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

“I assure you, mistress . . .”

“The patterns dan say it yet.” But the girl's face turned puzzled, then agitated. “An' the patterns can't change, can they? They never change. An' . . .” She stood, shaking, for a moment, then pushed past Martin and Otto and fled into the rooms.

“We're tired,” Martin said to the servant. “And you're tedious. Go away.” He handed a bag of money to Otto. “We'll be leaving tomorrow morning,” he said. “Please have our horses ready.”

The innkeeper found the weight of the sack reassuring. It made him feel satisfied, even friendly. Good people, these. A little odd, perhaps, but good people.

And for that reason, he watched uneasily as, in the common room that evening, Etienne rose from the long table he had commandeered and swaggered over to the nook where Martin and Vanessa were eating supper. His clothing as sumptuous as that of the most excessive of the French dukes, his bearing as haughty, he stood before their table, his hand on the pommel of his sword. His pose, Otto thought, was a little too studied—rather like a monkey, save that monkeys were not supposed to wear swords. With a deeper sense of imminent disaster, Otto recalled that churchmen were not supposed to, either.

Vanessa regarded Etienne with wide, incredible eyes, but he did not seem to notice. Otto doubted that he noticed anything more than her breasts and the curve of her waist. “Fair maiden,” said Etienne softly. “Such a lovely little butterfly has been blown into Aurverelle. What storm brought you here?”

What had Vanessa talked about? Patterns? What kind of patterns was she seeing in the papal legate? Otto started to ease around the end of the counter, though in truth he had not the faintest idea what he could do against either the legate or his score of armed guards and servants. The latter had stopped eating and drinking . . . and were now watching.

“I'm on my way t' Saint Blaise, messire,” said Vanessa. “I ha' employment waiting for me there.”

“Ah . . . employment,” said Etienne. “I might have some . . . employment . . . for you myself. May I ask your name?”

Vanessa's eyes widened, and she turned to Martin. “Nay!”

Martin looked at her, startled, but he spoke. “Her name is Vanessa, sir. And mine is Martin Osmore. My father is the mayor of Saint Blaise. Kindly leave us alone now.”

Etienne's expression did not change. It remained at once determined and predatory. “You should learn your manners better, little boy.”

Vanessa was still looking at Martin. “Martin, dan do it. They're . . .” She blinked. “Changing . . .” She whirled to face Etienne just as the legate's fist lashed out and caught Martin in the throat. The lad's eyes widened for an instant, and then he toppled to the floor.

One of the Shrinerock guards was already charging across the common room, overturning tables, kicking chairs out of the way. His men were not far behind him. But as Vanessa shrank back—from whatever it was that she saw with those frightening eyes or from the legate, Otto could not be sure—Etienne signaled to his attendant, and the Shrinerockers found their way suddenly barred by a dozen men in mail.

Martin floundered on the floor. Otto glanced at Ernest, the tapster. Ernest looked at the swords that were suddenly starting from their sheaths. “Run and fetch the guards from the castle,” said Otto. “I'll see what I can do.”

“Come, my maid,” Etienne was saying as Shrinerocker steel met Avignonese. “I always get what I want.” He grabbed the girl by the arm and hauled her out of her seat. “And tonight I want you. Do you understand?”

Vanessa, unaccountably bewildered, stared, her eyes filled with strange light, her lips moving soundlessly.

“Come now, girl. Much better this be pleasant, eh?”

Ernest vaulted the counter and made for the door just as Martin staggered to his feet, a dagger in his hand. With a casual gesture, the churchman drew his sword and dropped Martin with a single thrust, and Ernest was met at the door by two Avignonese who bore him backwards and over one of the tables. A heavy, mailed fist smashed into his jaw.

Vanessa began to scream: the sustained, mindless wail of an animal in a trap. One of the Shrinerockers broke free of the guards and lunged for Etienne, but, cut down form behind, fell face forward across a table full of beer mugs. Blood and froth went everywhere. People ran for the door, but Etienne's men had blocked it.

Frightened, looking for a place to hide in a room that no longer seemed to have any, Otto sidled into one of the darker corners as Etienne dragged Vanessa up against his body. “Now! I'll see you at the stake before I let you go!”

“You'll . . .” Vanessa was staring beyond Etienne. “You'll see me a' the stake anywa'!”

For an instant, Etienne stared at her, perplexed by her strange reply; and with a sudden jerk, Vanessa lifted a leg and kneed the churchman in the groin. His grip loosened for a moment, and she broke free and made for the stairs to the upper floors. Etienne was right behind her.

So was Otto. Fevered with worry about his inn, confused because all courses of action seemed blocked, the innkeeper scuffed up the steps as quickly as he could. From below came the sound of struggles and screams. Someone was shouting for castle guards, someone else for the bailiffs, but Otto could do nothing. He was not even sure what he could do for Vanessa.

He reached her room just in time to see the girl come up with a heavy brass candlestick and smash it into Etienne's face. The legate staggered back, bleeding badly. “You . . . dare! You little swine of a serf!”

“It's na time yet!” she was crying. “It's na time! I dan see wha's happened! E'erything's changed!” Vanessa swung again, putting her shoulders behind her stroke as though she