Maze of Moonlight (45 page)

Matthew stared.

“Will you . . .” Whack! “. . . give them . . .” Whack! “. . . to me?” Whack!

Matthew tried once again. “Martin, I ask you, give up this foolishness. We have plenty of men to guard our city . . .”

“That's why I'm asking you to lend me a few.”

“. . . and there's no reason you have to go off and meddle with other people's affairs. It's . . . well . . . it's not good business.” The mayor nodded as though he had just demonstrated a geometric proof. “You need to stay here and marry Agnes.”

Paul saw the anger building in Martin, tried to head off the explosion. “Son . . .”

“Not now, Father,” Martin snapped. Paul took a step back, eyes wide, lips pursed . . . but silently applauding. Spirited!

Martin went back to Matthew, who seemed convinced that he had dealt with the problem. “I'm not going to marry Agnes Darci,” he said flatly.

Matthew's eyebrows went up. “You certainly will.”

“It's impossible . . .”

Matthew blinked. Paul gritted his teeth. Here it was . . . look out . . .

“I don't like girls,” Martin continued. “At least, I don't like to sleep with them.”

Matthew stared, uncomprehending.

“I like men. I like to sleep with
them
.”

Matthew paled. “Surely you can't—”

Martin's fist thudded to the desk once again. “
I like to fuck them!
”

Silence in the office. Outside, a street vendor was hawking pies, and a pair of girls ran down the street, giggling at some incomprehensible joke. But Matthew only sat, not moving, not saying a word. His hair was lank with sweat, and his skin had turned the color of a fish's belly.

Finally, his lips quivered, moved. “H-how?” he said in a whisper.

“
Up the ass!
”

Matthew was gray. “You're a—”

“Sodomite,” said Martin. “Faggot. Queer. A hunk of meat for the Church's fires. Tell me, my lord mayor, how do you want me? Rare? Or well done?”

Matthew struggled to his feet, shaking. “I do believe you're proud of your sins,” he said.

Martin sighed. “Dear Lady . . .”

“Get out,” said the mayor. “Get out of my house. Get out of my city. Get . . .” He looked on the verge of incoherent screaming. “Get out!”

Martin stood his ground. “I want two hundred and fifty men, armed and armored.”

Matthew's jaw quivered. “Take them. Take them and go. Get out! From this day forth, I have no son.”

Martin shook his head. “No, my lord. You had no son the day I went to Shrinerock. And as for me: I have another father.”

Leaving Matthew gaping, Martin turned and stomped out of the room, bawling for the head of the city guards. “Two hundred and fifty men, Caspar! Ready to ride in an hour!”

Matthew was glaring at Paul now, but Paul only smiled. “Quite a man, that,” he said cheerfully. “My son, you know.” Matthew's glare turned puzzled, then enraged. “Ah . . . did you want to draw up a b ill of sale, lord mayor?”

It was unseemly for a baron to flee when a commoner made to throw something at him. But Paul fled anyway, bounding down the stairs like a boy, laughing.

***

Five hundred against four thousand: the odds were not encouraging.

Christopher was well aware of the idiocy of his proposed campaign, but insistent, driving, he pressed his small company of soldiers and knights southward. He intended to strike immediately upon reaching Saint Brigid. No formal challenges, displaying arms, and miscellaneous flummery here, just a sudden attack and a fervent prayer that Berard would be taken by surprise . . . or at least that his sentries would be a little lax that morning.

Jehan, caught up in his chivalric dreams, would have hated the plan, and for that reason Christopher had not told him of it. But Jehan disappeared sometime during the second night on the road. He took only his horse and the splendid surcoat.

“Does master think that he has gone back to the free companies?” Pytor asked dourly as the company ate a quick breakfast. “That would be very bad indeed.”

“I don't think so,” said Christopher. Joanna, a servant now among the servants of Aurverelle, brought him an uncut loaf. He thanked her, wished her a good morning, then stuffed his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. He wanted to be on the road again. Eating had turned into a chore.

“Perhaps he's ashamed,” said Baron Jamie. “It wouldn't surprise me.”

“Jehan? Run away?” Christopher shook his head. “No, it's something else.”

Just another part of the patterns that shifted and blurred regardless of what one did or did not do. Vanessa had apparently tried to alter them, but how could one alter anything so ephemeral and yet so powerful?

But the Elves altered them, and Mirya, an Elf, had said that Vanessa had altered herself. . . .

He recalled her last words to him and suppressed a shudder.
Always, Vanessa.
“But it's bad enough, whatever his reasons. We've got to all be crazy to attack Berard with only five hundred, and without Jehan, that's one less.”

Jamie's eyebrows arched. “I have heard tell,” he said slowly, “that the baron of Aurverelle is mad.”

Christopher shrugged.

About them, the men were finished up their morning meal. Jamie watched them for a time, then: “God be praised, so are we all.”

As usual, Mirya appeared at Christopher's side without announcement or sound; and, as usual, Pytor and a number of the men at the table crossed themselves fervently. Elves! Dear God . . .

“My lord baron,” she said, “you have more than five hundred.”

Christopher looked around the camp, saw nothing more than he had seen the night before. “You, of course, would like to explain that statement, Mirya.”

The Elf permitted herself a small smile. “Paul delMari and Martin Osmore reached Aurverelle safely—”

“Thank the Lady!”

“The Lady . . . and Terrill. But hear me: not content to remain in your castle, Paul and Martin and the men of Shrinerock armed themselves and took the south road. They are on their way to Saint Brigid, gathering men and supplies as they come.”

Jamie looked nervous. “How . . . ah . . . do you know this, Fair One?”

Mirya bowed. “My beloved is with them. I know.”

“I told you,” said Christopher. “She reads minds.” But his fists were clenched. Patterns were indeed altering. The maze was proving more ephemeral than he had ever dreamed. Maybe . . . maybe Vanessa . . .

You might na wan' me after.

After what? What had she done? He felt at once jubilant and cold. “How many?” he said.

“Four hundred seventy and five,” Mirya replied. But the wind shifted, and the odor of smoke drifted through the camp. Mirya seemed too fragile ever to survive in a world that contained such things as swords and fires and mass slaughter.

Fading . . .

You might na wan' me after.

Christopher shook the thought away violently. “Let's go,” he said. “I want to be in position tonight. The Lady willing, we'll make it without being noticed.”

“The Lady?” said Jamie.

“Yes,” said Christopher. “The Lady of the Elves.”

Mirya had reached the trees. She put her arms about a gnarled trunk, rested her head against the bark.

Fading . . .

Jamie was nodding slowly, thoughtfully. “You'll forgive the rest of us, Messire Christopher, if we hear confession and receive the Sacrament the night before we face the free companies.”

Christopher was watching Mirya, feeling with her, as much as he could, the loss, the ending. Malvern was but an outward sign. “By all means, Messire Jamie. But . . . if you please, I'll have the ordering of the battle cry for tomorrow.”

“And that is?”

Mirya was weeping. He knew she was weeping. “It will be:
Elthia.
”

***

Berard ordered not just one mine, but many; and at the same time, he planned a multiple scaling of the village walls. But, very deliberately, he refrained from making any final decision regarding the main thrust of the attack. It might be the mines, ti might be the siege towers and ladders. Anything could happen; and since Christopher seemed all too adept at second guessing him, this time, he would let the baron wonder what he was up to, for he in fact would not know himself until the last instant.

The Fellowship, though, in the course of these last four days of constant, maddening work—work plagued by mishaps, heat, absurdly coincidental accidents, and constant outbreaks of temper—had splintered badly. Only with the most profound eloquence and lavish promises had Berard managed to persuade his captains to give him this last chance . . . and then they could go and raid the countryside, burn villages, rape women, gamble—or, for that matter, keep chickens if it pleased them—with his blessing. Just one more chance. Just a few days more. That was all.

His luck, so far, had held. Eustache de Cormeign, to be sure, had thrown up his hands and departed with his
kataphraktoi
, but the Fellowship—dissatisfied, bickering, increasingly rebellious—had stayed with him. The mines had crept towards the village walls, the siege towers had risen from their wooden platforms, the men had sharpened their swords.

On the morning of the fifth day, all was ready, and the sun was just beginning to fight its way through the welter of smoke sent up by the forest fires when Berard rose from his bed. He called for water with which to wash, ate breakfast with his captains, and debated some last points of battle order. Outside, the men were forming up. Every available man was going into battle. Berard had even called in the sentries and the scouts.

After breakfast, he shook hands all around, slapped a few backs, exchanged a few jokes and pleasantries that no one really meant. The captains went off to arm themselves, and Berard called for his servants. He was going to wear his best plate today, for though he was not worried in the slightest about any combat the villagers might offer him, he nonetheless wanted to look as formidable as possible when he met the baron of Aurverelle.

Afterwards . . . well, afterwards, he might settle into Saint Brigid and raid the Free Towns, or he might decide to return to Shrinerock. Baron Berard: yes, indeed, it had a good sound.

But as he donned his quilted underwear, there was a stirring at the flap of his tent. A slender figure was suddenly standing in the doorway: blond, gray-eyed, wrapped in a ragged cloak.

Jehan.

The servants stood, the cuirass still in their hands. Berard motioned for them to set it aside, hid a frown. This was not good at all. This could, in fact, prove to be quite unpleasant. What did Jehan want? And of all the times for him to show up!

But Jehan smiled. “Hello, Berard. I hope I'm not too late.”

Too late? “Ah . . . it's good to see you again, Jehan.” Berard tried to put into his voice a certain casual jollity, but he made sure that, yes, his dagger was still in his belt. “What do you mean . . . too late?”

Jehan smiled. “I wanted to arrive before the village fell.”

This was promising! But Berard was still glad of the dagger in his belt. “You want to help?”

“As I can.” Jehan shrugged within his cloak. “I did some thinking after I escaped. You were always right, Berard. I got myself caught up in so many thoughts about chivalry and knightly behavior . . . it just got in the way. It made me useless for anything. I think that . . . now . . . I'll be better off.”

There was something about Jehan, something that Berard did not quite trust. Could disillusionment turn someone so completely around? Never having been disillusioned in his life, Berard was not sure. He supposed it was . . . possible.

But if nothing else, Jehan's return would allay some of the resentment among the men of the original Fellowship. It would be just like the old days . . . and there would be time enough to get rid of him after Saint Brigid fell, when Berard could be sure once again of loot, lust, and, therefore, loyalty. Until then, why, friends were friends, Jehan! Good fellows all! Welcome and well met!

A good plan. A little too deviously Italian, perhaps, but then, sometimes one had to compromise. With an inward shrug, therefore, Berard opened his arms and stepped forward to embrace the prodigal. “Then welcome back, Jehan! So sorry about your father's castle—”

But Jehan loosed the fastening of his cloak, and with a rustle and a thump, the ragged garment dropped to the floor to reveal a glittering surcoat, embroidered and bejeweled, blazoned with the gryphon and silver star of the house of delMari.

Jehan's sword came out of its sheath with a shrill hiss. “
God and Saint Adrian!
” he cried, and Berard had only a moment in which to stare, dumbfounded, before the lad struck.

Jehan was quick and sure, and fire as hot as that which was devouring Malvern was suddenly spreading up Berard's side like sheet lightning. He felt a gush of wetness, and sounds abruptly turned distant and echoing. The world spun and darkened.

He staggered back, helpless to prevent another slashing blow. Groping, dizzy, he tried to reach for his dagger, found that he had nothing with which to reach for it: his right arm was hanging by only a few shreds, and blood was pouring out of a stump that terminated a hand's breadth from his shoulder.

His servants, though, were catching up knives and swords and spears, surrounding Jehan, striking, lashing out. One leaped upon his back as another laid open his side. Lacerated a hundred times, bleeding and concussed, Jehan fell quickly, and the servants rushed to carry Berard to his couch. Someone was calling for water, someone else ran off screaming for a physician; but dizziness and darkness were growing on Berard, and from short, flickering glimpses of the faces of his servants—all he could see now—he judged that he was beyond the help of any leechcraft.

The rank, metallic taste of regurgitated blood was welling up in his throat along with his breakfast bread and wine as Berard flailed out with his good hand, batted the servants away, staggered to his feet. The flat carpet bucked and fought his feet treacherously, but he lurched to the tent flap and pushed outside. Close by, he knew, were the men, assembled and ready for the assault.