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

thought. “But we can ignore Christopher, can't we, William? On this day of all days? It's time for celebration. And what have we planned for tonight?”

William recounted the entertainments scheduled for the feast, and Ruprecht's enthusiasm, kindling, banished any remaining cares about Aurverelle. By the end of William's list, the baron was nodding approvingly.

“Very good. Very good.”

“And . . .” William smiled. “A special treat for the end. We thought that the players from Castile would be acknowledged as those who had traveled farthest, but some new arrivals have put them in second place.”

“And who are these?”

“A tumbler and a harper. Ah . . .” William thought for a moment. “The tumbler is but fair, but the harper—I heard her this morning—is of rare quality indeed. I believe they call themselves Christie and Nattie. They come from Bulgaria.”

Ruprecht pursed his lips. “Bulgaria. Well, that's quite a journey. And they came all that way for my feast?”

“They said that they had made the trip especially for the sake of the honored Baron Ruprecht of Maris.”

Ruprecht was smiling. Let Christopher delAurvre gibber in his dank castle. The fortress of Maris would shine! “Excellent, William. Give them a place to sleep in the hall tonight, and make sure they're well fed.” He folded his arms, eyed the charred parchment. “If they have any skill at all, it will be quite a night!”

***

Moving under cover of darkness, avoiding the main roads, remaining scattered and unobtrusive until they simultaneously wheeled and gathered, the free companies surrounded Ypris.

Despite their precautions, though—precautions for which Yvonnet had paid handsomely—it appeared that Ypris had discovered them at the last minute, for when the sun rose on Easter morning, the gates of the town were shut and the parapets were manned with archers and soldiers. A thousand trails of smoke indicated that vats of oil and pitch were being brought to a boil, to be hauled up and emptied upon anyone foolish enough to attempt to scale the walls.

Berard had seen worse. Examining Ypris with an eye schooled by the brutal necessities of years of battle, he was already picking out weaknesses. The fortifications, for example, were old, the product of slow evolution rather than masterful planning, and the liens of sight from the towers and arrow loupes left uncovered numerous angles in which a determined band of men could conceal themselves while readying ladders. Uncut brush and trees came right up to the walls in some places: adequate cover for mines and saps. The main source of the city water supply was a canal from the Bergren River, and as such was easily interrupted.

Berard did not doubt that the commander of the assembled companies, a former lieutenant of the great Muzio Attendolo Sforza himself, had discovered even more. With any luck at all, though, the walls could be penetrated by subterfuge rather than by attrition. Berard hoped so. Ypris was a wealthy city, and he wanted to make up for the wool wain debacle with as little fuss as possible.

At his side, Jehan fidgeted like a full-blooded destrier. “Why doesn't Gonzago give the word?” he said.

“Probably because Gonzago is still making his final plans.” Armed and armored, Berard settled himself in his saddle. He hoped that the commander would have the wisdom to order a general dismount before the attack. In Berard's personal experience. Masonry walls were extremely unimpressed by cavalry charges.

“I want to fight.”

“I want to start getting paid,” said Berard. He gestured at the city. “Inside those walls is my pay chest. I intend to get it. I don't care how. Robert of Geneva took Cesena with hardly a struggle—”

Jehan was indignant. “That butcher? That was out-and-out lies and deception!”

Berard smiled. “Lies and deception are good enough.”

“Really, Berard!”

The morning mists were burning off rapidly, and the sun was warming up armor and, therefore, the men inside it. Berard heard murmurs about the heat from the members of the Fellowship, turned, and looked over his shoulder. Horsed and ready—and doubtless sweating—his company was gathered up behind him, pennants flying and armor glinting. Not quite so impressive as the carefully polished mail of Hawkwood's White Company—it was said that the mere sight of that glittering horde could induce surrender—but impressive enough.

He stole a glance at Jehan. And, with luck, quite adequate.

“Well,” he said, “how would you handle it?”

“A frontal assault,” said Jehan promptly. “Straight up the middle . . .”

Berard listened blandly. And the horses can bounce off the walls.

“. . . and then a battering ram to break down the city walls . . .”

While molten lead drips down on everyone.

“. . . we could shatter it in a trice . . .”

Given, say, several hours, since the gates are reinforced with iron.

“. . . and then we could ride right up the main street to the aldermen's hall.”

While the townspeople wave and smile at us. Berard rubbed the back of his neck. It was indeed getting hot. “I must compliment you, Jehan: very forthright.”

Jehan tossed his head. “That's the way to do it. That's the only way to do it. Fie on Robert of Geneva.”

Berard sighed inwardly. Had Jehan not been such a devil of a fighter when it actually came to hand-to-hand combat, he would have quietly gotten rid of him sometime in the last few months. As it was, though, Jehan was convenient, and Berard hoped that, in the near future, he would become even more convenient.

It was as good a time to start as any, he supposed. First move, then. A pawn. “I can't help but wonder if there might be another way in,” he said idly.

“There's no other way in. Or if there is, only a coward would take it.”

This was brutally unfair, Berard realized. After all, Jehan did not even know what game he was playing. But he continued. Another pawn. “The canal, for example. It must go through the wall somewhere.”

“Are you saying that we should slog our way through the water and come up in the middle of a sewer?”

“It