“Were the world all mine,
From the sea to the Rhine,
All, I’d give it all,
For the Queen of England in my arms.”
Of course, the girls were eating it up. “I totally chose the wrong career,” said Henry.
What?
“Nothing, nothing.”
Well, at least they weren’t singing about stringing up the serfs, Bertran’s speciality. And as Henry and Excalibur walked north, there was more entertaining entertainment available: jugglers, fire-eaters, dancing monkeys, even some Italian thing with actors in masks—all good, clean fun, especially when the monkeys got upset and started throwing their poo.
Enough of this. That captain and his boat have surely left by now. Let us return to the docks and book passage to Constantinople.
“Tell me. Did you notice any ships that looked like they were headed to Constantinople—you know, big ships with enough ballast and sail to go around the Pillars of Hercules in winter and enter the Inland Sea?”
I am no expert on sailing ships. I am a sword.
“Well, I didn’t see any. All the ships I saw were fishing boats. We’re stuck here until the right ship comes in…unless you think it’s smart for us to climb through the Alps in March. Does that sound smart to you?”
You sound smart. Too smart by half.
“The weather’s changing. We could get the right ship any day. I promise, we’ll go back to the docks first thing tomorrow, and every day until we find a ship. And if we find a good caravan going up the Garonne and over the mountains, I’ll…I’ll seriously consider it. All right?”
I can always call back the ogre.
“Good, I’m glad you’re being reasonable about this.”
Keeping track of the streets in his head, Henry followed the line of vendors’ wagons north and east until they arrived at a market set among the pillars of a vast marble ruin.
“Look familiar?” Henry asked.
No, the city is new to me. But this building must have been a temple of the legions—look, there are the Roman eagles on the pillars.
Henry shrugged and paced through the colonnade past the vendors. After gathering a few odd looks, he drew his cloak down over Excalibur—evidently, there weren’t too many scrawny young clerks carrying knightly swords in Bordeaux.
He climbed on top of a limestone block to get a better view of the ruins. Something was bothering him, gnawing at the back of his mind. Something about the way the pillars were arranged—
“—a most sorry vagabond, traveling sometimes as a monk-novice, but carrying an antique sword. A youth of middling height, hair brown, eyes green, a scar across his chin, answering to the name of Henry of Sanbruc, or Henri de la Ville-Perdu—”
It was a dapper knight in Geoffrey’s livery, perched on a broken pillar, reading from a scroll in Norman French. He paused for a moment, and a clerk repeated the description in Provençal. Then the knight snapped his fingers, and the clerk unrolled a scroll and displayed it to the crowd. It was a drawing of Henry, accurate down to his haircut…if you ignored the unicorn, herald angel and pear tree the illuminator had thrown in for good measure.
Henry swallowed an urge to bolt. The last thing you wanted to do when you were a fugitive was to draw attention. If you were going to leave, fast but casual was the key. If there were anywhere to run to, that is…
Henry glanced up at the walls of the ruin—pikemen in blue and silver paced the temple outskirts.
“Hmm. Not good.”
Why?
“Uh…Do you see the guards? The weapons?”
But you’re a thief. Why don’t you just appeal to the thieves’ guild to spirit us past?
“Thieves’ guild?”
Of course. Daring rogues, gentlemen of the highway, Robin’s Merry Men. Everyone knows you have a guild, and even a king, corrupt as he may be. And its tentacles reach everywhere, from London to Rome to Jerusalem itself. The minstrels at Camelot sang about it all the time.
“Really.”
Now, I must make clear that I don’t approve of this, but sometimes even I must choose the lesser of two evils—
Henry sighed. The one time the sword was willing to compromise, and it was with an entirely mythical organization. He edged around the crowd, moving from pillar to pillar, scanning the square for some place where he could wait, watch, and make a plan that didn’t require the all-powerful, mythical thieves’ guild to come and rescue him. He didn’t see anything offhand.
An old Florentine was standing at the far end, ignoring the speech and running a quick-moving little shell game. Henry drifted closer. The shell game was a classic, the first rig that Alfie had taught him—three extra-large walnut shells and a tiny dried pea. The mark tried to guess which shell held the pea after the tricheur shuffled the walnuts. Of course, the pea was never under the mark’s walnut. A really good shell man, like Alfie, could make the pea jump from walnut to walnut like St. Vitus hopping to Calabria. A thing of beauty, it was…
What’s wrong?
“Oh, I’m just getting sentimental.” Henry knuckled a little water from his eye. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I say the shell is…there.” The player, a big, muscular man with a beard, pointed to the middle shell. The Florentine picked it up, revealing the pea.
“Money, money, money!” yelled the Florentine. He paid Muscles, who was, of course, the Florentine’s shill. The rest of the audience crowded close, shouting to put their money down. Henry elbowed his way quietly toward the table.
What are you doing? You know this is a mere cheat.
“The old guy probably knows the ins and outs. We want an out, right?”
He stepped up to the Florentine’s table. “Not too bad, grandfather,” he said quietly, “But any rogue could spot the pea falling in your lap.”
The Florentine nodded. “But he might miss something else, young master.”
“Really? What could—”
“Behind you and to your right, an agent of Prince Geoffrey, who marked your description when you entered the square.” The voice was quiet, serious. Welsh.
“Alfie?”
Alfie nodded very slightly under his Italian hat. “Valdemar is passing behind you. When he comes to your left, hand off the blade. Then win a few rounds and stalk off with your cloak thrown back so the liegeman can see you’re not carrying a sword. Understand?”
“Aye.” Henry touched Excalibur’s hilt. “You heard—”
You know this man? You trust him?
“With my life.”
Very well. His servant may hold me…for now.
Muscles—Valdemar, of course—came up behind Henry, one hand held low. Henry slipped off his buckle, and Excalibur’s scabbard dropped into Valdemar’s hand. The smith walked off, the sword just one long object in the bundle of planks and barrel staves he carried.
“I’ll have a go at this game,” said Henry loudly. “It seems simple and profitable!”
Alfie shuffled the shells, and Henry played until Alfie glanced behind him and nodded that the coast was clear. Henry turned to the crowd and held up his winnings.
“This old Italian is a fool,” yelled Henry. “Win your money while he’s still breathing!”
Behind him, Alfie whispered, “In front of the Church of St. André, at noon.”
Henry nodded and left Alfie to his work.
Hustling through the alleys to Alfie’s rendezvous, Henry was disgusted with himself. Now that he knew what was going on, the signs of Geoffrey’s presence were everywhere. The prince’s insignia was up on the gates to the old town. Sprinkled among the brightly colored Bordelais were hard men in their twenties, dressed in dark clothes and walking like they had long metal sticks dangling under their cloaks. They spoke Swiss German or the northern dialects, instead of Bordeaux’s Provençal.
He should have noticed it all as soon as he entered the city. No question, arguing with Excalibur all the time was destroying his concentration. He turned the corner
and entered the plaza.
It was clear why Alfie had chosen this square: Wedged between the Queen’s castle and the Cathedral of St. André, it was packed with goliards, who loved princesses and queens, but not their male relatives. Queen Eleanor’s colors were everywhere, and the swordsmen all spoke the langue d’oc. Henry drew a deep breath and relaxed. A little while later, he was flanked by Alfie and Valdemar, with wineskins and a magic sword.
Valdemar handed Excalibur back to Henry. “I tried to draw it, but the blade must be rusted to the sheath. I could fix that.”
Henry buckled Excalibur back on. “No, the scabbard just sticks sometimes. See?” He pulled the blade out to demonstrate.
Tell your friend to wash his hands more often.
“Hello to you, too,” Henry muttered.
They divvied up the wineskins and took shelter under one of the oaks that dotted the Geoffrey-free plaza. Henry leaned against the trunk and sipped from his skin. The wine was delicious. “So what are you doing here?”
“We’re here for the wedding.”
“What—”
“Geoffrey and the Princess of Navarre, his cousin. You know, a smart man of the people can make a mint off a royal wedding, lad. It’s the one time the land-crazy oppressors unpucker and start spending. Wedding gifts, wedding purses, wedding drinking and fights and gambling…”
“No, I mean how did you get here?”
Alfie shrugged. “Geoffrey is snapping up domains right and left. Didn’t you hear? Once you were gone, he left Paris to attack the County of Blois.”
Valdemar nodded. “Aye. Chartres, Orleans, and Le Mans are all his.”
“And with you and Geoffrey gone, it was easy enough for us to bribe the gaolers and get out.”
“What about Mattie? He got himself involved in that rescue plot of yours—real clever, by the way. It took Geoffrey, what, ten whole minutes to figure it out—”
Alfie and Valdemar shared a look. “Mattie’s fine,” said Valdemar. “But you owe us two livres for the bribes, and another two for my anvil.”
“Take it out of my share.”
“Can’t.”
Henry’s jaw dropped. “It’s gone already?”
“Not our fault,” said Valdemar, defensively. “Not this time, anyway.”
“Aye,” nodded Alfie. “We deposited it with Judah of Leon. Then King Philip ‘nationalized’ all the goldsmiths who weren’t protected by Mother Church.”
“‘Nationalized’?”
“Stole with lawyers,” said Valdemar. “It was Geoffrey’s idea.”
Henry chewed that over. From poor to rich to fugitive to poor again. “Stinks to be us.”
“Stinks to be Judah,” said Valdemar. “He’s got family.”
Henry stood up. “Oh, well. We’ll get to Constantinople somehow.” Alfie and Valdemar stared at each other, then at him. Henry sighed. “Uh…let’s get some lunch, and I’ll explain.”
As he said it, people started to stream past them toward a platform at the southwest corner. The plaza erupted in cheers.
“The Maid.” Valdemar nudged Henry. “This should be good.”
“The who?”
Alfie explained. “The Maid of Aquitaine. She’s a girl who makes speeches in the square. The bishop tried to stop her, but the students and troubadours love it. She’s their mascot.”
“A girl?”
Valdemar nodded. “In man’s clothes.” He smiled. “Pretty, too.”
Alfie and Valdemar traded grins, leaving Henry puzzled and a little annoyed. They strolled through the crowd.
“What’s the platform for?” asked Henry.
“You know, royal decrees, church services, executions…” Alfie shrugged. “Show business.”
With Valdemar ahead of them, they had no trouble making it to the front row. The Maid was in full swing.
“…and now, this wedding. This royal wedding if you please, where an innocent girl is bartered off to the highest bidder, like a prize cow to a farmer!”
She got a fair amount of applause for that—mostly, Henry noticed, from women, and from men with women standing next to them.
“Sing it, sister!”
“Power to the peasants!”
“A woman is no one’s property! She can love whom she likes!” This time, the cheers came more from the raunchy looking University students.
“Ipse dixit, inamorata!”
“Amor vincit omnia!”
Henry couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was beautiful, even in hose (especially in hose, thought the earthier part of his mind) but she was also hauntingly familiar. Henry was sure he knew her—knew the chestnut hair, the strong, pale features, the big brown eyes that glowed with purpose—
“Grab him!” Alfie and Valdemar caught Henry on each side as he sagged in shock.
It was Mattie the tavern boy.
I should have known, thought Henry, in a daze. He always smelled good. SHE always smelled good. And I never saw him, HER, taking a whiz. But Mattie had seen him using the privy at the Cellars. Dozens of times. Henry groaned. “Let’s get out of here.”
Alfie shook his head. “Nahh. She’s just getting warmed up. She’s got style, this one. Reminds me of old Tom Becket, back in the day.”
Valdemar grinned. “What’s the matter, boy? We told you she was fine.”
Henry hid his face in his hands, but not fast enough to keep Mattie from seeing him. Her whole face lit up.
“HENRY! HENRY!” She waved with both hands and dived off the platform. The students caught her and handed her off, one to the next, until she stood in front of him and hugged him tight. The crowd cheered.
“How are you? Where were you? How did you get here? Where did you get that sword? How did you find us?”
“Uh…Mattie. You…look good.” Henry coughed, and shifted from one foot to the other. His face burned. “So…you’re a woman. That’s…uh…great.”
What do you mean, “So you’re a woman?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Mattie nodded. “Yeah. And you, you…talk to yourself. Are you all right?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Good. We can trade.”
She looped her arm through his. Henry looked around. Somehow, Alfie and Valdemar had disappeared, and everyone else in the crowd was staring. Staring nicely, but staring.
“Come on, let’s get some food.”
16. Uptown Girl
“I still can’t believe it, lad.” Alfie stared at the scabbard and lowered his voice. “That’s the real, the veritable Excalibur?”
Henry nodded. He didn’t say anything. Mattie was sitting next to him, and despite the male clothing, she’d somehow dug up enough money to buy perfume. The scent of rose attar had crawled up Henry’s nose and was hammering at his brain. He still couldn’t believe it. It was obvious. It was so obvious. How could he not have seen it?
Well, it had been half a year. She’d lost that pasty underground complexion that came from working in the Cellars. Her hair was longer, not shorn close to the skull in a student crop. She’d never giggled, or acted…girly…in the Cellars, not that she did now. And she seemed to have grown, several inches, around the, the…and around the—he closed his eyes.
They were sitting at a table under an awning, watching the bustle in the plaza. A contingent of knights from four different counties had gathered to sing of Queen Eleanor’s beauty and virtue. The Queen herself was nowhere to be found, but apparently that was a good thing—the farther away and more impossible the object of your affections, the better, as far as the Laws of Courtly Love were concerned. Of course, that meant everyone else had to suffer through the crooning, while Her Royal Instigatorship got off scot-free, but it’s the thought that counts. Mattie seemed to like the singing, anyway. She was smiling.
As Valdemar smeared goat cheese on a chunk of bread, Alfie scrutinized Excalibur, careful not to touch it. “There’s an angle here, lad. Exhibitions, maybe. Miracle shows. A traveling circus. You kn
ow, something educational. I have this glowing paint from an alchemist, we could touch up the blade with it. It has a slight tendency to burst into flames, but it looks damned impressive—”
Before Excalibur could start shrieking, Henry raised his hand. Focusing on the sword helped him not think too much about Mattie. “Alfie, you don’t get it. This thing is…it’s too big for us. People get killed.” Henry paused, trying to forget Brother Pierre bleeding in the snow. “The smartest thing to do is find a likely candidate, collect a big, fat reward, and then spend our money someplace warm. I hear Narbonne is nice.”
He glanced at Mattie, and saw her expression clouding up. “What’s the problem? You think there’s an angle here, too?”
“No! No. I just thought…that…you’d use Excalibur. To stop Geoffrey. Establish justice. Fight for the oppressed and downtrodden.”
Valdemar grinned. “Oppressed and downtrodden? That’s us, honey.”
Well, well. I’m not the only one you disappoint, clearly.
“Stop it!” After an hour of the sword’s remarks and Henry’s responses, the others didn’t even look up from their food when he told Excalibur to shut up.
“Listen, young lady.” Alfie rapped the table, looking stern. “Our boy Henry has been kidnapped, beaten, sent north across the sea in the dead of winter, braved the Chapel Perilous, found the sword of King Arthur, survived a massacre, fought a knight, and escaped from bondage, all to bring this weapon to its rightful owner. I think he’s gone a bit above and beyond, and so should you.”
“Amen, brother,” Valdemar shoveled stewed onions into his maw.
Mattie looked stricken. “You’re right. I didn’t think. Henry, I’m sorry, I should have been congratulating you, and instead I—”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry.” Just the same, Henry felt a pang of regret. When she’d thought he was some kind of Galahad, the way she’d smiled—
“Good. Now that we’re all friends again,” Alfie rubbed his hands, “just how big do you think this reward might be?”
“Where are you staying?”
The Wrong Sword Page 10