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

Christopher grappled with the wound that she had touched. He had to ignore it for now. It was important that he ignore it. “Do they . . . do they say that you have to? Or just that you will if you don't choose to do otherwise?”

Her tears stopped abruptly, and she stared out of her bandaged face. “But . . . where else would I go?”

“Do you have family? I mean, besides in Furze Hamlet?”

It was a foolish question, one that came from a nobleman with blood ties that caught all of Adria and much of Europe in their meshes. What family could Vanessa possibly have outside of Furze Hamlet?

But to his surprise, she nodded. 'My grandma is in Saint Brigid. If she's still alive.”

Saint Brigid? There was a story in that, he was sure. “Might she accept you for what you are? Patterns or not?”

“I . . . I dan know. Da said that she wa' always different, too.” She stared out at the peach avenue. One of many paths. Only one of many. It was a frightening thought, but a liberating one, too. “I dan know . . . I dan know what to think.”

“Give yourself a chance.” Christopher pulled out a handkerchief and dried her tears. “Think about it. You can do whatever you want. Think about that.”

He took her back to her bedroom and told her to rest, then went down to the kitchen and found David. “I want a feast tomorrow night,” he said.

David had looked uncertain at Christopher's entrance, as though he half-expected him to seize a barrel of apples and begin pelting the kitchen boys with fruit; but at the baron's words, he broke out in smiles. “My lord, it would give me no greater pleasure. May I ask whom we shall be entertaining?”

“Vanessa. Her bandages are coming off this evening.” Really, though, his orders had little to do with her bandages. They had, rather, to do with her soul. Or maybe his soul. He was not sure. Or maybe it did not really matter.

At the mention of Vanessa, David's face turned uncertain again. “Ah . . . as you wish, my lord.”

Lips pursed with annoyance, Christopher stalked towards the door and, on the way out, fired an apple straight at the chef. David caught it. Between the monkey and the baron, he was getting quite good at such things.

***

“You don't approve of her either, do you, Jerome?”

It was evening, and Christopher was readying himself for the banquet he had arranged for Vanessa. True, he had rushed the removal of her bandages by a few weeks, but she was obviously healed, and had been, in fact, since Terrill and Mirya (whoever they were) had finished their treatment (whatever that was). And so the bandages had come off, and for the first time since he had left for Nicopolis, Christopher had called for his baronial finery. Now Raffalda was lacing him into a silk undershirt and the crimson velvet tunic with the slashed sleeves and the embroidery, diamonds, and pearls; and now Jerome was standing by the door, a frowning apparition.

“My lord,” said the Franciscan, “it's not for me to approve or disapprove—”

“You sound just like Pytor sometimes, Jerome. Did you know that?”

Jerome sighed. “My lord, it isn't seemly.”

Christopher took the velvet cap from Raffalda and fitted it on his head. He peered into a mirror. The baron of Aurverelle. Stuffed and padded and wrapped and laced. Laughable, really. But it was a feast, and he was celebrating. Spectacle, at least, was something that he could do for Vanessa.

Christopher turned about. “Do you like this outfit, Jerome?”

“Very nice, my lord . . .” Jerome cleared his throat. “Ah . . .”

“The very picture of a baron, no?”

“Very.”

“What isn't seemly?”

“Vanessa.”

“Thought so.”

Jerome tried again. “Baron Christopher, there are noblemen all over Europe who have acquired . . . attachments to women of lesser rank.”

Christopher was deliberately preening much more than was necessary. “And occasionally to men. Right, Jerome?”

The Franciscan colored. His aversion to Martin's vice had been obvious. He had not even been willing to say hello to the lad once he had become aware of his liaison with Yvonnet. “Ah, correct, my lord.”

“You should be glad it's a woman, Jerome. When I first showed up in my beard and rags, it might well have been a horse.”

“My lord!”

Grinning, Christopher flopped down in a chair and stuck out his feet. Raffalda rummaged through a chest. “No, Raffalda. Not the poulains. I'm a baron, not a duck.” But he nodded to her eventual discovery of a pair of well-made boots. “Talk, Jerome,” he said as she set about squeezing his feet into them. “Tell me about Vanessa. Tell me she's a peasant. Tell me she's below my class. Tell me that—oh, dear God!—people will talk.”

“They will, my lord.”

“They talked about my madness. Nothing happened.”

Jerome pursed his lips and did not speak.

Christopher straightened up. He knew that look. “All right. What happened?”

“One of our wool shipments on the way to Ghent was intercepted on the other side of the Aleser Mountains. Near the border with Champagne. The free companies. Brigands usually stay away from Aurverelle goods, for good reason. However . . .”

“Well, perhaps we have some stupid brigands.” Christopher snorted. “Anyone daft enough to take a wool shipment . . .”

“Perhaps they were emboldened by my lord's . . . ah . . .” Jerome colored. His words had taken him a little too far.

Christopher finished the sentence. “By my lord's idiotic infatuation with a peasant girl.”

Jerome stayed colored.

“Isn't that it?”

Jerome did not speak.

“Or maybe it's the fact that she's crazy, too? Or possessed? Or heretical? Or something like that?”

Jerome looked stricken. “My dear lord, I didn't say that.”

“You thought it loud enough, Jerome.”

Raffalda grunted and strained as she pressed the tight-fitting boots onto Christopher's feet. She was damp and flushed when she rose. “Will there be anything else, my lord?” she said with a curtsy.

Christopher stood up.