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

Time was the enemy. The free companies had no plans other than looting, no objective beyond profit. They could strike anywhere, at any time, and then be gone within days. Holding a counterforce in constant readiness under such circumstances was useless: the normal period of feudal service for vassals and tenants was only forty days per year. Hence, the alliance had to identify a stricken region quickly, call up its forces, and strike before the companies could disperse. Not an easy task at all, even without the problem of Yvonnet's instability.

But while Yvonnet was unstable, Ruprecht was suspicious, and the papal schism lay waiting like a flock of crows at the edge of a battlefield. Christopher was doing his best, but he could not shake the feeling that his best was not even remotely enough. He had, after all, done his best at Nicopolis, too.

Night was falling as he and Natil skirted the north edge of Malvern Forest. “We'll have to stop for the night,” said Christopher. “I think there's a village ahead, but it won't be very large. We have a choice: vermin, or ditches.”

Natil's face was shadowed by the dusk and by what she had seen that day. “Vermin live as they live,” she said, “just like people. But piles of bracken and sheltering trees are far better.”

“You want to sleep in the forest?”

“Why not?” Natil smiled. “Fear not. We shall be safer in the forest than in ditches or towns.”

“But . . .” Roger's fate was a lead weight in Christopher's mind. “What about the Elves? Don't they live in the forest?”

“They do.” She sighed. “But there are too few left in the world to pose any threat to humans. Besides . . .” The trees were gleaming softly in the twilight: shades of green and gray, a shimmer of leaves. She looked at them longingly. “Elves want only to help and heal. They are no threat. They have never been a threat.”

Christopher was still unsure. “Then why are people so afraid of them?”

“In the beginning,” said Natil, “I think that people needed Elves to help them. Later on, much later, they needed Elves to believe in. Then they needed something to fear. And now they need something to hate. The Elves have not changed: they remain as they are—healing and helping—in a world that no longer wants them to do either.”

“Healing and helping.” Christopher eyed the trees. “Unless they're attacked.”

“Or unless those whom they love are attacked.” Natil dismounted, looked at him sidelong. “Had you any such plans?”

Hesitating only for a moment, Christopher swung down from his horse. “None.” He looked into the dark forest as though it were a deep pond containing an elusive fish. “I'd like to ask them a few questions, though. About my grandfather.”

“Perhaps you'll have your chance someday.” Natil set aside her harp and began to gather branches of dry bracken.

***

They reached Aurverelle the next morning, galloping up the main street accompanied by salutations from the townsfolk and the screams of children delighted with the opportunity to race the horses. The tower watch had seen them climbing the switchback road up the hill, and Pytor and Jerome were both waiting at the castle gate.

“Did master hear?” said the seneschal. “Ypris . . .”

“Never mind Ypris,” said Jerome crossly. “The baron's alive. That's more than we dared hope for when he rode off.”

“We did it,” said Christopher, “thanks to Natil.” He swung down and offered his hand to her. She took it and dismounted gracefully. “Ruprecht is on our side. Yvonnet is on our side . . .” He shot a glance at Natil. “. . . more or less.”

Pytor was nodding. “But Ypris . . .”

“That's why I said more or less. Yvonnet brought the free companies into Adria to take Ypris. They're all over by now.”

Jerome crossed himself. “By Our Lady.”

Natil bowed. “Indeed.”

A chittering from above. The monkey swung down the outside of the gate, bounded up to Christopher, and leaped into his arms. Christopher made a face at it. It made a face back and scrambled to his shoulder. “But that means we'll have to move quickly,” said the baron. “Everyone who owes any kind of service to me will have to stay ready. We'll wait until the companies strike, and then, the Lady willing, we'll have them.”

Jerome looked suspiciously at Natil, w ho appeared blithely unaware of Christopher's possibly less than orthodox allusion.

Not even pausing to bathe or eat, Christopher called Pytor and Jerome to the bailiff's office in the castle and began dictating letters to the steadings, manors, and monasteries that owed him service. He would allow no scutage: contributions had to be in the form of actual warm bodies. Fighting warm bodies.

“This will be a hardship for many,” said Jerome as the clerks scribbled furiously.

“It'll be more of a hardship to have their homes razed,” said Christopher as David arrived bearing a basket of hot pasties. Christopher snatched one, bit off a huge quantity, and sprayed crumbs on the table as he continued. “Tha'll jus' hapf to adjufth.”

Natil nibbled delicately. “Lovely, Master Chef,” she said. “Thank you.”

David bowed. “My pleasure, Mistress Harper.”

“Wine!” shouted Christopher. “Now!”

David backed away hastily, and a shrill chitter from the monkey sent him down the hall at a run.

Over the next month, replies from Christopher's vassals trickled in. Many were distressed at his demands, but all admitted that Christopher, as a good lord and an honest man, was certainly worth some inconvenience, and therefore they would be happy to cooperate.

“They really don't understand, do they?” said Christopher, glancing over several of the letters one afternoon. “It has nothing to do with my convenience. It's their convenience that's the question.” He plunked himself down on his bed, swung his feet up. “And they still think I'm mad.”

The monkey, perched in the window, chittered and scratched itself in the warm sun. The weather had remained hot and rainless, and now dry winds were sweeping