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

Jerome froze. What, indeed. Perverts in the forest?

But the older man patted Martin on the shoulder and, a little unsteadily, went up to Jerome. He offered his hand. “Brother Jerome? I'm Baron Paul delMari.” Jerome shook his hand absently, his eyes wandering back to Martin. A sodomite . . .

Paul frowned. He attempted to clear his throat disapprovingly and wound up coughing for the better part of a minute. “Master Bailiff,” he said at last, “my castle has been taken by brigands, and Malvern Forest is burning because they fired it in an attempt to kill all of us. We ask for succor.”

“Yes . . . yes . . . of course . . .” Jerome was confused. Baron Paul and Martin? And the forest . . . deliberately fired?

About him, the women who had been working in the fields were attending to the refugees. Some carried women and children away from the haze of smoke and into the clearer air. Others banded together to support a group of Benedictine monks who were almost unconscious. Cries of Some water over here, please, and Give her air and Breathe, child, breathe tossed back and forth like wind-driven branches. A short distance away, a young woman appeared to have gone into premature labor, and an Aurverelle midwife was just now arriving on pillion behind one of the castle guards.

It was noise and confusion, the racket and din and dust of human beings. Perhaps three hundred people had staggered out of the forest, and most of them needed immediate attention.

Jerome tore his eyes away from them and found himself looking again at Martin's naked torso. The lad was as streaked and dirty as a laboring man, and the friar realized that, regardless of what had been done with that pale body in the past, it had most recently been used for work that was more honorable than any other.

He got down off his horse and bowed to Paul. “Aurverelle is open to you and your people, Lord Baron. Enter and refresh yourselves. I . . .” He stole another glance at Martin. Sodomites in Aurverelle? Honorable or not, what was the world coming to? “. . . cannot but believe that Messire Christopher would have it so.”

Martin looked as though he guessed the reason for Jerome's hesitation, but he seemed determined to ignore it.

“Terrill!” One of the women was kneeling over the crumpled form of a child. “She's stopped breathing!”

A young man who had been helping the last of Paul's people out of the trees dashed to her side. After examining the girl for a moment, he opened her mouth, set his lips to hers, and pumped her lungs full of his own breath. He repeated the treatment once, then again.

Paul watched for a moment, then sighed, passed a hand through his sooty hair. “Thank you, Master Bailiff,” he said. “We are grateful to you for you . . .” He glanced at Martin knowingly. The lad's mouth was set. “. . . kind offer. But many of us won't be staying long. If you would be so kind as to provide me and my men with horses and equipment, we'll ride to join with the alliance.” His face was one that had seen a good deal of laughter, but it was lined with care at present, and as Jerome watched, it darkened with anger. “And we will go and deal with these criminals.”

Martin looked at Paul. “You're not going without me.”

Paul wrapped an arm about the lad. “Never, Martin. If Jerome is willing, we'll not be here any longer than it takes to clear our lungs, eat, and take a bath.”

At the edge of the trees, the young man who had been tending the fallen girl straightened. The child stirred, gasped, breathed; and the mother, weeping, threw her arms about the neck of the unorthodox physician. He suffered her thanks for a moment, then kissed the child, stood, and bowed to them both.

“Terrill,” called Martin. “We're going to Shrinerock.”

The young man looked up at Martin's words, then approached. Clad in green and gray, a sword at his hip, he seemed untouched by the smoke and the dirt. His face was womanly, and his gray eyes held more than a measure of unearthly light.

“Terrill,” said Paul, “this is Brother Jerome, Messire Christopher's chief bailiff. Jerome, Terrill of Malvern.”

Jerome noticed that the introduction had accorded Terrill the higher honor, but he reminded himself that he was but a friar, and that therefore he should not be concerned about such things. Nevertheless, it was curious. And those eyes . . .

Terrill bowed. “I am honored to meet you, Brother Jerome.” But he turned to Martin and Paul. “Why do you wish to go to Shrinerock?”

“To . . .” Paul looked disconcerted. “To join with Christopher against the brigands.”

Terrill nodded. “You may find Messire Christopher at Shrinerock,” he said, “but you would do better to ride directly south, for the free companies are besieging Saint Brigid.”

Paul stared. “You're sure of this?”

“My beloved and I are as one in many things,” said Terrill. “She is at present guiding Christopher to meet the alliance at Shrinerock, so as to bring them to the companies.”

Paul suddenly acquired a crafty look. “And so, if we take our men, and come down from the north . . .”

Martin started to laugh. “And the alliance strikes from the east . . .”

“Then we hit them with two fists at once!”

Terrill's expression—calm, evaluating—had not changed. As far as Jerome could tell, he regarded any thoughts of approaching battle with perfect neutrality. But that was, perhaps, to be expected, for given his demeanor, the light in his eyes, and his uncanny knowledge of what was occurring many miles away, it was obvious that the young man was not human.

Unconsciously, Jerome stepped away from Terrill. There were old stories . . .

Martin stopped laughing, examined the friar critically. “Fra Jerome,” he said with some impatience, “sodomites and Elves have come to your door, and I'm