Maze of Moonlight (25 page)

“Will give us no further trouble, Pytor,” said Natil. Smiling, she handed the creature to Christopher. It crawled up on his shoulder, reached into his tunic, and with delighted shrieks, extracted Vanessa's pendant.

Absently, Christopher reached up and patted the beast. Another baron of Aurverelle, it seemed, had found refuge in the arms of the mysterious harper. He half wondered whether he should be afraid.

***

Berard of Onella was not at all overawed by the display that Yvonnet a'Verne provided. He had seen much the same, if not better, in Italy. Florence was always trying to outdo Milan, and Milan was out-pomping Rome, and Rome tricked itself out in gutter finery in an attempt to upstage Naples, and nobody liked Venice. But when, at the great council of the free company captains invited to Hypprux, Yvonnet named the terms and Lengram named the rates, even the most sophisticated mercenaries raised their eyebrows. Truly, the baron of Hypprux was a wealthy man!

Jehan, Berard knew, would not be interested in the matter of payment, for the poor boy still thought of valorous meat-hacking as payment enough. That Yvonnet was on the same side of the schism as Furze was an excellent coincidence, but even had that not been the case, Jehan could be counted on to cooperate, for the matter of the Aurverelle wool wains had left him with a bad taste of commerce in his mouth that would require some bloodletting to wash away.

And bloodletting was indeed in the future, for Yvonnet was not offering terms and rates in exchange for the taking of a village or a single castle, but for the entire city of Ypris.

“I want it razed to the ground,” the baron fairly shouted. “Those apostates have defied God long enough. It's time that they learned the rewards of heresy.”

Berard, who long ago had lapsed into cheerful and atheistic hedonism, was unmoved by the baron's religious sentiments, but the money, fortunately, was enough, and he cheered Yvonnet's words as loudly as anyone present. Yvonnet worshiped God. Berard worshiped gold and wine and the struggling mystery of women's loins. Each to his own.

In a few days, the documents had been drawn up, argued over, signed, and sealed; and, more important, the initial fees had been paid. Berard had no doubt that the gold that he and his escort would be bringing back to the Fellowship would ensure more than enough enthusiasm for the spring maneuvers. And though he himself had only been assigned a subordinate post in the combined mercenary army, he did not mind in the slightest, for the pay was good, likewise the leadership.

And, in any case, provided that all went well, Berard himself would eventually become the commander of a substantial army, and Adria would be his. Even—and he examined the vaulted ceiling of Yvonnet's great hall while, about him, wine flowed, food was masticated and swallowed, and the captains celebrated their contract—even Hypprux might be his.

But first things first. There was Ypris, and then . . .

. . . and then Jehan.

Berard felt better and better. The true pope? Who cared?

Yvonnet rose, lifting his golden cup, and his voice resonated among the ribbed nervures and rattled the frost-covered windows. “Hail to you, my brothers in arm . . .”

Or in banditry. Berard found it hard to tell sometimes.
If God Himself were a soldier, He would be a robber.
What an excellent sentiment! He wished that he had said it first.

“. . . comrades of my heart . . .”

Berard winced. Not at all to his liking.

“. . . bearers of the sword of Christ!”

Really. This was too much. But gold, Berard reflected, had a way of making people keep their mouths shut. Just as wine had a way of making them open them up. And there was wine in the future.

“A toast! To . . .” Yvonnet threw back his head and laughed. “To Ypris!”

The captains, twenty-four of the most experienced and successful commanders of the free companies, lured through the hideous winter storms by the promise of gold and loot, rose as one, lifting cups. Silks shone, gems sparkled, swords were bright in the light of innumerable torches. The captains' voices were loud in reply: gold had bought their loyalty, food and drink their enthusiasm. “To Ypris!”

And Berard was on his feet, too—just as loyal, just as enthusiastic—though as he drank, he murmured deep in his throat, so deeply that no one but himself heard or understood: “And to Shrinerock!”

Spring in Adria was warm and dry, and above Maris, the sky was blue and cloudless: the perfect weather for an Easter celebration. The fortress complex that dominated the entire northern half of the city was decorated this Sunday with fresh flowers, and ribbons and pennants floated from its every spire and window. The rest of the city was aflutter with hangings that ranged from bedsheets in the poor sections to, in the rich, elaborate tapestries commissioned especially for the day; and in the streets, the crowds were fierce, surging, a sea of eyes and faces that lapped about the players, pageants, musicians, and acrobats that Ruprecht, baron of Maris, had summoned to help celebrate the central and most profound mystery of Christendom.

But Ruprecht did not allow the secular entertainments to reign alone, for as he was a pious man, he was profoundly conscious of the deeper significance of the day. He had risen early to sing lauds with his chaplain (he prided himself on knowing by heart the entire year of psalmodic devotions), had attended mass twice (once in his private chapel, once in the cathedral), and had spent the rest of the morning in meditation before the figure of the Crucified One that dominated his bedroom.

He prayed for guidance, for Maris was the light of true religion in a land that was, with few exceptions, plunged into heretical night. The pernicious advance of the Roman papacy in England and in the Holy Roman Empire had turned Adria into a dark world of corruption in which even a papal legate could be hunted down and killed with complete and arrogant impunity. Ruprecht thanked God that France at least still rejected the simoniacal impostor who slouched so bestially upon a counterfeit Throne of Peter!

Justified, encouraged, Ruprecht rose from his devotions then, and descended from his tower bedroom. Though his inner prayers continued, he had business to attend to, for he could think of no better way to discomfit the forces of Satan than to show them with what pomp the true servants of God could celebrate the risen Christ.

He spent the morning inspecting the great kitchen, edifying the servants with solemn words about the significance of the day, speaking personally to the officers of his household, and more importantly, instructing his wife on the importance of her appearance and deportment at the festivities. A baron, after all, was judged by the company he kept: peasant girls in homespun might be good enough for a nest of savages and madmen such as Aurverelle, and little drabs for Hypprux, but the lady of Maris had to display nobility in every point of her bearing.

Just before lunch, though, he paused in his study and picked up a sheet of parchment. “What's this?”

“Another letter from Christopher of Aurverelle, messire,” said his chancellor, William. “It came yesterday.”

“Just like a devil-worshiper to shove business beneath my nose on a day like today!” Ruprecht examined the salutation, tugging thoughtfully on his beard. In the vernacular, of course. Mules and village girls, a mendicant friar for a bailiff and an escaped slave for a seneschal: there was probably no one left in Aurverelle who could turn even half a phrase in Latin.

He tossed the letter aside after a moment. “What does he want?”

“The same thing, messire.”

“Oh . . .” Ruprecht allowed the sarcasm to well up. “Wants to speak with me, does he? Wants to be allowed in my house, at my table, in my chambers, does he? And what did he say to Etienne of Languedoc?”

“Messire pointed that out to him in the fall.”

“Yes . . . I did.” Christopher's temerity was infuriating. Not only had he actually proposed that the forces of the alliance be used to protect the land as a whole—peasants, serfs, Free Towns, and all—but he had also indicated that such protection should be provided without regard to papal loyalty. Absurd. And all this after he had killed an official envoy from the true pope, Benedict. In cold blood!

Biting back his anger, Ruprecht grabbed the letter, flung it into the fire, watched it crisp and curl. His chancellor, however, was thoughtful. “I would be remiss, my lord, if I did not say that I believe Christopher makes some cogent points.”

Ruprecht smiled. “Such as, Messire William?”

“Such as the threat of the free companies to all. Allowed to congregate in Adria, they might well prove a potent force. They could conceivably menace your lordship in his own house.”

Ruprecht roared with laughter. “Maris? Really, William!”

“It is . . . conceivable. They could . . .” William considered. “They could, for instance, ally themselves with factions of malcontents, and so foment rebellion.”

Ruprecht's voice turned cold. “Very funny, William.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Angry that the day was being spoiled with such thoughts, Ruprecht folded his arms. “Christopher is a fool.”

“He's mad, my lord.”

“Yes, William. Quite mad.” Frowning, Ruprecht watched the last of the parchment curl up and flicker into ash, the wax from the delAurvre seal running down and flaring as it was consumed. “And damned.” He shook his head, waved away the thought. “But we can ignore Christopher, can't we, William? On this day of all days? It's time for celebration. And what have we planned for tonight?”

William recounted the entertainments scheduled for the feast, and Ruprecht's enthusiasm, kindling, banished any remaining cares about Aurverelle. By the end of William's list, the baron was nodding approvingly.

“Very good. Very good.”

“And . . .” William smiled. “A special treat for the end. We thought that the players from Castile would be acknowledged as those who had traveled farthest, but some new arrivals have put them in second place.”

“And who are these?”

“A tumbler and a harper. Ah . . .” William thought for a moment. “The tumbler is but fair, but the harper—I heard her this morning—is of rare quality indeed. I believe they call themselves Christie and Nattie. They come from Bulgaria.”

Ruprecht pursed his lips. “Bulgaria. Well, that's quite a journey. And they came all that way for my feast?”

“They said that they had made the trip especially for the sake of the honored Baron Ruprecht of Maris.”

Ruprecht was smiling. Let Christopher delAurvre gibber in his dank castle. The fortress of Maris would shine! “Excellent, William. Give them a place to sleep in the hall tonight, and make sure they're well fed.” He folded his arms, eyed the charred parchment. “If they have any skill at all, it will be quite a night!”

***

Moving under cover of darkness, avoiding the main roads, remaining scattered and unobtrusive until they simultaneously wheeled and gathered, the free companies surrounded Ypris.

Despite their precautions, though—precautions for which Yvonnet had paid handsomely—it appeared that Ypris had discovered them at the last minute, for when the sun rose on Easter morning, the gates of the town were shut and the parapets were manned with archers and soldiers. A thousand trails of smoke indicated that vats of oil and pitch were being brought to a boil, to be hauled up and emptied upon anyone foolish enough to attempt to scale the walls.

Berard had seen worse. Examining Ypris with an eye schooled by the brutal necessities of years of battle, he was already picking out weaknesses. The fortifications, for example, were old, the product of slow evolution rather than masterful planning, and the liens of sight from the towers and arrow loupes left uncovered numerous angles in which a determined band of men could conceal themselves while readying ladders. Uncut brush and trees came right up to the walls in some places: adequate cover for mines and saps. The main source of the city water supply was a canal from the Bergren River, and as such was easily interrupted.

Berard did not doubt that the commander of the assembled companies, a former lieutenant of the great Muzio Attendolo Sforza himself, had discovered even more. With any luck at all, though, the walls could be penetrated by subterfuge rather than by attrition. Berard hoped so. Ypris was a wealthy city, and he wanted to make up for the wool wain debacle with as little fuss as possible.

At his side, Jehan fidgeted like a full-blooded destrier. “Why doesn't Gonzago give the word?” he said.

“Probably because Gonzago is still making his final plans.” Armed and armored, Berard settled himself in his saddle. He hoped that the commander would have the wisdom to order a general dismount before the attack. In Berard's personal experience. Masonry walls were extremely unimpressed by cavalry charges.

“I want to fight.”

“
I
want to start getting paid,” said Berard. He gestured at the city. “Inside those walls is my pay chest. I intend to get it. I don't care how. Robert of Geneva took Cesena with hardly a struggle—”

Jehan was indignant. “That butcher? That was out-and-out lies and deception!”

Berard smiled. “Lies and deception are good enough.”

“Really, Berard!”

The morning mists were burning off rapidly, and the sun was warming up armor and, therefore, the men inside it. Berard heard murmurs about the heat from the members of the Fellowship, turned, and looked over his shoulder. Horsed and ready—and doubtless sweating—his company was gathered up behind him, pennants flying and armor glinting. Not quite so impressive as the carefully polished mail of Hawkwood's White Company—it was said that the mere sight of that glittering horde could induce surrender—but impressive enough.

He stole a glance at Jehan. And, with luck, quite adequate.

“Well,” he said, “how would you handle it?”

“A frontal assault,” said Jehan promptly. “Straight up the middle . . .”

Berard listened blandly.
And the horses can bounce off the walls.

“. . . and then a battering ram to break down the city walls . . .”