The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  “A pitchfork, huh?” Henry tried to sound enthusiastic.

  “Don’t knock the pitchfork, lad. Your standard-issue pitchfork has been the weapon of choice for peasant uprisings since the Servile Wars. You don’t want to be on the other end of it. And that breastplate Valdemar’s wearing, that’s pure Toledo steel.”

  “Really?” Henry glanced at Valdemar, whose eyes avoided his. Another Valdemar original, apparently.

  Still, the sunlight filtering through the leaves made the armor look almost respectable, and Henry would take any help he could get. Eleanor had given him some gold, most of which had gone to the horses and equipment; she’d even named a few people who might be sympathetic. But she hadn’t given him soldiers, or a warrant, or a plan, or anything that Geoffrey might use against her. And Henry still didn’t know what Excalibur had planned for him.

  Of course he was grateful (and, frankly, astonished) that Alfie and Valdemar wanted to help—it wasn’t as if Mattie were actually part of their crew. But they had no idea what the Plantagenets were really like. And Alfie, at least, should be wintering in Marseille, not suiting up for a commando expedition—

  “Don’t worry, lad. It’s simple. We just sneak up behind Geoffrey and hit him on the head.”

  Valdemar nodded. “Never fails.”

  Henry smiled gamely.

  That night, Henry had first watch. He stared into the flames.

  Henry.

  So Excalibur was finally speaking to him again. “Hey. How are you?”

  I am well. Are your friends asleep?

  “Yeah.”

  Are you currently holding me over a deep, black river?

  “No.”

  Good.

  Henry had never been staked out over an anthill, but that’s what it felt like—as if bugs were crawling over every inch of his body, from his hair to his eyes to his belly to his—“HEY!”

  Frantically he tore off his breeks and leggings, and dancing around like a naked madman, he cursed and slapped at himself until he tripped over a branch and hit the ground. After a moment, he sat up. The creepy-crawly feeling was gone. His skin was clear. Still twitching, he gathered up his clothes.

  If you even hint at breaking your oath to me again, far, far worse awaits you.

  “Gotcha.”

  Now, pack your things and saddle your horse. We are leaving for Toulouse.

  “But—”

  Those two men are an evil influence on you. Along the way, we shall collect companions of a more suitable nature.

  Before the sun rose the next morning, Henry and Excalibur were far to the south. Henry tried not to think about ditching Alfie and Valdemar. It wasn’t like he had a choice, after all. And besides, he’d make sure they got a piece of the action. If he lived.

  The wedding was set for Toulouse-le-Château, Raymond’s castle south of the actual city of Toulouse. Royal weddings usually took place in September, so the guests could have the widest choice of fruits and meats. And then there was the preparation—the clothes, the tapestries, the announcements. The needlework alone could take months. But with a bride like Mattie, Henry suspected Geoffrey might try to nail things down as soon as possible. He rode as fast as he dared along the muddy, treacherous spring roads.

  Aside from a few caustic comments about his horsemanship, Excalibur stayed quiet. Henry wasn’t fooled. He didn’t know what the sword was planning, but it wouldn’t be fun. Henry tried to focus on the rescue. First, he’d need a map of the Chateau. Maybe there were tunnels. Or he could scale the walls somehow. Or use a disguise. He wished Alfie were with him. Or Valdemar. Or anybody, really, except for the crotchety piece of iron he was stuck with.

  That night, he stayed at an inn some twenty miles up the river from Bordeaux. He slid Excalibur under the bed, waiting for an extended lecture, a command, a scolding. Nothing. The minutes, then the hours, slid by in utter silence. That night he slept very badly.

  The next day, the roads had dried a little, and they made better time. About midday, they arrived at a nameless stream flowing north into the Garonne. In late summer it was probably no more than an easily forded brook, but now it was swollen with snow-melt. Henry trotted up and down, looking for a crossing, and finally found a bridge about a mile south. He had dismounted and was preparing to lead his horse across, when he heard the clop-clop of horseshoes on wood. A knight had ridden out onto the bridge.

  “None shall pass.”

  Henry sighed and turned his horse around. The next idiot-free bridge was probably miles upstream—

  No.

  Excalibur froze, sending Henry sprawling. Once again, the sword and his leg were rooted to the ground.

  “This…isn’t…HELPING!”

  He is a knight. We are at a crossing. You swore an oath.

  “How is this going to help us rescue Mattie?”

  If you break your oath, I will turn on you. That’s how.

  “I can’t rescue her if I’m dead!”

  You wield Excalibur. What could possibly go wrong?

  “Does ‘it sounded like three knights’ ring a bell with—”

  But Excalibur had already threaded ghostly tendrils through Henry’s arms and legs. He swallowed his own beginning scream as he felt himself stepping back toward the bridge, away from his horse, and turning to face the knight—who was not happy, apparently.

  “What knave disputes the crossroads?” cried the knight. “What rogue and peasant slave dares stand against Sir Percy of East Dulwich? Art thou prepared for battle?”

  Good-looking, this one.

  Yeah, he was. Tall, big-shouldered. Blond, too. Between the fair complexion, the pointy nose, and the spiky, jet-black armor, Henry thought Sir Percy looked like a large, courtly hedgehog—but he was just the kind of jerk the girls went for.

  “Like ’em big and stupid, do you?”

  As opposed to small and snide, yes. Perhaps I shall let this Percy defeat you, and make him king.

  And now Percy was ten feet away, and there was nowhere to run. Excalibur rose in Henry’s hand, and Henry’s gorge rose in his throat.

  “Ah-ha! A horseless knight! Fear not, I know the Code.”

  “Code?”

  The Code of Chivalry, you dunce.

  The knight jumped off his charger, dropped his lance, and drew his sword. It was considerate, but Henry couldn’t help noticing that Sir Percy was still in full armor, just a tad more protection than the wool cloak Henry was wearing.

  Now pay close attention. Arthur called this “The Full Merlin.” We feint high, and then slice through his armor, letting it drop to the ground. If he continues to fight, then he is a man of valor, and we grant him mercy—

  The knight approached. Once more, Henry felt the surge of strength, giving power to his legs, his hips, his arms. Once more, Excalibur was behind his eyes, a ghost of points and edges and cold, sharp metal. He feinted and struck at the joints of the armor—

  —and Excalibur bounced straight off with an enormous CLANG.

  The shock reverberated through Henry’s body like a cathedral bell, rattling his teeth and shaking his bones. Sir Percy looked rattled too, but his armor was unscathed.

  “What the hell?”

  What sorcery is this? His breastplate should be in pieces!

  “Should be!? SHOULD BE!?”

  Sir Percy looked spooked. “To whom speak you, my enemy? You cannot frighten me with your tricks!” The knight raised his sword—

  Henry’s brain shifted into overdrive. Right, Miss High and Mighty, thought Henry. You asked for it. “Beware, Sir Percy! My sword is cursed, and forces me to fight unarmored and horseless! Flee! Flee! Lest, as victor, it attach itself to thee!”

  Sir Percy reared back in his tracks. “Whoa! I mean—Cursed, you say?”

  CURSED!? How DARE you call me cursed!?

  “Aye, noble knight! See how I struggle!” Excalibur chose this moment to clamp onto Henry’s leg, sending him tripping across the road.

  Knave! Recreant! Impudent wr
etch!

  “Even now the weapon seeks my blood and yours!” Henry hopped in front of Sir Percy, fighting to retain his balance.

  “Yeah, cursed swords are nasty like that.” Sir Percy was trying to sound sympathetic, but his smile was a grimace of pure fear.

  Henry stumbled closer to Percy. The knight backed up frantically. “Why, what are you doing, Sir Percy?”

  Percy backed up even farther. “Oh, just giving you a little more, uh, breathing room. That’s it.”

  One hop, two, and Henry was panting in Percy’s face. “But sir, don’t go—”

  “Can’t talk. Sorry. Lots of tourneys. You know how it is, joust, joust, joust. But, uh, good luck with the whole curse thing. I’ll send you a priest. Do a little exorcism. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Ta-ta for now!” Percy scrambled to remount his horse.

  Vile, despicable—Bide a moment. His armor is adamant.

  “You mean ‘steel?’”

  Aye. Neither iron nor bronze, but the Damascene adamant. Very well, then. Problem solved. Onward.

  A hop—that’s called a ‘balaestra’ for future reference, noted the sword—a lunge, and they were back at Sir Percy. Attack number one, and his saddle straps were severed. Attack number two, and his bridle was gone as well, and his horse was galloping down the road from a swat to its rump.

  “You have sought single combat, Percy of Dulwich,” bellowed a voice that was at once Henry’s and Excalibur’s. “You shall have it.”

  A feint to the belly, a feint to the head—and now Sir Percy was two knights at once in Henry’s eyes: One, a flesh-and-blood jerk in armor; the other, a skeleton, an artist’s sketch of joints and leverage points and weak spots, where blood and bone became irrelevant, and all that mattered were angles of attack and defense, distance and openings and footwork.

  With a fancy triple pass, Henry lunged and recovered. Sir Percy stood there a moment, and then gaped like a fish as his armor slid off his body and fell to the floor like a puzzle shaken to bits. He had clearly purchased his knightly undergarments in Bordeaux—they were embroidered with roses and valentines.

  That is your first lesson. Keep your underwear clean and simple. You never know when you’ll have an accident.

  Henry had to give Percy credit—he didn’t hesitate. To hit the bridge knees first and beg for mercy was for Percy the work of an instant. “Spare me, good knight. I yield!”

  Henry opened his mouth to answer, then staggered with relief as he felt Excalibur retreat from his mind. In an instant, he was a civilian again. He grabbed the bridge’s rail and stood tall, breathing in great gasps of air.

  Will you just leave him there to grovel on his knees?

  Henry glanced at Sir Percy. “He does it well. I’ll give him that.” Henry waved at Percy to stand. “It’s all right. No harm done.”

  Percy bounded to his feet. “And my horse and armor, noble warrior? Do you wish them as spoils of battle?”

  “Well, that armor didn’t do you much good, did it? Keep it, keep it.”

  Percy’s face was one big smile. “What is your name, noble knight, that I may herald your prowess—and mercy—to the countryside?” He was very accommodating, now that his hearts and flowers were blowing in the wind.

  “I…”

  Oh, go on. You deserve that much, at least. You have kept your word so far.

  “No. Um…don’t you think it’s better Geoffrey doesn’t know about us?”

  I…hadn’t thought of that. Very well.

  “Who are you talking to, Sir Knight?”

  “I…uh…no one. Old head wound. Got it on Crusade. Sometimes I mutter. Sometimes I ramble on about cursed swords. Just ignore it.”

  “That whole cursed sword thing. It was all a ruse, to buy you time! Brilliant!”

  “Yes, I’m clever that way. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Henry took the reins of his horse and pushed past Sir Percy. Percy followed.

  “Long have I sought a knight worthy of my steel, worthy of my loyalty. You are such a man.”

  You’re right. He IS stupid.

  “I will follow you to the ends of the earth, to the far reaches of the world, even to Death’s kingdom itself!”

  Henry grinned. “Really? Terrific! Because that’s where we’re going!”

  Sir Percy’s enthusiasm faltered for a moment. “Oh. Because that’s just sort of a figure of spee—” He caught his breath and squared his shoulders. “Never mind. You and I shall confront Hell’s minions, shoulder to shoulder!”

  You had to give Sir Percy credit. For all he knew, Henry really was going on some magical doomed voyage—after all, the knight had swallowed the cursed-sword story fast enough—and yet Percy still stepped up. Oh, well. Henry got on tip-toe and put his hand on Percy’s shoulder.

  “Look, Percy, that’s a very generous offer, but—”

  Accept it.

  “But he’ll just—”

  A true knight has retainers, accepts fealty, and both leads and follows.

  “I’m not a—”

  You have sworn. DO IT.

  “I…uh, the Muttering Knight…accept your fealty. Is there anything we have to do—” But the knight was already on his knees in the mud again, groveling into Henry’s palms. Clearly, Percy was comfortable playing to his strengths.

  This was going to be a long trip.

  20. The Muttering Knight

  WAKE UP.

  Henry crawled back to consciousness and looked around the clearing. It was pitch black.

  Just before Matins. Time to start training.

  “The sun isn’t up yet.”

  A knight must be ready for battle at all times, not just in the afternoon after a nap and a light snack.

  “Okay. Just give me a minute…” Henry snuggled into the bedroll, let his eyes close—

  WAKE UP. WAKE UP. WAKE UP. Trumpets blared. A choir sang. A bright light shone. A bell rang in his ears.

  Henry heaved himself to a sitting position. “I hate you.”

  This will be easier for both of us if you simply accept that I am in charge. NOW GET UP!

  Henry stood. Between the frosty air and the refrozen ground on which he’d been sleeping, his entire body was one big knot.

  Draw me and hold me out, parallel to the ground.

  Henry pulled out Excalibur and held her outstretched. For a moment, everything was normal. Then, instant by instant, Henry felt the sword grow heavier, until it was like holding a boulder up with one hand, and his shoulder felt like it was being wrenched from its socket.

  Keep still. Don’t move.

  Henry stood like a statue, gasping through clenched teeth, sweat pouring down his face. He couldn’t hold it much longer. He was going to lose it—

  Enough.

  And Excalibur was light again.

  That was the weight of a normal sword, as it feels after an hour of battle: no more than five pounds, yet a lead weight to the untrained hand. In combat, a knight will wield that weight and more for hours on end, lightly as a feather. You were able to hold it up for a count of fifteen.

  Henry sagged against a tree, breathing.

  What, no smart remarks? No clever quips? Now stand with your feet perpendicular, your lead leg out, your knees flexed, your sword arm bent at the elbow. It’s time for drills.

  “Allow me, My Lord.” Sir Percy bustled around the camp, rebuilding the fire, fetching water from the stream, while Henry sat against the tree, exhausted.

  For two hours Excalibur had led him through footwork drills, sometimes weighing one pound, sometimes thirty, sometimes four. Back and forth, back and forth, counter cut, counter cut, attack, and parry.

  And this is just the beginning! sang Excalibur. Soon we’ll have armor conditioning, lunge sprints, and eye-hand drills. Those are fun.

  “Terrific.” If Excalibur had been a person, Henry was certain she’d be rubbing her hands in glee right now.

  Maybe the pell-quintain, if we have time. And you’ll spar with Sir Percy. Nothing trumps a live op
ponent.

  “You really are a cursed sword,” muttered Henry.

  What?

  “Nothing.”

  By the time they neared the next town, Henry had recovered just enough to sit up straight in the saddle. Sir Percy rode behind him, as befit a loyal vassal. But as they came in sight of the walls of St. Medard, Percy cantered up beside him.

  “Allow me, My Lord. I shall precede you into the town and arrange for treatment as befits your prowess.”

  Barely conscious, Henry nodded, and Percy galloped into town. But as Henry trotted toward the town gates, the word “befit” trickled through his swamp of exhaustion.

  “Oh, no!” He nudged his horse into a gallop and pounded into the town square, but it was already too late.

  Henry entered the square just as Percy was wheeling his charger on two legs, drawing a crowd. “Hear me, good people! Behold the greatest knight of our age! Who defeated me in single combat! Horseless and without armor! A mere boy! A stripling! Whose prowess is without peer! Behold, the Muttering Knight!”

  “NO!”

  He takes his vassal duties seriously. Well done, that man.

  “A knight errant, fighting for the right! Here is he to Right Wrongs, to Vanquish Evil, to Mete Justice! Ask and ye shall receive! Seek and ye shall find! Bring him thy quests, and tell him thy injustices!” The offer of free meting perked up the townspeople, who turned to appraise Henry’s evil-vanquishing potential.

  Henry rubbed his eyes. “He’s just ruined our cover.”

  Yes. But his declamation is first rate.

  Percy and the townspeople finished their conference. A little old lady walked up to Henry.

  “Bonjour, grandmère. What can I—”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  “Uh, ten stone, but—”

  She grabbed his bicep, then turned back to Percy. “I don’t like this sword arm. Where’s the muscle?”

  “Madame, he severed my armor from my very body. Behold the cuts.” Percy started to point.

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” She turned back to Henry. “I’ll give him one cup of cider, and not a drop more.”

  Henry yanked his arm away. “Hey, Grannie, keep your damned cider—”