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

And, not knowing what else to do, he allowed the beast to force its way into the room. Screeching and gesticulating, it bounded through the window, up the bedpost, and along the hangings as Christopher grappled with the shutter and managed to fasten it shut against the wind.

He turned around, dripping, to find that Pytor and a number of castle guards had entered the room. One man slammed the door, and the rest spread out to surround the monkey.

Christopher watched. In just such a manner had Yvonnet and his men closed in upon the baron of Aurverelle.

The monkey was weaponless, friendless, trapped, and its eyes were wide with the knowledge of its imminent death. Pytor and the men were unmoved. All of them had taken too many pieces of fruit in the face. “Ranulf,” said the seneschal.

“Aye, m'lord. It's time we made an end of this pest.”

But Natil laid aside her harp, unfolded her long legs, and rose. “A moment, please.”

Turning, she stretched out her arms to the monkey. The beast stared as though seeing her for the first time, and then, with a bound, it threw itself into her arms, at once shivering with cold and quaking with fear.

Pytor and the men stepped forward. Natil turned around, her eyes flashing. Pytor and the men stopped short.

“Leave them alone,” said Christopher.

“But, master . . .”

“Leave them alone.” but he was himself staring. The monkey was huddled in Natil's protecting arms. Just as . . . in the Château . . .

Natil peered into the monkey's face. “You have been throwing fruit and making a nuisance of yourself, have you not?”

The animal covered its eyes, tried to hide its face. Christopher thought of all the apples he himself had flung.

“Will you promise not to do that anymore?” The harper's voice was kind.

Christopher could not be sure, be he thought he saw the monkey nod. With a growing sense of horror, he found that he was nodding also.

“Will you be a friend to those in this castle?”

Again, a nod. Christopher was shaking.

“Then the hand of the Lady be on you, child,” Natil said as she touched the monkey's forehead. “Be healed, and be at peace.” She looked at Pytor. “My lord seneschal: some food for this prodigal?”

Pytor stared.

The monkey fumbled at Natil's hair, reached beneath the black and silver tresses, and tugged at her ears. “Now, now,” she said, laughing. “Not that!”

Pytor found his voice. “Mistress Harper,” he said, “that monkey . . .”

“Will give us no further trouble, Pytor,” said Natil. Smiling, she handed the creature to Christopher. It crawled up on his shoulder, reached into his tunic, and with delighted shrieks, extracted Vanessa's pendant.

Absently, Christopher reached up and patted the beast. Another baron of Aurverelle, it seemed, had found refuge in the arms of the mysterious harper. He half wondered whether he should be afraid.

***

Berard of Onella was not at all overawed by the display that Yvonnet a'Verne provided. He had seen much the same, if not better, in Italy. Florence was always trying to outdo Milan, and Milan was out-pomping Rome, and Rome tricked itself out in gutter finery in an attempt to upstage Naples, and nobody liked Venice. But when, at the great council of the free company captains invited to Hypprux, Yvonnet named the terms and Lengram named the rates, even the most sophisticated mercenaries raised their eyebrows. Truly, the baron of Hypprux was a wealthy man!

Jehan, Berard knew, would not be interested in the matter of payment, for the poor boy still thought of valorous meat-hacking as payment enough. That Yvonnet was on the same side of the schism as Furze was an excellent coincidence, but even had that not been the case, Jehan could be counted on to cooperate, for the matter of the Aurverelle wool wains had left him with a bad taste of commerce in his mouth that would require some bloodletting to wash away.

And bloodletting was indeed in the future, for Yvonnet was not offering terms and rates in exchange for the taking of a village or a single castle, but for the entire city of Ypris.

“I want it razed to the ground,” the baron fairly shouted. “Those apostates have defied God long enough. It's time that they learned the rewards of heresy.”

Berard, who long ago had lapsed into cheerful and atheistic hedonism, was unmoved by the baron's religious sentiments, but the money, fortunately, was enough, and he cheered Yvonnet's words as loudly as anyone present. Yvonnet worshiped God. Berard worshiped gold and wine and the struggling mystery of women's loins. Each to his own.

In a few days, the documents had been drawn up, argued over, signed, and sealed; and, more important, the initial fees had been paid. Berard had no doubt that the gold that he and his escort would be bringing back to the Fellowship would ensure more than enough enthusiasm for the spring maneuvers. And though he himself had only been assigned a subordinate post in the combined mercenary army, he did not mind in the slightest, for the pay was good, likewise the leadership.

And, in any case, provided that all went well, Berard himself would eventually become the commander of a substantial army, and Adria would be his. Even—and he examined the vaulted ceiling of Yvonnet's great hall while, about him, wine flowed, food was masticated and swallowed, and the captains celebrated their contract—even Hypprux might be his.

But first things first. There was Ypris, and then . . .

. . . and then Jehan.

Berard felt better and better. The true pope? Who cared?

Yvonnet rose, lifting his golden cup, and his voice resonated among the ribbed nervures and rattled the frost-covered windows. “Hail to you, my brothers in arm . . .”

Or in banditry. Berard found it hard to tell sometimes. If God Himself were a soldier, He would be a robber. What an excellent sentiment! He wished that he had said it first.

“. . . comrades of my heart . . .”

Berard winced. Not at all to his