Maze of Moonlight

and here he was facing an anthropomorphic spider on a big bay horse. He was glad to have Ranulf of the guard standing directly behind him: a very appropriate honor for the seneschal of a major barony . . . but also, at times like this, a very necessary precaution. “Yes, monsignor,” he said with another bow, “at the inn.”
Finally comprehending, Etienne flared. “Damn you, man! I'm on a mission from Pope Benedict himself! It's only common courtesy that your lord take us in!”
Pytor attempted the placid smile of a Russian peasant. “Master indicated that the inn was perfectly adequate to your needs.”
A flea-infested inn for a flea-infested churchman from a flea-infested whore's knave of a pope, was what Christopher had actually said—shouted rather—but even though an embassy from Pope Boniface of Rome would have met with exactly the same reception, Pytor was unwilling to convey those precise sentiments to Etienne.
No matter: Etienne was already raging. “His Holiness has sent me personally to speak with Baron Christopher regarding the influence of that heresiarch and excommunicate, Boniface!”
The townsfolk murmured. Pytor bowed with ceremony, but he would not overrule Christopher's orders. “We of Castle Aurverelle are honored, my lord monsignor, by His Holiness' attention and estimation of our influence in Adria. But . . .” He glanced over his shoulder. Old Ranulf, veteran of a thousand battles, had lifted his deeply scarred face and was examining Etienne and his party as though picking a spot for his first thrust. “But I am afraid,” Pytor continued, “that it will have to be the inn for you all.”
Etienne mastered his temper only with difficulty. “And assuming for a moment that I will deign to stay in a common hostel, when will it please Baron Christopher to see me?”
“Master will not see you, my lord monsignor.”
“You mean, he won't see me today?”
“Master will not see you at all.”
“But he must!”
Pytor understood Etienne's bewilderment, but Christopher had kept to his isolation. It was May now, and still no one but staff, officers of the estate, and men of the Aurverelle Guard were entertained in the castle. The fortress was a dreary, empty place. Much (though the comparison pained the seneschal) like its master. “My master—”
“Your master!” shouted Etienne. “Your master this, your master that! I know all about you, Pytor of Medno: you come from Novgorod, and you're nothing but a common serf! How dare Christopher insult me by sending someone like you to speak with me?”
The men in the crowd muttered angrily, and some of them shook their fists at the legate. Pytor blushed at the esteem with which the Aurverelle folk obviously held their seneschal, but he had had enough of Etienne. Courtesy was getting him nowhere, and he lifted his head. “I beg your pardon, monsignor,” he said politely. “I am not a common serf. I am a common slave.”
Someone in the crowd whooped. Etienne flushed with anger. “Well, I'll show you how we treat slaves in Languedoc. . . .” And, rising in his stirrups, reaching for his sword, he urged his horse toward Pytor.
Ranulf, with a murmured “Pardon me, m'lord seneschal,” strode forward and planted himself before Pytor. His hand was hovering just above the grip of his sword, and Pytor knew that the old veteran could draw the weapon and slash simultaneously, dropping all but the best protected and most determined horses even at full gallop.
Confronted now with both an angry knot of townsfolk and a mailed and armed warrior—and therefore with the reminder that more of the same were, doubtless, available to Pytor—Etienne brought his horse to a halt and considered. Pytor guessed his thoughts. True, the monsignor had attendants, and many of them were armed, but a street brawl before a major castle of Adria was risky business, and would do little for Benedict's popularity in the land.
The monsignor's sword went back into its sheath.
“Thank you, Ranulf,” said Pytor.
“No mor'n your due, m'lord seneschal.”
Etienne was chewing his way through courtesy as though it were a block of wood. “Would you please ask your master . . .”
Pytor was beginning to wish that the vagrant monkey that prowled Aurverelle would make an appearance with a suitably rotten piece of fruit, but then he heard movement behind him. Christopher himself was walking quietly out of the castle gate. Clad in simple garments of black and brown, without a sword or even a chain of office, he was indistinguishable from the lowliest servant; but his bearing and the sudden lifting of caps among the people of Aurverelle should have told Etienne that this was no commoner.
The churchman's temper had been aroused: he was beyond such subtleties. “You, boy,” he said to Christopher. “Fetch me your master.”
With a cry, the townsfolk surged forward towards Etienne and his men, obviously intending to deal with the haughty Avignonese as the Flemings had once dealt with the haughty French. But Christopher stopped their advance with a look. “I assure you, Etienne,” he said in the sudden silence, “I have no master.” And he pointed with his thumb at the motto carved above the main gate. Three hundred years ago, the delAurvres had taken it for their own:
King I am not
Nor prince, nor duke, nor count.
I am the Master of Aurverelle.
“You insolent young pup!” Etienne looked ready to reach for his sword again.
Ranulf spoke. “Beggin' your pardon, m'lord monsignor, but I must ask you t'show more respect to Baron Christopher.”
Etienne stared, Christopher nodded to the churchman as he might acknowledge the presence of a hound. “You don't recognize me, Etienne, but I recognize you. You were the priest who bravely blessed the brave crusaders in Vienna . . . and who then bravely stayed at home. It's amazing the way one can rise in the world by staying home, isn't it, Etienne?”
Etienne fumbled for words. “Christopher . . .”
“Baron Christopher,” said Ranulf.
“I said I wouldn't see you,” said Christopher. “So I'll do my best to forget that I have, and that you were willing to threaten