Maze of Moonlight

embroidered silk, and gems.
Efram tottered along the side aisle and, putting his finger to his lips, led his two companions down into the crypt. They stepped slowly and silently as they went down the stairs, and Pytor heard, growing louder as they descended, the sound of dry sobbing.
The chapel was gothic. The crypt, dark and low-ceilinged, was romanesque. Eleven generations of delAurvres were buried here, and the air was heavy with death and wealth. Flat stones marked the resting places of the few barons who had decided that their Creator was best met humbly, but recumbent figures in armor and finery filled the room.
And, off in the corner, where slept Roger, a pitifully thin figure was kneeling, embracing the cold effigy with both arms, one cheek against the stone face. He was sobbing, but between sobs he was speaking. Pytor drew near. The words, muffled, took on shape.
“I'm sorry,” Christopher was saying. “I'm sorry.”
Pytor and Guillaume lifted him gently and took him back to his room. And now Christopher seemed docile. He stared at the ceiling, the tears coming still, but he drank his medicine without complaint. But Pytor, though he rejoiced inwardly at this change for the better, worried still, for Christopher's utterances had turned into a quiet litany of contrition.
“I'm sorry,” he said, over and over. “I'm sorry.”
***
Yvonnet a'Verne, baron of Hypprux, had taken after his great uncle, Roger of Aurverelle. Through the inbred marital liaisons of Adria, Hypprux—along with almost every major barony of the land—had ties with a multitude of noble houses; and the face that Yvonnet had acquired Roger's sheer physical size was, perhaps, something of the luck of the draw. Yvonnet, however, did not mind this at all, for Roger's stature had gone hand in hand with a willingness to resort to physical violence even under the mildest of provocations, and the baron of Hypprux was quite willing to capitalize on his ancestor's reputation.
At present, though, he was only glowering at some bad news. “He's back?” he said.
Lengram a'Lowins, chamberlain of Hypprux, nodded. “The reports are fairly reliable,” he said. “We don't have any . . . ah . . . informants in Aurverelle, but for this it wasn't necessary. Christopher returned about a month ago.”
“So why haven't I heard from my dear cousin?” Yvonnet shifted a little on his bed, put his big hands behind his head. He knew perfectly well why he had not heard. Christopher despised him. Well, that was fine. He despised Christopher. Silly little knightly thing! And now, added to his hatred was the fact that, because of his cousin's return, Aurverelle was suddenly out of his reach once again.
Lengram's eyebrow lifted. “I . . . ah . . . suppose that he has not had time.”
“Is he sick?”
“Well . . . yes. Indications are that he's . . . ah . . . mad.”
Aurverelle moved a little closer again. “Good,” said Yvonnet. “Let him be mad. Take a message to Bishop Alphonse.”
Lengram took a step away from the bed, and Yvonnet saw the look of astonishment that turned to the slow, sullen anger of insult. Lengram was a nobleman: he was not a messenger or a servant.
Yvonnet did not care. Lengram's vices paralleled his own, and sometimes, in this very bed, Lengram's body paralleled his own. Mutual vice, mutual silence . . . a silence that preserved their lives and their reputation. Lengram would do as he was told.
“Tell him to have someone look in on Christopher. A nice, friendly friar, perhaps. I want to know just how mad Christopher is. And I want it to be able to stand up before the assembled barons. Now, off with you, my little mosca.”
Lengram hesitated.
“Something else?”
“A message from Paul delMari, baron of Furze. His fosterling, Martin Osmore, will be going home come spring. Martin will be coming this way with gifts and greetings.” Lengram shrugged. “The customary progress home . . . save that, since Martin is . . . ah . . . common, it won't be much of a progress.”
Yvonnet regarded Lengram ironically. The chamberlain's sense of superiority was based solely on the blood in his veins. Martin's father, Matthew, was the mayor of Saint Blaise, and could have bought Lengram and all his goods, houses, and servants several times over. Baron Paul was not so worried about class distinctions as some, and given the wealth of Saint Blaise and its mayor, Yvonnet could understand why.
But Martin . . . Yvonnet settled back, pursed his lips. He knew Martin. Very well, in fact. “Wasn't that the Martin that was at my coming of age party three years ago? Thin, dark lad? Face like a girl's? And other parts of other sorts . . .?”
Lengram flushed. Yvonnet wondered: jealousy? Probably. Lengram would just have to learn his place.
Lengram's eyes had narrowed. “You want Martin, don't you?”
Yvonnet laughed. “Who wouldn't?”
“What about . . . ah . . . Ypris?”
“What the hell are they doing now?”
Lengram cast his eyes up at the ceiling as though choosing words, but Yvonnet knew that it was merely a ploy designed to make him wait for the news. Such was Lengram's revenge for the mention of Martin. “The embassy from Rome that you sent did not . . . ah . . . impress them at all,” he said at last, “even with the soldiers. The good monsignor and his servants were beaten before they could even reach the church, and the burghers . . .” He shrugged. “. . . killed several of the soldiers. I . . . ah . . . heard it was rather the Maillotins all over again.”
Yvonnet was on his feet. “Those bastards! Doing that to an anointed representative of God!”
Lengram shrugged. “If Avignon sent an embassy to us, what would you do?”
Yvonnet glowered. Lengram was showing his university snobbery again. Such things, the baron was sure, merited a place in hell even more than a few prick-to-prick encounters in a sodomitical bed. “That's different.”
“Is it?”
“Boniface is for God,”