And there it was. The road had opened out to a ferry crossing on the river. And on the other side, Toulouse-le-Chateau. It was big, no question—dozens of towers, and curtain walls eighty feet high. The guests were already ferrying across the river and streaming into the castle, which was hung with banners of red and gold, blue and silver—the colors of England and France…the Plantagenet Empire. To the east of the castle, a village of tents, pavilions, and tourney fields had been set up, and if you squinted hard, you could just make out knights on horseback training with dummies, partners, and equipment. And once Geoffrey arrived, the encampment would grow even bigger.
“It’ll to stink like a sewer come Monday,” said Henry.
“But until then, a brave sight, My Lord.”
Why can’t you get into the spirit for once?
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s grab a boat.”
As they rowed across and then disembarked, Henry had to admit that it was a “brave sight”—pennons and banners fluttering in the breeze, bright colors shining, the smells of wine and beer, roasted meat, even horses and iron and charcoal from the smithies, people shouting, hugging, singing—and some of his fellow street rats practicing their trade, certainly…They stepped out of the boat and headed toward the tents and pavilions of the tourney field.
Finding a good spot for their tent wasn’t easy. Most of the high ground had already been snapped up by the early birds; other plots had squads of bad-tempered, well-armed vassals, who were reserving them for the earls and barons powerful enough to afford that kind of treatment. Finally, they set up camp near the dank, but unclaimed, mud of the river’s edge.
Next on Henry’s list was talking to Mattie. Finding her wouldn’t be a problem—Geoffrey would have made sure she was stuck in the castle, instead of out seeing the sights—but talking to her might be. Usually only family members, vassals, or servants would get near a princess so close to her wedding day. No knight would get within ten feet of her without guards; nobles had a nasty habit of kidnapping landowning brides for ransom or a wedding of their own. Henry tried not to think of how much Mattie—Princess Mathilde—was worth. A duchy, at least. Thousands of livres. And she had been running around free on the streets of Paris and Bordeaux. No question, the Plantagenets were insane.
But if he were a servant, he might have a chance. He pictured himself, just one more peach-fuzzed menial, strolling through the palace grounds. Only one problem with that picture.
I am the problem here. No servant would bear a sword.
“Well, no kidding. What if Percy—”
“I’m sorry, Lord. No kidding what?”
Sir Percy may not bear me.
“I thought you liked him.”
Only three of the knights of the Round Table could find the Grail, even though they were all good men and true. Not all knights may wield Excalibur. If Percy were the man to wield me, he would already be doing so, and you would be free to go.
Henry turned away from Percy. He smiled and whispered, “Are you saying I’m better than Percy?”
Excalibur sighed. Once again, Henry was impressed by how Excalibur could pull off that trick, considering that the sword had no lips, lungs, or teeth. Find us a hill, an outcrop of the living rock. Draw me, and thrust into the stone. I shall remain embedded, as you found me, until you return.
Henry shook his head, stunned. “Stick you into the bedrock.”
Yes.
Henry felt the fury building in him. “Like the bedrock in Bordeaux? Or under Southampton? Or in those hills I had to cross, in the dead of winter, back in Sussex?”
Yes, exactly.
“I could have walked away any time, and you—”
And I would be no closer to Constantinople.
A small crowd had gathered to stare at the muttering manservant. Sir Percy got in their faces. “Well? What ailest thou? Hast thou not seen a Crusader veteran before?” The crowd dispersed, whispering:
“Jesu, you’d think every village idiot in the West went on Crusade.”
“Why not? Crusaders are all nuts anyway.”
“Hey, watch it. My cousin went on Crusade for your sake.”
“Yeah? Who asked him to?”
Henry wasn’t finished. “We’re going to have a long talk about this—”
Yes, yes, yes, I’m dishonest and you’re perfect. Now leave me in the rock and find the princess.
“I don’t know…a big magic sword sticking out of a rock at Geoffrey’s wedding. You think someone might notice?”
Then what would you do?
“Errrr…” Henry thought furiously for a moment. “When is a sword not a sword?”
I hate riddles.
“When is a sword—”
All right, I don’t know, when IS a sword not a sword?
“When it’s a gift.”
Count Raymond of Toulouse, aristocrat, power broker, collector of antique weapons, stared gloomily at his prize possession—the sword of Charlemagne.
“Of course it’s a fraud, old man. I had my agent on the rack two hours after he sent it to me. You’ve traveled all the way from Bourdeaux to tell me that?”
The old Welshman shut his mouth with a snap. Raymond nodded in satisfaction and continued. “Now, do you have anything else to tell me? Anything useful?”
“We might know where there is a real sword of the Nine, My Lord. If you’re willing to trade for it.”
After Percy found a suitable wooden case, Henry left him guarding their camp while he went to scout the castle. Although there was a forest of tents and pavilions outside the castle walls, the castle’s main courtyard was definitely the hub of the action, and there was a huge crowd milling over the drawbridge and trying to get in.
I don’t like this case. It pinches my forte.
“Two thousand years in a rock was okay, but a linen-lined case pinches you?”
Once in the rock, I sleep the sleep of ages. And besides, this case smells of pig glue.
“You don’t even have a nose!”
Henry shifted Excalibur’s case to his other shoulder, drifted to one side and tried to look servile. There were a couple of pikemen on guard at the portcullis in Geoffrey’s livery, but they didn’t seem to be scrutinizing the people too closely: peasants, townsfolk, peddlers with packs, shabby monks offering to write letters or read documents.
Inside, the courtyard was packed with carts and booths and people exchanging news, gossip, and insults. Henry scanned the high walls, and spotted what he was looking for: a small, thick wooden door on the wall to the right of the inner bailey’s main gate. It was a one-man doorway into the central courtyard, an entrance for the castle’s servants. After a few minutes, a heavyset cook lugged a spit of beef to the door. Henry grabbed the end of the spit and helped him inside.
The kitchen was a huge open space, half belowground, with slit windows letting in the light from above. Henry and the cook struggled the meat down the stairs and onto a spit in the fireplace. The cook wiped his forehead and then stared at Henry.
“Who are you?”
“You’re welcome for the help,” said Henry.
“No sass from kids,” said the cook. “Who are you?”
“I’m Henri, servant to the Chevalier de Tourenne. The Chevalier sent me with this as a wedding gift for the Prince.” Henry opened the case.
The cook grunted. “Huh. Not exactly Durendal, is it? Where’s the jewels and gold inlay?”
How DARE he—
“Family heirloom,” said Henry quickly.
The cook shrugged. “His funeral. Anyway, you want to see the Master Chamberlain with that thing. I’ll send someone with you. Then you can get back to your lord.”
Henry smiled and looked embarrassed. “Would you mind if I stuck around for a bit? The Chevalier’s in a bad mood. Time away is time well spent.”
For the first time, the cook seemed sympathetic. “One of those, is he? All right. You can stay if you help out. I’m Ulric, you can call me ‘sir.’ That’s Stephanie, Segolène, Pierre, Wulf
.” Henry nodded and waved. Ulric handed him a bunch of carrots and knife. “Start chopping, son.”
In the next three hours, Henry learned a lot about making a cassoulet, and almost as much about the Chateau’s servant politics. Once he mentioned that he and the Chevalier had visited Bordeaux and England, the conversation moved quickly, because everyone was starved for news. He had to resist the temptation to do all the talking, and tried instead to steer the conversation toward the nobles who were in residence at the castle.
“Oh, yeah, we’ve got both princes here already,” said Wulf.
“Princes?”
“The Plantagenets. Prince Geoffrey is quite courteous; we’ve naught to say against him,” said Segolène primly.
John, apparently, was as charming to the servants as he had been to Henry. But they didn’t mind much, because he spent most of his time in the central keep with Princess Mathilde, who was apparently insane.
“She told me yesterday to ‘subvert the dominant paradigm,’” said Segolène. “When I asked her what it was, she said I had to ‘deconstruct my false consciousness.’ I think she’s eaten bad mushrooms.”
Pierre disagreed. “No, no, she’s under a spell. There’s that Granny Maudrey who lives down by the river, it’s her doing.”
Stephanie had the final answer. “I hear she snuck into the university lectures in Paris. That’s the problem. It’s overheated her brain.”
The kitchen came to the general agreement that Prince Geoffrey would have a difficult household on his hands, with an overheated wife and an empire to conquer. Henry imagined Mattie listening to this conversation, and stifled a smile. “When did she tell you this? Did she come down here herself?”
The kitchen folks shared a look. “We take her food up to her,” said Pierre. “She eats in her rooms.”
“And we get the lecture,” said Stephanie. “She calls it ‘fighting cultural hegemony.’”
“It’s not fair,” burst out Segolène. “Bad enough we have all this extra work for the wedding, but we have to listen to a sermon, too?”
“That’s enough,” said Ulric. “No one here speaks ill of their betters. Especially not royalty, and especially not Plantagenets.”
Henry shrugged. “I don’t think I have a cultural hegemony. I could take her the food.” There was no way he could get Mattie out right now, but at least he could find out where she was, and let her know he was here.
Ulric looked dubious. “I don’t know. We’ve got no livery for you. If you make a mistake in the presence of the princess, it’s trouble for the rest of us.”
Henry fought to keep the anxiety from showing on his face. “I understand, sir. I was just looking for a reason to stick around.”
Ulric looked guilty—clearly, he’d had a few bad masters of his own, and was sympathizing with Henry against the mythical Chevalier.
“He can have my shirt, Ulric,” said Wulf, “if it means I’m not doing it.”
Ulric nodded. “All right, then.”
Twenty minutes later, Henry was wearing Count Raymond’s livery and helping Pierre carry a big covered platter through a series of courtyards. The platter had holes cut out to hold the different bowls and plates, but it was heavy as death, and Henry suddenly understood why even the women in the kitchen had wider shoulders than he did.
If you’d gotten a lighter case, or simply wrapped me in cloth, you wouldn’t have this problem.
“Will you please be quiet?”
“What was that?”
Henry bit down on his tongue.
In between pauses to catch his breath, Henry made a mental map of the territory. The castle was ring within ring of walled courtyards—baileys—each with its own heavy gates. Some baileys had their own shops and residences, little stone-encircled neighborhoods. The construction was meant to keep out invading armies, but Henry soon came to the dismal conclusion that it would do a pretty good job of keeping out a young thief as well. If Mattie was in the central keep, surrounded by walls and baileys—
“Is this the only way to the keep, Pierre?” he asked. “Through all the gates and courtyards?”
“It’s fastest. When it’s dry, anyway. Here, let’s switch off.” Pierre set the tray down and they stretched for a moment. “If it’s raining or snowing, you can go through the walls—there are passages through.”
Great. Then all Henry would have to do would be to confront guard after guard on their way out. At least it would be easier moving around as a liveried servant. Henry had tipped Wulf a couple of dixaines so that he could keep the shirt, no questions asked. Wulf and Ulric probably figured he wanted it to make a break from his “evil master.” In a way, they were right. Kind of.
They passed through one more portcullis and approached the keep, a round black tower that rose over the surrounding walls and flew the pennons of the Plantagenets and the House of Rouergue. The front gate was big, intimidating, and guarded. They passed it by and went to a servants’ entrance. “Remember,” said Pierre, “Take the weight with your knees on the stairs.”
They hiked up the winding servants’ staircase. Sixty feet up, they reached the top floor, an antechamber guarded by soldiers in Geoffrey’s personal livery.
“Dinner for the princess and her ladies,” bawled Pierre. Henry just panted and tried not to sweat too much. A soldier opened the antechamber’s one door, and Pierre and Henry stepped through.
“The rooms of a princess,” whispered Pierre. “Not as exciting as you thought, eh, boy?”
It was true enough. In the back of his mind, Henry had expected something with lots of lace, jewels, and gorgeous ladies-in-waiting. But the ladies-in-waiting had clearly been waiting for twenty or thirty years, and they were spending the time doing needlepoint. The room itself was big, bare, and gloomy.
A pair of lap dogs smelled the food and started to yap around the platter.
“Is that you, Pierre?” A woman in white came out of the solarium, a book clutched under her arm. “Have you thought about controlling the means of production, like we talked about—”
She saw Henry and stopped. It was Mattie…no, it’s Mathilde, now, thought Henry. His breath caught in his chest. There was no longer any question that she was a princess. Even in her day robe, she just…glowed. Beneath the joy of seeing her again, Henry felt a pang. She’s a princess. What am I doing here?
The silence stretched for a moment. “So, who’s the new guy?” asked the princess.
Pierre prodded Henry, who recovered his wits after a moment and bowed. “I am Henri, servant of the Chevalier de Tourenne, an’ it please you, Highness.”
“Sure, why not. One feudal oppressor’s the same as another.” She turned to Pierre. “You ready for your political philosophy quiz, Pierre?”
Pierre gave a sickly grin. “Actually, Your Highness, I was thinking that you might want to work on Henri’s, uh, consciousness. He hasn’t had any fo—philosophy, and I think I, uh, pulled a muscle while serving my oppressors.”
“All right, get out of here, Master Puny, you’re excused. Henri can take care of dinner.”
Shooting a glance of sympathy in Henry’s direction, Pierre bowed out.
“Soup’s on, girls,” yelled Mathilde. The ladies in waiting dropped their knitting and swooped down on the tray like a flock of vultures, scooping up stew and bread and meats. While they were occupied, Mathilde tugged on Henry’s sleeve and drifted toward a far window. Henry followed. For a moment, they were out of sight behind a pillar, and Mattie kissed him hard. But before he could even respond, they were in plain view again, and Mattie was suddenly a chaste three feet away, leaving Henry shaken and breathless.
“What are you doing here, you goof?” she asked.
“Gee, it’s nice to see you too,” said Henry. “Hey, don’t thank me for trying to rescue you. We wouldn’t want to break your ingratitude streak.”
“‘Rescue’? Are you nuts?”
“I have a magic sword. And a vassal.”
“Very nice. Will
you be able to take down Geoffrey’s army and Raymond’s, not to mention crazy Uncle John?”
“Oh, thank God.”
Mattie frowned. “For what?”
“That I’m not the only one who thinks your Uncle John is crazy. I was afraid I’d say something and offend you.”
Mattie laughed. “Oh, that’s no secret. It’s just when you give the crazy prince a sword that things get scary.” She glanced out the window for a moment. “I love Grandma Eleanor to death. But when you think about my uncles, you have to wonder about her parenting skills. I mean, Uncle John, Uncle Geoff, Uncle Richard…and my Uncle Henry was no bargain either, by all accounts.”
“They’re…they’re not really your uncles, right? I mean, you’re—”
Mattie shuddered. “Oh, God, no. Ick. It’s just courtesy titles. But Eleanor treats me as her ward, and I’m a vassal of King Philip, who’s a cousin of—well, it gets complicated.”
“Still…ick.”
Mathilde sighed. “Yeah.”
Henry looked over at the ladies in waiting. Two of them were snarling over a braised rib, and none of the others seemed inclined to lift their heads from the cassoulet. He should get the recipe…“Still preaching the revolution, I see.”
“Not really. But I found that if you talk long enough about something no one else cares about, they pretty much ignore you. And that’s how we can have this cozy chat.”
Henry looked at her in admiration. “You’re good.”
“I’m a Plantagenet. Now, will you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Will you get out of here before Uncle Geoff finds you?”
“But what about you?”
“Oooh!” She almost stamped her foot. “Forget about me! Henry, you’ve got the most powerful weapon in Europe, and Uncle Geoff wants it so badly he can taste it. It’s all he talks about. Can you imagine what he’ll do if he gets it? He’s already conquered everything north of the Loire. Not having the sword, not controlling it yet, is the only thing that’s keeping him from going after all of the West, from Ireland to Germany.” She stepped back and studied him. “Where is the sword, anyway?”
The Wrong Sword Page 15