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

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.”

Chapter Thirty

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