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

moment, bewildered by the confusion. Etienne's men were barring the doors against guests and townspeople who were milling before them, struggling to get out, screaming for bailiffs and guards who did not come. A few feet from him, two men in light mail that bore the Shrinerock arms were standing over the body of a third, battling against four more Avignonese. Tables were scattered and smashed, overturned lamps were beginning to smolder in the straw and rushes, and panic was as much an acrid presence as sweat, blood, and smoke.

Christopher debated. Some French knights, motivated by hazy but impelling thoughts of chivalry and honor, would have plunged unhesitatingly into the fray armed with no more than a bent twig. But Christopher had lost faith in chivalry and honor. Chivalry was a sham. Honor was a word exalted more in ballads and poems than in life.

But that girl out there. A fighter. That was good. Christopher could not believe in chivalry and honor, but he decided that he would believe in that girl.

One of the Shrinerock men, fighting like three, lifted a foot against an adversary and kicked him away. Etienne's man lost his balance and fell towards Christopher. The baron stepped aside and let him slam into the wall.

The man reeled. Christopher pounced, slipping his dagger beneath the mail at the man's throat and gouging deep. The soldier's scream was drowned in a gurgle. Christopher grabbed his sword and then, with a good kick, sent him directly into the big fire that blazed on the open hearth. He floundered among the flames and glowing coals.

“Aurverelle!” Christopher could not see Etienne anymore, but his shout rang through the common room, and the Avignonese, startled, hesitated for an instant. It was all Christopher needed. Slashing across the face of one who was attacking the beleaguered Shrinerockers, he whirled the blinded man about with his free hand and let Baron Paul's man finish him off. His foot skidded in the blood that had pooled on the floor, but he let his loss of balance take the point of his sword straight through the chest of another assailant.

The man went down. So, almost, did Christopher, but one of the Shrinerock men caught him. “Christopher delAurvre,” Christopher shouted above the din. “Baron of Aurverelle. Pleased to meet you. Carry on!”

And leaving the astonished guard to face another of Etienne's men, eh threw himself on the group that was blocking the door. Clad in nondescript garments and therefore invisible amid the crowd of peasants and guests who were scrambling futilely against the Avignonese, Christopher went undetected until his sword found its first mark.

The man fell with an astonished look. “Back!” Christopher shouted. “Give me some room!”

The people of Aurverelle, hearing the voice of their baron, obeyed without question. But though Christopher had room now, so did Etienne's men, and there were six or seven of them to Christopher's single sword.

Pytor, get those guards in here.

He recalled the door. It was still barred. The Avignonese closed on him. He still had no idea where the legate had gone.

With an inward shrug, he stooped and cut through the legs of the first guard, crouched, and let him topple across his back, thereby shielding himself from the three or four swords that came crashing down simultaneously. He straightened, threw the now lifeless body onto two of his attackers, smashed a fist into the face of a third, and managed to kick the bar free of the door.

His foot throbbed. The bar had been heavy. He would be limping for a while.

An Avignonese thrust at him, but he sideslipped the blow and let the sword bury itself in the wall. With a leap, he threw his weight on the flat of the trapped weapon and broke it. Etienne's man was astonished, but Christopher sent him reeling back onto the waiting swords of the Shrinerockers.

Another battle cry split the smoky room. “God and Saint Adrian!”

“That's the spirit,” Christopher murmured. But the door was opening now, and he caught a glimpse of Pytor's broad face and sharp sword, and a score of Aurverelle guards. He waved them in, but as he did he saw Etienne making for the stairs.

Etienne saw Christopher, too. He ran.

Christopher caught up with him halfway up the first flight, grabbed his ankle, and jerked him back toward the common room. The churchman fell, his face clattering against the treads like an empty bucket, but he pushed off at the last moment, tumbled the baron to the floor, then rose and made for the upper rooms again. Perhaps he would try to climb down to the street, perhaps he thought he could leap to another roof. Christopher did not intend to give him the chance.

He pounded up the stairs, but when he reached the upper corridor, Etienne had a sword in his hand.

Christopher closed in. “I thought churchmen weren't supposed to carry weapons.”

Etienne was making a brave show, but his face, where it was not bloody, was pale. He backed down the hall. “We're not supposed to be attacked, either.”

Christopher stalked the legate as though he were a boar in a thicket. “Or perhaps you'd prefer to use a brass candlestick. You seem to do fairly well with such things—”

Etienne struck skillfully, but Christopher had been hardened by training and battle, and the disregard for orthodox tactics he had acquired in the course of the crusade was matched now by his contempt for his own life. In a moment, the legate's weapon had clattered to the floor.

Etienne backed up, staring. Christopher had knocked the blade aside with only a gloved fist.

“You're dealing with a delAurvre, Etienne,” Christopher said as he came on. “We're a slightly different breed. You're very lucky I'm not my grandfather. He would have served you up boiled for breakfast.” He was angry enough that he did not feel the pang: his grandfather had ended his days planting peach trees and bulbs in the garden.

“I am a man of God,” said Etienne suddenly. “You can't kill