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

aura of latent and irrational violence, he had been used to deference, and deference was obviously not what Natil was offering. “You've entered a household where your talents might not be required,” he told her.

“I understand that,” she said calmly. “As my lord baron wishes.” She curtsied, but her slender hands held her small harp as though she would like nothing better than to begin playing immediately.

“You'd probably do better in Hypprux,” Christopher snapped. “It's more courtly there. Yvonnet likes the little niceties. Harps, foods, silks . . . ah . . .” He recalled Martin. Toothsome little morsel. The thought of the vices to which his line had sunk made him queasy. “. . . other things . . .”

“But I am here,” said Natil.

Christopher glowered. He had spent a sleepless night worrying about Vanessa and the free companies, slipping, at most, into brief dozes filled with images of small villages encircled by troops of men and horses, the gleam of armor alternating with the dull glow of greedy fires. He did not have any heart for the antic or the mad this morning, and though Natil's perfect composure rankled him, he could not but feel a little afraid of this woman whose sense of self and dignity was far more deeply rooted than his.

He slumped in his chair. “Play something,” he said brusquely. “Anything. I want to make sure you're not a fraud.”

A servant brought a stool, and Natil seated herself with a soft swish of her blue gown. She set her harp on her lap, tried two strings to see if they were true, then smiled graciously. “A dance, my lord?”

“Whatever.”

Natil played, and she had not finished the first phrase before Christopher understood why Pytor had hired her even though his master had expressed no interest whatsoever in harpers. The music was splendid. Passages of dazzling intricacy and rapid-fire ornaments fell from Natil's hands as effortlessly as the daylight fell from the windows, and the melody moved through the room, a presence at once gay and holy, mysterious and immediate.

When she finished, Pytor was beaming, and Christopher had to fight to suppress an admiring smile. Yes, he could see how the Russian had been won. “All right,” he said. “You can stay. You have the freedom of the castle, but don't expect that I'll be wanting your services very often. And if I hear you playing in the garden or something and I don't want to hear it, I'll tell you to shut up, and that will be that. Do you understand?”

Natil remained unruffled. “I do.”

She was unnerving, as discomfiting as that Mirya and Terrill. Christopher tried to find some reason to send her out of the room that would not give away his true feelings, but he could think of nothing. He gave up. This was his day for open court in the hall. He would simply ignore her.

He spent the next two hours listening to men and women from the town and countryside, sorting through matters of estate justice and grievance: taxes in arrears, trespassing, theft, assault, occasional rape. Jerome usually heard most of these, but an insistent defendant, if dissatisfied with the chief bailiff's decision, could, by right, appeal directly to the baron; and even Roger in his rake-hell days had never abrogated that privilege.

All the while that Christopher listened and judged, though, he was conscious of Natil's presence. The harper stood quietly off to the side, her harp in her arms, but her eyes, though downcast, flashed more brightly than Christopher had ever seen in anyone before, and for some reason he kept thinking of Mirya and Terrill.

Toward the end of the afternoon, he suddenly realized both that he was staring openly at her and that silence had fallen in the hall. With an effort, he shook himself out of his fascination. “All right, then. Who's next?”

At Jerome's signal, the men-at-arms brought in a young peasant man. This, the Franciscan explained, was Walter, one of Christopher's lowland tenants. Walter looked terrified, and appeared not to expect much more than an instant hanging. Probably at the baron's own hands.

“What's he done?” said Christopher.

“He's been stealing fish from your ponds,” said Jerome. “Quite a lot of fish, in fact.”

Christopher shrugged. “Well, the monkey steals fruit.”

“I thought the matter rather straightforward,” continued Jerome with a touch of annoyance, “as he even admits his guilt.”

“I daresay the monkey would admit it, too.”

Now Jerome was frowning openly. If Christopher would not defend his baronial rights, he could expect as little regard from his people as he was apparently receiving from the free companies. The estate folk were willing to accept strange clothes and occasionally antic behavior, but some appearances had to be kept up.

Christopher glared at the unfortunate Walter. “Explain yourself, man.”

Walter shuffled forward. “It's my wife, m'lord. She's with child, and she seems to be able to keep down only fish these days. God knows why she couldn't have fixed on something readier, but I can't afford any more fish from the market, and so I . . .” He wrung his cap in his hands.

“So you admit stealing my fish?”

“Yes, m'lord. I done it.”

Christopher's head ached. His grandfather would have made short work of Walter. At least during his first thirty years. But his grandfather would have kept Vanessa in Aurverelle, too. At least during his first thirty years.

Planting peach trees. To such a fine end had the delAurvres come!

“This story about your wife: is it the truth, Walter?”

Walter looked too frightened to say anything but the truth. “Yes, m'lord.”

Jerome was right. Very straightforward. And the poor wretch had somehow scraped together enough temerity to appeal his case to the baron. But on an impulse, Christopher turned suddenly to Natil, hoping to catch her off guard. “What do you think, harper?”

Her blue eyes flicked to him. “Of what, my lord?”

Perfectly composed.

“Of Walter? Should I cut off his hands?”

Natil was unshaken. “If you cut off his hands, my lord, he will be unable to steal, to be