Now! Bring me down with all your might on the stones!
Henry did. A thunderbolt blew him backward. For a moment, he was spinning through the air. The sky was above him, to one side, below him, and then the paving stones slammed into him and drove his breath away. He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky, his mind blank.
“Henry. Henry. Get up, boy.” Valdemar was shaking him.
Henry sat up. For a moment, he couldn’t remember a thing—where he was, who he was. Then his thoughts returned to him. He stood. He ran a hand over his head, and came away with a mass of burned hair and some blood. His hands were blackened. Where was Excalibur? He spotted a few yards away. He ran as fast as he could—a crippled half trot. Everything hurt. When he picked up the sword, it seemed perfect—untouched, gleaming, still sharp. But it was silent…like the best ordinary sword in the world. He sheathed it.
“Look what you did, boy.”
Henry looked up. The hill was gone. It was a plain, strewn with more rubble, and with knights crawling off dead horses. From behind them came a sound, faint at first…people yelling.
Soldiers yelling.
Soldiers charging. All around them, the defenders were running, weapons out, charging the unhorsed knights. They were pushing them out. They were winning. Henry raised his hands.
“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! WE’RE WINNING—”
The first arrow took him high in the chest. At first he felt no pain, just a sudden, intense pressure. The second arrow was lower, right in the center. It knocked him back.
“Where—” had it come from? He couldn’t finish the sentence. The pain rushed in. His chest was paralyzed; he couldn’t breathe. The agony spread through his body. For the first time in his life, he thought—
—I am dying—
29. One for the Round Table
Everything was white. White curtains, white bedspread, a white gown. Maybe he was in Heaven. Then the pain hit. This had to be The Other Place. His eyes closed.
He was back in Sanbruc. Poppa was showing him how to build a coracle. “You see, Aimeric, you seal it good and tight with the pitch, eh? Then the mare, she don’t get in. You take her out, you catch the fish. In the summer, you dive for the huitres, maybe find a pearl or two. Sometime, you look sharp, amber washes up. Brother Ambrose don’t teach you that, I guess. Useful things.”
“No, Poppa. But I like the stories.”
“That’s in order, little one.” Poppa looked up. Henry followed his stare. There were ships on the water. They were beautiful. The big sails were red, with golden lions on them.
Henry. Wake up, Henry.
Poppa stood slowly and picked up his fishing spear. He turned to Henry. “Go find your sisters. Take them back to Uncle Bleys.” Poppa looked scared. But Poppa was never scared—
His eyes opened.
“Look! He’s awake!” Mattie leaned over him, smiling. Behind her, he could see Alfie and Valdemar. He smiled. Something was wrapped around his chest. He couldn’t breathe.
“How are you, boy? How do you feel?” Alfie grabbed his hand, for the first time Henry could remember—it felt like warm leather. He tried to speak. “Alfie…” And then he slipped away, down into the dark.
He was in the abbot’s office. The evidence of his crimes was spread out before him on the abbot’s desk—the scrolls he’d taken from the library, the wedge he’d used to close the door to his cell and ensure some privacy, Brother Louis’ record of his absences from Mass.
“I just wanted to read the chansons, father. I’ve never read things like that before.”
“You don’t read for pleasure, boy. You read for the glory of God,” said Father Jean. “You have broken the Rule of Obedience. Hand me the rod, and take off your shirt.”
Wake up, Henry.
He was hiding in the woods. He could see the fire on the thatched roofs. He could see the men on horses as they rode through the village. He could see the swords—
WAKE UP.
It was night. Moonlight coated the white walls, the chairs, the tables. Mattie was asleep in a corner. Alfie and Valdemar were stretched out on benches. He tried to sit up, but something wrapped his chest and side. The pain came then. Henry felt himself slipping away—
Stay with me, Henry. We have decisions to make.
Henry struggled to breathe. After a few moments, he felt the pain recede a little. He sat up carefully and looked down at himself. He was wrapped in linens, mostly around his chest and belly.
Get up, and put on your shoes. There are things you must see.
“Can’t…it…wait?”
No. I’m sorry.
Slowly, Henry got to his feet. The floor seemed to sway back and forth, like the deck of a ship.
Put me on. I shall lend you strength.
Clinging to the bedframe, Henry reached for Excalibur and buckled it on. The pain in his joints ebbed as the sword’s cool power rose up from the ground. The wounds, the ache, the fever were still there, but he could stand and walk again, even if he was slow and stiff.
He laced up his boots and put on his tunic and cloak. Stepping into the corridor, he saw his room was guarded, but he raised his finger to his lips, and the guards nodded and sat back down.
“How long have I been out?”
A night and a day and a night.
They made their way upstairs, to a trap door that led to the roof. Henry paused to catch his breath, and then climbed out.
“Where are we?”
The central keep. Can you see?
Henry squinted. The castle and the town were outlined in torchlight. The outer courtyard was a sea of campfires. “Geoffrey’s invested the main courtyard.”
Yes.
Henry felt his heart sink. “What happened? Geoffrey’s army…it’s almost double.”
You see the campfires of the armies of Raymond of Toulouse, and King Philip of France.
“He stabbed us in the back. There’s a shocker.”
Not yet. They are still negotiating, Philip, Geoffrey, and the Queen. But in the end—
“Geoffrey wins.”
Yes.
Henry sagged against the battlement and sank down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “How long before they come for me?”
I am a sword, not a diplomat. What I know is from the speech of your friends in your room as you slept. But soon; there is no reason for any of them to delay.
“Well, we can run away, I guess. And once I heal, we can come back for Geoffrey.”
Excalibur hesitated for a moment. Of course. And we shall sweep him from his throne.
Henry rubbed his face. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Nothing. I…just wanted to keep you informed.
Henry nodded. “Okay. Whatever you say.” He shifted position, and a sick, metallic pain broke through Excalibur’s influence. Henry looked down. His bandages were oozing a yellow fluid. “My shoulder, my belly…”
I’m not an expert on healing wounds, just causing them—
“Excalibur.”
The chirurgeons here are not the monks of Glastonbury. Your injuries have become infected.
“How long do I have?”
I saw Sir Gawain, wounded full sore, rise from his couch and defeat the Black Knight—
“Stop it.”
Excalibur hesitated for a moment. A week. Perhaps a little more.
“Can’t you do anything?”
I am doing what I can. You stand, you walk.
“For now. Right?” Excalibur didn’t reply. “What happens…after?”
If I am left masterless on the ground, anyone could take me. You must not let that happen. Even if you stick me back into stone, that will be something. Make Sir Percival responsible for returning me—Oh. You meant what happens to you.
“No. That was it.” Henry’s sigh threatened to turn into a sob. “Can’t you do anything?” Despite his best efforts, his voice broke and he leaned back. He realized that tears were leaking down his face. It wasn’t fair. He’d neve
r wanted a sword. He’d just wanted to stay in Paris, hang with Alfie and Mattie and the others, read, eat, steal…
I…I am sorry, Henry. This burden should never have been yours.
“Yeah.”
Despite everything, you have done your best. I am proud of you.
Henry smiled and blew his nose. “A compliment. Great. Now I know I’m dying.”
It is true. You have grown in ways I never expected. I promise, I shall not look at a…a…whatever you are in the same way again.
“Then at least I did something right.”
I cannot tell when you are joking.
“Neither can I, sometimes.”
Slowly, Henry got to his feet. The wave of fear and sorrow had passed over him, leaving him tired but clear. The feelings were still there, waiting, but for right now…
“So why did you bring me up here? Just to remind me to stick you in bedrock?”
You asked what I could do. For you I can do nothing. But there is still something you can do.
“For the Round Table?”
Yes. If you like, for the Round Table.
“Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
Percy was dreaming of a hareem of beautiful Saracen maidens when Henry shook him awake. “Come on, Percy. We’ve got work to do.”
In the beginning, Percy had sometimes doubted his decision to swear loyalty to Henry. The man (let’s face it, the boy) had all the panache of a rabid weasel; sometimes he got a shifty look in his eyes, which was the last thing you wanted to see in someone who was standing next to you in battle; and over time it had become distressingly clear that he was afflicted with madness, which was forgivable in a knight, and intelligence, which wasn’t.
But there had been moments when Percy saw another Henry looking out of those eyes. A prince. Maybe even a king. He saw it when Henry had spared his life, and again when Henry had admitted his humble origins and the nature of his sword. Over time, that other Henry had spoken to Percy more and more often.
Now, in the dead of night, in this castle hallway silvered by the moon, that Henry glared out of eyes resting in a skull of a face, whose features had been hollowed out by pain and illness. And Percy could no more disobey than he could give up breathing.
From Henry’s room they went down to the main hall of the keep, where dozens of the Queen’s knights slept with the dogs on the straw floor. Quietly, Percy and Henry discussed which knights they would use for the mission. After they had chosen ten, Percy woke them up in silence, and they drifted down to the gates.
As they walked, Percy saw the knights staring at Henry like he was some hero out of legend, a Lancelot or a Roland. Everyone had seen that sword strike into the rubble, had seen the hill collapse, and seen Henry fall, stricken by arrows. It was the kind of story that didn’t grow in the telling; it was big enough already. As usual, Henry seemed entirely unaware of the effect he was having on the warriors around him.
The sentries at the main gates were serious and determined. Fortunately, there was a smaller gate, farther along the wall, that had been hidden behind barrels of salted fish for the townspeople. They used that, and within minutes they were mingling with the crowds in the broken outer court.
“Where are their stables?” asked Henry. One of the men—Clovis—pointed out of the courtyard and then right. “On the south side, by the stream. Water for the horses.” Henry nodded.
The horses hadn’t been that necessary in the Battle of Narbonne, and Geoffrey had stabled them far down the wide Boulevard St. Jacques, hundreds of yards from the front lines. Percy and Henry and the men walked casually down the oddly empty street, as if they were just a bunch of men returning from a late night at the tavern, and not about to ride, and kill.
It was in the stables, saddling the horses, that the reality of what they were doing sank in. Even in Dulwich, he’d had an armiger and a smith for his serious battles. Tonight, the knights were their own squires and stable lads and armorers. Tonight there would be no heralds, no chivalry, no ransom. No second chances. Tonight was the real thing.
Finally, they were mounted, a dozen lightly armored men on fast, steady horses.
Henry stared at them from his hollow eyes. “Gentlemen, this is a stupid stunt. I’ve got nothing to lose, but if any of you want to change your minds, do it now.”
“Save the speeches.” It was Clovis.
“All right. Remember, yell and shout—” Henry stopped as a spasm of coughing overtook him. Percy reached out, but Henry waved him off. “Make a lot of noise. People have to see us charge, they have to know we’re not assassins trying to stab Geoffrey from behind. But if we’re loud and we challenge him to a melee, or I challenge him to single combat, then he can’t run or back down or have his mercenaries shoot us with crossbows. Right?” Henry turned to Percy.
Percy smiled, embarrassed. “Well, that’s the theory. At least, he can’t do that with Count Raymond and his brother and the other nobles watching.”
Henry straightened his back. “If I die, who will take my sword?”
Percy swallowed. “I will, My Lord.” Henry stared at him, and Percy spoke again. “I will, Henry.”
“Will you use it?”
“No, Henry.”
“No. No matter what. Instead, you will run, you will flee, to the Cathedral of St. Just, and before the altar, you will ram it point-first into the foundation. Swear it.”
“I swear, on my soul.”
Henry looked around. “If Percy dies, who will take my sword?”
Clovis answered. “I will. I swear, I will take it to the cathedral, and I will bury it in the living rock.”
Around the circle, they all swore. When Otho, the last one, had given his promise, Henry nodded and nudged his horse out of the stables. The others followed.
Henry hadn’t been on a horse since the flight from Toulouse with Mattie, and he had never ridden a horse into battle. Toulouse had been a big mess, but it hadn’t been a battle, not really. Now he felt the strike of the horse’s hooves in his wounds; each jolt was agony, cushioned partly by Excalibur. “Remind me about the defenses.”
Percy nodded. “Prince Geoffrey has knocked down the nearby houses to create an open space around his camp, one that is easy to guard. In that space, we will meet his sentries. If we pass them, we are in the outer ring of his camp, where the mercenaries and engineers are sleeping. They are gathered in ranks and files, so we can ride between the rows without trampling them.”
Henry smiled. “Percy, you’re beginning to think like a human being, and not a knight. You’ll have to watch that.” Percy blushed.
“If they wake, they may fire on us, so that we face arrows both before and behind. If we live, then in the center, on a rise opposite the main towers of the castle, is Geoffrey’s pavilion. It is watched at all times by his personal guard, but I doubt they will expect a charge of horses in the middle of the night. We ride over his pavilion, slashing and challenging him to single combat—”
“—and if we’re lucky, our horses trample him to death before he can take me up on it.” Henry muttered this last low enough so that only Percy could hear it.
By now, they had emerged on the boulevard. Ahead of them, at the end of the road, the camps of Geoffrey and Raymond were lit by torches. “Give me everything you have,” Henry muttered.
I will, said Excalibur.
The night became brighter to Henry, every detail picked out as if by torchlight. The pain receded, replaced by the cold certainty of the sword. He nudged his horse with his heels, and they started forward.
In the first block, they moved from a walk to a trot. By the second block, they were in full gallop. And now they were coming up on the sentries and the guard posts. Henry leaned forward as Excalibur had taught him, his legs taking his weight. He drew Excalibur and waved it above his head.
“CHARGE!” he yelled, as they galloped through the outer perimeter. Guards were shouting and bells were being rung. The whole camp was waking up. There was a hiss and a thump,
and a horse went down, an arrow poking from its hindquarters. More hisses, more yells, and the soldiers were scrambling like ants in a mound that’s just been kicked.
To your right, five mercenaries with crossbows. Charge them and they’ll scatter.
“I hear you,” said Henry, and the mercenaries fled.
Wheel your horse, scatter their friends, and continue the charge forward.
Henry’s horse whinnied, pranced, and came down hard with her hooves. The other mercenaries scrambled for their breeches and weapons.
Ahead of you, a squad of pikemen are forming to break your charge. Disperse them before they fix their pole-arms.
They raced toward the pikemen and rode over them, shattering the spears. And now forward again, regaining momentum. Arrows flew past them. They leaped over a ditch, and a hurdle, and now they were in the inner camp. Ahead of them, up the slope, were the tents of the princes, glowing with firelight, bristling with guards.
Percy’s horse whinnied in pain and went down. Then Clovis’s horse, and Otho’s. Henry jumped off his and looked down. Geoffrey’s engineers had dug little holes in the earth, just big enough to trap a horse’s foot and break its leg.
Don’t stop. Keep moving. A knife in the back is dishonorable, but surprise is part of war. Surprise him. Charge.
Henry pelted up the slope. His breath caught. For a moment, Excalibur’s power faded. Underneath the energy and the fear, Henry could feel the fatigue and pain the sword was keeping from him.
I am still weak from the siege. Cleaving stone isn’t easy.
“Now you tell me.”
Now the soldiers were coming down the slope at them. Henry shattered a pike, and a two-handed sword. A soldier went down, his chain mail in tatters. Henry stood in one place and let the soldiers run toward him, taking them as they came, letting them tumble past clutching arms and legs. The fatigue returned, and the pain. This time, they didn’t leave. Henry glanced down for a moment. Blood was dripping out from underneath his mail shirt.
The Wrong Sword Page 23