The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

We shall do this. You need questing practice.

  “We have a quest, remember? Mattie—”

  We have some time. And you will do her no good untrained.

  The old lady stared wide-eyed at Henry. “He talks to himself? Is he crazy?”

  Percy stepped in. “Madame, it is a wound he received on Crusade—”

  The old lady waved Percy off. “No, no, I like it. You want a little crazy in your knights. Stiffens ’em up.” She turned to Percy. “Okay, he gets a full lunch. But that’s it. Who’s next?” The other townspeople gathered around Henry.

  “But—”

  And don’t forget to jot down your thoughts about each adventure. It’s never too soon to start gathering material for the troubadours.

  Notes from the Questing Diary of Sir Henry,

  the Muttering Knight

  Day One.

  -Town: Saint-Medard d’Eyrans.

  -Quest: Cat up a tree.

  -Supplicant: Old Lady Goncourt.

  -Result: One dead tree, one vicious cat, one scratched face.

  -Reward: One bowl of onion soup, one slice of onion bread, one onion for dessert.

  -Stupid comment from the sword that is ruining my life: There are no small quests, only small warriors.

  -Training Exercise Number Three: Vault onto a horse using a lance. Note to self—wear groin armor.

  Day Five.

  -Town: Beautiran.

  -Quest: Tame the Wild Horse of Charpentier, so that Charpentier can use it to plow the back forty.

  -Supplicant: Giles Charpentier, Europe’s least trustworthy serf.

  -Result: One sprained back, one bruised wrist, one harsh tongue-lashing, one war horse returned with apologies to the Chevalier de Tourenne, who has been looking for it for two months.

  -Reward: The sight of the Chevalier de Tourenne kicking the backside of Giles Charpentier from Beautiran to Ayguemorte-les-Graves.

  -Stupid comment from the sword that is ruining my life: You of all people should recognize a thief when you see one.

  -Original Training Exercise Number Nine: Turn somersault in full armor.

  -New Training Exercise Number Nine: Stand up in full armor.

  Day Seven—

  And again. And again. Keep on until I say stop.

  “What’s the point of this?”

  One hand rested on his hip. The other twirled Excalibur, over and under, making fancy passes and figure eights.

  First, it is good exercise. My weight shall increase every day—

  “Oh, great—”

  —until you are able to manage this with a normal sword.

  “And why?”

  Who loses a fight?

  “The one who dies first.”

  No. The one who gives up. Imagine this—you are challenged by a genuine swordsman who sees an easy victory. He draws. You draw. And then you add a flourish. Using only one hand, you show complete control of a bastard sword, even a two-handed sword. And now, perhaps, your opponent is discouraged. Before his name was known, Arthur did this many times to discourage unworthy opponents.

  “Oh.” Winning without fighting. Excalibur was making sense. Henry frowned. That couldn’t be right.

  Day Nine.

  -Town: Preignac.

  -Quest: Rescue the kidnapped Minstrel of Preignac.

  -Supplicant: Edwina daughter of Ralf, who needs to lay off the honeyed fruit slices and troubadour chansons and get out more often.

  -Result: One massive headache, one set of nerves scraped raw, and the realization that the kidnapping of the Minstrel of Preignac, AKA Tin-Ear Ralf, AKA Tone-Deaf Ralf, AKA Ralf the Curse, was probably instigated by his fellow citizens.

  -Reward: The undying gratitude of the fair Edwina, carefully and tactfully transferred to Sir Percy.

  -Stupid comment from the sword that is ruining my life: She seems very nice. You could do worse.

  -Training Exercise Number Seventeen: Sparring with Sir Percy. Delayed on account of groveling. Note to self: explain to Sir Percy the concept of “self-esteem.”

  Day Thirty.

  -Quest: Dispatch the Robbers of the Secret Cave.

  -Supplicant: The lord mayor of Meilhan-sur-Garonne.

  -Result—

  It was early morning. The mist blew cold and wet through the clearing. The secret cave wasn’t much of a secret: The remains of a dozen meals were scattered at the cave mouth, and the smell told Henry that the robbers hadn’t gone very far into the woods when nature called.

  The robbers would probably be back soon. Henry, Percy, and Ralf the minstrel waited in the clearing. Percy was sharpening his sword on a rock. Ralf was just sitting, getting ready to record the details of the battle for a chanson, presumably. Not that it mattered to Henry. He hadn’t wanted Ralf along; the lord-mayor had insisted that they take Ralf with them. Henry suspected the mayor was more interested in Ralf’s exit than in the exit of the robbers.

  Not that the rest of the town felt that way. The robbers were clearly not the jolly, Robin Hood kind of robber, but the other, un-jolly kind: bad men who took from the poor and kept for themselves. They were the kind of thugs Henry knew pretty well, lordless knights, ex-mercenaries, predators…one step lower than the Brissacs of this world, the sort of free swords Geoffrey would hire for his dirty work and then wash his hands of when they’d finished. Dangerous men.

  Henry wished he had something to occupy his time. This would be his first pitched battle, and he felt as weak and cold as a snail out of its shell. He had considered begging off, but he hadn’t thought of any graceful way to turn it down. And with Excalibur attached to him like a barnacle, he couldn’t run away. His mouth was dry. He wanted to go to the bathroom like nobody’s business.

  “This is the greatest moment,” said Percy. “Just before the battle. The heart pounds, fear lies on brow and bicep, and you know your courage is—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Oh. Sorry. You want to prepare yourself. I understand.”

  “We can have a song while we wait,” said Ralf. He whipped out his lute, and without tuning, began to sing. “Oh, golden leaves on golden trees, in the glade were glistening, merrily, merrily—”

  “Enough.” “Enough.” Enough.

  It wasn’t often that Henry, Percy, and Excalibur all agreed, but Ralf’s singing was like that. It brought people together.

  “Did anyone ever suggest that you tune the lute, first?”

  “Hey. That’s a great idea! Thanks!”

  Henry took stock of Ralf. Edwina’s dad was as withered as Alfie, with a huge nose and the spark of crazy enthusiasm that Henry was coming to know and dread from his encounters with Brissac, Geoffrey, Percy, Mattie…sweet St. Dismas, had the whole world gone mad? Was Henry the last sane person in Christendom?

  “So, Ralf. What did you do before you became a…ahem…minstrel?”

  “I was a goldsmith, my boy. Rings, brooches, cunning little figurines, and book-covers. ‘If it’s a Ralf, it’s pure gold!’”

  “You were a goldsmith. A member of the guild? Established?”

  “Oh, sure, apprentice to journeyman to master smith, that was me. The only one in Preignac, too. Folks came from miles around.”

  Henry felt his jaw starting to clench. “So I guess all that wealth, safety, and respect just got to be too much, huh?”

  “Boring, lad, boring! Now your life, that’s how it’s meant to be lived! Adventure! Excitement! Zest! I wrote a song about it.” He pulled out his lute. “In the golden spring we lightly sing, and joy’s gold crown is beckoning, and—”

  “Okay, terrific. Maybe later.”

  When they come, do not fight me.

  “Why should I? You’re just the one who got me into this.”

  If you want to live, raise me, challenge them, and charge. From the minute we entered this camp, I knew these men. We shall take them. Do not fear.

  Hoof beats.

  As they’d planned, Henry stood on a small rise in the middle of the clearing. Percy took pos
ition on Henry’s left. Henry drew Excalibur and wished he were wearing more than a helm and a mail shirt. But even after a month of training, the weight of full armor would have dropped him like a stone. Better to stay mobile and trust in Excalibur. At least, that’s what Excalibur had said, and it had sounded good at the time.

  The training had helped a little, but mostly it had taught Henry just enough to realize how lucky he had been so far. There had to be a way out of this—

  Remember. Anticipate your opponent. Know what he will do and get there first. Take the initiative.

  The robbers entered the glade. There were six of them, on horseback. They were filthy. They wore bits and pieces of armor, and their horses were half-starved. But they were big, and they looked like they knew what they were doing.

  “Surrender, thieves, and you will not be harmed!” Once again, it was Excalibur in his throat and lungs, making a challenge with his voice.

  The lead horseman stared for a moment, and then laughed. “Thank God and St. Mike! I haven’t heard a good joke since we tortured that priest.” He put his hand on his sword. Henry took a deep breath—

  NOW.

  Excalibur filled Henry as he leaped from the stone toward the horses. Head down, sword out, he could feel the dangerous areas above, those spaces where swords could slash or spears could bite. Excalibur was out, slashing—a nick here, a cut there, upsetting the horses, throwing the riders off balance. Getting first blood on sword arms, taking the initiative, moving faster than they expected because he had almost no armor—

  And in an instant he was through the press, leaving chaos behind him. The horses whinnied in terror, biting and kicking at each other. One of the robbers was down, thrown from his horse and unconscious. Three others struggled for control of their beasts. Two had dismounted and now closed on Sir Percy.

  “Ralf!”

  The minstrel was already at the horses, waving his hands, yelling, and keeping them panicked. Maybe he wasn’t less than useless. Henry ran back to Percy. One of the robbers was behind Percy, raising a broad sword.

  With Excalibur’s vision, Henry could see how the robber had exposed himself with his attempt at a head-cut. Henry brought Excalibur up from below. A blow with the flat of the blade, and the robber dropped the sword. Another with the pommel, and he was down.

  Henry turned back to Ralf and the robbers. One had managed to dismount and two were in their stirrups. Henry ran for the one about to attack Ralf and managed to bring out Excalibur just in time to keep Ralf from being carved into minstrel nuggets.

  “Run for the horses!” panted Henry. Ralf turned to stampede the horses that were left as Henry faced the robber on his feet. The robber backed away, his sword out. Henry met his eyes—the robber was afraid. Afraid of him. Henry beat at the sword, shattered it, and turned back to the clearing. Behind him, he heard the sounds of the robber fleeing into the woods.

  When he arrived, he saw the last two robbers down on their knees before Sir Percy and Ralf.

  Congratulations, Henry. You’ve won.

  21. A Member of the Wedding

  The townsfolk cheered as they rode into the square, four robbers trailing behind them. One had fled, and Percy had killed the one who’d bragged about torturing priests.

  Percy had been matter-of-fact. “What’s one hater, more or less?” Henry thought about asking Percy how many men he’d killed, and then changed his mind. Percy might remember all of them in gory detail. Or worse, he might not even know the answer. It was a good reminder—no matter how friendly or goofy, Percy was a killer.

  But now the sun was shining, and the people were cheering. The people were cheering…him. There was Old Lady Goncourt. She was waving. And Edwina. And the Chevalier de Tourenne, and Marcabru the innkeeper, and—Henry felt as though he should look behind him to see the person they were really cheering for.

  Not too shabby, is it?

  “What?”

  The hero’s reward.

  “Gold? Jewels?”

  No, you, you…ninny. The REAL hero’s reward.

  “Right. Which would be…”

  The love of the people. Honestly, why do I even bother?

  Cautiously, Henry raised a hand and waved back. The crowd went wild. “I could get used to this.” And from Excalibur there were no more words…just a radiating sense of smug satisfaction.

  The party lasted into the night. The innkeeper even uncorked the good wine. At first, the crowd had wanted Henry to tell the story. But after a while, he let Sir Percy take over and wandered outside. He sat down on a barrel and stared up at the sky.

  Why aren’t you inside?

  “I needed some air.” Henry sipped from his mug and leaned against the wall. “Besides, it’s Percy they really want. He looks like a hero. You said so yourself.”

  What if I did? This is your party. You deserve it. Percy is your vassal.

  Ralf’s cracked voice quavered from inside. Faintly, Henry could hear, “gold, mighty, golden, sword, gleaming…” Then the crowd roared and Ralf shut up. Henry took another sip.

  “I’m…afraid, maybe.”

  Yes. Parties are fearsome things.

  “No. It’s like…it’s like borrowing something. If they say I’m a hero, and I agree, then I have to be one. And I’m not.”

  Really. And you are the expert on heroism.

  “I know I’m not. When the Young King’s knights came to my village, they killed everyone. My parents. My brothers and sisters. They burned it to the ground. I lived because I ran like a hare and hid in a cave.”

  Henry leaned back and looked up at the sky. It was clear, and cold, and full of stars.

  Henry.

  Henry looked down, to see a woman facing him, an apparition, slender and pale, with silver lips and silver eyes.

  In this guise, Arthur knew me as the Lady of the Lake.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She reached out—her touch was the faintest breeze on his forehead. I have seen more than a thousand years of battle, so I speak as an expert in bloodshed. There is nothing a child can do, but live.

  Henry buried his face in his hands. Somewhere behind his eyes, the tears welled up and pushed their way out despite the best he could do. Excalibur waited patiently, until the sobbing slowed and finally stopped.

  Finally, Henry stood up. “I’m sorry.” He looked up at the moon and sighed. “I’m glad Mattie wasn’t here to see that.”

  I don’t think she would have minded, said Excalibur. Go inside. You paid for your party.

  “It’s the sword.” Alfie threw a six, a six, and a four.

  “Of course it’s the sword,” said Valdemar, watching the game. Alfie’s opponent hesitated, his hand over the coins. Valdemar gave him a look, and the hesitation stopped. Valdemar switched to Frisian. “It’s worth a fortune.”

  Alfie replied in the same dialect. “No, that’s not it.” He rolled back his sleeves and turned his hands palms-up to the other players. See, no tricks. Then he gathered the dice and cast them again. “He’s changed. He’s talking like a knight. Politics, princesses, refusing help…You know what happens to the tall poppies.”

  Valdemar nodded. “They get chopped down.”

  The dice rolled to the next player in the circle. He picked them up, studied them, and threw. One, two, and two. The player cursed and added to the pot.

  Valdemar spit thoughtfully into a nearby manger. “Then what do we do?”

  Alfie sighed. “We get that thing away from him. For his own good.”

  Right Trusty and Well-Beloved Cousin,

  Your Presence Is Requested,

  At the Seat of Our Faithful Vassal,

  Raymond of Toulouse,

  On the Feast of St. Maximinius,

  To Celebrate Our Wedding to the Princess of Navarre.

  RSVP With Your Meal Preference— Boar, Pheasant, or Venison.

  “And behold,” Percy pointed to the second scroll of the invitation, “The service is to be performed by Pierre, Bishop of
Chartres. They say he married five Crusader princes on the walls of Jerusalem in the middle of a battle and received a vision of St. Julian the Aeropagite, all in one afternoon. Plus he’s XII-and-Nought for conversions. How did you get these, My Lord?”

  Five miles from the Chateau, and they’d already passed dozens of wagons, carts, and pack trains headed for the castle. The wedding was going to be huge, all right, an Event with a capital E. “The Chevalier de Tourenne didn’t want to pay for a wedding present, so he gave me the scroll.”

  Henry hoped the size and confusion would help him sneak in unrecognized. Even with the invitation, he’d take all the help he could get. Ever since Meilhan, Sir Percy had bragged to anyone who’d listen about his service to the Muttering Knight. Henry had finally gotten him to turn down the volume, but they’d still attracted much more attention than Henry wanted. They’d heard the Muttering Knight mentioned on the road four or five times in the last few days; fortunately, accurate descriptions hadn’t traveled as far…yet.

  Percy studied the invitation. “It says there shall be tourneys, as well.”

  “You want to get back in the saddle?”

  “The ladies love a jouster, My Lord.”

  “That really works?”

  Percy nodded. “Better than troubadours. Knock a man off his horse, you’ve got company that evening.”

  “Huh. I’ll have to think about that.”

  Oh, for shame. Have you no decency? None at all? What of chastity?

  “I haven’t even done anything yet, Your Sanctimoniousness. Relax.” They were coming to the final turn in the road. Henry stopped. “Remember, we’ve left the Muttering Knight behind. When we get to the castle, you’re Sir Percy, and I’m your loyal squire.”

  Percy looked unhappy. “It’s not Chivalry, My Lord. A true knight is forthright in all things. Besides, I should be your shield man. If the ladies know you’re the MK, you could be knocking them down like ninepins.”

  “Focus, Perce. We’re here for the princess.”

  Sir Percy stared hard at Henry, and grinned. “Thou hast been smitten, My Lord. I can tell.”

  Henry turned away. “Look, there’s the castle.”