Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino Read Free Book Online Page A

enough for her: she had not had to face the swords and stakes at Nicopolis. And now he was home, alive, and now Anna was dead. No more rosaries. No more vespers. No more but we can't: it's a holy day, Christopher.
    It was too perfect, too ironic, too well-balanced a fate; and suddenly Christopher was laughing again, a long, braying series of mirthless guffaws that clawed at his throat, pounded at his aching head, and sent Pytor running for Guillaume.
    They gave him something to make him sleep.

Chapter 4
    The town burned as towns burn: red flames fluttering like banners against the blue Italian sky, smoke streaming away like a young girl's scream, sudden and brittle topplings of towers and walls. Above all, like the skeleton of a bishop's miter, rose the gutted tower of the church in which the last band of citizens had held out for one or two additional hours.
    But pikes and pitchforks had been no match for spears and swords, and now the former inhabitants of Montalenghe—those who were left alive—stood huddled and under guard as their town crackled and snapped itself into charcoal. Some, to be sure, had fled into the foothills of the Alps, but Berard of Onella was not one to care about what he did not have, and therefore those who had escaped had already ceased to exist for him. The town was destroyed, he and his men had its money and its food, and there were a few servants and slaves out of the bargain. Why worry about what was not in one's pocket?
    What was in one's pocket, though, was a different matter, and when one of the girls of the town broke away and ran for the fields, lifting her long skirts to free her legs, Berard, laughing, shouted to his men. One of them rode after her, caught her easily, and returned, dragging her by the hair. Berard rubbed the stubble of his beard appraisingly. She was fortunate: she was not bad looking. She would find a place in the camp.
    He tipped his head back, shifted his rubbing to the back of his neck where his helmet had chafed throughout a warm day. Good weather, good profit—a good day all around. The rest of the winter would be, if not luxurious, then at least comfortable. Not bad for a band of mercenaries who had so recently faced near-annihilation at the hands of the Bolognese.
    It was refreshing, he decided, to work only for himself and his men, to have told the squabbling city states of northern Italy to go to the Devil along with their schemes, their grand plans, and their intrigues. What had that Bolognese affair been about, anyway? He still was not sure. Probably Florence and Milan again, with Gian Galeazzo paying off the Pavanese to make enough trouble for Padua that Venice would have to give up its very temporary support for the Signoria and turn its attention to its closer ally; which meant, of course, in the twisted drainage pattern that was Italian politics, that Florence would have been stymied in its efforts to bring Genoa under control, since Gian Galeazzo was far enough away from the city to allow for a quick strike. Bologna, then, abandoned by Ferrara and Ravenna (which would, naturally, ally themselves with Venice), would fall in behind Genoa and arrange for a troublesome band of condottiere in the employ, or perhaps not, of Modena, which might have been supporting the Florentines, or might not (it was never wise to commit oneself), to be eradicated.
    Something like that.
    In the end, though, only Giovanni da Barbiano, the captain of the mercenary band, had been executed. No ransom, no chance for an exchange of prisoners, no appeal. Caught, killed. That was it.
    And Berard, elected leader in a quick agreement whispered among the men in the Italian night, had led the company away into the darkness, thoroughly disgusted with the vagaries of politics. He had actually thought Giovanni to have been on Bologna's side. But, then again, maybe not.
    Yes, this was better. No politics, just money. For a minute, as the prisoners were taken away to be sorted, sold, killed,