.

“Sire,” he said, and lowered himself to one knee, “there is something you must be told.”

“Tell, then.”

“First, I beg you, when I have done, give me leave to find Leonie and bring her back to your safety. After that, I care not what you do to me.”

“Do to you, Philippe?” Rufus placed his beefy arms like wings, fists on his hips. “What nonsense is this?”

“A secret, long held, that I know I must confess. I have seen the hag. She has told me the secret stands in the way of Leonie’s life, and perhaps your kingdom. So I must say it.”

“Up off your knees, then, and tell it like a man.”

Reluctantly, Philippe rose to his full height, dwarfing the king. He drew in a deep breath. “It began with Joceline’s death. The sorcerer Clodomir had imprisoned her in his tower. I went after him and killed him, but not in time to save Joceline.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I also know you believe he is not dead, and that may be so. You have no need to worry over this, Philippe.”

“But I do, Sire. I am the only living witness to the truth. Clodomir used Joceline to force me to betray the Conqueror. For that, the sorcerer would trade Joceline’s life.”

“You didn’t!” The color in Rufus’s face darkened and matched the fury in his eyes.

“I could not let her die, Sire. My intent was to find a way to overpower him. Still, I did kneel, knowing I would likely fail. But to save me, when he was distracted, Joceline broke free and jumped from the window and died in the flames Clodomir shot to her body.”

“You bloody traitor! You set your wife above my father? Your king?” Rufus screamed, his body shaking with rage. “By God’s holy face! You would sell his life to a sorcerer! And then come into my court, where I made you my friend!”

“I did. For that I dare not even ask your forgiveness, though I hold you in my highest esteem.”

“And of what value is such esteem if it will not even restrain you from treachery? By the Virgin’s holy veil, I trusted you! This is how you repay me?”

“Sire, it was my wish to give you my complete loyalty, in penance. Yet I say to you now, before you mete out your punishment, I beg you to give me leave to bring back Leonie and give her over to your care. She must not stay with me, for Clodomir threw his dying curse on me, that any woman I love will die at my own hand. I beg you to take her, and do what you will with me.”

“You dare make demands of me? You betrayed my father for the woman you loved. How do I know you won’t betray me? Speak!”

“I will not give your life up for Leonie. But I will not give her life up for you.”

“And so you would. You love her. Admit it. If you were forced to it, which of us would you save?”

Philippe’s jaw locked tightly, unable to say the words. For Leonie’s sake, he prayed.

“That is the greatest treason of all, Philippe le Peregrine, that a man should choose his wife, or anyone, over his liege lord. And you stand here unable to say you would not.”

“Only allow me one last quest,
Beau Sire
, to find her and bring her to you. Then do with me what you will.”

“And you think you can find her?”

“She will go to de Mowbray, for there is no one else she can trust. I will bring her back alive and well. I vow on my life, Sire. “

“It will be, Peregrine. It will be.”

He had only that strange sense to direct him, and the thought that she would try to find de Mowbray. Through the night he had followed the whim. In the darkness, the air had grown chilly, a sign of coming winter. He knew she had her cloak, but that
would not have kept her very warm. She had her bow, too. That gave him some comfort.

“Close your eyes and open your mind. See what is in your heart.”

What had the old woman meant? He had closed off his heart for so many years he hardly knew he had one.

With a heavy sigh, he dismounted at a rapidly rushing river and let his horse drink while he scooped up water for himself. He stood to survey the area, looking for signs. She could not have easily crossed the river, which had narrowed and was mercilessly swift and jagged with boulders. But it flowed east toward the sea, in the direction of Alnwick. He let his mind wander for a while, drifting away from his concentration on the search back to the strange things Rufus had told him.

What was she, then? Did Rufus mean there was a race of men apart from common folk? Or were they not human at all? Could they be demons, and Rufus was wrong about their intent? For a truth, he knew demons existed. And he knew for himself of evil sorcerers.

But he also knew in his heart Leonie was not evil.

Where are you, Leonie? Do not hide from me.

He hungered for her. But he could get no real sense of her. It was as if the sense, or essence, that had been leading him had become blocked. As if she blocked it. He could not blame her. He was the one who had chased her into danger. He barely cared about Rufus’s great fear for the kingdom, and even less for his own life, if only he might find her and bring her back safely.

The one thing that was sure was what Rufus would do. Rufus was not a man for torture—most of the time. Likely the ending would be swift.

And so he waited. Waited for the sense. He sat, leaning against the rough bark of a pine, his eyes closed, waiting. His bones ached with weariness, for he had slept very little for weeks.
But no matter how much his body begged for sleep, he could not let it. His mind would not let it.

Leonie, where are you?
his heart begged.

“Help! Someone help me!”

Philippe jerked out of his reverie and jumped to his feet, homing in on the sound. Nay—not a sound. It was the sense again, but so strong in his head he thought he’d heard it. With a sharp whistle, he called Tonerre while he tossed aside the last crust of his bread. He launched himself into the saddle and spurred the horse to action.

East. Downstream, into the thick of the forest. But there was no path, and the undergrowth quickly became too dense for the horse. He dismounted and left Tonerre, drawing his sword to slash at the brush in his way. He could hear the sounds of a skirmish now, as he forced himself over shrubs and rough ground, around thick trees, up the steep sides of the river’s valley.

At the top of the ravine, trees and undergrowth gave way to broad, undulating ground dotted with scrubby heather and gorse. A shrill scream cut through the air, sending fear slashing into his spine. It was that inhuman sound he’d heard in the forest near Brodin. His heart racing, he sped across the rocky ground toward the clashing and shouting.

Leonie’s voice carried over the others, harsh and fierce, and he ran even faster down the far slope. Beyond a stand of alders, he saw thrashing movement. On he ran, his thoughts shouting in his head.

“Hang on, Leonie! I’m coming!”

“Find my bow!”

“Where?”

“The big beech tree. On the hill!”

He spotted the tree ahead of him, to the right. He scrambled over the rocks, jumped a narrow streamlet, and climbed to where the lone beech stood. The ivorywood bow lay on the ground, still
strung. The quiver dangled upside down on a low, scrubby bush, the arrows tossed and scattered. He grabbed what he could as he ran, his eyes focused on the brutal sounds coming from beyond the stand of alders.

“Shoot!”

“Shoot where?”

“At me.”

“Where? I can’t see you.”

“Shoot!”

“I might hit you!”

“Do as I say!”

God and the saints help him. His own words. Philippe gulped down fear for her and let that unknown sense guide him. He aimed the bow upward, aimed at what he did not know beyond the top of the hill, and loosed it to fly to where he could only pray was not her heart.

Was this the way she would die at his hand? He kept running and topped the rise.

Something—it was not human—dropped Leonie from its grasp and toppled to the ground as the arrow struck. For a brief instant, it lay on the ground, then crumbled to dust. Tall, skeleton-like creatures, more bone than flesh, their garments like faded flags tattered in a storm. Were they the creatures de Mowbray had called bone demons? One of the hideous things lunged for her as she bent to grasp the sword of the one that had fallen. She slashed behind her, turning in the action to catch the creature across the bare bones it used for legs.

He caught the flash of her eyes as she spotted him, but she fought like a battle-hardened knight, swinging a huge sword far too heavy for such a slight maiden.

“Shoot!”

“Duck!”

“Aim at me! Do as I say!”

He uttered prayers to every saint he knew as he shot the arrow to the sky, then immediately started running again.

His heart trembled as the arrow flew toward her. Then it veered away and curved back again, then thunked into the bony skull of one of the things just as it snatched her around the chest from behind.

He stopped. Wishing he had taken the time to learn her trick of shooting many arrows quickly, he launched one after another into the air toward the monsters. It seemed not to matter where he aimed, for each one found its enemy in either chest or head. The last arrow gone, he drew his sword and ran again, his battle cry of fury scorching the air.

Leonie broke free of the fiends and ran toward him. He pointed toward the ravine behind him. She sped past him, snatching her bow and thrusting it over her arm onto her shoulder. As she ran, she lifted her open hand in the air, and the arrows and quiver came to her. He raced behind her, keeping an eye on the regathering creatures behind them. He estimated they had killed nearly a dozen of the things, but at least that many followed them now.

She was breathing hard but didn’t slow as she followed the trail he had blazed through the underbrush. So did the things coming up behind them.

“That’s what attacked me in Brodin wood,” she gasped out over her shoulder to him.

“You’ve remembered?”

“I think—everything. They must be the gholins.” She paused at the precipice, searching for the path down.

“Over there,” he said, pointing to the way he had come up. “My horse should be down there.”

“Not anymore. They have him.”

They came to a halt at the edge of a rocky bluff above the raging river. Below and upstream near the narrow bank, the
bony creatures surrounded his magnificent steed as it reared and bucked against them. More of the fiends descended the hill behind them. Philippe blew an earsplitting whistle. Tonerre reared, screaming, bucking viciously and trampling any creature unlucky enough to be too close. He broke loose and ran. But in the wrong direction.

“Well, at least they won’t get him,” Leonie said, still gasping for breath.

“Can you swim?” he asked. The cliff wasn’t all that high, and the water looked to be deep and clear of dangerous rocks.

“Admirably. But are you daft? You’re wearing mail.”

“Trust me. I’ve done it.”

She frowned suspiciously but looked back at the advancing horde. “It can’t be done.”

“If I say I’ve done it, then I’ve done it,” he shouted. “Jump!”

With a hearty yell, Leonie flung herself over the cliff. Philippe sheathed his sword and followed.

He hit the icy water immediately after her. The weight of his mail carried him deep into the darkest water, to touch bottom before he could begin to fight toward the surface. The current pulled him down, away, everything but up. He forced all his strength into his arms to pull against the weighty iron as he struggled toward the light above.

Something touched him. A hand. She was pulling on him. She must have dived back under for him. Fiercely he stroked against the raging water. His lungs felt like they were going to burst. The cool blue light appeared above. He fought his way up and broke the surface. The weight of the mail pulled him downward while his arms pushed to keep his head above the rush of water.

She popped up into the air beside him. “I thought you said you could swim with it.”

He coughed and sucked in the precious air. “I can. It’s going in that’s hard.”