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
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
Similar Books
