“With the goliards—you know, the students.”
Henry was walking back with Mattie. Now he stopped short. “You’re staying in the student rooms? Are you crazy? Don’t you know—”
Mattie laughed. “Oh, relax, Mr. Virtue. They wouldn’t hurt me in a million years. See?”
She pointed behind them. Henry turned to see they’d collected a retinue of a dozen goliards. All of them had the look of dog-steady devotion he’d seen on Brissac’s face when the knight was taking orders from Geoffrey. A thought struggled to the surface of Henry’s mind, but before he could seize it, Mattie waved, and the students cheered.
“Well, I guess you didn’t need me to walk you back at all.”
Mattie laughed and took his arm. “You’re right, I didn’t need you to. I just wanted you to. Isn’t that better?”
Henry tried to answer, but his tongue seemed to be tripping over itself. At least Excalibur wasn’t saying anything…in fact, it had gone strangely quiet for the last hour or so.
“Um…okay. Why the disguise? Why aren’t you using it now? Who are you?”
“One, in Paris I wore a disguise because men can do things that women can’t. Two, I’m not using one now because I can’t…get away with it anymore.” She blushed and then glared at Henry, who carefully kept his eyes straight ahead. “And three, that’s for me to know and you to find out. Maybe.”
Suddenly, the plaza was full of bird whistles—fake ones. Henry could see at least five students whistling furiously. Mattie grabbed his hand and pulled him down an alley, as a troop of soldiers entered the square.
They were Aquitaines in rose and lavender livery—and quite dapper they were, with bits of gold trim. Handsome too, Henry noticed, before Mattie shoved him into a doorway. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like they all had their own teeth.
The alley was a dead end, and Henry started getting nervous. Mattie put her finger on his lips—shut up!—and peeked cautiously around the corner.
“Who did you piss off?” asked Henry.
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Shh, I want to hear this.”
The lead trooper marched onto the platform. “Listen up, boys!” he yelled. “When that Maid of yours shows again, you hold her. The queen wants a chat with that one.”
“What one?” yelled a minstrel in the back of the crowd.
“Goliard, please,” snapped the trooper. “Five six, chestnut hair, terrible fashion sense? Twenty dixaines for her whereabouts, and two gold écus for her in the flesh—and unharmed, you rough trade.” He was greeted with jeers from the crowd. Unfazed, he held up his hand. “Any man who refuses to cooperate will be subject to a withering balada that will permanently diminish his reputation. And you know I can do it.” The crowd fell silent, and Henry shook his head, bewildered. The Aquitaines were clearly a breed apart.
The troopers dispersed through the crowd, questioning students and minstrels at random. Henry turned to Mattie.
“What did you do!?” he whispered furiously.
“I spoke Truth to Power.”
“Shot your mouth off, you mean.”
“Don’t argue, just tell me if those soldiers get close.”
Henry peered around the corner. The troopers were circling through the square, getting nearer. He looked back, and saw Mattie scraping away frantically at the door.
“What are you trying to do?”
“Pick the lock. All I need is a lathe, an adze, and two cross-mitre saws—”
“That’s not a lock, it’s a bolt plate. You ‘pick it’ with a sledge hammer.”
Excalibur shifted in its scabbard. Bad company makes bad luck.
“And another county heard from.”
Maybe you should let yourself be captured. That troop captain has broad shoulders. And excellent posture. Kingly, even.
“Personally, I don’t think a king should know quite so much about clothes, but, hey—”
The troopers were getting nearer. Henry could hear them just outside the alley. “Otho, Clovis, you take the left side. Merulis, you—”
Henry pulled Mattie’s hands away, stuck his eating knife in the crack between the door and the lintel, and pushed up. He thanked St. Nick as he felt the knife catch on the bolt inside, and heaved two-handed. He heard the thud as the bolt fell to the floor behind the door. Henry grabbed Mattie and pushed inside to a dark alcove just as the troopers entered the alley.
“Quick!” And before Henry knew what was happening, Mattie was kissing him.
It wasn’t Henry’s first kiss. But it was certainly his most serious. No matter what the troubadours said, bells didn’t chime and birds didn’t sing. It was more real, more…Henry’s breath caught in his chest. His eyes closed. His nose was filled with the roses of Mattie’s perfume. All he could feel were Mattie’s lips, her hands on the back of his neck—
He could feel her smiling.
“Oh, Clovis, look at the lovebirds!”
“Otho, leave them alone.”
“But one of them could be—”
“Sure, she snuck into the house and opened it up just so we could catch her kissing. Now come on, Monsieur Peepers. We have to find her before—” And the troopers were gone.
Slowly, Mattie broke away. Henry opened his eyes. He didn’t know what to say. They just stood for a moment, looking at each other. Smiling.
“Out of my way. Now!” It was Prince Geoffrey’s voice.
“Which alley was it?” There was the sound of boots, and they were getting closer.
And Mattie’s hand was on Henry’s chest, as she shoved him back into the building and stepped out into the alley.
“Here I am, cousin.”
Henry’s jaw dropped. Cousin?
Geoffrey stopped, casual, at the head of a dozen soldiers. He stared at Mattie, arms crossed. Henry grimaced. Now that the two were facing each other, it was obvious. It should have been obvious months ago. Mattie was a Plantagenet. She had the look, the smarts, the insane self-confidence—
“No need to be so formal, dearest. Come along.”
Now is the time, Henry. Draw me.
Henry stood frozen, stiff as a block of wood.
What are you waiting for? Draw me!
Henry inched his hand toward the sword as the memory of Glastonbury ran through his mind. The feel of Excalibur in his head, the cold touch of the sword moving his body, thinking his thoughts…the blood—
“Don’t dawdle, beloved. We have a wedding to plan.”
“Wedding?” “Beloved?” “WE?”
DRAW ME! shrieked Excalibur.
“No,” yelled Henry. But it came out as a whisper. And then Mattie was gone with Geoffrey’s soldiers.
17. The Queen of the
Court of Love
“What was I supposed to do?”
Valdemar shrugged. “I’m not arguing. Royals are dangerous.”
Alfie put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, laddie. Mattie was a princess, and now she’ll be an empress. Top of her field before she’s twenty.”
“She’ll be married to Geoffrey.”
“Better than sweeping out the Cellars every night. Job security and perks. Meanwhile, you need to focus.”
Henry stared down at the table. He couldn’t get over the guilty feeling that every troubadour and goliard in the tavern was looking at him—
“Henri de Sanbruc.”
Henry raised his head. They were looking at him. Because he was surrounded by the Queen’s Guards, swords drawn.
“Come with us.”
“Well, at least you don’t smell. Much.” Eleanor of Aquitaine, Rose of the World, Light of Chivalry, Queen of the Court of Love, hobbled past Henry, took her withered hand off the trooper’s arm, and sank stiffly onto her padded seat.
If anyone in Paris had told Henry that he would have an audience with the most famously beautiful woman since Helen of Troy, his mouth would have dried up. He’d have be
en covered in a cold sweat, and his knees would have trembled beneath him. It would never have occurred to him that the Queen of England and Aquitaine had been famed for her beauty for half a century, and there had probably been a little wear and tear over the years. And that, when he finally met her, he’d have been relieved and disappointed at the same time, and even a little sorry for her because she used a cane.
But now Henry was just scared. Scared to be facing another Plantagenet, scared to be exposed…and glad that he was scared. Because the moment the fear stopped, shame would take its place. Excalibur was silent, a dead weight on his hip, as if it knew that nothing it said could be worse than what Henry was saying to himself.
But if Henry’s heart was pounding at his ribs, at least his mind was clear, and all he saw was an old woman with a shock of thick, silver hair, and eyes like a hawk’s. She ran them over Henry as if studying a farm animal she might buy, taking in the clothes, the tonsure, the sword. Henry felt a sense of déja vù—how many Plantagenets had stared at him like that by now?
“So you are the young man my goddaughter spoke of. You don’t look special.”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“Mattie thought you were. She’s a romantic, that one. But sharp. It’s a dangerous combination.”
“Tell me about it.”
A smile raced across Eleanor’s lips and vanished. “Who are you, Henry of the lost village of Sanbruc?”
“I—you know of Sanbruc, Majesty?”
“I know everything my children do. They are my responsibility.”
“Majesty, I…I am nothing. I was a thief, and a cheat. Now I’m not even that. Even a thief must be true to his friends, and I was not.”
Eleanor took a preserved apple from a dish. “You mean because you didn’t leap out and start hacking away at the soldiers who outnumbered you twenty to one?”
“But I…I had a…”
“Silence.” Eleanor turned to the trooper. “Leave us.” The trooper exited, and Eleanor turned back to Henry. “Yes, I know about the sword.” She pointed. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” Eleanor stared at the fruit for a moment, rolling it about with the tips of her fingers. “Had you attacked my son Geoffrey, in the middle of his men, when he was ready, you would be dead, magic sword or no. My John is a killer, and Richard is a legend. But Geoffrey…my son Geoffrey is dangerous.” She might have been talking about the price of beef, instead of her three monstrous sons. “As you get older…if you get older…you’ll find there is a difference between what you should do, and what you can do.”
Eleanor took a knife from her table and cut a slice from the apple. “For instance, when my goddaughter fled to me, because my son Geoffrey coveted her lands and sought her hand in marriage, I should have protected her by spiriting her away to some land where the Plantagenets have no power. Rome, say…Instead, I gave her disguises, and secret bodyguards, and as much freedom and joy as I could before Geoffrey found her and took her.” The queen finished the apple, and stuck the knife, quivering, into the tabletop. Then she stood, and walked to the window.
“I’m old, child. I don’t want to die locked up in another castle—or watching my body as my head bounces down the steps. But Mathilde is a dear girl, and I want her to be happy. Will you help me?”
For the first time, the fear and shame left him, and what he felt was joy. “Yes, your majesty. With all my heart.”
Eleanor smiled at him. “There’s a good boy. Now tell Ranulf he can come in and mull me some wine.” She sat back on her throne, rubbing her arms through her robe. “I do so love a man in livery.”
18. Downtown with Wiglaf
Geoffrey rode out with a bird on his wrist and a leech at his side.
“That’s Raymond of Toulouse. He’s hosting the wedding.”
Henry, Alfie, and Valdemar watched the procession from the top of a ten-foot stone block. The Count of Toulouse was tall and hunched, with black hair and a pallor that reminded Henry of some of his least favorite dungeons. The two nobles were preceded by a half-dozen of Geoffrey’s knights, and followed by the real muscle—a squad of thirty mercenaries armed with short swords and arbalests.
“Hawking with an imperial eagle,” said Alfie. “Cheeky bastard.”
Geoffrey had already moved Mattie out of the city, sending her up the Gironde river by boat to Raymond’s castle at Toulouse. Now the question was how to follow her, spring her from Toulouse, and head to the southern coast, where Eleanor planned to shelter from Geoffrey under the protection of the Viscount of Narbonne.
They scrambled back down after the procession turned the corner.
“What do you think?”
Alfie shook his head. “This town is shut tighter than a reeve’s purse.”
“What about the Salt Gate?” Valdemar swished wine through his teeth and spat it on the flagstones.
“You mean the gate next to Geoffrey’s palace? The one with all the holes for the boiling oil?”
Alfie took the wineskin from Valdemar. “We could hide you in a wagon, under hay. Or in a wine barrel.”
“Too easy. Geoffrey knows I’m here, somehow. Otherwise he wouldn’t be going to all this trouble.”
Alfie nodded. “Aye.”
Valdemar took another swig. “So what’s your plan, Aristotle?”
Henry waited for a moment to see if Excalibur would chime in, but there was nothing. The sword had been silent ever since that day in the alley. No sarcasm, no advice—nothing more than a lump of iron in a leather case. Henry sighed and looked around.
They were in the city’s Roman ruins, the Tutelles, and once again, something tugged at Henry’s memory. Something about the columns, the way they were arranged. And about a monk who was standing a few yards away.
Henry stood. “Get ready.” He walked out across the pavement, weaving through the pillars, which, now that he had seen them from a height, were definitely laid out as a labyrinth.
He stopped at a fruit stand, then a wine seller, then a peddler of honey candy. The monk stayed put, measuring a column with a straight edge and a sighting tube, and making notes in a writing tablet. The columns’ shadows followed the sun, edging over diagrams carved in the pavement. The monk’s robe was white and black, his tonsure wide, his buckle carved in the shape of a scroll. Henry grinned. Let’s see if I guessed right.
“I am a stranger, going to the East,” said Henry.
The monk jumped and caught his breath. “Oh. Really?”
Not too encouraging. Still—“For the sake of my mother as well as your own, I ask for aid on the square.” Henry waited for the monk to complete the formula Wulfgar had taught him.
Instead, the monk fumbled with his sighting tube. “Do you mean this square? Or the market square by St. André’s church?”
Oh well, it had been worth a try. Henry turned to go.
“Wait! That blade—You came from the West? How far west?”
“Who wants to know?”
The monk stood a little straighter. “Wiglaf, the cousin of Wulfgar. Have you any word from the Chapel Perilous?”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. Brother Wiglaf was short and pale; between the beaked nose, the wide eyes, and the constant blinking, he looked more like an owl after a night on the town than a relative of the burly Wulfgar. But not every Northman could be a giant, cryptic killer monk.
“Wulfgar is well. He told me to expect help on my way to Constantinople.”
“Really. Well, tell me all about it. What’s happened? Where are you going? Are you carrying anything important?”
Henry opened his mouth, then shut it again. I don’t need two thousand years as the sword of heroes to smell a rat. “No, just some letters to friends. Well, take care.”
Suddenly the monk was Brother Cooperative from the town of St. Eager. “Look, I can help! Whatever you need! That’s my specialty, in fact.” The monk bowed, then spread his arms and declaimed, “Brother Wiglaf, monk of St. André, at your service. Indulg
ences and pardons, letters composed, sums resolved, dogma clarified.”
Henry said nothing. Wiglaf started to sweat.
“Right, right, you probably don’t need any dogma clarified. Not that you’re not concerned about the state of your soul, obviously you’re a nice young man, but who has time for it in all this modern hustle and bustle?” He fumbled with his tabula and looked up again. “I’m also quite good with codes and ciphers. No? Surveying? Languages? Alchemy? Maps—”
Henry fought to conceal a little start. A map of the town might help them get out, but the last thing he wanted was this character figuring out their plans.
“No.”
“But—”
“No. Thank you.”
Valdemar loomed up behind Henry, and Wiglaf’s mouth shut with a snap. He bowed himself away.
“Who was that?” asked Alfie.
“Nobody, I guess,” said Henry. “All right. Let’s go with the barrel.”
That night, after he had rolled his gear into his saddle-bags, he turned to the sword leaning against a chair.
“Excalibur.” Henry cleared his throat and waited. “Excalibur.” Nothing. “Excalibur!” Was there a shimmer of light around the scabbard? Never mind.
“Look.” Henry sat down on the bed. “I’m going to save Mattie, just like you wanted.” He waited for a response, then continued. “I can’t do it alone. I need your help. If I don’t make it, Mattie will have to marry Geoffrey. That really makes her a damsel in distress. The kind you like to rescue, right?”
Still nothing. Henry tried to swallow his worry, and failed. No matter what, he had to try. But if the sword didn’t help—Was that a sparkle, a faint glow around the hilt?
“Don’t do it for me. Do it for her.” Henry held his breath. Slowly, the glow increased, as if the spirit of the sword was returning from some far country.
You want me to help you, Henry? You want to rescue the Princess?
“Yes.”
Then kneel.
“You’re kidding.”
Kneel, or leave me.
Henry knelt.
Until I pass from your possession, you shall serve me in all things. Your arm shall be mine. Heart and mind, body and bone, blood and sinew. Swear it on your soul.
The Wrong Sword Page 11