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

He wondered what else she knew. Probably too much. Damn, but she reminded him of Vanessa sometimes.

But now he was hearing a deep voice from the room. It was Yvonnet. At first, Christopher could not understand it, but then he realized that his cousin was crying: deep, mannish sobs, half muffled as though with cloth.

Startled, he glanced at Natil. She shook her head, sadness gleaming in her eyes. Natil, it seemed, could feel pity for anyone.

Christopher strained his ears, began to make out whispered words.

“I've done it, Lengram,” Yvonnet was saying. “I've done it. There's no going back. I can't help it. And what will God say to me when I die?”

Lengram's tone was that of a mother shushing a fretful child. “He'll say that you did well to preserve the Church of Rome. That will . . . ah . . . count for a great deal.”

“You and I are bad enough, Lengram. But fratricide? What will He say to that?”

“Christopher's not your brother.”

“He's close enough.”

Christopher wrinkled his nose. At present, even cousin was too close for him.

Yvonnet continued to sob, genuinely frightened. Sword in hand, with Natil behind him, Christopher eased into the bedroom. The spill of moonlight was faint, but it was enough for him to be able to see the tangle of sheets and lovers' limbs on the bed.

“And I can't stop it, Lengram,” said Yvonnet. “I can't. I couldn't stop with Martin, no matter how he pleaded—he wanted it anyway, I know—and I can't stop this with Christopher now.”

Natil was already slipping across the room to the door. Her pale hands went to the latch, made sure it was locked. She looked to Christopher, nodded.

“But you want Aurverelle, don't you, Yvonnet?” said Lengram.

“Of course I want it. But I don't want to do such a thing as . . . as . . .”

Christopher said it for him. “As kill your dear cousin, Yvonnet?”

Silence. Hoarse, labored breathing.

“Get up.” The contempt was loud in Christopher's voice. “Get up, you damned coward.”

Slowly, Yvonnet disentangled himself from Lengram and staggered to his feet. Strong but heavy, hirsute to the point of ursine shagginess, he held his big arms clutched against his chest like a woman caught in adultery. “Christopher,” he managed.

“Dear Cousin Christopher. As you so often reminded me.”

Lengram was sitting up, the sheet wrapped about him. “I will . . . ah . . . shout. You'll never get out of the Château alive.”

Unnoticed, Natil had slipped behind him, and the chamberlain's eyes widened when he felt her hand on his hair and the touch of a knife at his throat. “Say nothing,” whispered the harper. “Do nothing.” Her voice was calm, with just a touch of pity.

Yvonnet, trembling, hung his head. “What are you going to do?”

Christopher shook his head. “The question would be better put, dear cousin, as: 'What are we going to do?' And the answer is that we are going to take a little trip.” Yvonnet lifted his head. “Yes,” said Christopher. “A little hunting trip. We have to start early. Very early. And we're taking Ranulf and my men with us.”

Yvonnet started to speak.

“Shut up,” said Christopher. “You won't need any of those dandies you call attendants. Ranulf and the men will suffice. And . . .” He glanced at Natil, grinned without mirth. “And our horses, too.”

Yvonnet stared.

“Call off the search, dear cousin,” said Christopher. “And send word to my men that we're leaving immediately.”

Yvonnet was weeping.

Christopher stepped forward and laid the point of his sword against Yvonnet's naked chest. “Call,” he said, “or I swear that I'll put you on the floor with a hole in your heart.”

Shaking, with Christopher's sword at his back, Yvonnet went to the door and called.

Chapter Sixteen

Christopher returned to Aurverelle just ahead of an autumn storm that pelted the fields first with rain, then with hail, then with sleet, and quickly churned the just-sown earth into a sea of cold mud. Standing as they did on a high outcropping of rock, the castle and the town were relatively unaffected, but the bad weather continued for several weeks, and the lowlands—and the tenants and crofters who lived in them—were soon flooded.

Another baron might have holed up in his fortress and waited for sunshine, but not Christopher. He gathered castle folk and townsfolk and took them down to help; and together with the peasant farmers they labored in the pouring rain, dredging out canals, repairing dikes and hedges, scrambling through the mud with loads of reeds for the thatchers. It was brutal, cold work that demanded no skill, only endurance and will, but the baron of Aurverelle, mindful of his Kingdom, labored in the water and filth beside his people, as did his soldiers, his officers . . . and even his harper.

Despite bad weather and hard labor, Christopher felt rather good. He had evaded Yvonnet's clumsy attempt to seize Aurverelle, and he had done it in a manner so devastating to the baron of Hypprux that, before Christopher had released him some miles from his city, Yvonnet had, with frightened and shamefaced tears, pledged his support for the alliance.

Christopher knew that Yvonnet was a dubious ally. Fighting with his own cities over schismatic alignment, the baron of Hypprux could hardly be depended upon to keep his word. But he was a start, and since word of his pledge had already begun to spread throughout Adria, the lesser baronies that were aligned with him—Friex, Kirtel, Bomar, and others—had followed.

Which left Baron Ruprecht of Maris and his allies.

But the storms lasted through September, and by the time Christopher and his people had salvaged the fields, winter had closed in with the October snows. Roads disappeared beneath a blanket of white, Malvern settled into a muffled sleep, and travel was out of the question.

Christopher chafed at the forced inactivity, and since the idle time gave him the opportunity to reflect on the words of Amos the scribe, he chafed all