Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino (read with me TXT) 📕

my seneschal and even more willing to give orders before my castle like the womanizing lout that I saw you were in Vienna. Be brave, you said back then, and do God's will. That itself should have told me what kind of company I was keeping, for even if I hadn't been well schooled in whoring by then, I would have soon learned much of the subject on the way to Nicopolis.”

Etienne had gone white. “My lord baron—”

“That's much better, Etienne,” said Christopher. He clapped his hands sardonically and advanced until he was shoulder to shoulder with Ranulf.

“I have come on a mission of great urgency.”

“Yes. The schism. Let's see . . .which pope are you?”

This was too much for Etienne. “You dare!”

“Shut up.” Christopher's murmured command carried greater weight than Etienne's bluster, and the churchman, seething, fell silent. “I'll tell you this. I support no one. Aurverelle is for Aurverelle, and so is Christopher delAurvre. He always has been, he always will be. Now take your rabble and go. Be glad that I talked to you at all.”

Laughter from the townsfolk. The delAurvre style, indeed!

Etienne blinked at Christopher's bluntness. “But, my lord,” he stammered, “don't you care about your soul? About the souls of the people of Adria?”

Christopher had half turned to go, but he swung back. “My soul? Someone like you is asking about souls? You with your perfumes and your banquets and your unconscionable stiff prick?” His gray eyes were hot and bright. “To answer your question, though: No, I don't care about souls, or about the popes, or about anything. I don't believe in anything. I don't go to mass, and I don't receive the sacraments, and I don't give a damn. All right? Are you satisfied?”

“Nothing?” The churchman seemed as dazed by Christopher's anger as he was by his words.

“Nothing. I follow the example . . . of my grandfather.”

Pytor winced, looked away.

“He didn't believe in anything either,” Christopher continued. “Or if he did—” He fell silent for a moment, shook his head. “I'll tell you this, monsignor. There is a cask of wine in my cellar. I believe in that. Do you understand?”

Slowly, Etienne gathered his wits. “You are an evil man, Baron Aurverelle.”

“Careful, monsignor,” murmured Ranulf.

Christopher smiled thinly. “That's all right, Ranulf. Our dear monsignor is probably correct. I am an evil man. I've danced with bears, and I've rooted with pigs, and I've gone so far as to stare at the lives of common people as though they were a hot, smoking dish of venison. Indeed, I may hardly be a man at all any more.” He strode up to Etienne. “Go away. The inn's good enough for you. You should be flattered: your God was born in a stable, after all.”

Pytor heard the folk of Aurverelle whispering to one another. Christopher's language had been strong. Very strong.

Shaking with frustrated rage, Etienne signaled to his attendants, and they turned back down the main street of the town. The crowd parted to let them through, but Etienne stayed for a moment more. “His Holiness sent me personally, my lord.”

“And I'm sending you back. Personally.”

“I will stay at the inn until you see me.”

“Stay as long as you want,” said Christopher. “You can stay until the devils or the Elves or whoever else owns your rotten little soul comes for you. Just pay your reckoning when you leave, or I'll have you hanged as a common thief.”

With a snort of contempt, Etienne turned away.

Christopher stood with a bowed head for a moment, then sighed. “Thank you, Ranulf,” he said with a small bow to the captain. “I appreciate your loyalty and your fine work.”

Ranulf bowed deeply in return and strode away.

Then, unexpectedly, Christopher turned to the folk of Aurverelle. “And thank you also, my friends. I'm proud to be the baron of such fine and devoted people.”

A moment of silence. And then, one by one, growing from a trickle into a torrent, came the peasants' acknowledgments. Thankee, m'lord. God bless you, Messire Christopher. Someone began to cheer, and the sentiment rapidly became universal.

Christopher bowed, took Pytor's arm, and drew him towards the gate. “Come, my friend. And my thanks to you for your toleration of this unpleasantness.” But he peered into Pytor's face as though examining it for the first time. “You are my friend, aren't you?”

Friendship was something that Pytor had never really thought about. He was Christopher's man, that was all. But he cared about the baron, and he loved him. If that was what Christopher meant by a friend, then Pytor of Medno was a friend indeed. “Master . . . I . . .” He spread his arms, his tongue constrained by his status.

Christopher nodded, clapped him on the back. “That'll do. I understand.”

“Dear master,” said Pytor with a gesture towards the retreating Avignonese, “was that wise?”

“To tell a buffoon that he's a buffoon?” They passed through the gate into the outer courtyard. Outbuildings dotted the lawn, and daffodils and hyacinths sparkled: yet another legacy of old Baron Roger. “I can't see why not.”

But Christopher's eyes were shadowed, and Pytor caught his hand. “Do you really believe in nothing, master?”

Christopher stopped, regarded him sympathetically. “I know, Pytor. You've been separated from Orthodoxy so long that you miss your religion terribly, and so it hurts you to hear me say something like that. But I'm afraid that it's true. I once believed in Grandfather. No more. I once believed in chivalry, and that my sword could do something good, something for . . . for someone. Maybe for God. Maybe for myself. No more.” He tipped his head back, gazed at the great keep. “You know, I'm not even particularly good at whoring.” He dropped his eyes, shook his head. “That cask of wine sounds good to me now, but that's about all.”

“Master . . .”

Christopher gripped his hand. “If you'll stay my friend, Pytor, I shall consider myself well recompensed for my continuing, miserable existence. But come now. You have