Authors: Gael Baudino
“All right.” Paul gave a last look at the window. Maybe someday he would see Jehan riding up the road from the lowlands, perhaps clad in armor won in some far-off battle, a spear in his hand and the delMari griffin and silver star on his shield. “Maybe it will indeed be for the best.” He shrugged, mustered his little grin. “After all, anything is possible. There are only differing degrees of probability.”
Lake started.
Paul watched him understandingly. Compassion. The Elves had always spoken of compassion. It was an old way, a good way, and he would hold to it. “I'll help you, Lake. Martin is due to return to Saint Blaise in the spring, and Vanessa can go with him. Mayor Matthew has his pretensions, but if I send him a letter telling him to find her a good position where she can learn an honorable trade, he'll do it.”
Lake rose and bowed. “Thankee, m'lord. We're deeply obliged to you.”
Paul offered his hand, smiled at Lake's grip. They could not acknowledge one another—Lake himself perhaps did not even know—but it was good that what bare traces of the old blood were left in the world could touch in friendship. “You tell Vanessa that she'll be well taken care of, Lake. Ha-ha! You tell her that she has adventures—yes, adventures!—ahead of her.”
“Thankee, m'lord. I wi'.” And bowing again, Lake went to the door. Nicholas, unctuous and official, had been waiting for him, and the steward escorted the farmer along the hall, down the stairs, and out of the castle.
Pondering, Paul examined his hand. A touch. It was not much, but it would have to do.
Lies. And it was getting to be so dark!
***
“
Black
bread?” David's voice, faint with horror, echoed off the walls of the kitchen.
“With beans in it.” Pytor nodded.
“Beans?”
“Beans.”
“Dear God.” The chef of Aurverelle passed a hand over his face. “But he can't
pos
sibly want to eat
that
! It's . . . it's not . . .”
“Not noble,” Pytor prompted.
“Yes. Exactly.”
Pytor shrugged. It was Christopher who gave the orders in Aurverelle, not the seneschal, not the bailiff, nor, for that matter, the chef. “It is now.”
“And those . . .
rags
he's wearing.”
These days, the kitchen was not a busy place, for the castle possessed less than one third of its usual population and therefore, the sound of snickering from one of the kitchen boys who was stirring a pot was loud in the silence.
But it was Baron Christopher who was being snickered at, and black bread or no, David whirled and clouted the lad on the back of the head. The boy resumed his stirring attentively. David glared at him, then turned back to Pytor. “
Rags!
”
“Raffalda would not allow the baron to go about in rages, Master Chef,” said Pytor, though he himself had unconsciously come to think of Christopher's garb as such. “His clothes are simply of black and brown. He prefers it that way.”
“But . . . where's his
style
?”
“In black bread, at present.”
David sniffed. “It's in
ed
ible.”
Pytor cleared his throat: a deep rumble. “Are you telling me, Master Chef, that one who trained under the great Taillevent himself is incapable of making a decent loaf of black bread?”
The chef shook his head. “You have to under
stand
, Master Seneschal. This bread he wants. It's something . . . else. It's full of . . .”
“Beans.”
“Well, yes. Beans. But not just beans. It's rye and spelt and barley and brank, the
coars
est of flours, with only enough wheat in it to keep it from turning into a
rock
. Peasants are fit to eat it, but not anybody of any
de
cency.”
Pytor, a peasant—and an escaped slave—who had eaten black bread with beans and worse in it, said nothing. One had to be a little tolerant of David. And, these days, of Christopher, too.
“And peasants are . . . well . . . they're just
dif
ferent,” David went on. “They can make a meal of thorns and acorns if they want. Black bread is nothing to them. It's actually
good
for them. But the baron . . .”
Muttering inwardly at the chef's casual bigotry, Pytor tried to be diplomatic. “My good chef, the baron had more than his fill of thorns and acorns during his journey home, and he told me that a little black bread will not hurt him.” Baron Christopher, of course, had said nothing of the sort: he gave orders, not explanations. “Besides, he fears that the noble food you customarily prepare for him might prove to be too rich so soon after his illness. Therefore, now that he can finally keep down something beyond gruel, he wants black bread. And he will, of course, look forward to eating your delicacies as soon as he is ready.”
David glared. “
Black
bread?”
The Russian sighed. “With beans.”
Another voice cackled, then shouted. “Lots of beans!” Startled, Pytor and David whirled to see Christopher and Jerome standing in the doorway. Christopher's hands were balled into fists, and he raised them up above his head as he leaped down the three steps to the flagstone floor, sending the kitchen boys running in fear. “Handfuls of beans! Buckets of beans! Bushels of beans!”
“Dear God,” David whispered. “He's mad.”
“And a little heap under the stairs!”
Pytor's eyes narrowed at the chef. “Master is as sane as you or I,” he murmured in his deep basso. “Another disloyal word like that, Master Chef, and I will have you put in irons.”
“Beans!” said Christopher as he snatched a dry apple from a barrel, and for a moment, Pytor was terrified that his master was going to gnaw it down to the core and then hurl what was left at the nearest head.
But the apple, uneaten, smacked into the hands of the kitchen lad who had been snickering. “Next time,” said Christopher, “laugh louder.”
The boy was white. “Yes, m'lord.”
“You hear me?” shouted Christopher. “Louder!” And then he whirled on David. “
Beams!
”
Faced with a direct confrontation with the master of Aurverelle, the chef wilted. “As you wish, Baron Christopher.”
Christopher nodded, satisfied. “And a bowl of that lentil soup you make . . .the thick kind. The kind with the onions in it.”
David nearly cried out in horror. “But I make
that
for the dogs when they're
sick
!”
Christopher was undeterred. He picked up another apple. “Such will be my supper until I inform you otherwise.” The apple streaked at David's head, and the chef barely caught it in time. “Have an apple. Enjoy. And don't forget to laugh.” He beckoned to Pytor. “Come, sir. Let us go and leave Master Chef to his bread and beans.”
Together, Christopher, Pytor, and Jerome left the kitchen and strolled out into the courtyard. Pytor stayed close to his master's side, for though Christopher's strength had much improved, he still had to lean occasionally on a friendly arm to catch his breath. This afternoon, though, he insisted on a lengthy walk, one that took them out the castle gates, through the streets of the surrounding town, and past the inn where Pytor had discovered him.
In contrast tot he wretched autumn, the weather was mild and reasonably dry for January. The majority of the townsfolk were still keeping indoors, attending to the quiet tasks of the winter, but those who were out smiled and bowed and curtsied and saluted Christopher with a cheery “God bless you, m'lord.”
But when the baron lifted a black-clad arm to acknowledge their greetings, he did so absently. “They obviously think I've gone daft,” he said to his companions. “I can see that. Poor Baron Christopher, running about in donkey skins.” He looked at Pytor. “Did you and David have a nice chat about my taste in sackcloth?”
Pytor colored. “David is distressed, master.”
“And what about you?”
“Master may wear what he deems most fit.”
“But you don't like it, do you?”
Pytor cleared his throat, spoke cautiously. “I must admit that it is not what is considered stylish.”
“Stylish! Yes . . . that's the important thing, isn't it? Perhaps I should wear green, like Jean de Nevers. After all, one can't go about looking like a friar, can one?”
“If I may say so,” said Jerome, his arms still folded in his Franciscan habit, “I think that a friar is a very fine thing to look like.”
Christopher laughed. “Bless you, Fra Jerome.”
But Jerome shook his head. “My lord, it is not for us to question your choice of food or clothes: the holy Baptist ate locusts and honey, after all. But I might remind you of your position in Adria. Word of your ways has reached some of the other baronies of the land. It has caused some . . . discussion.”
Christopher stopped laughing, and Pytor, hopeful, caught a flash of the old delAurvre defiance. “Discussion? Ah, yes. I saw that letter you left on my bed. Who sent that, anyway?”
“One of your men nominally in the employ of Yvonnet of Hypprux,” said Jerome. He coughed. “Nominally.”
“A spy.”
“If you recall, my lord, you had quite an established network,” said Jerome. “The legacy of your grandfather. Pytor and I did our best to maintain it in your absence. We thought it prudent.”
“My grandfather . . .” Christopher mused. “Damn, but that was a man.” He thought some more, but then his face turned pained. “All right, I can guess. Yvonnet is my cousin—second, third, I can't recall—and if I'm mad, I can't hold onto Aurverelle, can I?”
Jerome nodded his gray head. “One of Yvonnet's people was examining the lineage rolls in Maris about a month before you returned, my lord. Obviously, the baron of Hypprux had some designs on Aurverelle that were predicated upon its rightful master's death. Those, of course, were dashed by your return. Now, though, your—shall we call it fanciful?—behavior has raised another possibility.
“Yvonnet is more interested in banquets and balls than in battle.”
Pytor shook his head. “If master would let me speak, I would say that I would not underestimate Yvonnet. He has ridden in his share of tournaments. But I doubt that he would himself come to attack master. There are other ways. The free companies, for instance.”
Jerome nodded his gray head. “They've been active in France since the truce with England. France has been stripped: they'll be looking for wealthier lands. And some of Yvonnet's gold might persuade them that Aurverelle is that land. The Italians have been using the companies for political purposes for decades, and in France some captains have actually been rewarded with castles and fiefdoms for their services against one nobleman or another. Common, very common. It would only take a message or two, a few bags of gold, a promise, and a wink. . . .” The friar shrugged.
Christopher frowned. “How in heaven's name did you learn all this in a cloister? You were supposed to be praying for godless people like me.”
Jerome smiled. “I read a great deal. A clever man can learn through the eyes and ears of others who become his, so to speak, spies of the intellect.”
Christopher shook his head. “They can't take Aurverelle.”
Pytor shrugged uncomfortably. “If master would allow me to speak . . .”
“Just say it, Pytor, dammit!”
Pytor bowed. “Only an extremely large force would be interested in the castle. Even Messire Hawkwood's White Company in Italy did not concern itself with sieges. It would be the peasants who live in the town and the countryside who would suffer. The crops they tend, the small bits of money and jewelry they possess . . .” Pytor shrugged again. “It is always so.”
Christopher was brooding. “Should I care about them?”
Pytor squirmed. “They support master.”
The baron's mood had darkened, and he turned around and regarded the castle, its walls, the huge tower that dominated all. The sun was westering, and the shadows fell on the town, putting a chill into the air.
“It's all useless,” he said. “It's all stupid: just a bunch of boys playing camping, chasing a ball about the fields and hurting everyone. Maybe I should just let Yvonnet have it all.” He hung his head for a minute. Pytor and Jerome exchanged worried glances. But then Christopher lifted his head and forced an ironic smile. “But that's just what Grandfather did, isn't it? Let them have it all?”
He wavered, sagged against Pytor, passed a hand over his face. “I'm tired,” he said softly. “Take me home, gentlemen. I want black bread and some soup fit for dogs.”
Spring came late that year to Aurverelle, the warm weather of January leading directly back into snow and sleet that only grudgingly yielded to the coldest of March rains. The farmers fretted about the frosty nights that nipped at the now premature barley and peas, and the dairymaids coddled their calves and piglets through the all-pervasive damp.
Christopher's strength improved. By the beginning of February, he was taking extended walks about the castle and the town, and late in the month he began once again to hold the weekly courts that Jerome and Pytor had been supervising during his absence and recuperation. His outlook, though, remained gloomy, and March and even April found him still brooding, still vacillating between manic capers and black depression.
The rumor that Christopher delAurvre was mad had, seemingly, entrenched itself in the thoughts of Adria, and far from doing anything to dispel it, Christopher actually furthered it, violating convention and custom by turning away travelers and pilgrims and refusing entrance to musicians and storytellers. This worried Pytor and Jerome greatly, for even if the insulted performers did not do their best to spread the unpleasant rumors about the baron of Aurverelle, the matter of the rejected travelers was serious indeed, since hospitality was a cornerstone of existence in Europe. Barbarians, perhaps, could turn away those in need, but even a beggar was entitled to a bowl of soup and a heap of straw by the fire in the world of civilized men.
But Christopher persisted in his increasing isolation. Even a wandering friar, sick and weary, found no bed in Castle Aurverelle and had to make do with the severe hospitality of the Carthusian charterhouse at the base of the hill.