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

Natil put aside Ruprecht's letter, extended her hand to Jerome. “May I?”

With a shrug, Jerome handed her the document. She glanced over it quickly, not even moving her lips. “This is indeed out of date,” she said. “These are pre-plague levels. Baron Paul's forces have been substantially reduced.”

“Well,” said Jerome, “the entire population of Adria has been substantially reduced since the plague hit back in Baron Ingram's days.”

Natil shook her head sadly, as though the plague were some kind of personal failing. “It is unfortunate that it could not be forestalled any longer.”

Christopher lifted his head at her tone. Natil was, for the moment, abstracted, pensive. But she indicated Jerome's tabulation. “Paul's forces have fallen to approximately one third of this.”

Christopher frowned at the news. “I daresay the same applies to the other baronies.”

“More than likely,” said Natil. “Though Ruprecht might well have made an effort toward keeping his forces at maximum levels.”

“He is a keen one for battle,” said Jerome. “As long as the odds are in his favor.”

Christopher laughed bitterly. “Then maybe he should have gone to Nicopolis. But then he might have gotten his precious armor all dusty, eh?”

The anger and defeat were still there, still lurking, still waiting for a chance to fasten their teeth into him once more. He had been given a glimpse of the magic, but he had to find the rest himself.

He glanced at Natil. The harper met his eyes levelly, their tranquillity a reminder of the task, inner and outer, that he had set for himself, just as the harp at her feet was a reminder of the method he had chosen.

Sun destre guant en ad vers deu tendut . . .

He had offered his glove, but Yvonnet and Ruprecht had rejected it. And the smaller baronies, linked with the capital cities of Adria by blood and intricate alliance, would follow their lead. Somehow, he had to win over the barons of Hypprux and Maris.

“You were right, Jerome,” he said. “You and Pytor both. I went about mad, and proud of my madness, and that's going to make this task that much harder. I suppose I need to start acting like a baron again.”

“My lord, you've taken great strides toward that end since—” Jerome caught himself, blushed.

Christopher grinned. “Since Vanessa showed up? Quite right, Jerome.”

Natil was watching him. She was smiling fondly, and the expression made Christopher feel warm inside.

“I think I'm going to pay a visit to my . . . uh . . . dear cousin, Yvonnet,” he said. “I'll have to try to convince him in person that he needs to help. Ruprecht . . .” He drummed his fingers on his knee, shrugged. “Ruprecht I'll figure out later. For all I know he's expecting the Hanse to protect him. If that's the case, we'll have to pressure some contacts in Bruges. For now, it's Yvonnet.” He stood up, opened the door to the hallway, bellowed: “Raffalda!”

He turned around to Jerome's questioning face. “I'll be going to Hypprux,” he explained. “But I'll be going in state. Official business. I'll need silks and velvets sewn up and fitted—God help me, no poulaines: I'm not that far gone!—and I'll need a dozen soldiers properly equipped to attend me.”

He smiled at Natil.

“And . . . some things for my personal harper.”

Natil nodded graciously. Jerome looked incredulous. “But . . .”

Christopher silenced him with a glance in the grand old delAurvre style. “William of Normandy had Taillefer,” he said. “Christopher delAurvre has Natil.” He heard Raffalda approaching with quick steps. “William took all of England. Let's see what I can do about Adria.”

***

The proposed visit of Christopher, baron of Aurverelle, occasioned a great deal of talk in Hypprux. It was well known that the baron was mad, that he dressed in sackcloth and ate raw meat, and that, like his grandfather, he had a weakness for peasant girls—but whether that meant in bed or on a spit was open to conjecture.

So when Christopher, Natil, Ranulf, and a dozen men of the Aurverelle guard rode in through the main gate of the city and made their way along the Street of Saint Lazarus, the crowds were thick, and the windows and balconies above the street were filled with curious faces.

If the people of Hypprux had expected overt madness, though, they were disappointed. Christopher, boyish and slender, smiling, waving, and occasionally tossing out a few gold coins, seemed the perfect picture of a baron. His silks and velvets, embroidered and decorated with jewels, were cut in the latest fashion, and a gold-hilted sword gleamed at his side. His men-at-arms wore the very brightest mail covered by perfectly matching surcoats, and his personal harper, clad in a gown of sky blue and a gray cloak and carrying her small instrument before he, smiled with tranquil and unnerving warmth upon all.

They turned left at the Street Gran Pont and proceeded toward the Château. Christopher still waved and tossed coins, but he sidled close to Natil's side. “I daresay they still think I'm mad,” he said.

“Really, my lord?”

He grinned. “And I might be, Natil. Imagine the madness required for visiting a baron who has well-known designs upon Aurverelle.”

Natil's brow furrowed. “Are you concerned, my lord?”

“About Yvonnet? Not really. The delAurvres have a reputation. No one crosses us.”

But the memory of the missing wool shipment came back to him. Someone had crossed the delAurvres and had gotten away with it. How far had the general reputation of Aurverelle fallen? In his own way, he had been as detrimental to the family name as his grandfather.

“Fear not, Baron Christopher,” said Natil. “There is no danger.” Her sight seemed to turn inward. “So far . . .”

The Château of Hypprux had been built to rival the fortifications of Maris. Its walls were thick and high, and its gates were masterpieces of the art of the castlebuilder: double, offset, triple-barred, and murder-holed. Along the top of the walls, merlons stood up like teeth, and arrow-loupes stared down at the visitors.

Christopher could