They will try to crowd you, so our greater reach cannot help. If you let them, you will lose. Your only hope is to attack first.
The leader smiled. “Surrender, and you will not be harmed. Our prince wants you alive.” He gestured, and the commandoes all stepped forward.
It’s time. You gave them fair warning. Henry…
Henry licked his lips, and took a step back. The commandoes moved forward.
HENRY!
He felt paralyzed. He couldn’t just attack—
Then the commando on the right moved to grab his arm. That broke the spell. Henry lashed out. Excalibur caught the commando’s hand. He howled. The backswing came down on the leader’s arm, and Henry moved past him to swing two-handed at the commando on the left. That quickly, it was over.
“Are they—”
Not yet. You must grab their bags and leave NOW. While this battle rages, do not think. ACT. Do not hesitate, or you will fall, and Geoffrey will take me. Do you understand?
“Yes.”
Now go.
Henry grabbed the firestarters’ gear and ran out of the alley. He didn’t look back.
He heard the battle before he saw it—a distant roar. Another ten minutes, and the noise resolved itself: screams and yells, the creak of wood under pressure, the sound of metal on metal. The road twisted to the left, and there it was.
The North Gates were huge. Invading-army size. The defenders seemed tiny. Flights of arrows lofted over the walls, rattling down on shields and helmets. Jutting up above the battlements, Henry could see siege ladders.
There was an enormous crash and the gates burst open, smashed to pieces by a giant wheeled battering ram. The invaders poured in as the defenders shouted in dismay. Henry sprinted forward, Excalibur in his hand and in his bones.
The first wave was of men-at-arms, tough and wiry, with mail shirts, helms, and short swords—soldiers prepared for the nasty, close-quarter fighting of the vanguard. They poured through the rubble, swords out, confronting Eleanor’s troops hand-to-hand. Behind them came the van, foot soldiers and pikemen, advancing in good order. The defenders’ line held, but they gave ground again, and again, and again.
Henry saw all of this in flashes as he closed with the invaders. To Henry, they were sketches of soldiers, their weaknesses highlighted, and the path he had to follow through them a glowing track. He ran past the Queen’s men, Excalibur out and slashing.
Keep moving. You have no armor; you will die if you stand still. Slash and move. Do not engage any one foe. Attack and move, and let the men behind you fight on.
Henry raised Excalibur and shattered one man’s sword. And then past that man to the next, with a blow to the helm. And on to the next, a slash to the torso, cleaving the mail, cutting the skin, and now Henry was on the rubble, light on his feet, without the burden of armor, exposed—
Don’t think about that. Move.
More attackers were pouring through the broken gates. Henry hacked at a soldier, and saw the attackers were circling him, trying to get behind him—
There’s too much space behind you. They could surround you. Back up.
Henry raised Excalibur and yelled. “BEHOLD EXCALIBUR! DEFENDERS TO ME! DEFENDERS!”
Better. Here they come.
The defenders charged forward, yelling, big men in armor that carried the Queen’s rose-red favor. They joined shoulder to shield and charged through the wreckage, straight at the invaders, whose line held for a moment, and then broke, retreating back through the gates. The defenders cheered.
Arrows, Henry. Get back. You’ve broken the assault. Now get some armor.
The Queen’s guard pressed around him, cheering and hugging him as they retreated back over the wall.
“I knew you’d be back!” It was Clovis. “Love is the greatest force in the world.”
“Where is she?”
“Back at the castle. She wanted to put on armor and fight with us, but someone, uh, persuaded her not to.”
Henry stared at the guard. “Clovis. You didn’t lock her in her room, did you?”
“No! Never!” He coughed delicately. “It was Otho.”
“I had to tie her up, too,” said Otho.
“Where’s Percy?”
“Here, My Lord.” Percy stepped forward, covered in gore. He looked like a different person…a seriously dangerous one. Henry thought of all the times he’d mentally dismissed Percy as a buffoon, and shuddered.
Someone passed Henry a helmet and a leather jerkin sewn with iron rings. Just as he was putting on the helmet, there was a hissing like a thousand chops being fried, and a hail of arrows struck the defenders. Henry crowded under Percy’s shield, where he heard the thuds of the arrows striking wood and metal.
“They’re coming!” someone yelled, and the invaders charged the gap again.
You have a retainer. Use him.
Henry turned to Percy. “You spot archers and protect me from arrows. You got that?”
“Yes, My Lord!”
This time there were more attackers, moving faster, in tighter formation. Henry and Excalibur charged their left flank, Percy on his right, while the defenders moved up behind them.
The attackers recognized Henry this time. As he charged forward, they moved away, concentrating their forces against the other defenders. It was like herding sheep. Henry drove the attackers to the left, against the main force of the defenders, which had grown as well. The men on the battlements had now climbed down to help repel the attackers—the town’s militia, by the look of them.
Henry hacked and slashed, driving the attackers backward and leftward. But more and more of them poured through. Soon they were flowing past the far end of the defenders’ line, and archers were sprinting to take up positions in nearby buildings. Henry spotted Clovis forty yards away, confronting three men. Henry hacked forward until he reached the guard.
“We’re being outflanked—”
“We have to fall back to the castle. The main force is there, and we can wait for reinforcements.”
“I’ll slow them down.”
Clovis raised his sword. “To me!” he yelled. “Form to the rear!” The defenders pulled back and gathered together, their shields overlapping.
Henry raced between the defender line and the attackers.
“The next invader to approach meets Excalibur!” he yelled.
Remember the flourish!
Henry waved Excalibur in the air. A low, fearful muttering ran through the attackers’ lines. The invading troops slowed, hunkered down, and stopped.
The defenders backed away down one of the narrower streets that led back to the castle. As they streamed away, Henry stood in place, Excalibur raised, Percy on his right. The attackers stood still, unwilling to approach Henry and his sword.
An arrow lanced out of the gathering gloom. Percy caught it on his shield.
Time for a little psychological warfare, thought Henry/Excalibur.
“Where is Geoffrey?” he/it yelled. “Where is that spineless, craven fop? Is he afraid to meet a boy on the field of battle?”
Nothing.
“I’m waiting…”
By now, the last squad of defenders was trickling away behind him.
“Tell your lord, if you see him, that I would have called him coward to his face—but he wasn’t here! Tell him I spit on him! Tell him he’s the village idiot of Europe’s most inbred family!”
Five defenders left. Four.
“And tell Prince Johnny that I’d say the same to him, but I don’t speak Moron!”
Three. Two.
“Tell them their daddy’s waiting in Hell, and I’m going to send them for a visit!”
One.
“Farewell, and good night!”
Henry and Percy backed away, down the alley.
28. The Siege of Narbonne
“I shall slaughter a dozen of Geoffrey’s best knights!”
“Three cheers for Sir Laurent! Hip-hip-hoorah!”
Enthusias
m. That’s what we like to see.
The crowd cheered and pounded the table. Sir Laurent, a big guy with a beard and a wine belly, nodded to the other nobles and sat back down.
“I shall wear Prince John’s guts as a lining for my shield!” This speaker was a tall, skinny knight with black hair and acne.
“Hurrah!”
“Huzzah!”
“Hoorah for Sir Cagris!”
Well said, that man.
Henry turned to Percy. “Is it always like this?”
Percy looked puzzled. “How do you mean, My Lord?”
“When we were invited to a council of war, I thought…I don’t know…we’d talk about strategy, or food supplies, or how many enemies there are. Or something.”
Either we kill them, or they kill us. Don’t make things so complicated.
“Either they kill us, or we kill them.” Percy shrugged. “What is there to discuss?”
“Ah. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
Henry had gotten his invitation to the war council that morning. Excalibur had been all for it, of course, but Henry expected to be met with either hero-worship à la Percy, or contempt à la Brissac. Instead, Eleanor’s allies had greeted him briefly and then gotten back to the important business: drinking and bragging. Apparently, the nobility didn’t find magic swords—or strategy—nearly as interesting as promises of colorful violence.
Henry turned back to Percy. “What about reinforcements? Getting allies? How long before Geoffrey’s catapults break through our walls?”
“Oh, that. Six days.”
Henry’s jaw dropped. “Six days? Just like that?”
Percy nodded. “It’s a rule of thumb, My Lord. A half day to assemble each engine, and then subtract one day per engine from the sum of ten days, unless the walls and gates be unusually strong, or the catapults special in some way.”
You see? That is strategy. Not my province. A sword is all about tactics. And enthusiasm.
Up on the throne, Queen Eleanor clapped politely as the Viscount himself—a short, stocky knight with black hair—swore to use his bare hands when removing her son’s head from his shoulders. Henry tried not to think too hard about the implications of that.
“Oh, don’t worry, H.” Mattie leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder. Henry was sure she did it just to blow his cool. It worked, of course. “Phil is on the way.”
“Phil?”
“The King of France. He’s borrowed forces from the Pope and the Germans, and he’s Uncle Geoff’s overlord. He’ll spank Geoff hard.”
“You’re pretty confident.”
Mattie shrugged. “If you’re royalty, you get used to these things.”
“Well, yeah, when you’re the one who’s safe in the castle.”
Mattie’s face dropped. “Sometimes you really stink.” She turned on her heel and left.
Smooth, Henry, he thought to himself, and rubbed his face. Percy looked tactfully at the ceiling.
Quite the snob, aren’t you?
“How can I be a snob? I’m a commoner!”
Exactly.
At the head of the table, a beefy guy in chain mail was vowing unspecified injury to Geoffrey, his knights, his horse, and his “demesnes,” whatever they were. Henry went looking for Mattie.
She had gone to her rooms. Otho was on guard, and he told Henry that the Princess had left instructions that she not be disturbed…by Henry, specifically. Henry was forced to leave his apology with Otho. He turned to stare out the slit of a window onto the sea of campfires in the central courtyard.
Go and walk among the people.
“Why?”
You are their refuge and their strength, a very present help in times of trouble.
“I’m a boy with a trick sword.”
I am no trick. And to them, you are no boy. This is part of your job, defender.
“But—”
GO.
He took a breath and left the keep. The courtyard was packed with refugees and townspeople. Each fire belonged to some family or guild or charitable association; they were connected by roofed walkways that were meant to protect against arrows and stones. Sometimes it worked.
“Hey, there he is!”
“Yo, Mister Arthur, this way! We got some brandy for ya!”
“Sir Muttering Knight, have you seen my son?”
“Hey, MK, when you gonna kill that son of a Saracen?”
“Way to rub his nose in it, MK!”
“Sir Knight, may I see your sword? Is it real?”
They crowded around, happy to see him, not touching him, but more and more of them, looking at him like he was Arthur, like he could just wave the sword and make everything okay. How could he tell them he was responsible for their situation? Geoffrey was here because he wanted Excalibur and Mattie. Henry had taken both. And he couldn’t see any way to stop Geoffrey from hunting him down, wherever he went, except to kill him. Or…
“Henry.”
The crowd stepped back. Flanked by Clovis and Otho, the queen approached and held out her hand. Henry bowed, and took it. “Majesty.”
“Walk with us.”
Walking with the queen, Henry was safe from the crowds—the folks in the bailey bowed, smiled, and kept their distance, unless Eleanor made a point of stopping to talk with someone, which she did every few yards. She would exchange a few words, listen, smile, and move on.
“How do you do it?”
“Do what, child?”
“When I’m by myself, they crowd me till I can’t breathe.”
“That’s simple, dear. I’m speaking to them, listening, being sympathetic. So they’re already getting what they want from me. All you would have to do would be to defeat Geoffrey’s armies single-handed.”
They walked a little farther. When the crowd thinned out, Henry spoke. “Majesty…what’s Geoffrey like?”
“Be more specific, dear.” A girl ran up with a rag doll that she displayed proudly to the queen. “Yes, sweetheart, that’s a lovely dolly.”
“Does he keep his promises? When he gets what he wants, is he satisfied?”
Eleanor studied the rag doll carefully, and turned to the little girl. “What’s her name, dear?”
The girl smiled. “Catherine.”
“Well, I shall see if I have some cloth that would suit her. Would you like that?”
“Yes’m. Thank you.” The girl took the doll and skipped back to her mother.
Without looking at Henry, Eleanor spoke again. “None of my sons have ever been satisfied. They are consumed by hunger.” She turned to Clovis and Otho. “Leave us.” They bowed and moved a few yards away, giving Henry and the queen a little privacy.
“So there’s no chance of…giving him something that he wants, so he’ll leave.”
“Mathilde, you mean?” Her tone was sharp enough to cut glass.
“No! Never! Something else, maybe.” Henry glanced down at Excalibur, and the Queen followed his gaze.
“Ah. I understand.”
What does she understand? Bribing Geoffrey?
“Yeah.”
Eleanor stared at the girl playing with her doll. She stood straight as a knife, her eyes drifting far away. “I had four sons, child. They united to kill their father, my husband. I helped them do it. I urged them to. And my Henry was a great king.” The queen paused, remembering. “If you and your sword had never been, if Mathilde had never been born, Geoffrey would still be here, laying siege. We are Plantagenets. We cannot stop.”
An icy hand touched the back of Henry’s neck. What he remembered of his own parents was two soft, wide people who smelled of fish and woodsmoke, and hugged a lot. He tried to imagine a mother who urged you to kill your father. He couldn’t.
The silence lengthened. Finally, Eleanor smiled and patted Henry on the arm. “So no, dear. I don’t think giving Geoffrey…whatever he wants…would make him go away. But thank you for thinking of it.”
“So…uh, begging Your Majesty’s pardon…i
s it true? Is King Philip coming?”
“Yes. Whether he will fight for us or for Geoffrey remains to be seen.”
“And he’ll be here soon?”
“We hope so. Within the week.”
“What happens tomorrow? Will they attack?”
She stared at him for a moment. “You really are just a…you really have no experience, do you? I’d forgotten.”
Forgotten that I’m just a peasant, you mean, thought Henry.
The queen smiled sadly. “Of course they will, dear. Of course they will.”
The sun hadn’t risen yet. The strange, flat gray before dawn lay over the castle and the town. The air was chill and wet, the stones of the battlement freezing cold. Spears and helmets, shields and swords, all were slick with dew.
Henry stood with the defenders on the battlements of the castle, looking down on the invading army. Geoffrey’s men had clearly worked through the night. The siege towers hulked against the sky. The catapults (trebuchets, actually—Percy had been drilling him on military names) were being hauled into place.
“You the kid with the sword?” The speaker was a short, wide man with a thick yellow beard and enough scars to make him look like a quilt.
“Uh, yeah.”
“Etienne, the Viscount’s marshal. You ever been in a fight like this?”
“Uh, at the gates. That’s about it. And I was at that, uh, war council last night.”
“Yeah, that must have been a big help. You see where your buddy is?” He pointed to a wad of men on a tower fifty yards north. Percy stood with them. “They’re pole men. Stay with them. Do what you’re told. If somebody comes over the top they can’t handle, stick your sword in. Think you can do it?”
Henry nodded. He felt cold and small with the special weakness that comes from rising in the hours before dawn. “I have a choice?”
“Funny. I hate funny.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”
“Get going, kid.” The marshal jogged away.
“Have you done one of these, Excalibur?”
A siege defense? Of course. I remember once, on the wall at Luguvallium—
“What’s going to happen?”
The Wrong Sword Page 21