The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  “My Lord,” choked Brissac, rubbing his neck. “I did return afterward. I went down into the cave myself, once I knew the monks no longer maintained a watch.”

  Geoffrey turned back. “So my faith in you was not utterly misplaced. Continue.”

  “I saw what we expected to see from the Book of Four Branches and the Scroll of the West. The armies of the dead, the lake under the hill, the island in the middle.”

  The Book of Four Branches? The Scroll of the West? Brissac hadn’t mentioned any of this to Henry. Nice guy.

  “The sword would have been buried at the peak of the hill in the lake. What did you see?”

  “At the peak, nothing, My Lord, save for a shallow hole, perhaps a yard wide. But at the base of the hill, by the water, we found these.” Brissac dug into his pouch and pulled out a handful of chips and pebbles—remnants of Excalibur’s original stone, Henry realized.

  Geoffrey examined the chips—held them up to the light, smelled them, tasted one. “Marble. Some of these have flat surfaces…Polished? Carved? Were there many?”

  “Aye, My Lord. And more, larger pieces, in the water of the lake.”

  Geoffrey smiled. “Hah! The sword was in the stone. The stone was in the hollow. Our Henry levered the stone out of its hole and sent it crashing down the hill to shatter on the bedrock of the floor. Well done, that boy.” Geoffrey nodded to himself. “Pity we have to kill him. We could use some brains on the team.”

  Ridiculously, Henry felt pleased by the compliment.

  “Why the tourney, brother? It will only provoke the people. If neither of us can draw the sword—”

  “The word’s spread, Johnny. I’ve already had twenty different knights come to me, some of them powerful men, demanding a chance to try their luck. You saw the Count try for it—”

  “Uncle Raymond!?”

  “The man’s sixty-two with piles, but he still thinks he has a chance.” Geoffrey poured some wine and drank moodily. “And the Archbishop of Paris was here, nagging—which means that Philip already knows.”

  “Uncle Raymond is our vassal. The sword was found on his land. That makes it ours.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from Dad, Johnny? It’s ours if we can keep it. The crows are circling. If Raymond switches sides and joins Philip, and the Count of Poitou and the Pope all band together, I’ll—we’ll have nothing.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes turned inward for a moment, contemplating something only he could see. Then he stood. “We can’t hide this. But we can delay, until we can summon sappers and engineers to remove the sword for us. Until then, we have this tourney. The winners get to try their luck. All we have to do is make sure that the winners of the tourney are not the ones who could possibly succeed at drawing the sword. You remember Lammastide, four, five years ago, when you beat Richard in the joust?”

  John grinned. “He was furious. Amazing what the right herbs can do to a horse, and in a day, the steed is good as new.”

  Brissac gasped. “You would taint a knightly charger? But—”

  Geoffrey turned on him. “This isn’t a game, Edmond. This is for an empire. Grow up, or I’ll find someone to serve me better.” Brissac shut his mouth with a snap.

  “So. The last question is…where’s our young Henry?” Geoffrey strolled around the tent, hands behind his back, thinking.

  John shrugged. “Maybe he’s gone. Maybe he just decided the danger was too much for him, and he wanted to be rid of it. Especially after you locked him up with that lunatic Gervasius.”

  Geoffrey stood still for a moment. “I’d like to believe that. It’s possible—he’s a peasant, after all.” He came to a decision. “No. It’s too easy. Keep the guards looking for him. He’s still here, and I want him.”

  John nodded. “Dead or alive.”

  “No, you idiot.” Geoffrey recovered his temper almost immediately. “Johnny, we want him alive. There are too many questions about that sword, and we need answers. Right?”

  John looked down at the ground. “Right.”

  “All right, then.” Geoffrey stretched. “I will organize the tourney. Johnny, you stay here with my men and guard the sword. You have the most important job, you know that.”

  “I know,” Johnny mumbled.

  “And Edmond—you’ll find our little friend.”

  The meeting broke up soon after. More soldiers crowded into the tent and surrounded the sword. Henry drifted back into the trees before he was spotted, to ponder what he’d heard. Geoffrey was clever, no question. By now, word of the sword had probably spread up and down the river. In less than a week, it would have gone north and south to Paris and Bordeaux. If Geoffrey simply tried to draw the sword in public, and failed, it would cripple his campaign for empire. But if he sat back and let everyone else compete, and fail, and then secretly had stonemasons come and loosen the sword, so he could draw it…

  Everyone would have to acknowledge Geoffrey as king, and even his former rivals among the jousting knights would be forced to admit that he had treated them fairly and given them their chance.

  There were too many guards around the sword now. Henry knew he had no chance to just steal it back.

  Which meant he’d have to enter the tourney.

  Percy frowned. “I’ll do my best, my…I mean, Henry. But just to survive the joust takes years of training.”

  “We have a day. Unless you think between us we can cut down the two dozen guards they have surrounding the sword.”

  They were standing in the practice area next to the jousting field, where, despite the bright sun and the good wine, the day was looking darker and darker. Geoffrey’s men had put up the field practically overnight. It was some hundred yards long. The royal pavilion was at the midway point. Next to the pavilion was the tent that held Excalibur.

  “How will we reclaim the sword, mi—Henry?”

  “There is one possibility.” Henry hesitated, afraid that Percy would lose his cool. “And when I tell you this, keep your voice down. Geoffrey and John are going to cheat.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “Really?”

  “Please. The Plantagenets have been cheating on the tourney circuit for years. No one ever says anything, of course,” he added bitterly. “They’re the Plantagenets! Oooohhh! Scary!” He raised his hands and rolled his eyes.

  Henry smiled. Sir Percy was becoming a human being, after all. “They talked about feeding herbs to the other horses to slow them down.”

  Percy nodded. “Valerian or chamomile. The knight on a sluggish horse is at the disadvantage.”

  “Winning knights will have a chance to draw Excalibur—”

  “So they will drug the horses of those they think might have a chance.”

  “Right. Good thinking. So, what about you, Percy? What’s your standing?”

  Percy looked shamefaced. “Not good. I’ve yet to win a joust, or even make my name as a warrior. That’s why I was on that bridge when we met. I had to build my reputation.”

  “Does Geoffrey know?”

  Percy shrugged. “The world of knights and tourneys isn’t big. If he doesn’t know himself, his master of heralds does.”

  “So he’d leave your horse alone, and go after your opponent, especially if it were someone big, some major competitor he thinks might have a chance to draw Excalibur from the rock.” Henry stood. “Come on. Let’s figure out how to take advantage of this.”

  An hour later, they began to train. “This is a coronal. Hold it.” Percy tossed Henry a lance with a three-pronged tip. Henry caught it—it was like catching a tent pole. He staggered for a moment, and then used the lance to steady himself just in time.

  “This is the jousting helm.” A helmet the size of a wine keg was next. Henry fitted it onto his head, and was instantly plunged into darkness.

  “Now just stand like that for a moment, let me see if I can snug any of my armor onto you.” Henry felt a heavy weight draped over his neck, then more on his chest and back. Yet more weight on his leg
s. His arms. His shoulders.

  With a thump, he toppled over.

  “Yes, I can see we’re going to have some challenges here,” said Percy. “Strap it all on, and mount up on Pegasus.” Like a turtle on its back, Henry struggled to sit up and get to his feet.

  “Maybe we should try some riding drills first,” said Percy.

  Henry detached the helmet, unbuckled the breastplate, and stood. They were in a meadow a few hundred yards up-river of the tourney site, and higher up the valley slope. Henry turned to stare at the guards around Excalibur’s tent.

  “Perce…those aren’t pikemen, guarding the sword?”

  Percy squinted. “No, m—Henry. Men at arms, with swords.”

  Pikemen were effective against cavalry charges, against men on horseback. But men with swords…

  Henry turned to Percy. “How’s your horse at jumping?”

  25. Knights in White Satin

  “Tourney day. It makes your heart sing. The bright banners, the brave knights with favors from their ladies. Not that I’ll be jousting in this one, of course.” Percy tried to keep up a brave front. Henry patted his shoulder.

  “There will be others. I promise. And remember, keep Alfie and Valdemar occupied. I don’t want them doing anything stupid.” Henry glanced at the two of them, standing shamefaced by the corral. “Anything else stupid.” He nudged Pegasus with his knees, and the charger obediently trotted forward.

  It had taken a lot of work, for a plot that had so little chance of success. Percy had modified his armor, dropping secondary bits and pieces to make it light enough for Henry to wear without seeming odd to the spectators. To the casual eye, it would still look like Percy astride the horse—the Dulwich insignia, a big blue badger on a silver field, gleamed proudly in the sun. Percy had also deliberately committed the armorer’s cardinal sin: He had secured all the remaining pieces of armor with a single harness strap. Then they had practiced the maneuvers Henry would need to carry out the plan. Now all Henry had to do was convince Geoffrey’s master of heralds to match “Sir Percival of Dulwich” against Sir Marlay of Groussey, the best jouster in Normandy.

  Pegasus, Percy’s stallion, was feisty and hard to control. He knew that he was carrying Henry, not Percy, and he could feel the difference in weight. Henry didn’t care. Pegasus didn’t have to carry him into battle. He had to do three things right, and if he did, they’d be home free. If not, a long interrogation, followed by a short execution…

  The field was packed. Favored guests, in satin and jewels, lounged in the royal box, next to Geoffrey and John…and Mattie. Henry swore to himself. If he succeeded, there would be no way for him to get to her. He took a deep breath. One thing at a time.

  He trotted over to the Master of Heralds and, with a bit of effort, raised his lance for attention. “Sir Percy of Dulwich,” he shouted past his closed visor, “to contend with Sir Marlay of Groussey on the field of honor.”

  The Master Herald, a tall, skinny specimen with a face like a haddock, laughed outright. “Oh, really? You think you get to pick and choose whom you fight? You’ll take what I say, Sir Knight, and like it.” The herald glanced down at his writing tablet. “Besides, Sir Marlay is already spoken for.”

  Henry’s heart started to pound. The whole plan depended on confronting a knight who was guaranteed to be riding a drugged horse. Sir Marlay was the only one who was truly a sure thing. If he was already spoken for—

  “AYE! BY ME!” A new knight, tall and perfectly at ease in his armor, stalked up to the herald’s podium and leaned in. “Who are you, varlet, to speak in such wise to a brother knight?”

  The herald didn’t even bother to grin nastily. “I’m the master of heralds and Prince Geoffrey’s confessor. That’s who.”

  The new knight took off his helmet, revealing a ridiculously handsome face only a few years older than Henry. The knight’s red hair blazed in the sun. When he spoke, his French was tinged with a German accent. “And I am Frederick of Swabia, the Prince’s favored guest. I will give my place to this, my honored comrade.”

  The herald shrugged. “No skin off my nez.”

  The knight turned to Henry and smiled. Henry stammered. “Thanks. I don’t know what to—”

  Frederick laughed. “No worries. I’ve fought Sir Marlay before, I’ll fight him again. You tyros deserve a chance.” He leaned a little closer. “And anyway, don’t let Geoffrey’s minions get you down. Good luck.” Then he patted Pegasus on the neck and vanished into the crowd.

  Henry trotted back to his spot in the line. Peasants and townsfolk packed the wooden rails. Peddlers passed through the crowd, selling wine and dried fruit. There was a trumpet call, and the next two jousters entered the ring.

  The herald stepped forward. “Behold, Sir Calix of Griyand. Device, three daisies or on a field azure. Behold, Sir Stefan of Sophia. Device, a shield ermine with two horizontal bars, azure and gules, with three roses gules in chief and a lion or in a canton gules.”

  Henry was always amazed at the number of jousting enthusiasts—peasants who’d never even be allowed to touch a lance, let alone own one—who could tell you every twist, motto, lozenge, shield, mythical beast, and bar sinister of the heraldry of the knights in each competition. For him, it was just “a shield blah with a device blah and a blah of blah and blahdi-blahdi-blah-blah-blah.”

  The knights trotted onto the field, one at either end. A wooden railing ran down the length of the field, and they took up positions, one on each side. The trumpets sounded again, and the crowd fell silent. A third trumpet call, and the knights lowered their lances and charged on either side of the railing, with their lances held to the left, across their bodies, pointed at each other.

  They began slowly, but by the time the knights had covered half the distance, they were moving like lightning, and you could feel the hoof beats in your chest, they were so powerful. Henry kept his eyes focused on Stefan, the popular favorite.

  And yes…Stefan’s horse was beginning to falter, just a little, barely a trace, invisible unless you were looking for it. His stance on the horse shifted, and he spurred it on. But it was no use. Sir Calix’s lance hit with the force of a…well, of a knight’s lance at the charge, and Sir Stefan went flying.

  Percy, hooded and robed so that no one would see him off his horse, nudged Henry. “See? Sir Calix drinks more beer than any twelve monks I know. They practically have to pour him into his armor. But his horse traveled almost twice as far as that of Sir Stefan. The fix is in, My Lord.”

  Henry nodded and turned back to the field. Sir Calix had gotten off his horse and stalked over to Sir Stefan, with his mace raised. Stefan raised one hand in surrender. Calix turned away and hiked toward Excalibur’s pavilion.

  Geoffrey had outdone himself on staging and crowd control. There were no onlookers between the field and the sword, so the view of Sir Calix and Excalibur was absolutely clear. Everyone at the joust had a perfect, uninterrupted view of Sir Calix bending down and grasping Excalibur. Of Sir Calix heaving, and grunting with effort. Of Sir Calix heaving again. And then, of Sir Calix practically giving himself a rupture with his third try, and finally, of Sir Calix losing his lunch. His final, muffled “Ooof” echoed across the riverbank, along with the rattle of his armored body hitting the ground. A trio of monks carried him off, still groaning.

  The herald turned from Excalibur to face the crowd. “Calix of Griyand has failed to draw the sword from the stone. Bring on the next riders.”

  This time it was two nobodies from Gascony. Percy had them already sussed as no-hopers, and their performance bore that out when both knights lost control of their steeds and slid from the saddles. They sprang up and whaled with their maces at each other, at their horses, and at nearby fence-posts until the heralds separated them. Clearly, Geoffrey hadn’t bothered to waste any valerian or chamomile root on these two.

  There was one more joust before Henry was up. The herald stepped forward. “Sir Mercadier de Bainac, against Sir Charles of Brest.”
Percy gripped Henry’s shoulder hard.

  “This Mercadier, he’s good. As good as Sir Marlay. He was Richard’s man before Richard left on Crusade, but some say he’s even better than Richard. The best, maybe. I tried to get you a spot against him, but it was taken. Keep your eyes open.”

  The herald made the announcement, and the two knights rode into the lists. After months living with Excalibur, Henry had enough experience to see that Percy was right—you could see Mercadier’s skill in the way he rode, relaxed but controlled, his motions smooth and fluid even under the weight of his armor.

  The trumpets sounded. The knights lowered their lances. Their horses moved from a canter, to a gallop, to a charge. Once again, Henry could see the weariness, the hesitation in Mercadier’s steed—clearly the Plantagenets had agreed with Percy’s opinion of who was the better knight.

  The knights met, their lances crashing together. Percy and Henry gasped in shock—with his horse almost falling asleep underneath him, Mercadier had stayed mounted.

  The knights wheeled and circled for fresh lances. Once again the trumpets, and the charge. Once again, two shattered lances, and Mercadier still astride his horse.

  And now the third charge. His horse practically comatose now, Mercadier hunkered down, waiting for the charge. When it came, he caught his enemy’s lance on his shield, breaking it, and swept his opponent off the horse with his own lance. Mercadier dismounted, drawing his mace. His opponent drew his as well. In three passes, the other knight was down on the ground, bloody and unconscious. Mercadier turned to the crowd, and raised his hand in victory. The crowd roared, and Mercadier started walking toward Excalibur.

  Percy was right—Mercadier was good. Could he actually draw Excalibur from the stone? Henry swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry as flax. He glanced at the royal box. Geoffrey looked about as unhappy as Henry felt…Mercadier was bad for both of them.

  Henry looked around. The way to Excalibur was clear. Mercadier was the only man on the path. Henry swallowed again. He had planned to carry out the “operation” during the joust, but this looked like the best chance he’d get before Mercadier started tugging on Excalibur.