Maze of Moonlight

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