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

me. You have to allow me to be judged by a n ecclesiastical court.”

“You're in Aurverelle,” said Christopher. “I'm the court here.”

“You can't kill me in cold blood!”

“Why not? I'm giving you as much of a chance as you gave that girl.”

“But she struck me!”

Christopher nodded. Pluck. Determination. Yes, he would believe in that girl. But she had taken the abuse that rightly should have been directed at himself. “She was obviously very discerning.”

Etienne turned to run, but Christopher's sword caught him between the shoulder blades, and the legate's legs folded beneath him as though made of dried leaves. A quick backslash, and Etienne's head rolled free.

Christopher's foot was still throbbing, but that did not stop him from giving a sharp kick. The head spun down the hall, thumping hollowly, trailing a fountain of blood.

He leaned against the wall. “And that's the way it should be, you bastard,” he said. “Leave the peasants out of it. Leave everyone out of it. Let them live without any parasites like you or me to bother them.”

Feet were thudding up the stairs. Pytor appeared. “Master!”

“I'm all right,” said Christopher, breathing heavily. He tried to put weight on his right foot, winced. “Someone take care of that girl. Call Guillaume. Call anyone. I want her alive.”

Chapter Nine

“Her name's Vanessa.”

The guard from Shrinerock sat on a stool in the great hall, holding a cold compress to his bruised head. He was the picture of dejection, and Christopher could not blame him for that. His captain was dead, his master was critically wounded, and he and his surviving comrade were battered, cut, and exhausted.

Christopher, though, was not inclined to be merciful. He had fought at the Green Man Inn, but he had not fought because of duty or honor. He had fought for the girl named Vanessa, who now lay in a castle bedroom.

“What was she doing with Martin Osmore?”

“Going to Saint Blaise. Master Martin wa' her escort.”

And Master Martin, too, was in a castle bed, writhing and screaming from a sword thrust to his stomach. But Martin seemed tormented by a little more than his wound. Christopher had heard him even from down the hall: “Don't send me to hell, Yvonnet!”

Interesting. There were rumors about Yvonnet. This confirmed them. But Christopher was more interested in Vanessa. “What was she going to do in Saint Blaise?”

“I dan know. I think Master Martin said sa'thing about her being an apprentice.”

“Did you ever talk to her?”

The soldier looked up, met Christopher's eyes, and the baron saw fear in his face. “I dan't talk to her at all, m'lord.”

Fear? “Why not?”

“She's . . .” The soldier dropped his eyes, clutched the cloth to his head. Trickles of water wound down his face and dripped to the flagstone floor. “I think she's possessed. I think her ma and da sent her to Saint Blaise to be rid o' her.”

Possessed? Nonsense. A fighter, rather. But, like Christopher himself, a reject.

He could understand that. As much as he had turned his back on the virtues and questions of honor that impelled his society, his action had been but an echo of their rejection of him. “Thank you, sir,” he said, standing. “I'll leave you now. Master Pytor will see to a room for you and your friend.”

The man looked up. “An' Thomas?”

“Efram is looking after him. We can bury him here, or we can send him back to Shrinerock. I'll send messengers to Baron Paul and Mayor Matthew in the morning.”

Odd. All of a sudden, Christopher was breaking his isolation. He had brought strangers into the castle—commoners at that—and now he was going to be sending messages not only to Paul delMari, whose grandfather, as he now recalled, had been murdered by old Roger himself, but also the the Free Towns, against which Roger had plotted.

Shaking his head, Christopher mounted the stairs tot he upper floor of the residence, wincing slightly at the pain in his right foot.

But he forgot about the pain when he entered Vanessa's room. She lay quietly, swathed in the linen bandages that Guillaume and Jerome had applied, but Christopher had already seen the extent of the damage inflicted upon her. Broken arms, broken wrists, broken legs from the fall. Ribs caved in. A smashed skull . . . and probably damage to her brain. Her blond hair, matted with seeping blood, wicked the fluid away form her wounds and stained her pillow.

From down the hall, Christopher could hear Martin screaming: “Don't send me to hell. Yvonnet! No! Again, please . . . yesyesyes . . .”

Guillaume stood up from tying a last strip of linen in place, cocked an ear at the screams. “He'll live,” he said. “Seen it before. The boy's young. Strong as a destrier. Take more than a single thrust to do him in. Hurt himself if he keeps on like that.”

Christopher folded his arms. “So he'll live. Tie him up if you're worried about his wet dreams.”

“Tie him up?”

“You tied me up. What about Vanessa?”

“The girl . . .” Guillaume shook his head, the seams of his old face growing deeper. “She's dead, I'm afraid.”

This was not what Christopher wanted to hear. “She's still breathing.”

“Not by much.”

And, true, Vanessa's breaths were shallow, with long spaces between exhalation and intake.

“She won't last much longer,” said Guillaume. “It's sad. True, though.”

But though Guillaume did not know it, the girl on the bed was not simply Vanessa of Furze Hamlet. She had come to be also Baron Christopher delAurvre and whatever shreds of hope and belief might have been left to him. A fighter . . .

He would not let her go.

“Fix her,” he said.

“Can't be done.”

“Fix her. Do whatever you can. If you can't do it, then get help.”

“My lord—”

“Do it!”

Christopher turned and left the room, straining to hear, as he stepped down the corridor, the sound of Vanessa's next breath.

***

Guillaume did what he could, and when, in spite of his art and science, Vanessa continued to sink, he shook his old head and