The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  Finally, the soldiers stopped coming down. The rest of Geoffrey’s men stood, waiting for him on the top of the hill. Henry marched up, trying to hide the shakiness in his arms and legs. Percy and the others followed.

  Henry, do it now. I cannot help much longer.

  There were four giant tents. They charged the first, cutting it down. Empty. The second. And then the tent flaps of the last two whipped open. There was John, and Brissac. And Raymond, staring at him without any shame.

  And Geoffrey.

  “We had an appointment in Paris, I think,” said the prince. He brought up his bastard sword and attacked.

  He swung one-handed, and the force of the blow as it hit Excalibur knocked Henry back a full yard. Then Geoffrey came again, and again. Some warriors are strong, and some are fast, and some are precise; Geoffrey was all three. Now he was chopping at Henry’s hands, now at his torso, aiming for his injured shoulder. In a heartbeat, Geoffrey had taken the initiative, and it was all Henry could do to hold on.

  This is the knight we fought on the battlements. The good one.

  “No kidding.”

  Henry’s blood seeped down his arm onto his sword hand, making the grip slippery. He could hear his breath rattling in his chest, in between parrying Geoffrey’s attacks. He couldn’t hold on much longer.

  Henry leaped back. They circled each other. Henry caught a glimpse of the other knights—Brisssac, John, Raymond. Their faces were slack, their jaws hanging.

  They are amazed that you still live, fighting against this prince.

  “Yeah…” Henry grinned, and ducked under Geoffrey’s next blow. He faced Raymond. “It’s the sword, My Lords. It’s magic. If it can do this for me, imagine what it will do for Geoffrey!”

  Geoffrey came at him again, nicking him in the arm. For a moment, they were corps-a-corps. “Playing them against me. Clever lad.”

  Geoffrey sprang back, flourished his sword and circled. Without looking at Raymond or John, he said, “We have sworn oaths. You know what happens to oath-breakers.”

  There was a roaring in Henry’s ears. Something was wrong with his eyes, too—the torch flames doubled and went out of focus. Where was Geoffrey? Henry spun and found himself facing the prince. Geoffrey spun his blade so the flat of it faced Henry. With a casual twist, he batted Excalibur out of Henry’s hand.

  Henry took a step. And another. Then he fell to his knees, a puppet without strings. He no longer had the strength even to move his fingers. Color returned to the world, and noise, and pain. The pain was terrible, a fierce stabbing in his chest and side, a fever, a throbbing in his arms and head. It hurt to breathe.

  Geoffrey put his foot on Excalibur. “This blade is mine. Does anyone disagree?” He gazed at John, at Raymond. They said nothing. Geoffrey looked down at Henry.

  “What say you, Master Henri? Don’t you agree that this sword is mine? Don’t you apologize for stealing it from me, and putting me to all this trouble?”

  Faint and far away, Henry heard Excalibur. Do not yield! Do not yield!

  Geoffrey turned. “Brissac, bring out my bride.” Brissac entered the tent, and came out holding Mattie by the arm. Geoffrey took her casually, but Henry could see that even without an armored glove, his grip was strong enough to draw blood. With one hand, he forced Mattie to her knees.

  “Mathilde, you need to see this. It is an…object lesson…in obedience. The disobedient never come to any good. Isn’t that right, Henri?”

  It was a tableau—Geoffrey with a sword in one hand, Mattie in the other, Excalibur under his boot. Mattie was shrieking, but all the voices seemed very far away. The only thing that was clear in Henry’s mind was that Geoffrey had Mattie. Geoffrey had Alfie and Valdemar and Percy and the men who had come with him. Geoffrey had Excalibur.

  Henry, don’t leave. Not now. Stay here! I order you to—

  The darkness welled up. “Yes,” said Henry. “Yes.”

  His eyes closed. It was good to sleep.

  30. The Emperor of the West

  This time, there were no dreams. When he opened his eyes, it was to a broad waking in clear daylight. But he could not remember much, and it didn’t seem to matter. He was bandaged in clean white linen, without a speck of dirt or blood.

  He sat up, slowly. His head swam. It was hard to move; it felt like every joint had been coated with rust. He felt old, and he knew he shouldn’t.

  He stood, and felt shackles on his feet. Just the word “shackles” sounded strange. He repeated it to himself several times.

  The curtains were thin and white. He pulled them back.

  He was in a cage. It was a carriage with bars, a circus cart. There was a door, but it was locked.

  There had been a time, he knew, when he could have opened that lock. He just needed a…a…a lathe, an adze, and two cross-mitre saws…no. That wasn’t right. A sledgehammer? No. It didn’t matter anyway. When he touched the lock with his right hand, he felt numb, as if the hand were a block of wood. He should have been holding something in that hand, but it was gone.

  It was cold and damp. The sky was a bright, blank gray. That wasn’t right either. The sky should be blue, the weather warm. Trees. Instead, a barren plain, dotted with flat pools reflecting the sky, and the smell of seaweed.

  “So, Henry, we’re awake.”

  He turned too quickly, and lost his balance. He grabbed onto the bars to keep from falling back onto his bed. The voice was familiar, and he knew in his head that this man was dangerous. But he couldn’t summon any fear, and the man seemed friendly enough. He was all in white, white hose, white tunic, a silver coronet.

  The man put a key in the lock. “We’re not going to do anything foolish, are we?”

  That’s right, he thought. My name is Henry. “No.”

  The man smiled and entered. “Good. Sit down. Let me see your wounds.”

  Henry sat on the bed and the man…Geoffrey. Yes. Geoffrey unwrapped the bandages with a professional gentleness. Underneath were two deep arrow wounds, and assorted other cuts and gashes, all clean and stitched.

  Geoffrey nodded. “Mmmm. This will sting a bit. Don’t worry.” He opened a small flask, and a sharp, winey reek filled the room. He poured some of the contents on a cloth and daubed Henry’s wounds. It did sting, but after a moment, the pain faded and the liquid dried away. Geoffrey started to rewrap the dressing. “The Saracens distill this liquor from new wine. Al-ghawl, they call it. It will get you drunk quickly, if you’re willing to burn the lining off your mouth. But wounds bathed in it seldom rot, and it can arrest the spread of gangrene and blood poisoning if you apply it soon enough. My brother wrote of it from the Holy Land. It was the only thing I asked of him—that he send back reports of new discoveries. He didn’t see the significance, of course. Now, if it had to do with horses, or poetry…” Geoffrey retied the last bandage. “You’d also be amazed at the power of boiled water and clean bandages. I’m making them all standard for my army. Plague and camp-fever will be a thing of the past.”

  Henry frowned. He knew a response was expected, but the words swam away from him. It didn’t seem terribly important.

  Geoffrey studied Henry, his eyes searching, like…like a man buying a horse. “What do you think of that?” He waited a moment. There was no response from Henry.

  Geoffrey sighed. “All right. You don’t remember, clearly, but we’ve had this discussion before, on several occasions. I have no more time to spare, Henry, so we’ll try a little experiment to jog your wits. Do you understand? Just nod your head.”

  Henry did.

  “Good. I’m going to show you something. Whatever happens, you may not touch it. Do you understand?” Another nod. Geoffrey smiled. “Come along.” He unshackled Henry’s legs and left the cart. Henry followed.

  “Where are we?”

  “The Camargue. They had a hard winter and a scant spring. And now the summer is passing, but no better. Ah well, it’s all part of the new empire. We’ll see what we can do to help.”

/>   Henry frowned. The words “help” and “Geoffrey” didn’t fit together somehow. Another fact. Also not important.

  With Henry at his heels, Geoffrey strolled through the camp. It was vast, a city on foot and horseback—thousands of men, wagons, horses. At the center was a big tent, ringed with guards. They walked in.

  Inside, it was an austere headquarters—maps and almanacs, writing tablets, scrolls, armor, a meeting table. And by the bed, a box. Geoffrey reached in, and pulled out a sword.

  Excalibur…

  It was like falling from a height back into your own body. He was himself again, his memories, his feelings. Grief welled up inside him, sharp as a knife, sour as vinegar. He fell to his knees.

  “Excalibur…”

  His head was buried in his hands, and hot tears dripped through his fingers. He remembered everything, and it hurt.

  “Interesting.” Geoffrey sheathed Excalibur, replaced it in the box, and locked the lid. “I take it you are…returned?”

  Henry nodded.

  “Can you hear the sword? Is it speaking to you?”

  Henry opened his mouth to answer, then stopped himself. Geoffrey smiled. “No matter. It speaks to me, and that’s enough.” Geoffrey’s eyes were wintery, and Henry noticed streaks of pure white in his hair and beard. His smile was thin and taut as a strangling cord—not the charming grin Henry remembered from their first meeting, but the dried corpse of one, the skeleton of a smile. For a moment, he looked—

  “What does she say?”

  The horrible grin grew wider. “Oh, that would be telling.” He led Henry out of the tent.

  They stopped at an armorer’s booth. More relaxed—now that Excalibur is back in the box?—Geoffrey picked up a dagger and let fly, straight into the trunk of a dead tree that was clearly being used as target practice by his men. “Do you know how long it’s been since our fight at Narbonne?”

  Henry didn’t respond.

  “Three months. Between your wounds, and the toll Excalibur took of you, you were very close to death. I could have let you die.”

  “Should I thank you?”

  Geoffrey smiled his old, glorious smile. “Ah, that’s the Henry I remember. No, you were an experiment. To my knowledge, you are the first man to bear one of the Great Swords, lose it, and survive the loss. Your physical wounds healed weeks ago, but your spirit wandered. I had to see what happened. Killing you would have been a crime against Philosophy.”

  “What about my friends?”

  “I have not harmed them.”

  A faint warning bell rang in Henry’s mind, shunted to one side by an image of—

  “Mattie, what about—”

  “Her real name is Berengaria, and you will not speak it.” Geoffrey smiled coldly at Henry’s reaction. “Ah, she didn’t tell you.”

  “No.”

  “Well, no matter. In a little while, she will have the royal wedding that is her birthright. Your conduct has made it more difficult, but I have already annulled one marriage for her sake. She shall still be Queen.”

  Three months. Geoffrey had sent him to Glastonbury in October. Narbonne was in May. It was August, then. He’d missed his name day. In Paris, the rains had just begun, turning the dirt roads to mud. The Worm had closed the windows of his “scriptorium” against the damp. Alfie and Valdemar would be running “The Relic Game” or “The Honest Turk” on the pilgrims at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, before they all fled back to their villages.

  And he was a special prisoner in an army camp, touring the swamps and mountains. One of—how many?—who had held a legendary sword, had wielded it in battle. Had lost it. Had lived. That didn’t feel like him. It was like another life, separate and cut off. He had drawn the sword from the stone.

  They passed a squad of archers, practicing with enormously tall bows. “English longbows. They can pierce armor, you know. Superior to the crossbow, but it takes more training. They will break cavalry for me.”

  Beyond the bowmen were pikemen, practicing in formation with their pole-arms. “It’s called the hedgehog. Another way to shift the balance from knights to footmen.” Geoffrey stopped and studied them for a while. “They’re mercenaries, too. You see where I’m going with this?”

  “No.”

  “A professional army. A world where no one stands between the people and their emperor. No knights taking what isn’t theirs, no petty squabbles laying waste to villages and fields. That should appeal to you.”

  Henry chewed on that. He’d spent so much time hating knights…but it didn’t matter if their replacement was just as bad, a lunatic killer with a sense of entitlement.

  Geoffrey continued. “You have been given a rare privilege, Henry. You will be present at the birth of a new order.” A clerk approached them, bowed to Geoffrey, and handed him a scroll. Geoffrey read it. “Well done. And right on time.”

  “What is it?”

  “Not yet.”

  They passed a cooking fire, with men gathered around a spit. Geoffrey reached in and grabbed two pieces of roast fowl. The men nodded at Geoffrey; he nodded back, bit into one bird, and gave Henry the other.

  “Pretty casual for an emperor. Shouldn’t they be kneeling or something?”

  “The more respect you demand, the less you receive. The more you give, the more is returned to you. When it’s time, they know their place.” He pointed to a pair of rocks, and they sat.

  Once Henry smelled the bird, he was suddenly ravenous, and he tore into the flesh. For a few minutes, there were no sounds but chewing and swallowing.

  “Be careful,” said Geoffrey. “That’s the first solid food you’ve had in a while.” He smiled again. “I remember saying something like that to you back in Paris.”

  “I was your prisoner then, too.”

  “And what can we learn from that?”

  Henry shrugged and focused on the bird. It was tough, and marinated in wine and rosemary. Capon, maybe? Whatever it was, it was delicious. “Emperor. How’s that working out for you?”

  “My reach is longer than my father’s was. I control the Empire of the West, from Ireland to the Rhine.”

  “Isn’t Richard king of England? And Philip is king of France, and Raymond count of Toulouse—”

  “They serve me, now. And come October, they shall swear fealty at my imperial coronation.”

  Henry nodded, but didn’t stop chewing. “I don’t see Richard coming all the way back from the Holy Land just to kneel in front of you.”

  “My brother will be gone for some time, particularly if he travels through Austria on his way back. By the time he does return, he will have no one to take his cause. He hasn’t been England’s most popular king.”

  “Hate to break it to you, Geoff, but none of you Plantagenets are that popular. Except for your Da. And you killed him.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes grew dark for a moment, and then he smiled. “That’s where you come in, Henry. You’re for the common man, aren’t you?” Geoffrey broke the bones of his bird and sucked off the last bits of flesh. “Think of the implications of a true empire. Safety for the common man. No more Sanbrucs. No more needless destruction. No more saboteurs sneaking in under the cover of night and spraying Greek fire about the place—I thrashed Johnny for that, by the way. A return to the days of the Caesars. Peace and order from Hadrian’s Wall to the Appian Way. The flourishing of learning, medicine—the kind of healing that saved your life. You can help make that happen.”

  “How?”

  Geoffrey stood and clapped his hands. Brissac appeared. “Soon, Henry. An emperor has much to do. Until we meet again.”

  Brissac took Henry back. As they walked to the cage, Henry studied him. The knight had aged years since Henry had seen him in Toulouse—he was gaunt, and there was gray in the black of his hair and mustache. The vicious self-righteousness was gone, too, replaced by…what?

  “So, how are things, Eddy? Good to be on the winning side, I guess.”

  Henry braced himself for an offhand b
low, but the only response was a one-word answer. “Yes.”

  “Geoffrey made you a duke or a baron yet? I’d guess he’d be scattering rewards right and left by now.”

  “No.”

  They arrived at the cart. Brissac opened it and helped Henry in. After he locked the door again, Brissac remained for a moment. “At Glastonbury, you could have killed me.”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  Brissac stared at him for a moment, and then left.

  31. Hard Sell

  The next few weeks were strange and dull at the same time. The camp traveled regularly. When it did, units of Geoffrey’s army would disappear for several days, only to reappear later, sometimes bloody.

  Brissac let Henry out for meals and exercise; otherwise, Henry stayed in the cage. It was a schedule that gave him plenty of time to think, but parts of him were still lost to time and injury. Feelings would well up in a flash and disappear again, leaving him numb, staring out across the woods or fields; sometimes his memory fled, and he was nothing but a blank, staring through the bars. At first, the lightest effort tired him—the first meeting with Geoffrey and Brissac had exhausted him, and he fell asleep as soon as he sat down. He cried easily.

  Instead of thinking about what had happened, Henry found himself focused on the present: How much farther he could walk that day without exhausting himself. The taste of food. Fighting those moments when fatigue would hit him out of nowhere, putting him to sleep in the middle of the day.

  Worse than everything was the nagging feeling that he was incomplete—that his arm was missing something, that he had somehow lost a piece of his body as vital as a hand or a foot. Sometimes the feeling would come in the middle of the night, and that was bad: Memory had an open door then, and Henry would relive Glastonbury and Narbonne and Toulouse until dawn.

  From the guards’ gossip, Henry slowly built up a picture of the world outside the camp. Mathilde was in Paris, but no one could tell him if she was still supposed to marry Geoffrey, or go to a nunnery, or teach Natural Philosophy as Christendom’s only beautiful, crazy female lecturer. Narbonne had fallen without any more bloodshed, so Henry could only hope that Alfie and Valdemar and Percy were all right.