Ladyhawke Read Online Free PDF Page A

above, two horsemen in the unmistakable crimson uniforms of the Bishop’s Guard were riding down the hill toward the river’s edge. He took a deep breath and leaped into the water.
    Jehan and a second guardsman rode down to the river through the tall, ripened grasses. Jehan beat at the reeds by the waterside with the flat of his sword; he searched the surrounding countryside with weary eyes and rising frustration. “I could swear I saw somebody—!” He sat back, dropping his reins, and sheathed his sword.
    The second guardsman shifted restlessly in his saddle, without finding a soft spot. “How much longer, sir?” His horse moved forward and began to graze beside Jehan’s, yanking up tufts of tender young rushes at the water’s edge.
    “Until Captain Marquet has been satisfied—that the Bishop has been satisfied,” Jehan said truculently.
    Their barely intelligible voices carried dimly to Phillipe, lying on his back beneath the water’s surface among the rushes. He breathed shallowly through the hollow stalk of a reed, watching foam from the mouths of the grazing horses drift lazily downward toward his face. Why me, Lord? he thought.
    And then the reed was jerked abruptly from between his teeth. A horse had torn it free, along with a mouthful of rushes. Suddenly breathless, Phillipe barely stopped the gasp of shock that would have drowned him. He clutched frantically at the rushes, holding himself down against his frenzied need to leap up and fill his lungs with air.
    “Marquet’s life hangs in the balance,” Jehan droned somewhere up above, “and he knows it.”
    Leave! Leave! Phillipe’s mind screamed. Any minute his lungs would burst . . . any second—
    Jehan’s horse plunged its nose into the water again, rooting among the weeds. All at once a violent spout of spray exploded into its face. The horse lunged backward with a snort of panic, nearly throwing Jehan into the river. Jehan pulled leather frantically, saving himself from a fall. Getting his mount under control, he turned back to the water’s edge.
    Before his astonished eyes there suddenly stood the equally astonished figure of Phillipe Gaston. Jehan stared, his face filling with recognition and rage.
    “I’m sorry,” Phillipe gasped, not quite rationally. “That’s entirely my fault. Here, let me dry your horse off . . .” He stumbled toward the shore in a daze of fear.
    “It’s him!” the second guard shouted.
    “No, it’s not!” Phillipe shrieked.
    Jehan’s sword was already in his hand. “Get him!”
    Phillipe turned to dive back into the river, but the other guard was there before him, cutting him off, driving him back to the shore. As he scrambled up the bank, Jehan bore down on him, the guardsman’s sword shining and deadly in his hand. Phillipe yelled hysterically as the blade came down to cut him in two. But instead its flat struck him hard on the rump and knocked him sprawling in the grass. He rolled onto his back, looking up in disbelief. Jehan’s face loomed above him, grinning savagely. Then he understood: They were playing a game of cat and mouse . . .
    Phillipe scrambled to his feet and bolted up the hill, running harder than he had ever run. Above him was the bridge; if he could only get to the bridge . . .
    The two horsemen followed him at an easy canter, letting him run himself out. Their laughter goaded him like a lash.
    He reached the top of the hill at last, just as he had decided it was endless. Sobbing for air, he threw himself onto the bridge and began to run across it. The flat wooden planks gave him fresh speed; but behind him he heard the clatter of hooves burst onto the wood. He looked back, futilely, as he ran, and his foot caught on a loose board. He pitched forward onto the hard planks, knocking the last of his breath out of him. He lay still for a long moment, paralyzed by the knowledge of his imminent death. But no sword fell, no blinding instant of pain ended his terror. An uncanny silence