Read Online Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gael Baudino
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Charles: courtly, amorous, studious; Janet: bright, practical, and intelligent, with a spark of immortal blood that made her every word and gesture a joy. Such a birthright he had received from them! With a pang, he wondered what kind of birthright he had given Jehan.
I want to play at tables, the boy had said in his last letter home, not do accounts on them.
Barons like Christopher delAurvre went off on crusades. Barons like Paul delMari, it appeared, stayed at home and gave parties. But Paul kept his smile. “Can't get much friendlier than that, can we?”
“Nay, m'lord.”
“Hmmm . . .” Paul examined Lake's request, found nothing amiss. Lake, father of two sons and three daughters, could well afford another dowry, even if Vanessa were exceptionally ugly, which, given the light in her father's eyes, Paul knew she was not. But Vanessa's inclinations might have been towards independence, and the Towns, though their legendary tolerance had been slipping for some years, still at least understood independence. A young girl with ambitions for more than marriage or a nunnery could do much, much worse than make her way to the Free Towns.
“I think it can be managed, Lake,” he said. “We can find her something in Saint Blaise. She's an intelligent girl, isn't she? Ha-ha, I knew it! She'll want something quiet, I'm sure. Can she read? Yes? Bonnerol doing his job, then? Good. How soon did you want to do this?”
“Please, m'lord: as soon as possible.”
Lake was anxious, eager. Lies. Everybody lied in one way or another. What was Lake's way?
Paul nodded slowly. “Yes, that would be for the best, wouldn't it? But . . .” He got up and went to the window. He knew what he could do for Vanessa. Simple, really. But that brought him straight back to Martin. And Martin made him think of Jehan. “But won't you miss her?”
Lake bent his head quickly.
The glass window gave a distorted and wavy view of the landscape below. Paul could see it, and yet much remained hidden, obscure. Just like that. Just like Paul delMari.
He had sent his son away, and now he was gone. He had to try to tell Lake about what might be the results of his request. “I miss my Jehan,” he said. “Just about ten years ago, he went off to Saint Blaise to be fostered with Mayor Matthew. The mayor's son, Martin, came here.” He shook his head sadly: even the daft could be melancholic upon occasion. “Jehan never liked people he deemed below his status. Manly little chap.” He laughed softly, but Jehan was gone. He had no son, only a much loved fosterling and a few memories. And Martin was leaving. “He left the household there after only a few years. Wandered off to make his own way. He'll turn up someday, I imagine, but Isabelle and I both miss him. He was our only child. . . .” He turned back from the window. “Are you sure you want to do this, Lake? Saint Blaise is a good distance away, and it's a big city. Quite a change from Furze Hamlet. Are you sure you don't want something closer and . . . smaller? Saint Brigid is only two days' ride form here. It's a nice little town—”
But he broke off at the sight of Lake's tense, frightened face. The farmer was shaking his head violently: short, abrupt swings as though he were palsied. “I'm sure, m'lord. I think it's for tha best. An' it ha' better be Saint Blaise, too.”
“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
I want to play at tables, the boy had said in his last letter home, not do accounts on them.
Barons like Christopher delAurvre went off on crusades. Barons like Paul delMari, it appeared, stayed at home and gave parties. But Paul kept his smile. “Can't get much friendlier than that, can we?”
“Nay, m'lord.”
“Hmmm . . .” Paul examined Lake's request, found nothing amiss. Lake, father of two sons and three daughters, could well afford another dowry, even if Vanessa were exceptionally ugly, which, given the light in her father's eyes, Paul knew she was not. But Vanessa's inclinations might have been towards independence, and the Towns, though their legendary tolerance had been slipping for some years, still at least understood independence. A young girl with ambitions for more than marriage or a nunnery could do much, much worse than make her way to the Free Towns.
“I think it can be managed, Lake,” he said. “We can find her something in Saint Blaise. She's an intelligent girl, isn't she? Ha-ha, I knew it! She'll want something quiet, I'm sure. Can she read? Yes? Bonnerol doing his job, then? Good. How soon did you want to do this?”
“Please, m'lord: as soon as possible.”
Lake was anxious, eager. Lies. Everybody lied in one way or another. What was Lake's way?
Paul nodded slowly. “Yes, that would be for the best, wouldn't it? But . . .” He got up and went to the window. He knew what he could do for Vanessa. Simple, really. But that brought him straight back to Martin. And Martin made him think of Jehan. “But won't you miss her?”
Lake bent his head quickly.
The glass window gave a distorted and wavy view of the landscape below. Paul could see it, and yet much remained hidden, obscure. Just like that. Just like Paul delMari.
He had sent his son away, and now he was gone. He had to try to tell Lake about what might be the results of his request. “I miss my Jehan,” he said. “Just about ten years ago, he went off to Saint Blaise to be fostered with Mayor Matthew. The mayor's son, Martin, came here.” He shook his head sadly: even the daft could be melancholic upon occasion. “Jehan never liked people he deemed below his status. Manly little chap.” He laughed softly, but Jehan was gone. He had no son, only a much loved fosterling and a few memories. And Martin was leaving. “He left the household there after only a few years. Wandered off to make his own way. He'll turn up someday, I imagine, but Isabelle and I both miss him. He was our only child. . . .” He turned back from the window. “Are you sure you want to do this, Lake? Saint Blaise is a good distance away, and it's a big city. Quite a change from Furze Hamlet. Are you sure you don't want something closer and . . . smaller? Saint Brigid is only two days' ride form here. It's a nice little town—”
But he broke off at the sight of Lake's tense, frightened face. The farmer was shaking his head violently: short, abrupt swings as though he were palsied. “I'm sure, m'lord. I think it's for tha best. An' it ha' better be Saint Blaise, too.”
“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
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