Maze of Moonlight (18 page)

Christopher was suddenly very worried. Baron Roger had wanted the Free Towns because they were wealthy. The companies, doubtless, would feel exactly the same way. And Vanessa . . .

Had he been his grandfather, Vanessa would have still been in Aurverelle. She might well have been chained to a bed in some upper room, but she would have nonetheless been in Aurverelle. But the old steel and thoughtlessness, it seemed, had gone out of the family with Roger, and his descendants had lost their resolution. Christopher's father had done nothing except add to the castle library until the plague had claimed him and his wife shortly after the birth of his heir; and now Yvonnet dallied with sweets and silks and sodomized handsome little boys like Martin Osmore while Christopher spent his days obsessing on attractive peasant girls and trying to free himself from his defeat.

A shadow flickered at the window, and a grotesque face peered in. The monkey. Pytor cursed aloud. Christopher laughed. The monkey disappeared.

“Let him go,” said the baron. “He's not bothering us. And if we can let the free companies make off with an entire shipment of wool, we can stand to lose a few pieces of fruit.”

“It's not the fruit, master,” said Pytor. “It's the fact that he throws it.”

Christopher shrugged. “He's a lot like me, I suppose.” Pytor and Jerome stared. “But as for the free companies . . .”

His voice trailed off. He cared little for anything outside of Aurverelle, and for a time he had not been sure just how much he cared about Aurverelle. But now that Vanessa was involved . . .

He studied the map, examining Adria in earnest. Mountains, rivers, forest. Pale lines delineated the boundaries of political and economic influence, and light washes of color demarcated regions loyal to the rival popes.

A disjointed assortment of baronies, large and small, that were always at a quiet but constant political simmer, Adria was much like France. And France, thanks to the free companies, now lay as gutted as an unbraced mallard. The same thing could happen to Adria, and, true, Aurverelle could not protect everyone.

The silver pendant—moon and rayed star—slipped out of his tunic and swung free, glittering, above the Free Towns.

The harper's name was Natil. She was deliberately vague about where she had come from, but Christopher was used to that: harpers were a rather scruffy lot, and perhaps this Natil had some legal fracas in her past—thievery, prostitution, or the like—that made her unwilling to be specific about h er origins.

In truth, though, this seemed unlikely, for Natil stood without a trace of a slouch or self-deprecation when presented to the baron in the great hall of his castle. Nor died her demeanor seem prompted by an unjustified or overweening pride: no, she was perfectly comfortable with herself, perfectly at ease. Her dark hair unbound and shot with streaks of silver, her eyes blue, her face tranquil, she appeared ready to confront everything from a mad baron to a forest fire with equal equanimity.

This disturbed Christopher. Even when his madness had not vested him with an aura of latent and irrational violence, he had been used to deference, and deference was obviously not what Natil was offering. “You've entered a household where your talents might not be required,” he told her.

“I understand that,” she said calmly. “As my lord baron wishes.” She curtsied, but her slender hands held her small harp as though she would like nothing better than to begin playing immediately.

“You'd probably do better in Hypprux,” Christopher snapped. “It's more courtly there. Yvonnet likes the little niceties. Harps, foods, silks . . . ah . . .” He recalled Martin. Toothsome little morsel. The thought of the vices to which his line had sunk made him queasy. “. . . other things . . .”

“But I am here,” said Natil.

Christopher glowered. He had spent a sleepless night worrying about Vanessa and the free companies, slipping, at most, into brief dozes filled with images of small villages encircled by troops of men and horses, the gleam of armor alternating with the dull glow of greedy fires. He did not have any heart for the antic or the mad this morning, and though Natil's perfect composure rankled him, he could not but feel a little afraid of this woman whose sense of self and dignity was far more deeply rooted than his.

He slumped in his chair. “Play something,” he said brusquely. “Anything. I want to make sure you're not a fraud.”

A servant brought a stool, and Natil seated herself with a soft swish of her blue gown. She set her harp on her lap, tried two strings to see if they were true, then smiled graciously. “A dance, my lord?”

“Whatever.”

Natil played, and she had not finished the first phrase before Christopher understood why Pytor had hired her even though his master had expressed no interest whatsoever in harpers. The music was splendid. Passages of dazzling intricacy and rapid-fire ornaments fell from Natil's hands as effortlessly as the daylight fell from the windows, and the melody moved through the room, a presence at once gay and holy, mysterious and immediate.

When she finished, Pytor was beaming, and Christopher had to fight to suppress an admiring smile. Yes, he could see how the Russian had been won. “All right,” he said. “You can stay. You have the freedom of the castle, but don't expect that I'll be wanting your services very often. And if I hear you playing in the garden or something and I don't want to hear it, I'll tell you to shut up, and that will be that. Do you understand?”

Natil remained unruffled. “I do.”

She was unnerving, as discomfiting as that Mirya and Terrill. Christopher tried to find some reason to send her out of the room that would not give away his true feelings, but he could think of nothing. He gave up. This was his day for open court in the hall. He would simply ignore her.

He spent the next two hours listening to men and women from the town and countryside, sorting through matters of estate justice and grievance: taxes in arrears, trespassing, theft, assault, occasional rape. Jerome usually heard most of these, but an insistent defendant, if dissatisfied with the chief bailiff's decision, could, by right, appeal directly to the baron; and even Roger in his rake-hell days had never abrogated that privilege.

All the while that Christopher listened and judged, though, he was conscious of Natil's presence. The harper stood quietly off to the side, her harp in her arms, but her eyes, though downcast, flashed more brightly than Christopher had ever seen in anyone before, and for some reason he kept thinking of Mirya and Terrill.

Toward the end of the afternoon, he suddenly realized both that he was staring openly at her and that silence had fallen in the hall. With an effort, he shook himself out of his fascination. “All right, then. Who's next?”

At Jerome's signal, the men-at-arms brought in a young peasant man. This, the Franciscan explained, was Walter, one of Christopher's lowland tenants. Walter looked terrified, and appeared not to expect much more than an instant hanging. Probably at the baron's own hands.

“What's he done?” said Christopher.

“He's been stealing fish from your ponds,” said Jerome. “Quite a lot of fish, in fact.”

Christopher shrugged. “Well, the monkey steals fruit.”

“I thought the matter rather straightforward,” continued Jerome with a touch of annoyance, “as he even admits his guilt.”

“I daresay the monkey would admit it, too.”

Now Jerome was frowning openly. If Christopher would not defend his baronial rights, he could expect as little regard from his people as he was apparently receiving from the free companies. The estate folk were willing to accept strange clothes and occasionally antic behavior, but some appearances had to be kept up.

Christopher glared at the unfortunate Walter. “Explain yourself, man.”

Walter shuffled forward. “It's my wife, m'lord. She's with child, and she seems to be able to keep down only fish these days. God knows why she couldn't have fixed on something readier, but I can't afford any more fish from the market, and so I . . .” He wrung his cap in his hands.

“So you admit stealing my fish?”

“Yes, m'lord. I done it.”

Christopher's head ached. His grandfather would have made short work of Walter. At least during his first thirty years. But his grandfather would have kept Vanessa in Aurverelle, too. At least during his first thirty years.

Planting peach trees. To such a fine end had the delAurvres come!

“This story about your wife: is it the truth, Walter?”

Walter looked too frightened to say anything but the truth. “Yes, m'lord.”

Jerome was right. Very straightforward. And the poor wretch had somehow scraped together enough temerity to appeal his case to the baron. But on an impulse, Christopher turned suddenly to Natil, hoping to catch her off guard. “What do you think, harper?”

Her blue eyes flicked to him. “Of what, my lord?”

Perfectly composed.

“Of Walter? Should I cut off his hands?”

Natil was unshaken. “If you cut off his hands, my lord, he will be unable to steal, to be sure. But he will at the same time be prevented from doing honest work.”

And how much honest work, he wondered, had ever come from the hands of Christopher delAurvre? The nobles lived on the backs of the peasants, made war on the backs of the peasants, sometimes (and he thought again of his grandfather) took sport on the backs of the peasants . . . or rather on their fronts. This Walter paid taxes and tithes, and had contributed his fair share to the clothes that Christopher was wearing, to the chair he sat in, to the food—black bread or gilded haslet, it did not matter—he ate.

And Vanessa, too, was a peasant. And Vanessa . . .

Such was his kingdom.

“Jerome,” said Christopher, “send a provost out to check on Walter's wife. If she's having difficulty eating, see that she gets what she needs. I'll have no sickly whelps on this estate.” He fixed Walter with a glance. “Walter . . .”

Walter quailed.

“You're lucky I'm not my grandfather.” Ne, he certainly was not. And, in fact, towards the end of his life, his grandfather had not been his grandfather, either. Was that good? Bad? The Free Towns, intact, were a place for Vanessa to go. She had said so herself. That was good. But . . .

The puzzle made his head hurt all the more. “I'll take you at your word. But you know how this estate is run. The next time, say something to the provosts or come and see Pytor or Jerome
before
you start stealing fish. Then we'll all be happier, won't we?”

Walter bobbed his head, tugged his forelock, seemed ready to drop to his knees in gratitude. Christopher waved him away and stood up. “I'm done. I'm sick of this. I'm going to go sit in the garden like a daft fool. Natil . . .”

She was already looking at him as though she had anticipated his utterance of his name. “My lord.”

Damnably unnerving. “Go and play your harp . . . someplace else. I don't want to hear it. Are you educated?”

“I have not studied at a university, my lord, but I know several languages in addition to Greek and Latin, and I am well conversant with the classics . . . as well as with music, of course.”

Of course she had not studied at a university: she was a woman. But if she were even half as knowledgeable as she said, then there was other work for her in Aurverelle. “Go and talk to Efram, the priest. Maybe you can help him teach some of the village lads.”

Natil curtsied deeply. “And the girls also, my lord?”

Unnerving. And cheeky, too. And he was letting her get away with it. His grandfather . . .

But he was not his grandfather. He had proved that over and over again. But what sort of a man would break men's necks for imagined slights, or rape peasant maids in the forest for recreation? How different, really, was Roger from Yvonnet? Or, for that matter, from the men of the free companies who took whole towns for all they were worth?

Natil was still looking at him, calmly waiting for an answer. “The girls?” he blurted. “If you can find any whose mothers can spare them.”

And Vanessa's mother and father had put her out of the house.

Feeling sick, wanting to hide, Christopher turned and stalked out of the hall.

Natil found him late that night in the stables.

Christopher had given up hiding in his chambers. Even after so many months, they still reeked of Anna's presence; and, now that Vanessa was gone, his still-healing mind had doggedly reverted to reestablishing old associations and outworn memories: there seemed that night to be nothing in his bedroom that did not remind him in some way of his dead wife, and therefore of the Crusade, Nicopolis, and his grandfather.

As he had many times before, then, he prowled the corridors and corners of Castle Aurverelle, slouching down the deserted halls, peering into vacant rooms with fevered urgency, surprising the kitchen boys and scullery maids. He was not sure what he was looking for. He was not even sure he would recognize it if he found it. Eventually, though, he found the wine casks, decided that they were good enough for now, and drank himself nearly insensible. Then, strictly ordering the servants in the cellar not to tell anyone of his destination—actually, he did not know himself—he crawled up the stairs, vomited his way across the dark courtyard to the stables, and finally collapsed beside the earthy presence of a mule.

Straw. Turds. The big brown eyes of the beast glinted at him in the darkness.

Christopher laid his cheek against the animal and wept. Aurverelle seemed a shadow. His life was a waste . . . and not even a particularly glittering waste. He himself was still half mad, and there did not seem to be much of a cure in sight. His only hope lay in a peasant girl who, far from loving him, regarded him only with a sense of frightened pity.

Much better he curl up with this beast, then. A mule was but a mule, a monkey but a monkey, and Christopher delAurvre but a lowly fool who, though he had temporarily given up his capering and his bellows, deserved no more than a stable.

The church bell was tolling matins when he became aware of a faint shimmer out of the corner of his eye. There was a rustle of a gown in the darkness, the sound of a knee settling to the earth and straw beside him. The mule stirred.