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

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