“In the case. Gift wrapped.”
“Clever.” She sighed, made sure the ladies were still ignoring them, and turned back to Henry. “So what was your plan?”
“Uh, plan?”
“For escaping. You have an escape plan, right?”
“I didn’t even know where they were keeping you. I think I did a good job just getting in to see you, for starters.”
Mattie snorted. “Uncle Richard would have had this castle besieged and demanded me for ransom before you’d even pulled Excalibur from its scabbard.”
“Well, why don’t you get him to rescue you, then? Oh, wait, I know—because he’s three thousand miles away and crazy, just like the rest of your family.”
“Watch it, gallows-bait.” She smiled.
“You’re crazy, too,” he said.
“Okay. You know what? Anything that distracts Uncle Geoff is a good thing. Two days from now there’s a feast at the pavilion by the jousting field. I’ll be there from the beginning, mistress of ceremonies, but Geoff and John will be out hunting and they’ll show up at sunset—”
“I’ll be there. Wear something escape-y.”
Mattie nodded. “My finest fleeing outfit. Now get out of here, before the hens get suspicious.” She shoved him toward the door. “And remember, if things don’t work out, just…go. The sword is more important.” Then she kissed his cheek. “But it’s great that you tried.” She walked back to the ladies in waiting. “Is there any more rabbit? I could eat a whole covey.”
22. Food Fight
Early the next day, Henry spotted Ralf the Minstrel-slash-Goldsmith wandering the grounds, looking for an audience to annoy. Henry ducked out of sight before the hyphenate could spot him. “That’s bad.”
Why? He’s harmless enough.
“Wait for it.” And within hours, as he searched and bartered for supplies, Henry heard the Muttering Knight catch up with him, in the rumors of the marketplace:
“Took care of a band of highwaymen, neat as pin.”
“And no swagger to him. That’s real class. None of that give-me-your-daughter, kiss-my-horse attitude you get from most knights.”
“Well, he sounds all right. But where’s his chanson? You can’t be a real hero without a chanson.”
A minstrel strung his harp and cleared his throat. “I sing the Knight Who Mutters, a mere youth to some, with golden heart, and flashing sword…”
“Oops. Spoke too soon, I guess.”
Henry’s heart sank. Something told him the Muttering Knight was going to be a real problem. He pushed the problem to the back of his mind and laid out his supplies. Food for the road—check. Flint and tinder—check. Horse—check. Party clothes—check…sort of. Clothes that would truly fit you in at a party like this were handmade by a troupe of family retainers who spent long, cold winters laboring on your behalf in one of your outlying duchies. Henry’s stall-boughts might get him through the line, but there was no way they would make him look impressive. Map of the grounds—well, it was supposed to be on an open field. Either he and Mattie could dash for the horse, or they couldn’t.
Step One: Grab Mattie. Step Two: Run. It wasn’t much of a plan. But what it lacked in potential it made up for in simplicity.
The next afternoon the bells rang out from the castle chapel, and the nobility gathered for the feast. Geoffrey had commanded that the pavilion be laid out on the great tourney field, and it made a brave sight—acres and acres of red and gold tenting above, but open to the sides for the breeze.
The nobles entered family by family, announced by heralds, dressed in their finest. The herald squinted at Henry’s invitation, and looked down at him from his dais.
“The Chevalier de Tourenne is a man of many years, with a large mole on his nose. Have you suddenly discovered the Fountain of Youth, Sir Chevalier?”
“I’m his squire, here to carry his sword so that he be not unduly burdened. If that’s a problem, why don’t you go clear it with Princess Mathilde? I’m sure she’d like to discuss the philosophy of the issue.”
The herald’s face took on a haunted expression, and he waved Henry through. Henry sauntered around the pavilion.
What are you doing? Why do you waste time?
“I’m casing the joint—er, scouting the battlefield. Haven’t you ever done that?”
Indeed. And what have you noticed?
“The servants’ entrance. Or exit, in our case. The location of the musicians, the wine, the food.”
He had to admit Geoffrey did things up right. The tenting was pierced to let in light; rows of tables ringed the pavilion, with cold dishes on one side and the wine on the other, so guests had to keep walking to have food and drink together—no solitary drunks at Geoffrey’s parties. Well, okay, there was one surly looking knight trying to empty a keg…but that was a far cry from the traditional feast, where dozens would go unconscious before the candles burned out. The musicians were Italian, from their dress, and the music was filled with harmonies. There was even a huge wooden floor set up on the grass for dancing. Yeah, if Geoffrey couldn’t make the whole emperor thing work, he could definitely find success as a party planner.
Henry maneuvered through the crowds, looking for Mattie. He was blocked for a moment as a line of cooks brought in the highlights of the feast: boars and venison, hares and swans, pies and preserves, and a collection of sotleties molded to look like buildings, fish, trees, anything but what they actually were. Finally he spotted Mattie at the far end of the pavilion, surrounded by guards, receiving guests from a raised throne. He joined the line.
“Yes, that silver wine muller is a wonderful gift. I’m sure Prince Geoffrey and I shall use it night and day. Thank you. Yes, of course I remember you, and your lovely little br…boy. Now, darling, please don’t grab my hair like that. That’s a good boy. Thank you, see you at the wedding. No, there’s nothing like a bunch of figs for a wedding present. They’re lovely, and they symbolize, uh, God’s love. Take care…” she muttered, “…cheapskate.”
The line advanced, bringing Henry to the front. He bowed. “I come from the Chevalier de Tourenne, Your Highness, with a message.”
Mattie took Henry’s hands in hers. “The Chevalier is our most beloved cousin. What has he to say?”
“He wishes you joy and health and many children, Highness,” said Henry.
“Terrific.” Mattie smiled. Then she whispered, “Get out of here now. Geoff got suspicious when he heard those songs about the Muttering Knight, and he’ll be here any moment.”
“Then come with me now. Tell your chaperone you’re sick.”
“I’ll meet you at the oaks by the far corner of the field. Now GO!”
Henry stepped down, and Mattie graciously turned to the next guest in line.
Excellent. A chance to call Geoffrey out.
Henry didn’t stop his brisk walk to the exit. “No, a chance to rescue the princess, remember?”
You are my servant. Remember that.
“And you swore to help me save Mattie. Remember that.” He was just a few yards from the exit now.
Yes, yes, I know.
“Henry!” Alfie and Valdemar, dressed as monks, appeared from nowhere.
Henry’s jaw sagged down to his chest. “What are you doing here!?”
“We’ve found a way out of your troubles.” Alfie smiled.
“This is a bad time, Alfie.”
Valdemar flanked him. “Trust us.”
“I’ve got to go.”
Alfie and Valdemar shared a glance. “We thought you’d say that.” Alfie’s hand snaked out to grip Henry’s right thumb and palm in a joint lock, while Valdemar simply grabbed his left arm hard enough to turn it purple.
“We’ve been thinking, laddie. You haven’t been yourself.”
“Ignoring a score.”
“Wearing armor.”
“Gathering vassals.”
“It’s not your fault, laddie. You’re possessed.”
“What!?”
“But fortunately, we’ve got just the man to help us all out.”
“Be gone, foul spirit!”
Henry blinked hard as stale water splashed into his face and dribbled down his collar.
“I cast thee out by any and all of the foul names thou knowest—Old Evil, Satan, Serpent of Ophir; Crooked Tail, Bad Business, the Whisper in Darkness; Lucifer, Tempter, the—”
What is this idiot doing?
The splasher was a short, round fellow in the tonsure of a parish priest, going about his business with an energy and enthusiasm you had to admire.
“This is Father Gillem, my family’s confessor.” It was Count Raymond. He wore gorgeous clothes and a ten-dixaine smile that reminded Henry of a shark his dad had caught once off Point Nerac. The Count draped his hand around the priest’s shoulders and nodded amiably at Henry.
“Laddie, I want you to meet our good friend, Count Raymond of Toulouse,” said Alfie. “He collects swords.”
“—Apollyon, Belial, Father of Lies—” The holy water was now saturating his tunic.
“Ah, the Muttering Knight.”
“Abaddon, Asmodeus, Tricky Dick—”
“That’s enough, Gillem.”
“But—”
“I’m sure he’s thoroughly exorcised by now. Aren’t you, boy?” Henry nodded. Raymond gave the priest a gentle shove. “Now, run along. We need to discuss some business.”
Nonplussed, Gillem wandered away. Raymond turned back to Henry, Alfie, and Valdemar. “My sister’s boy. You understand.” He rubbed his hands. “And there you are. Exorcised. With a Great Sword, one of the Nine, that you may now relinquish whenever you desire.” He smiled again. “Name your price.”
You will not sell me to this creature. You will not give me to him. He is an assassin and a plotter. You will not, under any circumstances—
“I know, I know.” Henry shrugged out of Valdemar’s grip and looked at Raymond. “Your Lordship, with all due respect, the sword is mine in trust. I may not sell it, not to you, nor to anyone.”
Alfie hissed in Henry’s ear. “Think, Henry! This is a count! He could make you a noble, give you a castle. And he’s family with Mattie. He could stop the wedding. He’d go that far. And the worst that happens is someone else deals with Geoffrey, not you. This is a way out.”
“I—”
A blast of trumpets cut him short. A second blast, and the heralds formed two lines at the entrance. Geoffrey and John entered the pavilion. Henry felt his guts dissolve in fear.
At last! Our enemies!
“Oh, great. Our enemies.” Henry turned to Raymond. “Tell you what, Your Lordship, let me think about your offer and get back to you.” Henry smiled and started to inch away. Raymond’s eyes flickered from Henry to Geoffrey. Henry could see Raymond’s mind working, and it didn’t look good. Time to stall. “Actually, Your Lordship, come with me. Let’s walk, and talk, and discuss matters. For instance, why don’t you make me an offer, and we’ll start from there?”
“No, I think not.” Raymond stepped back from Henry, appraising him. “No, I think your first refusal was sincere, young man, and now you seek to gain time. Well, if I cannot buy the sword, I can at least buy some goodwill.” Grabbing Henry by the jerkin, he turned toward Geoffrey and John, still some yards off on the far side of the pavilion. “Geoffrey! It’s Uncle Raymond! Look what I have!”
“Yikes!” Henry raised his arms and went limp, slithering out of his tunic like a snake from its skin. Hitting the ground, he rolled away from Raymond, bounced to his feet, and sprinted for the exit.
Slay him! Strike that impudent wretch down where he stands!
“Or not,” said Henry as he dodged random dinner guests. The servants were bringing in a line of pastries. He ducked under one tray, swerved around a second. He was nearing the exit—but he wasn’t close enough. From both sides of the pavilion, Geoffrey’s men-at-arms came at him, and before he could turn, he was encircled in a ring of mercenaries.
“Draw no weapons! Do not strike at him!” yelled Geoffrey, as the circle parted to let him in.
Now we face him. Traitor, murderer, usurper—
Henry felt his hand go to the sword’s grip, and Excalibur rise behind his eyes.
“I am unarmed, Henry,” said Geoffrey, his hands by his sides. “So are my men.” He turned to the mercenaries. “Drop your weapons.” The soldiers stood like rocks, astonished. “DROP THEM!” And then there was the thud of first one, then a dozen swords hitting the wooden floor.
Geoffrey turned back to Henry. “I have no sword, Henry. Neither do my troops. We shall not strike you. If you want to leave this circle, Excalibur must draw first blood. On unarmed men.”
Henry felt Excalibur’s spirit whirl in confusion. “Excalibur…”
I—Henry—He is clever, that one. He knows the Code of Chivalry, and uses it against us. We cannot strike an unarmed opponent, where there is no threat.
“Of course there’s a threat! We can’t stay like this! He’ll—”
Yes, yes. It’s a stratagem. You esteem yourself clever—defeat it.
“Simon!” Geoffrey pointed to a soldier. “Get us some chairs. This may take a while.” The soldier trotted off and the other troopers closed ranks.
Henry’s eyes followed Simon as the soldier walked past the trays of food, past Alfie and Valdemar—Henry smiled. Sometimes you didn’t need swords.
“ALFIE!” he yelled. “PIE!”
The first dish to land on Geoffrey’s head was a sotletie of venison designed to look like a leaping herring. The pie-crust fins disconnected from the main body of the fish and cascaded down the prince’s shoulders in a shower of oat flour. This was followed in quick succession by the castle of Poitou rendered in barley sugar and marzipan, and a large roast hare coated in gold leaf.
The nobles and vassals froze in shock. Slowly, ever so slowly, Geoffrey raised a hand to remove an almond-paste battlement from his eyebrow, then a pie-crust dorsal fin from his shoulder. No one said a word. Geoffrey’s composure was remarkable, all things considered. Had the assault centered entirely on him, Henry might still have been in trouble. But at that moment, Valdemar’s second volley hit. A roasted peacock with its own feathers reattached clipped a noblewoman and two mercenaries on its way toward Prince Geoffrey. The noblewoman’s husband took offense to the knight nearest to him, and grabbed a pikefish in verjuice with which to retaliate. The disturbance began to widen.
A long-simmering disagreement between the Comte du Val d’Aosta and the Duke of Normandy erupted when the Chevalier Sans Peur et Sans Regret, a vassal of the Comte, took the opportunity to hamstring the Duke with a swordfish in aspic. Six of the guests, allied to the Duke by blood or oaths of fealty, decided to wreak vengeance while the wreaking was good, and used a young hart, boiled in milk with almonds and cherries, to subdue the Comte and all his train.
Two mercenaries rushed to Geoffrey’s aid, but by now Mattie had encouraged other courtiers to grab plates. The mercenaries went down, victims of a large platter of baked trout in sauce galyntyne, and Henry raced through the gap. Ducking beneath a volley of preserved fruits, he scuttled toward the exit, only to have it blocked by two knights armed with spits full of chickens. He leaped to one side, allowing the knights to meet in combat with four men-at-arms carrying racks of stuffed piglet in cameline sauce.
Twenty-three pottages filled the air, and the conflict became more or less general. Henry hunched down and sprinted for the servants’ entrance on the far side of the pavilion. One of the mercenaries leaped toward him, but was sidelined by a blackbird pie to the left temple. Henry barely avoided a grab by the Duke of Orleans, a champion of the joust, who was then knocked unconscious by Sir Locrahin of Brest, wielding a jar of leeks in vinegar. Sir Locrahin himself was laid low by the Bishop of Besançon, who had turned his roast loin of pork into a weapon most fell. Sir Gaymard of Orgeille, who had slain fifty men on the walls of Damascus, was blinded by the Count of Monte Albano with a bo
wl of green soup of almonds before Gaymard could dash out Henry’s brains with the centerpiece—a single boar, roasted on a spit and decorated in almond paste, spun sugar, and preserved plums with scenes from the Gospel of Mark.
Ducking the boar, Henry dived on his belly into a spreading pool of cinnamon sauce and slid out of the pavilion. There was his horse. Mattie was standing next to it. It was going to work! They were going to leave! They could be up and—
LOOK OUT!
The sky exploded with stars, and everything went black.
23. Fun with Master Wiglaf
I want a new head, thought Henry as he opened his eyes. This one hurts too much.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said Wiglaf. “Help me with this coil.”
The monk looked no worse for his time in the Bordeaux sewers. Henry tried to correct that by grabbing Wiglaf’s neck and twisting as hard as possible. It was a mistake. The room spun, and Henry almost threw up.
Wiglaf bent over him, solicitous, with a thin strip of copper wound over and over around his shoulder. Underneath the nausea, Henry was impressed—that much copper was a ransom in farthings, if it were anywhere near as pure as it looked.
“Hmmf. Drink this.” Wiglaf held out a bottle. When Henry turned his head away, Wiglaf waggled it. “It’s perry. Good for the warm humors.” The monk drank from the bottle himself and offered it again. Henry drank, and the taste of pears and wine filled his mouth. After a few swallows, he felt a little better and sat up.
The room was well lit, and big enough for cabinets filled with scrolls and bottles, three or four tables, and at least half a dozen unguessable devices; they ranged from a wooden box draped with silk to an iron column topped by an etched bronze disc. The room also had bars on the windows, and a big, thick door—one that opened from the outside.
“Where—”
“The castle’s old east tower. Here, take this.” Wiglaf handed him a black stone that was unexpectedly smooth and heavy, and then turned to one of the devices.
Henry stood up, and a couple of knives flew from a nearby table straight at him. He ducked in panic; they hit the stone and then stuck there as if they were glued.
The Wrong Sword Page 16