“Hey, comrade, do I know you—”
“He’s fought six against one! He helps the helpless and returns stolen property!” Where were they getting this from?
“He saved my dad from the kidnappers!” Yep, there was Edwina.
“I saw him at Toulouse, face to face against Prince John himself!” And there he was, of course. The source of all this great publicity.
“Hello, Percy,” said Henry.
“My Lord!” Percy clasped him to his bosom, squeezing the air out of him. “Here he is, my lord and master, the Muttering Knight! He will save us from Prince Geoffrey!”
Henry smiled and waved, feeling like he’d just been kicked by a mule. “Hello, everyone.”
The crowd went wild. Henry felt about two feet tall.
“Thank St. George I found you, Henry.” Percy was stalking through the armor bins of the castle, picking up a greave here, a gauntlet there. “I know we were supposed to meet here, but I confess I didn’t know where to look.”
“How about at the Viscount’s castle?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course, that makes sense.” He tossed a substandard foin back in the bin.
“So what happened in Toulouse after we left?”
Percy grinned. “It was chaos. Prince Geoffrey couldn’t control a thing. A dozen knights saddled up and rode after you, but they were in heavy armor. The most determined got about three leagues before turning back.”
“What about Geoffrey and John?”
Percy turned serious. “Prince Geoffrey assembled all his vassals, provisioned them, and left. At first, everyone said he was heading to Paris. But on my way here, I overtook the vanguard of his forces. He’s coming here, and he’s summoned knights from every duchy and town that pays him homage. He says he wants to rescue his kidnapped bride.”
“He wants the sword.”
“He wants both.”
“I wish you hadn’t said anything to those people, Percy. You know my job is to get Excalibur to Constantinople.” Percy looked stricken, but Henry couldn’t tell if it was because he was disappointed in Henry or in himself.
“But, but—”
“I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to my room.”
And what would Geoffrey do to Narbonne when he arrived and couldn’t find Excalibur? Henry chewed on that question all evening, staring at the ceiling.
The next day dawned clear and cool, with a strong breeze from the East. Perfect sailing weather. Henry heaved his bag over his shoulder and walked down the Rue des Bons Hommes to the quay. The streets were empty, the shops and windows shuttered. On the city walls, the defenders shifted restlessly, waiting.
“You’ve been pretty quiet,” said Henry.
I’d think you would welcome that.
“Just saying.”
There was no one at the dock to say good-bye, not that Henry had expected anyone. The ship was waiting. Henry climbed aboard.
“So, Constantinople you going to.”
It was Captain Dimiturglu. Henry smiled.
“Yes. And I know the difference between Constantinople and Bordeaux.”
You had to hand it to him. Dimiturglu didn’t hesitate. He spread his arms wide and hugged Henry like a long-lost brother. “You good boy! Good for to see you! Because Queen of Love asks, we take you fast to Constantinople, no party this time!” He turned to the sailors. “RIGHT, BOYS?” The sailors cheered. Dimiturglu leaned close to Henry.
“Also, you know maybe what happen to my money pouch? I could not find after to leave Bordeaux. I think maybe one of these ship monkeys took it. You see anything?”
Dimiturglu yelled at the crew, and the Gorgonoki shifted sail and tacked downstream. The shore surged past, faster than Henry expected. Soon they had rounded the river bend. And there was Geoffrey’s army.
Henry gasped. It stretched from the riverbank to the far hills. Rank upon rank of foot soldiers. Peasant bowmen, with long knives and the unstrung bows that doubled as quarterstaffs. Wagon after wagon of timber for siege engines, pulled by teams of draft horses, guarded by tough, determined combat engineers. Mercenaries with crossbows, the iron hand-cranks of which were weapons in themselves. Freebooters, picked out by their outlandish gear and battle flags. And in the vanguard, knights and retainers, each one a separate battle group of armored horse, surrounded by loyal footmen. Even at this distance, you could smell them, a stink of dung, sweat, leather, and spoiled food.
Rank by rank, squad by squad, they sailed past the invaders, a tour by ship of an irresistible force. By midday, they were approaching the rear-guard, and the river mouth was in view.
Henry was on the port side of the ship, staring at the army. Would Geoffrey send some of his force around the city walls by boat? Or would he keep them all for the city walls? Or do both? Or neither, somehow—some completely new tactical coup, courtesy of Geoffrey’s Plantagenet-educated military brain?
And if—face it, when—he took the city, then what? Tribute? Mercy? Or fire and blood? Henry could taste the answer in his mouth. Mercy at first, while Geoffrey still believed the townsfolk could find him Excalibur. Then, when it became clear that Excalibur was gone…the torch. Especially if John was traveling with him. If Henry had ever seen a firebug, it was John. How would Alfie and Valdemar get out of a burning town?
Dimiturglu came up and slapped him on the back. “So, mouth of river we are. Now, sail we set, and off to Constantinople! You see Greek Isles, first time, yes?”
The defenders would fight valiantly. Percy would be with them. But they’d see the size of the army. The professionals. How long could they hold out? And then a terrible thought came to him. Mattie. What if Mattie joined the front lines? It was just the kind of stunt she would pull. She had that Plantagenet craziness, she thought nothing could harm her. She would sneak past her guard, sneak out of the castle, put on armor, and join the defenders. She had no idea, no clue, no fear. She would die—
“Excalibur.”
Yes.
“I swore to take you to Constantinople.”
Yes.
“I can’t leave. Do whatever you want, yell, scream, lecture, pretend you’re stuck in mid-air, stick pins in me, but we’re not letting Geoffrey in. I swore, and I’m breaking my promise, I’m sorry, but I can’t do anything else.”
Henry closed his eyes and tensed up. Going on past form, whatever Excalibur was going to do to him would be a whopper. Illusionary lightning? Fire crawling up his torso? The feel of a sword cutting into his body?
Henry.
Henry clenched his teeth.
You’re wrong.
“Huh?”
You didn’t swear to bring me to Constantinople. You swore to obey me until we found a suitable bearer.
“Yeah.”
Henry. I command you to protect your friends.
Henry turned to Dimiturglu. “Take me back to Narbonne.”
Captain Dimi looked at him as though he were a madman. “Crazy, you are? See the army? They go to Narbonne, right now!”
“Yes. Take me back.”
Captain Dimi laughed. “No one sails into battle.”
In a flash, Excalibur was at Dimiturglu’s throat, pressing hard. Henry smiled tight and wide, a direct copy of the smile he’d seen on Prince John’s face just before some attempt at violence.
“Take me back. RIGHT NOW.”
Dimiturglu looked into Henry’s eyes. Without moving, he yelled out to his crew. They scrambled into activity. The boom swung, and the ship turned again, heading back upriver.
“Now, we’re going to stay here, you and I, until I reach Narbonne. Then you can go wherever you want, and keep the Queen’s fare. Won’t that be nice?”
The captain nodded, very, very slowly. Behind his smile, Henry’s heart was sinking into his boots. Now he was the jerk with the sword.
27. Knife in the Water
The trip back was achingly slow, as they tacked against the river’s current. The sailors weren’t happy. Henry kept Excalibur at Dimi’s throat; t
he moment he relented, he knew, they’d jump him.
Three hours later, they had come within a mile of the city. Rowboats were being launched into the river, a bid by Geoffrey to circle around the walls and invade by water. The docks inside the walls had been torn down, and the wreckage moored in the river as a defense—but that wasn’t stopping Geoffrey from trying.
Henry. Until now, you have been fortunate.
“Really?”
You have not had to kill.
“Oh.”
But to survive this battle, you may have no choice. Do you understand? Can you do what is needed?
“I’ll have to. Won’t I?”
Now they were coming level with the city. The army was encamped in front of the walls. How could he get on shore? If they tried to dock, Geoffrey’s boats would intercept them. If he swam, he was asking to be shot. Hmm.
“Captain, how would you like twenty livres from the hand of the Queen herself?”
“For twenty livres, you don’t need to use sword. What do we do?”
“Sweep those boats from the river, and land me at the docks.”
Well done, Henry.
“A moment.” As if the sword were not pointing at his throat, Dimiturglu stood and peered over the starboard side, assessing the situation. He turned back to Henry. “Who are you, to promise this?”
“I am the Queen’s right hand. I am the sword that rescued her niece, the Princess Mathilde.”
“I heard from this. You, that was?”
“Why else was the Queen paying my fare?”
The captain looked at the water again for a moment. “Forty livres.”
“Thirty. But nothing if the city falls.”
“Of course. Yanos! Semikodomir! Arfootsi nafar! Terentum aures!”
Dimiturglu must have yelled something about gold, because the sailors dropped their panicked expressions and started to crank up their crossbows. Henry would have recognized the look of greed anywhere—it was a universal emotion. Like crankiness.
Dimiturglu turned to Henry. “We go for the rowboats. But we have no boat for you. You wait until we finish and dock, or you swim now to shore. You choose.”
Henry looked at the river. The Gorgonoki was curving around in an arc that encompassed Geoffrey’s boats.
“Can you put yourself between me and the rowboats?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll swim.”
“What about sword?”
I do not rust.
“It will be fine.”
“Clothes and boots, you to take off. Otherwise, water soak into them, drag you down.”
“Yeah.” Already he wasn’t liking this idea. But if he waited for Dimiturglu and the crew, he could be here for hours. And, the darker part of his mind admitted, there was no guarantee they’d win, anyhow. “But bring me closer.”
“Yah, that can we do. Mikhail, veni navire!” The captain rummaged in a locker and pulled out a greasy drawstring bag. “Here. Put in this, keep dry against water.”
The ship caught the breeze and swung closer to shore. Henry stripped to his breeches and shoved everything in the bag but Excalibur, which he strapped to his back.
An arrow arched across the deck, embedding itself in the starboard decking. It was followed by another, and then a flight of a dozen more. One of the crew yelled out and grabbed his arm; the others took cover and returned fire.
“Hurry!” yelled the captain. The whistle of arrows grew louder. They lanced into the deck, the mast. Another found its mark and a sailor went down, screaming.
“Thirty livres!” yelled Dimiturglu.
“Thirty livres!” yelled Henry, and he jumped.
It was fifteen feet down, just long enough to be scary, and the water was bitter cold. Henry bobbed up, gasping for breath, and swam as fast as he could for the shore, twenty yards away. He was under the cover of the ship, which sat between him and Geoffrey’s boats, but he didn’t know how long that would last. He moved as fast as he could, but the bag bobbed and dragged behind him, and Excalibur hindered his strokes.
Fourteen yards, twelve yards, and still safe. Eight yards, and no arrows. Four yards, and the arrows splashed into the water around him. He dove underwater and swam for the docks as fast as he could. He surfaced underneath the pier as the arrows pocked the river behind him.
Under the pier was a long, dark space made of water, damp wooden beams, barnacles, and seaweed. Henry crawled onto a piling and looked around. On the bad side, they probably knew where he was. On the good side, they couldn’t come in after him without running the risk of ambush. But was there a way out?
He clambered along the beam in toward the shore. There wasn’t anything as convenient as a stairway through the upper deck, but the beams did continue out past the wharf onto the shore. He’d be exposed for a few moments on the beam, but maybe—He crawled to the end, and peered out. He couldn’t see anyone…but his angle of view was lousy. They could be waiting, just above—
Hurry. The longer you wait, the more likely that the archer who saw you will row this way.
“Right.”
Wedged on the beam, he pulled on his pants, shirt, and boots, and dropped the bag into the water. He breathed a prayer to St. Dismas and climbed out into the sunlight.
Thank God. The dock was still empty. And then Henry was struck by an unpleasantly responsible thought.
“Maybe I should stay here. To stop the boats from docking.”
The time hasn’t come for a last stand. You do no one any good if you’re shot from the river. Make your way into the city and join the defenders. If nothing else, there will be a certain boost to morale when they see what weapon has joined their defense.
“Think a lot of ourselves, don’t we?”
Shut up and run.
A quarter mile through a maze of narrow streets and empty wharves brought them to a small gate in the city’s south wall. An arrow whizzed from the sentry post into the dirt a foot from Henry, and he stopped.
“Who goes there?”
“Henry of…of…I am the Muttering Knight!”
“You lie! The Muttering Knight stands with our defenders, wearing the sign of the Badger!”
Right. That must be Percy being clever, trying to boost morale. Henry muttered to Excalibur. “Time to shine, Miss Pointy.”
I shall gleam to impress.
“Behold, the sword Excalibur! Blade of Kings from the Dawn of Time!” Henry waved Excalibur in the air. It caught the light, gleaming and flashing, glowing even in the bright noonday sun. “I come to stand with the defenders! Who would hinder me must face me in combat!”
The sentinels shared a look. “Okay. Hold on. But if you’re lying, you’re in big trouble, mister!”
The gates creaked open, and Henry ran in. Behind him, the second sentry slapped the first sentry on the head. “‘If you’re lying.’ He’s in big trouble if he’s telling the truth, you moron.”
The streets were deserted, the shops locked and shuttered. Only the churches were open, and running up the main street, Henry saw them filled with priests…waiting.
A squad of old men with buckets ran across the street. Henry yelled. “Where’s the fighting?”
The leader looked at him. “Who wants to know?”
Henry raised Excalibur. “The Muttering Knight.”
“I thought you were already up there. Take this street north until the Church of St. Sebastian, turn east, and then north again at the big market square. Then you can start killing those bastards.”
“Great. What are the buckets for?”
The leader looked at him like he was the village idiot. “Fire.”
Henry looked around at the wooden houses, shops, carts, and shuddered. He nodded at the fire squad and trotted north. Along the way he passed two more fire squads, and provision carts heading for the castle. Say what you would, Queen Eleanor ran a tight battle.
This city cannot be defended.
“What?”
I do not say that the queen
cannot win. Only that the city, open to the river, cannot be truly defended. Unless she breaks Geoffrey’s forces now, she will have to fall back to the castle eventually.
“Let’s keep that to ourselves, shall we?”
As you wish. The queen surely knows it already.
“I wish I didn’t.”
Heading east on a side street, he heard voices and footsteps. He was about to head forward, expecting another fire squad, when he realized the voices were speaking Norman French, not Provençal. That made them invaders. He hid in a doorway as three men trotted into view. They were young and hard-looking, all in grey, carrying long knives, mason’s tools, and greased canvas bags. Their hair was wet.
Firestarters. Draw me.
Henry took a breath. He was alone. No Percy to help him. No rush of attack that would let him react, carried on by events. This time, he would have to challenge someone, by himself, and it was hard. “Can’t we—”
If you don’t stop them, they’ll set fire. What do you think is in those bags? Flint and tinder and tallow. Remember—CONFIDENCE.
Swallowing spit, Henry took a breath and drew Excalibur. Like diving into frozen lake, the sword’s power surrounded him and flowed into him. Once again, the weapon squatted behind his eyes and twitched his limbs.
Two gliding steps, and he was in front of the commandoes.
“Surrender,” said Henry/Excalibur. “Throw down your knives and your bags, and you will not be harmed.”
“And who might you be, young Sir One Against Three?” The leader grinned.
“I am Henry of Sanbruc, and this sword is Excalibur, your death if you resist. This is your only warning.”
The commandoes shared a glance. “Then you’ve saved us much trouble, Master Henry. Our lord would like very much to speak with you.” The leader wagged a finger, and the two others spread out, moving to flank.
Move back. Good. And again. Back into the alley so they cannot get behind you. Excellent. Now. Brandish me; let them see how lightly you hold me.
A circle, a figure eight. Next, the script called for a big smile and cocky air. Instead—“Please. Surrender. I don’t want to hurt you.”
The Wrong Sword Page 20