Maze of Moonlight (28 page)

Christopher took Ruprecht's hand. He had offered his glove, and it had been accepted. The selfish, conceited legacy of the delAurvres was crumbling. The future—his own, Adria's—was looking brighter.

I wish you were with me, Vanessa.

But the next evening, word came from Ypris: the city had fallen to an assembly of free companies in the pay of Yvonnet a'Verne.

“That traitorous bastard!”

Ruprecht's black beard contrasted markedly with his livid face and made his outrage seem all the more passionate. He struck his fist on the polished table in time with his words, and the impacts echoed off the walls of the study despite the thick hangings that covered the bare stone.

Ypris, according to the sketchy report, had been thoroughly destroyed and looted. Several thousand men had been involved, perhaps more, and the effectiveness of the operation was attested to by the distant column of black smoke that Christopher and Ruprecht themselves had seen from the topmost tower of the fortress of Maris.

Gutted. Completely gutted. Such was the city's reward for allegiance to the wrong pontiff.

“I should have seen this coming,” said Christopher. “Yvonnet had designs on Aurverelle, and since I put an end to that . . . with a certain amount of help . . .” He smiled thinly at Natil, who was perched on a stool by the fire. “. . . he turned his plots elsewhere. Or maybe he just used some other plots. God knows how many he's got.”

“He's a viper,” Ruprecht agreed. “Just when we're trying to protect Adria, he goes and drags in the very mercenary bands we've been trying to keep out.”

Up until a few hours ago, Ruprecht had not cared in the slightest about Adria. But Christopher let that pass. “He's obviously trying to use piety and zeal for Rome to make up for . . . ah . . .” But he had already said too much. Mentioning Rome in Ruprecht's presence was unwise, and even more so was revealing Yvonnet's sexual appetites. “For certain . . . uh . . . indiscretions of his.”

Ruprecht rumbled. “Sizable indiscretions, if you ask me.”

“Well . . . yes. I imagine so.”

Ruprecht eyed Christopher. “Well, what do we do about it? We can't very well attack a fellow member of the alliance, much as I'd like to.” He plunked his elbows on the table, interlaced his fingers as though Yvonnet's throat lay between his hands. “That Roman bastard.”

Christopher, too, wanted to lay ungentle hands on his cousin . . . though not because of schismatic alignment.

“Of course, it may not be an alliance at all,” said Ruprecht. “Quite possibly, this is but the first step in a larger campaign against the other baronies. Perhaps . . .” Suspicion suddenly wrapped about him like a dark cloak, and he glowered at Christopher from above his black beard. “. . . a campaign in the name of Rome.”

Rome. Avignon. The conflict was inescapable, a blight on the newborn century.
I wish there were a few Elves about who would do something about Yvonnet
, Christopher thought,
and about the church in general
. He realized that Natil was watching him carefully and wondered whether the harper's grasp of the patterns allowed her to read his mind. It was an unsettling thought.

“I don't think so,” he said. “Yvonnet is too concerned with immediate gain. Besides, the free companies are involved now. Regardless of what Yvonnet intends, it'll soon be a matter of what the companies themselves want.” His stomach turned tight at his own words: having struck at Ypris, the massed free companies were only about a three days' march from Saint Blaise.

“Might I suggest diplomacy?” said Natil softly.

Ruprecht glared at her. He was unused to the presence of women at his councils. “We're dealing with an apostate villain here, woman,” he said. “Yvonnet serves Rome. That alone indicates what kind of fellow he is.” He glanced at Christopher as though considering once again the matter of Etienne of Languedoc.

Natil was unflinchingly polite. “That may be true, honored lord, but at present he is our only non-belligerent link with the mercenary captains. With appropriate inducements, the baron of Hypprux might convince them to leave Adria peacefully.”

Ruprecht's beard twitched. So did his dark eyebrows. “But then they'll have learned too much of Adria and its wealth. They'll be back.”

“I respectfully submit,” said Natil, “that they were already aware of Adria's wealth. Yvonnet only hastened the inevitable. If they can be persuaded to leave, though, we are merely back at the point at which we began: any incursions will doubtless be made by single, independent companies, and can be dealt with as such. The very task for which the alliance was proposed.”

Ruprecht chewed over her advice. “Wise words, madam,” he finally admitted. “I can see that my . . . ah . . . friend Christopher is a very fortunate man to have you among his councilors.”

Natil rose and curtsied. “Thank you, messire.”

“A letter, then?”

“No,” said Christopher. “Letters have a habit of . . . not being answered.”

Ruprecht met his gaze. Christopher maintained an expression of studied innocence. He had obviously been referring to . . . somebody else.

Ruprecht suddenly laughed. “Well said. What do you have in mind?”

“We don't have much time,” said Christopher. “We have to move while the companies are still assembled in one place. If they break up and start raiding independently, we're lost. So I'll be paying Yvonnet another visit. More formal, less stupid.” He considered, weighing wishful thinking against practicality. “I suppose I'll have to do it outside the city walls.”

Natil blinked. “Bernabò Visconti?”

Christopher winced. She could indeed read his mind. This was not good. The harper was an attractive woman, and . . . how many times had he idly fantasized about bedding her? He winced again. Well, at least she was still loyal. Natil was obviously a tolerant one.

“Bernabò's fate would be appropriate, wouldn't it?” he said. “But no, I'm not going to do anything that extreme.” He sighed. He was not sure that he liked his own plan. “I'll settle for blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” said Ruprecht.

Worse and worse. The alliance was teetering precariously and now Christopher was about to try to shore it up with rotten wood. “Blackmail,” he said. “How the hell else does anything ever get done?”

***

Ypris had been taken. Its walls lay shattered and burnt, breached in a hundred places. The gates had been ripped from their hinges. Within, the last few houses and shops were still burning, but everything of value had already been carried off to be sorted, distributed, and sold. What people were left were sold, too: slavery was not a particularly nice fate, nor was it an honorable business, but money was money.

The Fellowship of Acquisition received another visit from Eustache de Cormeign and his
kataphraktoi
, and even the experienced dealer from Bardi and Peruzzi was astonished at the piles of cloth and clothing, jewelry and gold, tools, equipment, arms and armor, crossbows, candlesticks, leather bottles, wine casks, and a multitude of other things with which he was presented.

“My word . . . my word,” he said over and over as he examined the take, dictating furiously between exclamations while his secretary, padding behind him with stylus and wax tablet, exhibited a marvelous command of tachygraphy.

“Much better than wool, eh?” said Berard. He was feeling jolly today. His men were happy, the brigand's life was looking good, the wool wain was far in the past, and there were larger prizes in the future.

“Much better,” said Eustache. “Much.” He nearly stumbled over a girl who was picking through a pile of jewels heaped on a sheet of canvas. She was dressed scantily, like one of the
bonnes amies
of the amorous robbers of Languedoc. She did not rise, but she turned large, dark eyes up at the broker as she tried to eke a few extra shreds of modesty out of the revealing frock she had been given.

“That's Joanna,” said Berard with a wink. “She's not for sale.” Joanna looked away, scrabbled through the jewels. “Well, did you find it yet, my little sweet?”

Silently, Joanna shook her head. If she wept, she wept silently.

“Well, keep looking,” said Berard. “It's there.” He shrugged. “Unless it's not.” Eustache was puzzled. “It's a necklace her mother gave her,” explained Berard. “Her favorite. I promised her she could have it back if she didn't scream last night.” He smiled at the girl again. “She didn't.”

“Very commendable,” said Eustache, but he tugged at his mustaches and frowned.

“Indeed.” Berard regarded Joanna amiably. Young and lithe, she had moved under him like a frisking horse. He rather believed that she had enjoyed the experience in spite of herself. Not that he cared.

He wondered what the women of Shrinerock were like.

“But tell me, Messire Eustache . . .” He linked arms with the broker and took him for a stroll past the piles of armor and swords that lay carefully stacked by themselves, glinting in the sun. With satisfaction, he noticed that the broker's eyes widened. “. . . what can Bardi and Peruzzi do for my little band?”

Eustache could not answer immediately, but by evening he had a rough estimate, and with the men of the Fellowship gathered around the big open square in the center of the encampment—Berard preferred it that way: no one could ever accuse him of holding anything back—he announced it loudly.

The men cheered and applauded and whooped. Off to one side, though, Jehan stood with folded arms, scowling. This was precisely the side of the Fellowship's enterprise that he hated the most. He would rather play at tables than do accounts on them, and if he had wanted to sell cheese, or anything else, he could have stayed in Saint Blaise.

But Jehan was here tonight, and that told Berard that he had at least some interest in the proceedings. Well, that was to be expected. Knightly behavior and knightly equipment were expensive, and as Jehan was passionately devoted to both, he had to make sure that his share of Ypris was sufficient to float his beliefs for another few weeks.

Another few weeks. Though Jehan did not know it, he probably did not have to worry about any more of a future than that. Berard had already made a few private inquiries as to the willingness of some of the other companies to follow him into a certain venture that, though he could not at present reveal any particulars to them, was likely to offer substantial rewards, and he had been elated by their enthusiasm. Now, just a little more information from Jehan, and Berard could dispense with the chivalric little nitwit.

The men were still cheering as Eustache turned to Berard. A handshake, a nod, and that was that. At least as far as Bardi and Peruzzi was concerned. Berard, though, had other plans, other matters to which to attend. He had started a game of chess with Jehan, and now it was time to finish it.

Business being over, it was time for celebration. But as the men gathered around the fire with wine and food and women, Berard called Jehan into his tent to talk about . . . well . . . business. Leadership. Not much of anything really. No need to spare the wine.

Jehan had always been of two minds about brigandage, and he inevitably became maudlin when he was drunk. “I remember my father,” he said, staring at the torchlight that flickered on the walls of Berard's tent. “He always wanted me to do something. He sent me to Saint Blaise because . . . because . . .”

He drank. Berard refilled. He had appointed himself Jehan's personal cup-bearer tonight.

“I don't know why. There was something in Saint Blaise he wanted me to learn.”

“Well,” said Berard, “I think you learned something there.” He glanced at his bed. Joanna was huddled in the sheets, waiting. Those eyes! And that figure! But right now he had Jehan to deal with. “You learned that you didn't want to make cheese.”

“Or sell it.”

“Yes. Yes.”

But I suppose I was supposed to be something more than a robber.” Jehan fell to staring at the torchlight again. “I wonder if he hates me.”

“Oh, I don't think he hates you.”

“He must.”

“No, not at all.”

Jehan snorted.

“Come now,” said Berard pleasantly, refilling Jehan's cup again. “What makes you think he hates you?”

“I didn't do anything noble.” Jehan was lapsing into a sizable depression. “Look at Christopher delAurvre: he went off on a crusade and killed people for God.”

“But he's mad now,” said Berard.

Jehan was undeterred. “And what have I done? Sacked towns, gotten drunk, fornicated . . .”

Off in the bed, Joanna shuddered, balled herself a little tighter in the sheets. Berard was annoyed. He had not hurt her. At least not badly. But he returned to Jehan. “You don't know what your father thinks,” he said smoothly. “For all you know he might well be proud of you. You've never found out.”

“How am I supposed to find out?”

“Well . . .” Berard pretended to think. “You could pay him a visit. We're in Adria. Shrinerock is in Adria . . . It's not that big a country.”

Jehan blinked blearily at the light. From outside came the sound of music: a musette and a drum. A whoop and a shout of
higher!
told Berard that Petro was dancing.

Girlish laughter. Well, at least some of the women of Ypris were making the most of their new occupation.

“Visit my father?” said Jehan.

Berard glanced at Joanna. She could
try
to enjoy it a little. “Of course,” he said. “You could ride down to Shrinerock and be back here before we had to move out.”

The lad shook his head. “There'd just be a big fuss. I don't want a fuss. It might not be the kind of fuss I want.”

“Well . . .” Again, Berard pretended to think. “Maybe you could pay your visit in private.”

“How?”

“You've got that . . . ah . . . secret entrance to the castle. You could go in at night, climb up the wall—”

“It's not a wall. It's a spring.”

“Of course,” Berard agreed. “How stupid of me. Well, you could dive under the spring—”

“You don't dive under it, Berard.” Jehan drank deep, drops of wine escaping the rim of his cup and running down his beardless throat. “You just go behind the little waterfall above the pool. It's dark there. No one ever goes back there, and so no one ever sees it.”