Maze of Moonlight, Gael Baudino [ebook reader screen TXT] 📗

trenchers and platters. “The meaning of this, my good lords, is that the free companies are besieging Saint Brigid. All of them.”

“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