Maze of Moonlight (21 page)

“No, my lord,” said Jerome, “that was Robert of Geneva.”

“Right now it's Ruprecht of Maris.” Christopher plopped his feet on Jerome's desk as the Franciscan scurried to move his maps and papers out of the way. “Well, he obviously doesn't give a damn, and neither does Yvonnet.”

Natil looked up from the document. “Do you wish me to continue, my lord?” she said politely.

“No, Natil. Thank you very much. If I hear one more elegant turn of phrase from Ruprecht's secretary, I'm sure I'll throw up.” Though the reactions of Yvonnet and Ruprecht were absurd, they were, he admitted, neither unexpected nor without precedent. The same thing had happened in France. The nobles of that country had simply not been able to believe that bands of unemployed soldiers could destroy their lands and their prosperity and then move on. Perhaps someone else's lands and prosperity, but surely not theirs.

But it had happened, and in some cases, the nobles themselves had hired the free companies to carry out vendettas against other nobles.

“Well,” said Christopher, “they thought I was mad before, and so I suppose they think I'm raving now.” Paul delMari's letter lay nearby. Christopher grabbed it and glanced over it for relief. Good old Baron Paul! No dissembling, no fancy obfuscation. Just wholehearted acceptance. And Paul was apparently even willing to put aside the unfortunate matter of his grandfather's murder.

“Paul has adequate forces,” said Jerome efficiently when he saw Christopher pick up the letter. “I took the trouble to tabulate his last reported strength. It's twenty-five years out of date, but it gives us some idea.”

“We don't have a spy in Shrinerock?”

“Ah . . . no,” said Jerome, holding up the tabulation. “Somehow, we've never managed to keep one there.”

Natil put aside Ruprecht's letter, extended her hand to Jerome. “May I?”

With a shrug, Jerome handed her the document. She glanced over it quickly, not even moving her lips. “This is indeed out of date,” she said. “These are pre-plague levels. Baron Paul's forces have been substantially reduced.”

“Well,” said Jerome, “the entire population of Adria has been substantially reduced since the plague hit back in Baron Ingram's days.”

Natil shook her head sadly, as though the plague were some kind of personal failing. “It is unfortunate that it could not be forestalled any longer.”

Christopher lifted his head at her tone. Natil was, for the moment, abstracted, pensive. But she indicated Jerome's tabulation. “Paul's forces have fallen to approximately one third of this.”

Christopher frowned at the news. “I daresay the same applies to the other baronies.”

“More than likely,” said Natil. “Though Ruprecht might well have made an effort toward keeping his forces at maximum levels.”

“He is a keen one for battle,” said Jerome. “As long as the odds are in his favor.”

Christopher laughed bitterly. “Then maybe
he
should have gone to Nicopolis. But then he might have gotten his precious armor all dusty, eh?”

The anger and defeat were still there, still lurking, still waiting for a chance to fasten their teeth into him once more. He had been given a glimpse of the magic, but he had to find the rest himself.

He glanced at Natil. The harper met his eyes levelly, their tranquillity a reminder of the task, inner and outer, that he had set for himself, just as the harp at her feet was a reminder of the method he had chosen.

Sun destre guant en ad vers deu tendut . . .

He had offered his glove, but Yvonnet and Ruprecht had rejected it. And the smaller baronies, linked with the capital cities of Adria by blood and intricate alliance, would follow their lead. Somehow, he had to win over the barons of Hypprux and Maris.

“You were right, Jerome,” he said. “You and Pytor both. I went about mad, and proud of my madness, and that's going to make this task that much harder. I suppose I need to start acting like a baron again.”

“My lord, you've taken great strides toward that end since—” Jerome caught himself, blushed.

Christopher grinned. “Since Vanessa showed up? Quite right, Jerome.”

Natil was watching him. She was smiling fondly, and the expression made Christopher feel warm inside.

“I think I'm going to pay a visit to my . . . uh . . . dear cousin, Yvonnet,” he said. “I'll have to try to convince him in person that he needs to help. Ruprecht . . .” He drummed his fingers on his knee, shrugged. “Ruprecht I'll figure out later. For all I know he's expecting the Hanse to protect him. If that's the case, we'll have to pressure some contacts in Bruges. For now, it's Yvonnet.” He stood up, opened the door to the hallway, bellowed: “Raffalda!”

He turned around to Jerome's questioning face. “I'll be going to Hypprux,” he explained. “But I'll be going in state. Official business. I'll need silks and velvets sewn up and fitted—God help me, no
poulaines
: I'm not that far gone!—and I'll need a dozen soldiers properly equipped to attend me.”

He smiled at Natil.

“And . . . some things for my personal harper.”

Natil nodded graciously. Jerome looked incredulous. “But . . .”

Christopher silenced him with a glance in the grand old delAurvre style. “William of Normandy had Taillefer,” he said. “Christopher delAurvre has Natil.” He heard Raffalda approaching with quick steps. “William took all of England. Let's see what I can do about Adria.”

***

The proposed visit of Christopher, baron of Aurverelle, occasioned a great deal of talk in Hypprux. It was well known that the baron was mad, that he dressed in sackcloth and ate raw meat, and that, like his grandfather, he had a weakness for peasant girls—but whether that meant in bed or on a spit was open to conjecture.

So when Christopher, Natil, Ranulf, and a dozen men of the Aurverelle guard rode in through the main gate of the city and made their way along the Street of Saint Lazarus, the crowds were thick, and the windows and balconies above the street were filled with curious faces.

If the people of Hypprux had expected overt madness, though, they were disappointed. Christopher, boyish and slender, smiling, waving, and occasionally tossing out a few gold coins, seemed the perfect picture of a baron. His silks and velvets, embroidered and decorated with jewels, were cut in the latest fashion, and a gold-hilted sword gleamed at his side. His men-at-arms wore the very brightest mail covered by perfectly matching surcoats, and his personal harper, clad in a gown of sky blue and a gray cloak and carrying her small instrument before he, smiled with tranquil and unnerving warmth upon all.

They turned left at the Street Gran Pont and proceeded toward the Château. Christopher still waved and tossed coins, but he sidled close to Natil's side. “I daresay they still think I'm mad,” he said.

“Really, my lord?”

He grinned. “And I might be, Natil. Imagine the madness required for visiting a baron who has well-known designs upon Aurverelle.”

Natil's brow furrowed. “Are you concerned, my lord?”

“About Yvonnet? Not really. The delAurvres have a reputation. No one crosses us.”

But the memory of the missing wool shipment came back to him. Someone had crossed the delAurvres and had gotten away with it. How far had the general reputation of Aurverelle fallen? In his own way, he had been as detrimental to the family name as his grandfather.

“Fear not, Baron Christopher,” said Natil. “There is no danger.” Her sight seemed to turn inward. “So far . . .”

The Château of Hypprux had been built to rival the fortifications of Maris. Its walls were thick and high, and its gates were masterpieces of the art of the castlebuilder: double, offset, triple-barred, and murder-holed. Along the top of the walls, merlons stood up like teeth, and arrow-loupes stared down at the visitors.

Christopher could understand why Yvonnet was not worried about the free companies, and since Maris' fortifications were superior even to these, Ruprecht's sentiments were equally comprehensible. But it was not for the nobles of Adria that Christopher was proposing this alliance. It was (though he dared not speak of such a thing before his peers) solely for the peasants: those whose lands and lives would be wasted while their overlords held quaint dances to beguile the tedious hours of a siege.

For the peasants. For Vanessa.

Yvonnet was waiting for him just inside the main gate. Behind him, the formal gardens were in late-summer bloom, the flowers brilliant, the hedges and trees sparkling in the sunlight.

“Well, cousin! How nice to see you!” The baron of Hypprux always spoke at full volume in public. Christopher theorized that the custom had something to do with intimidation. He was not intimidated. Looking at Yvonnet, though, he was reminded in a disturbing way of his grandfather.

“Hello, Yvonnet.” Steeling himself, he dismounted, embraced Yvonnet, and even managed to kiss him without gagging. Upon what lips—or other bodily part—had his cousin's mouth been most recently planted? Christopher suppressed an inward shudder. “I'm very glad to be here.” It was a lie, and everyone knew it, but this was an official visit, and so Christopher assumed that insincere kisses and outright lies were in order.

“Ah, so you are!” said Yvonnet, his basso reverberating off the walls. “But not as glad as I am!”

Christopher noticed that Natil looked worried, but the harper curtsied deeply to Yvonnet when presented to him, and even offered to play that evening. Something in the new style from the courts of Italy and France?”

Yvonnet was faintly interested. “Perhaps,” he said, dismissing Natil with a glance. “Perhaps after our dear Cousin Christopher . . .”

Son of a bitch Cousin Christopher
, Christopher translated,
who didn't have the decency to stay missing or dead.

“. . . and I have a chance to talk of . . . the matters that have brought him here.” Yvonnet turned to Lengram, the chamberlain of the city, and lifted an eyebrow. “Whatever they are.”

“I think my dear Cousin Yvonnet knows,” said Christopher quietly.

“Yes . . . well . . . we'll have to talk about that, won't we? Later.”

“Whenever you wish, Yvonnet.”

“But first, we have hospitality! Yes! Hospitality! We can't go on letting our dear cousin stand out here in the hot sun after such a long journey, can we? Hospitality is the mark of a . . .” He eyed Christopher. “. . . civilized man, isn't it? Girls! Get out here!”

And the young women of the castle, well-schooled by Yvonnet's wife, whose name Christopher could never remember, took the visitors in hand. Natil was escorted to a room of her own, and Ranulf and the men were taken to the barracks, but Christopher was bathed, fed, and given clean clothes—more embroidery, more gems—and made to feel like an honored guest.

This, too, was a sham, and he made sure that he kept a knife at hand even when in a tub full of scented water. Yet, though it probably was indeed the action of a madman to come to Hypprux, he decided that he would rather be mad and offer his glove than be sane and stay huddled up in Aurverelle while the entire country went to hell.

Nonetheless, he was relieved when Natil and Ranulf appeared a few hours later, the harper with her harp, the soldier with his sword. Lengram brought them and also delivered a message that Yvonnet was expecting to meet with Christopher in his private chambers to discuss the matter of his visit. There would be a feast that night, of course.

“Will that be with or without poison, Lengram?” Christopher inquired with a smile.

Lengram stared, swallowed. “Ah . . .”

“Don't worry, Chamberlain. I was . . . just joking.”

“Yes . . . ah . . . of course. . . .”

Was it Natil's tense expression earlier that day, or was Christopher detecting a sense of unease in the Château? He shrugged. He was here for a purpose. Best to get on with it.

But though, delivered in person, Yvonnet's reply to Christopher's plan was less terse than before, it was substantially the same. “I'm not interested in sending my men into battle for anyone except myself and my own,” he boomed from his gilt-canopied chair. The bedroom echoed with his words, and the old cleric with a deformed nose who was acting as secretary was nodding unconsciously in agreement. “If the free companies want to come to Hypprux, let them come. They can batter themselves against the walls as much as they'd like.” Sitting in an equally ornate chair—a symbol of his rank, or, more likely, of Yvonnet's ability to afford such things—Christopher sighed. Complacency. Idiocy. As the crusade, so Adria.

“Really, dear cousin,” said Yvonnet. “I can't see what's gotten into you. Aurverelle is as ably fortified as Hypprux. Perhaps . . .” And he nodded to Ranulf, who was standing with Natil near the secretary's desk. “. . . even more ably.”

Ranulf did not appear to be aware of the flattery.

“It's not a matter of Aurverelle or Hypprux being attacked,” said Christopher. “Or even Ypris.” He noticed Yvonnet's eyes narrow at the mention of the rebellious town. “It's the land itself. Who pays for all this finery and these castles? The commoners. Where would we be without their taxes and tithes? Penniless.”

“You know as well as I that we can borrow from the Jews.”

“And the Jews themselves are commoners, too. It's the same thing. I can't put this ornately, Yvonnet, because it's not an ornate subject; but if we want to continue to live as we do, then we have to safeguard the foundation upon which we live. The commoners.”

Yvonnet snorted. “They breed like pigs. There will always be more commoners. And if there are commoners, then there will be taxes and tithes.”

And so it went for an hour. Yvonnet was proof against argument or coercion if only because he had obviously made up his mind that he would not be swayed. No words, gifts, or reason would move him.

Christopher was tired. Tired of lying. Tired of arguing. Tired of false and artificial flummery. Despairingly, he looked to Natil, but she shook her head. It was hopeless.

A thought struck him. “What about the Free Towns? Will there always be more Free Towns?”

Yvonnet was suddenly cautious. “Why do you mention the Free Towns?”

“Oh . . .” Christopher was cautious himself. “I had a visitor from the Free Towns a few months ago. Martin Osmore.”