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

“. . . bearers of the sword of Christ!”

Really. This was too much. But gold, Berard reflected, had a way of making people keep their mouths shut. Just as wine had a way of making them open them up. And there was wine in the future.

“A toast! To . . .” Yvonnet threw back his head and laughed. “To Ypris!”

The captains, twenty-four of the most experienced and successful commanders of the free companies, lured through the hideous winter storms by the promise of gold and loot, rose as one, lifting cups. Silks shone, gems sparkled, swords were bright in the light of innumerable torches. The captains' voices were loud in reply: gold had bought their loyalty, food and drink their enthusiasm. “To Ypris!”

And Berard was on his feet, too—just as loyal, just as enthusiastic—though as he drank, he murmured deep in his throat, so deeply that no one but himself heard or understood: “And to Shrinerock!”

Chapter Seventeen

Spring in Adria was warm and dry, and above Maris, the sky was blue and cloudless: the perfect weather for an Easter celebration. The fortress complex that dominated the entire northern half of the city was decorated this Sunday with fresh flowers, and ribbons and pennants floated from its every spire and window. The rest of the city was aflutter with hangings that ranged from bedsheets in the poor sections to, in the rich, elaborate tapestries commissioned especially for the day; and in the streets, the crowds were fierce, surging, a sea of eyes and faces that lapped about the players, pageants, musicians, and acrobats that Ruprecht, baron of Maris, had summoned to help celebrate the central and most profound mystery of Christendom.

But Ruprecht did not allow the secular entertainments to reign alone, for as he was a pious man, he was profoundly conscious of the deeper significance of the day. He had risen early to sing lauds with his chaplain (he prided himself on knowing by heart the entire year of psalmodic devotions), had attended mass twice (once in his private chapel, once in the cathedral), and had spent the rest of the morning in meditation before the figure of the Crucified One that dominated his bedroom.

He prayed for guidance, for Maris was the light of true religion in a land that was, with few exceptions, plunged into heretical night. The pernicious advance of the Roman papacy in England and in the Holy Roman Empire had turned Adria into a dark world of corruption in which even a papal legate could be hunted down and killed with complete and arrogant impunity. Ruprecht thanked God that France at least still rejected the simoniacal impostor who slouched so bestially upon a counterfeit Throne of Peter!

Justified, encouraged, Ruprecht rose from his devotions then, and descended from his tower bedroom. Though his inner prayers continued, he had business to attend to, for he could think of no better way to discomfit the forces of Satan than to show them with what pomp the true servants of God could celebrate the risen Christ.

He spent the morning inspecting the great kitchen, edifying the servants with solemn words about the significance of the day, speaking personally to the officers of his household, and more importantly, instructing his wife on the importance of her appearance and deportment at the festivities. A baron, after all, was judged by the company he kept: peasant girls in homespun might be good enough for a nest of savages and madmen such as Aurverelle, and little drabs for Hypprux, but the lady of Maris had to display nobility in every point of her bearing.

Just before lunch, though, he paused in his study and picked up a sheet of parchment. “What's this?”

“Another letter from Christopher of Aurverelle, messire,” said his chancellor, William. “It came yesterday.”

“Just like a devil-worshiper to shove business beneath my nose on a day like today!” Ruprecht examined the salutation, tugging thoughtfully on his beard. In the vernacular, of course. Mules and village girls, a mendicant friar for a bailiff and an escaped slave for a seneschal: there was probably no one left in Aurverelle who could turn even half a phrase in Latin.

He tossed the letter aside after a moment. “What does he want?”

“The same thing, messire.”

“Oh . . .” Ruprecht allowed the sarcasm to well up. “Wants to speak with me, does he? Wants to be allowed in my house, at my table, in my chambers, does he? And what did he say to Etienne of Languedoc?”

“Messire pointed that out to him in the fall.”

“Yes . . . I did.” Christopher's temerity was infuriating. Not only had he actually proposed that the forces of the alliance be used to protect the land as a whole—peasants, serfs, Free Towns, and all—but he had also indicated that such protection should be provided without regard to papal loyalty. Absurd. And all this after he had killed an official envoy from the true pope, Benedict. In cold blood!

Biting back his anger, Ruprecht grabbed the letter, flung it into the fire, watched it crisp and curl. His chancellor, however, was thoughtful. “I would be remiss, my lord, if I did not say that I believe Christopher makes some cogent points.”

Ruprecht smiled. “Such as, Messire William?”

“Such as the threat of the free companies to all. Allowed to congregate in Adria, they might well prove a potent force. They could conceivably menace your lordship in his own house.”

Ruprecht roared with laughter. “Maris? Really, William!”

“It is . . . conceivable. They could . . .” William considered. “They could, for instance, ally themselves with factions of malcontents, and so foment rebellion.”

Ruprecht's voice turned cold. “Very funny, William.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Angry that the day was being spoiled with such thoughts, Ruprecht folded his arms. “Christopher is a fool.”

“He's mad, my lord.”

“Yes, William. Quite mad.” Frowning, Ruprecht watched the last of the parchment curl up and flicker into ash, the wax from the delAurvre seal running down and flaring as it was consumed. “And damned.” He shook his head, waved away the