Maze of Moonlight (43 page)

“Saint Brigid?” Yvonnet looked to Lengram.

Lengram's brow was furrowed for a moment, but then: “One of the . . . ah . . . Free Towns, my lord.”

“The Free Towns?
Them?
”

“Ah . . . yes.”

Yvonnet pursed his lips, reached for another chicken. “Do you really expect me to worry about the Free Towns, cousin? I told you before: they've never paid a penny to
me
.”

With a flick of his wrist, Christopher sent the chicken flying the length of the table. It fell into a tureen of soup and sent a splash of beef broth into the lap of one of the small barons. The man laughed, apparently more enthused at Yvonnet's discomfiture than concerned about his clothes.

“I'm expecting you to worry about Adria,
cousin,
” said Christopher.

Ruprecht had sat down, plainly distressed. “We came all this way to fight for the Free Towns? But they're not even ours!”

“They're ours,” said Christopher, “because they're Adria's. The free companies are ours because they're our problem.” He glared at Yvonnet. “
Aren't they?
”

“Oh, for God's sake, Christopher,” said Yvonnet, “I'm not going to waste my time and money fighting for the Free Towns. Let the companies come to one of the big cities, like . . . ah . . .” He glanced at Ruprecht. “Maris, for example.”

Ruprecht yelped. “Maris!”

Yvonnet sniffed. “It would be God's justice.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Bunch of whores of Avignon.”

“You . . .” Ruprecht was on his feet. “You schismatic swine! You asslicker to that parasite of Rome! How dare you!”

Yvonnet was standing up also . . . and he was reaching for his dagger. But Christopher, blackened and scorched, folded his arms. “I spoke with Martin Osmore the other day, Yvonnet,” he said casually.

Yvonnet's face turned white.

“Sit down, both of you,” said Christopher.

They sat. Pytor shook his head admiringly. “My master is a splendid man.”

“He is, indeed,” said Mirya quietly. “I have met the grandson of my enemy and found him to be a friend.”

Pytor looked at her.

“He saved my life, also,” she said.

But Christopher could make no headway against the intransigence of Ruprecht and Yvonnet. Faced with his demand that they defend an inconsequential little village of southern Adria, they were balking. Although far apart on the question of the schism, they concurred on the matter of the free companies: let them come to a reasonable city, one that belonged to a member of the baronage.

“But what about Shrinerock and Furze?” said Christopher.

“Shrinerock and Furze,” said Ruprecht, “are over and done with.” He cleared his throat. “I never really trusted Paul delMari, anyway. He was a queer one from the beginning. Odd ideas. And he said he was for Rome.”

Yvonnet growled again. “
I'm
for Rome, you—“

Christopher seized the tablecloth and sent the dishes and food flying. “Shut up! Both of you!”

Wide eyes turned toward him. Sooty, burned, filthy, and unshaven as he was, Christopher seemed the perfect madman.

But his voice was clear and lucid . . . and almost frighteningly so. “There are four thousand enemies in Adria,” he said slowly. “Four thousand. They've got more men than we do. They've got better equipment than we do. They've taken one castle and sacked on . . .” He glanced at Yvonnet. “. . . no, two cities.”

“Good riddance,” Yvonnet grumbled softly.

“It's only a matter of time,” Christopher continued, “before they come for the rest of us. If we can't stop them now, we'll never be able to stop them.”

Ruprecht leaned across the bare table. “And I repeat, Christopher: let them come to Maris. Let them come to Hypprux. Then we'll destroy them. But . . .” He straightened, laughed. “. . . Saint Brigid? Good God, man, do you know what these armies cost?”

Yvonnet laughed also, but Pytor noticed that a number of the small barons at the table were examining Christopher thoughtfully.

Ruprecht and Yvonnet, however, were adamant. They would not follow Christopher to Saint Brigid, and in fact, they were angry at him for even suggesting such a course.

Christopher was desperate. “You're just going to let them die?” he cried.

Yvonnet rose from the table, beckoned to Lengram, turned to go. “What's the matter, cousin?” he said over his shoulder. “Find another little village wench to fuck? It's in the family, after all.”

Christopher's hands clenched into fists. “Thank the Lady it's not something else, Yvonnet.”

The baron of Hypprux stopped as though a hand had closed about his throat. He took a deep breath. “I don't know what you can be talking about, dear cousin. But I'm sure that, should you make any rash accusations, it won't be me who suffers. Do I make myself clear?”

Christopher was silent.

Yvonnet left. Ruprecht went back to his pavilion. Pytor heard them giving orders to break camp the following morning and return home.

But the small barons, who had for the most part remained silent during the argument, gathered in a small group to the edge of the pavilion. They murmured among themselves. Low voices. Concerned faces. Christopher eyed them for a moment, then shrugged and sat down on the edge of the dais.

Pytor examined his master's hands and face. Deep burns, numerous blisters. “Master needs a physician.”

“What do I need a physician for?” said Christopher bitterly. “I've got an Elf.” He put his hands to his face and wept. “I'm afraid it was useless, Mirya. It's Nicopolis all over again. I might as well have argued with Jean de Nevers and the Comte d'Eu.”

But Mirya shook her head. “It was not useless,” she said in a soft voice. “You took my hand, and I took yours, and we righted a part of the patterns that I put awry a half century ago.”

Pytor was baffled. Mirya could be no more than eighteen by the look of her. But the group of small barons had apparently reached some kind of agreement, for there was a sudden shaking of hands accompanied by a hum of approving murmurs. Two or three then nodded to the others and approached Christopher.

Their finery was considerably less exuberant than that of Ruprecht and Yvonnet: a wealthy merchant could have bested them in ornament and grandeur. These were men who had little enough by way of income and property that they had to look carefully to it, hoard against possible future scarcities, invest in the welfare of their peasants and freeholders in hopes of a future return of work and loyalty. At times, only their blood made them noble, for their hands occasionally showed the usage of more menial implements than swords.

“Lord Aurverelle,” said one. “A number of us think that your counsel is wise.”

Christopher lifted his head.

“You're a strange man, sir,” the spokesman continued with a bow, and Pytor saw that his lap was soaked with beef broth, “but we perceive that you're honorable and foresighted. Therefore, what men and . . .” He coughed with embarrassment. “. . . and very few knights we have—too few and too humble for your taste, we fear—we offer to you. We'll accompany you to Saint Brigid, and we'll endeavor to raise the siege.”

His face full of wonder, Christopher stood up and took the man's hands in his own. “What is your name, messire?”

“Baron Jamie of Kirtel, Lord Aurverelle.”

“Baron Jamie,” said Christopher. He struggled with words, his voice breaking. “Baron Jamie, you . . . you are my friend.” His cheeks were damp, and when he grinned, the blisters on his face broke open and redoubled the wet. “And so are you all.” He took their hands then, embraced them, grabbed cups and wine from the remains of dinner and toasted them.

Mirya, too, lifted a cup. “To Aurverelle,” she said softly. “And to the lady of Aurverelle.”

Christopher heard, blushed beneath his burns. “What . . . what lady are you referring to, Mirya?”

She shook her head. “The patterns are unclear, my lord.”

But a shout from the sentinels halted the thanks and pledges, and this time a clamor arose from the edge of the encampment: men shouting challenges and answers.

“Halt, or I'll strike!”

“I'm looking for Christopher delAurvre.”

“Give me your sword and I'll take you to him.”

“I'll not give it to you. Strike me if you want: you'll not strike again after, I assure you.”

And along the avenue that lay between the rows of tents and supply wagons came a young man who was as blond and fair as Christopher himself. He was wearing nothing more than a simple coat of mail that was rusty with hard use; but, prideful and determined, disdainful of the rabble of guards and watchmen who followed him, he recognized Christopher, strode directly up to him, and, standing tall, clapped his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“I'm Jehan delMari,” he declared. “Paul's son.”

Christopher bowed slightly.

But then Jehan sighed, wilted, looked shamefaced at those about him. “And . . . well . . . I suppose I'm a kind of traitor.”

Four days of constant siege, and Saint Brigid was still holding out. Berard's guns had exploded, his mines had been countermined, his assaults had been repulsed. Catapults snapped ropes unexpectedly. Siege towers collapsed. Greek fire . . . would not.

To be sure, the villagers had lost men. Berard's archers insisted that they had accounted for at least twenty dead, and the men who had mounted the assault ladders and towers spoke of that many more. For such a small village as Saint Brigid, this was a grievous loss; and yet every day, the villagers took to the walls and responded to any hostile advance with arrows, stones, pikes . . . and an undiminished quantity of pluck. Berard could not understand it.

What he did understand, though, was that he was losing men. Every accident in his camp had maimed and killed, and the villagers, though but farmers, were unnervingly handy with scythes, billhooks, hatchets, and pitchforks. The Fellowship had buried over a hundred of its own, and twice that many lay incapacitated with wounds inflamed by heat and drought.

And all this . . . because of a single, tiny village.

It was Christopher. It had to be Christopher. Only the baron of Aurverelle would have the courage and the imagination that bordered on madness to defend himself and his people with such audacity. Only he would be willing to face down an attacking force that outnumbered by a factor of ten the entire population—
including
, for God's sake, the women and children—of the besieged village. Only he could hold out the hope of actually winning against such ridiculous odds.

Christopher preyed on Berard's mind. Berard saw him always: capering on the village walls, flinging yet another bag of shit, sticking his tongue out at the Fellowship. The baron obsessed his thoughts, haunted his dreams, and during the daily strategy sessions in his tent, Berard caught himself muttering over and over, like a litany: “That damned monkey. That damned monkey.”

Christopher had to die. The rest of Adria was as a plum ripe for the picking, but Christopher delAurvre was a thorn among the fruits . . . and a poisoned one at that. If, Berard reasoned, the baron of Aurverelle could, somehow, turn doors and windows to stone and, by his mere presence, inspire a simple village to such valor, what could he do with an army of knights and nobility behind him? No, Christopher had to be stopped now, for Berard saw that the very existence of the Fellowship depended upon it.

Others in his company were not so sure of this. Christopher, they said repeatedly, was but a single man. How much could he do?

“Plenty,” said Berard. “Remember what happened to Shrinerock.”

“But Berard,” said Jaques, “we've lost men, and we're losing more every day . . . and what'll we have to show for it?”

Berard thumped the maps and tallies on the table. “We'll have Christopher.”

“The men want loot.”

“They'll get their loot . . . later. After we dispose of Christopher.”

“Berard . . .”

The captain stood up, struck the maps and tallies to the floor. “Damn you all! Are you all so blind that you can't see it?”

He realized in the next moment that they probably saw much too well. Since the bizarre happenings at Shrinerock, the possibility of magic had stuck in everyone's mind like a foul odor. If Shrinerock, then . . .

He's just a man. He can die. He can be killed.
Berard sat down again, glared, cleared his throat. “I trust that you all are not.”

Glances among the men: furtive, worried. Berard suddenly felt as though he were back in Italy. Raoul: was he Bologna? Jaques: maybe he had decided to be Florence today. Marcus, Ravenna. Old Gonzago, who had been the leader of the successful assault on Ypris, could be none other than Milan, the Visconti viper.

What were they thinking, all of them? Open rebellion? A dagger in the heart one fine morning?

Sweating, Berard bent, retrieved the maps and tallies, spread them out again on the table. “We're . . .”

Again, the glances.
Oh, yes, well, he's off on his damnable obsession again. Raoul, will you see that his wine has a little something extra in it tonight? There's a good fellow.

He swallowed, forced himself to go on. So far, nothing had happened. Bonds of loot and women still held them to his will. It was not too late. If he could take Saint Brigid . . .

“. . . we're losing too many men. Now, I suggest a diversion that will make all of this relatively easy.” He indicated a portion of the village wall. “Gonzago, Raoul, Jaques: tell me what you think of this . . .”

***

Shrinerock by starlight was a darkness against the dark sky without a shred of homeliness or cheer about it. Its stone windows, pocked by holes where Berard's men had battered through, stared out at a night landscape of burned villages, and a sense of uncanny power lay heavily about it, one that could not but be increased by loneliness, abandonment, and the constant, unwavering roar of water from the spring far below.

Jehan, Mirya, and Christopher rode up the road from the flatlands, dismounted, and approached the gate. Jehan set fire to a torch, and as the light flickered over the walls like the uncertain fingers of a blind man, the young man's face, already a mask of despondency over his drunken betrayal, turned dark with self-accusation.