Ladyhawke

THE SPELL OF VENGEANCE

had been cast upon Etienne Navarre, Captain of the Guard, and the beautiful Lady Isabeau by the evil Bishop of Aquila. Etienne and Isabeau must wander the wilderness, always together yet always apart—she a hawk by day and restored to herself only with the setting of each day’s sun; he a wolf by night, transformed once more into human form at break of each day’s dawn. This eternal spell is their punishment for daring to love after the evil Bishop had already chosen Isabeau for his own.

Then, suddenly, Etienne receives an unexpected sign of hope in the person of Phillipe, a young and cunning thief . . . and Navarre knows he must seize this fearful opportunity to free them from the Bishop’s diabolical spell—or bring them death . . .

Warner Bros, and Twentieth Century Fox present

M
ATTHEW
B
RODERICK

R
UTGER
H
AUER
•
M
ICHELLE
P
FEIFFER

A
L
AUREN
S
HULER
PRODUCTION

A
R
ICHARD
D
ONNER
FILM

“LADYHAWKE”

L
EO
M
CKERN
•
J
OHN
W
OOD
•
K
EN
H
UTCHISON

Story by
E
DWARD
K
HMARA

Screenplay by
E
DWARD
K
HMARA
and
M
ICHAEL
T
HOMAS
and
T
OM
M
ANKIEWICZ

Music Composed and Conducted by
A
NDREW
P
OWELL

Photography by
V
ITTORIO
S
TORARO

Consultant
T
OM
M
ANKIEWICZ

Executive Producer
H
ARVEY
B
ERNHARD

Produced by
R
ICHARD
D
ONNER
and
L
AUREN
S
HULER

Directed By
R
ICHARD
D
ONNER

CHAMPION OF THIEVES . . .

Phillipe sat back on his knees, gaping at this unexpected rescuer, with his fierce, golden-eyed hawk and his magnificent black war-horse. He held a gleaming broadsword in his free hand, and the cold blue eyes that shone in his shadowed face were as distant and threatening as the land of Death. Phillipe tore his gaze away from the silent figure and looked back over his shoulder at the guardsmen who’d been pursuing him.

The two men sat on their horses, momentarily frozen with awe. At last one roused himself and said, “Clear the bridge. The man’s an escaped prisoner. We’re taking him in.”

“On whose authority?” the stranger asked at last.

“His Grace, the Bishop of Aquila.”

Only Phillipe saw the fleeting, involuntary twitch of the stranger’s mouth that might have been a smile. Then the war-horse lunged forward, the hawk rose shrieking into the air . . .

Copyright © 1985 by Warner Bros. Inc.

All rights reserved

Photographs © 1985 Warner Bros. & Twentieth Century Fox.

All Rights Reserved.

S
IGNET
, S
IGNET
C
LASSIC
, M
ENTOR
, P
LUME
, M
ERIDIAN
and NAL B
OOKS
are published by New American Library,
1633 Broadway, New York, New York 10019

First Printing, March, 1985

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For “Billy and Duff”

C H A P T E R
One

A
t sunrise the rider in black was waiting on the hilltop far above the city, as he had waited there the dawn before, and the dawn before that. He shifted in his saddle, cold and weary, watching the sky brighten and the gray morning fog lift from the valley below.

As the mists parted, he saw the crenellated towers of Aquila Castle break into view, fleetingly golden, like a glimpse of heaven. For a moment the sight made him ache with longing. Only for a moment. He smiled mirthlessly at his own inability to stop believing this vigil would someday have an end, or show him an answer.

Below him now the rest of the ancient city emerged from the fog. Aquila had been a thriving town since Roman times—it still bore the old Roman name, which meant “Eagle.” But the Middle Ages had confined its cramped houses and twisting, narrow streets inside grim walls of stone, surrounded them with a moat of black, sluggish water fed by an underground river.

The fields outside the city gates were nearly as bleak. Autumn had come early this year, after a blistering summer with almost no rain. The year before had been no better. By now the fields had been harvested of whatever poor, drought-stunted crops had survived. This year’s harvest would scarcely have fed the already-hungry people of Aquila through the winter, even if their Bishop had not raised taxes again, to keep his own storehouses and coffers full. The specter of famine haunted the dreary streets of the city. But while the Church Militant ruled, the people paid, and starved.

Only the cathedral, lying at the city’s heart, still kept its ethereal beauty in the full light of day. High windows of colored glass and countless silken pennants turned its saint-lined walls and vaulted ceilings into a vision of paradise—the closest most of the worshipers gathered there for Mass would ever get to heaven on earth. The Bishop promised them their reward in the next world, while he enjoyed his now.

The gaunt, candlelit faces of the citizens of Aquila gazed impassively toward the altar, resigned to their prayers. Organ music filled the vast space above them and overflowed into the streets, reaching even the watcher on the hill.

The Bishop of Aquila stood before the ornate altar, a severely resplendent figure in his white brocaded robes. He chanted the Credo of the Mass in a high-pitched, toneless singsong that was more a warning than a promise of redemption. The worshipers mouthed the obligatory Latin responses, meaningless words they had memorized by rote. If any of them had dared to look directly at him, they would have gazed uneasily on the contrast between the richness of his clothing and the unhealthy pallor of his angular features. He was a tall man, well into middle age, with a face that showed the signs of years of self-indulgent living, and glittering eyes as pale and unforgiving as ice.

He turned toward the two altar boys who stood waiting beside him; they held out a jewel-encrusted golden chalice for his blessing. He had told his congregation that this was the Holy Grail, and in his mind it was beautiful enough that it should have been. He had paid enough for it that it should have been. He was a man with a highly refined appreciation of beauty.

He held out his beringed hand to the two boys, glancing down at the ring as he did. It was solid gold, so large and heavy that it fit only on his thumb. Its plain, massive setting held a perfect emerald the size of an olive. The ring alone had cost him a small fortune, drawn, of course, from the wealth he had squeezed from the faithful in the name of God. But God’s needs were neither as worldly nor as expensive as his own.

As the boys kissed the ring and backed away, a dull crack, like the echo of a shot, rang through the cathedral. The Bishop glanced toward an unshuttered window. The dangling legs of three bodies swung silently from a gallows, just outside Aquila Castle across the city square. Organ music swelled around him again, and he turned back unconcernedly to the Mass.

Meanwhile, out in the square, a small crowd of Aquila’s less devout citizens had gathered. They goggled up at the limp, hanging bodies of three thieves who had abruptly made their own peace with God. The four guardsmen who were in charge of bringing out more prisoners for execution stood warily among them, waiting for further orders from their captain. Their crimson-and-black uniforms stood out in bloody contrast to the drab, patched clothing of the crowd.

Marquet, the Captain of the Guard, was a brutal man with a dark beard and eyes as hard as his disposition. His blunt, heavily muscled body looked as if it had been born to commit mayhem and violence. Marquet had been their leader for two years, since their former captain had been charged with treason by the Bishop and outlawed, for reasons none of them clearly understood. Their old captain had been a man they respected and admired, and they had served him well. Marquet was neither—but he was feared, and so they obeyed him equally well. But as their lives and the lives of everyone in Aquila grew harsher under Marquet’s heel, the guardsmen muttered blackly that someday their former captain would return and claim his revenge. Marquet heard the whispers; and, fearing the same thing, only grew uglier-tempered.