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

sent for aid. At his request, Peter of Maris made the journey down from the coast; but after a cursory examination, he advised bleeding the girl—and was thrown bodily out of the castle by Christopher himself. Carl of Vienna arrived a few days later with am ore cautious approach, and Jakob ben Yuzef of Belroi came with his knowledge and skill and his willingness to touch even Gentile flesh if by doing so he might bring comfort. Together with Guillaume, they labored throughout many nights, changing dressings, noting symptoms, spooning as much broth into the girl's unconscious mouth as she could be made to swallow without choking.

They tried herbs, poultices, even prayer; and once, yes, Vanessa actually seemed to rally. Her eyes flickered half open, and she peered glassily at the faces above her. Christopher, who knelt beside the bed, peered back, hoping for some sound, perhaps a word. “Vanessa,” he called softly.

Her eyes focused for an instant, and the baron saw a light in them. Not a mad light, not a sick light. It was, instead, as of someone who had seen . . . too much, and who was even now seeing. It was a frightening look, and its terror was magnified by the fact that it came from a face so broken that it was hardly recognizable as belonging to a woman.

Jerome murmured a prayer, and Guillaume sat back, shaken, but Christopher met Vanessa's eyes levelly. He, too, had seen too much. He, too, was even now seeing. “I know,” he said softly. He touched her bandaged hand. “I know.”

But then Vanessa's eyes closed, and she lapsed back into fevered dreams.

“Can't believe it,” said Guillaume at the end of the second week. “Amazing. She's still holding on.”

“Is she getting better?” said Christopher.

Guillaume dropped his eyes. “She's getting worse, my lord.”

Martin, on the other hand, was improving. Though he was still in pain, his fever had left him, and he was eating. He drooped, though, and his blackened eyes and bruised wrists—emblems of an encounter, Christopher knew, that had nothing to do with the fray at the inn—were stark against a dark face that pain and fever had left the color of old ashes.

“Tell me about Vanessa,” said Christopher, perching on a stool by his bed.

Martin looked frightened, and Christopher read his fear. Here was the famous baron of Aurverelle, the one who was mad. And not only was Martin a commoner, he was also a sodomite, a practitioner of a secret vice considered worse even than murder or adultery.

Christopher found himself rather unconcerned. Compared to Nicopolis—or, for that matter, Vanessa's wounds—Martin's choice of recreation seemed a paltry thing. But, yes, he was the baron of Aurverelle, and, yes, he was mad—if madness lay in seeing too much, in having no illusions.

“What . . . what do you want to know?” said Martin.

“Why did her parents send her away.”

“She's . . . different.”

Christopher nearly laughed. “You're different, too . . .”

Martin turned white.

“. . . and I didn't notice that Baron Paul was sending you to the stake for it.”

Stripped, vulnerable, Martin scrambled for some security. “He doesn't . . . he doesn't know.”

“Don't be so sure,” said Christopher. “Baron Paul only pretends to be an idiot.”

Martin looked worse. “You want to know about Vanessa, not about me.”

Christopher planted his elbows on his knees, settled his chin in his hands. “I already know about you. If it reassures you, I don't give a damn. You can stick your prick down the throats of breeding herons if you want. I don't care. Tell me about Vanessa.”

Martin shrugged. “I don't know her very well. I don't think that anyone can. Her father told Baron Paul that he wanted her to be able to better herself, but I don't believe that. I think he was afraid.”

Afraid? Of Vanessa? But Christopher recalled the light in her eyes. Yes, and people were afraid of the baron of Aurverelle, too. Probably for much the same reason. “Why?”

“Has she looked at you?”

Christopher smiled. “Like I'm looking at you right now.”

Martin shuddered. “It's nothing like it. You'll see.”

“Believe me, I want to see.”

Martin was silent.

“You know,” said Christopher, “you've been in this castle for three weeks now, and never once have you asked about Vanessa.”

Martin was silent.

“Don't you care?”

“I . . .” Martin's dark eyes flickered. “I have my own problems.”

Christopher grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulled him half up. “You don't give a damn about anyone else, do you? You're just like me.” And then he shoved the lad back onto the bed and left the room.

Vanessa continued to worsen. By the next morning, she was hovering liminally between life and death, her breathing almost nonexistent, her heartbeat irregular, weak, fluttering. Christopher wanted to stay by her bed, but—the business of a baron once again intruding on him—Martin's parents arrived at noon. They had come up from Saint Blaise to take their son home.

Matthew Osmore was a stout man with a thick shock of dark hair that spilled luxuriantly over the silks and velvets he wore. To Christopher's annoyance, Matthew persisted in addressing him as an equal—which, from a purely economic point of view, was probably the case—and he seemed to b e constantly surveying the castle as though he were calculating just how much it would cost to build one just like it.

“Awfully grateful to you, Christopher,” he said. “Martin's our only son—got lots of daughters, you know, but only one man in the old pecker . . .” He laughed loudly. “. . . and we were frantic, absolutely frantic, about him when we heard about that little tiff with the clergyman. I imagine Martin acquitted himself well?”

Martin, as far as Christopher knew, had lunged, taken a sword thrust to the abdomen, and fallen on the floor. “I believe he did quite well, sir.”

“Excellent. Excellent. We've got a real man to look forward to, then, don't we, Bonne?”

Matthew's wife was equally stout, but she wore her peasant origins proudly. Her