Maze of Moonlight Gael Baudino (poetry books to read .txt) 📖

appearance's sake: Yvonnet no more wanted a written record of Christopher's proposal than he wanted his liaison with Martin Osmore carved on the west tympanum of the Cathedral of Our Lady of Mercy.

It was late when the feast quieted down enough for Natil to play. She was, as always, radiant, her blue eyes flashing and her long hair unbound and cascading down her back like a river of jet and silver. Clad simply—she needed no ornament to draw every eye—she settled herself just far enough away from the hearth so that the heat would not throw her strings out of tune, and after a quick, introductory arpeggio, began the story of Blondel's search for Richard of the Lion's Heart.

Christopher listened appreciatively as the harper's sweet voice rose up, and he wondered if any of the jaded courtiers in this hall could feel even a tenth of what she offered through her music. No, probably not. And Yvonnet himself continued to look like a caged cat, alternately eager and close to tears. Lengram, the chamberlain, leaned frequently over his shoulder and whispered to him, but whatever he said seemed not to help.

And, in Natil's song, Blondel continued his search.

Christopher was proud of his musician, proud of Pytor for hiring her. And then he noticed that Natil's eyes—gleaming, earnest, as worried as he had ever seen them—were fastened upon him.

And Blondel continued his . . . search.

After a moment, Christopher understood, nodded, and rose. Yvonnet grabbed his arm. “Dear cousin,” he said, “away so soon?”

“I have to piss,” said Christopher with a smile, “and I'm not going to do it in my wine cup. I'll be back.”

Laughing at his cousin's roguish humor, Yvonnet let him go. But Christopher did not need the privy. With Natil's voice fading slowly in the distance, he followed one corridor, then another, got turned around first, then hopelessly lost, and finally was directed by a serving girl to the wing of the Château where Amos, who turned out to be the master of the scribes and secretaries, had a small bedroom to himself.

Christopher's first knock brought no response, but his second elicited a muffled reply, and the old man appeared at the door a minute later, wrapped in a thin robe. His pale eyes widened at the sight of his noble visitor, but he swung the door fully open and bowed Christopher in.

Christopher sat down and came directly to the point. Amos knew his grandfather, did he not? Was there anything to tell about Roger's sudden . . . change?

Amos was a genial man, and was obviously flattered that anyone of Christopher's rank found it necessary to ask him anything. “Oh, it was a few days after he broke my nose,” he said. “Did a right good job of it, too. You can still see that it isn't what it used to be!” He flicked the end of his lopsided nose with a finger and laughed when it wiggled like a dead fish.

“Why did he strike you?”

“Oh, he was angry. Baron Roger was chamberlain of the city then, just like Lengram is now . . .”

Christopher winced. Not just like Lengram, he hoped.

“. . . and he'd just gotten word that Paul delMari—that's the present Baron Paul's grandfather—was milk brother of the mayor of the Free Towns. Now your grandfather—saving your grace, my lord—had just killed Paul, and a few days before he'd lost his friend Aloysius Cranby and found out that Clarence a'Freux had his own plots . . . and somewhere in there—I don't quite recall anymore, it's been so long—someone managed to break into the Château and free a prisoner who was a witch, so Baron Roger was in a terrible fierce mood, and I was the one unlucky enough to have read him Paul's will.” Amos laughed again and waggled what was left of his nose.

Christopher had followed the account with some difficulty, but that did not matter: Amos had not yet touched upon the real question. “When did Roger change?”

“A few days after that, my lord.”

“How did it happen?”

“No one knows, really, my lord. He went off with a girl and two servants—went off hunting, you know—up in Beldon Forest.”

Christopher knew about Beldon Forest, but if a girl had been involved, hunting would not have been on Roger's mind at the time.

“And when he came back,” Amos continued, “he was as different a man as you could have seen. Oh, he still had a terrible fierce temper, and he was the very devil in a battle, but he was . . . like . . . well . . . courteous.”

“Courteous?”

“Something like you, my lord. You talk to people as though you really see them, you know.”

“Well . . . yes . . .” Christopher was not sure that he appreciated the compliment, but Roger's change was still a mystery. “Did he ever say anything about what happened in the forest?”

“Oh . . . well, you know . . .” Amos shrugged uncomfortably. “Men say odd things sometimes when they've had a little too much to drink.”

“Odd?” Christopher felt a chill. Of course it was odd. It had to be odd. What was odder than the sudden renunciation of a life's habits? “Tell me.”

Amos squirmed some more. “Oh, my lord, it's embarrassing.”

Christopher summoned up the delAurvre glare and hoped that it would work on one of Yvonnet's people.

It did. Amos squirmed again, then bobbed his nearly hairless head. “Well, I think it had to do with the plan that Bishop Cranby and Roger had put together about the Free Towns. It was heresy they wanted to prove. Heresy . . . and Elves.”

Christopher's chill deepened. He had heard about the plot. Everyone had. But the reasons and foundation for it had grown hazy over the years. Heresy was an obvious ploy. But why Elves? It did not make sense.

“Now, whether folk believed in Elves back then, I don't know,” Amos continued. His toothless mouth was drooling, and he murmured an apology and