The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  And there were rebellions. Even with the fealty of the King of France and the Count of Toulouse, Geoffrey’s domain was not completely docile—small revolts seemed to break out regularly, led by local squires, dukes, and knights who fancied taking a crack at the new emperor. Geoffrey would leave with a squad or two, put down the rebels, and return.

  In a weird sort of way, Henry’s captivity was comfortable. He felt like he was fathoms beneath the waves, with no need to struggle anymore.

  The first sign that things had changed was when Brissac woke him at dawn. For the past two weeks, squires and pageboys had been guarding him, and none of them had even bothered to get him up for meals.

  Brissac shook him awake, backed by two men-at-arms.

  “Put this on.” Brissac tossed Henry a dressing gown. “Move.”

  “What…”

  “The Emperor will tell you. Allez.”

  They took him to a tent next to Geoffrey’s headquarters. Inside was a barber, a tub of hot water, and a pile of clothing. They made Henry strip and bathe. He expected the usual insults a naked man gets from those who are still clothed, but Brissac and his troopers stayed silent. Once Henry was wearing breeks again, the barber shaved him close and lopped off his pony-tail.

  Then they dressed him. Fine linen trews, rich cloak, soft boots, even a few rings—and a tunic with an insignia he had never seen before: Or, a sword rising from a stone, on a field gules. Or and gules: gold and crimson, the colors of the Plantagenets.

  They led him into Geoffrey’s tent. Geoffrey was surrounded by knights, staring at a table full of maps. He looked up as they entered.

  “Stop. Step away from him.” Brissac and the others stepped back, and Geoffrey scrutinized Henry in his new clothes. “All right. Where are his weapons?”

  “My Lord, we can’t give a prisoner—”

  “If this is to work, they must see him as a knight. Give him a sword and dagger—stop making faces, Edmond, you can give him practice weapons.” Geoffrey took Henry’s chin in his hand and moved Henry’s head right and left. “I don’t like the shave. It’s too good, not common enough. Next time, tell the barber to be a little less meticulous.” Then Geoffrey focused on Henry himself. “How’s your Breton, boy? Can they still understand you in Armorica?”

  “Sure,” Henry shrugged. “I can ask for directions and buy beer.”

  “Today, you ride with me.” Geoffrey turned to the box that held Excalibur. He looked into Henry’s eyes, grinning his skeleton grin. Then he took out the sword and buckled it on. A shiver worked its way up the back of Henry’s neck.

  The sun was still low when they mounted their horses. It was a full company, dressed for a formal occasion. The bannerets were up, the soldiers in their finest livery, the knights in their shiniest armor. They rode in formation up the high road to the town of Vannes, and galloped through the front gate as befitted an embassy from an emperor.

  Once they were through the gate and circling the town square, Geoffrey jerked right and left with his thumb. Detachments broke off and rode through the town. Within minutes, the people of Vannes started to gather.

  As they waited, Henry studied Geoffrey. The casual, almost relaxed air Geoffrey had had in the past was gone. He was strung tight as a harp.

  Half an hour later, everyone was in the square, ordered by rank, from the lord mayor down to the children of the streetsweepers. Brissac rode close and held up a clenched fist—they’re all here. Geoffrey nodded, and nudged his charger into the center of the square.

  “I am Geoffrey Plantagenet. Your emperor.” A murmur ran through the crowd. One or two people made as if to kneel. Geoffrey waved at them. “No. I do not accept your obeisance. Stand.”

  He pitched his voice higher and louder. “When a duke moves against me, that is simply rebellion. I execute him and move on. But when my people move against me—when they whisper against my right to kingship, when they murmur against Excalibur—that is treason.”

  He wheeled his horse around the square. “Evil tongues spread slander. Evil minds breed lies. Evil hearts desire pride and rebellion. Behold the sword of kings, Excalibur!”

  Geoffrey drew the sword from its sheathe and held it high. It shone in the sunlight, and the crowd gasped. Henry stifled a moan; seeing Excalibur unsheathed was like being punched in the heart.

  Henry stared at the sword and at Geoffrey. For a moment, it was as if he, Henry, held Excalibur again. He could decode Geoffrey’s grip on the sword, read every intention in his body. Geoffrey wanted to kill someone. He was looking for a target. He wanted an example. He was going to run forward and kill—

  “NO!” Henry leaped between Geoffrey and the lord mayor, who was paralyzed with fear, his eyes bulging wide. “I HAVE SEEN THE SWORD OF KINGS!”

  Geoffrey froze, the veins standing out on his neck and forehead. Henry continued in a rush. “I saw Prince Geoffrey pull the sword of kings from the stone myself! He is the true king!” He turned to the crowd, spread his arms, and then knelt in front of Geoffrey.

  Slowly, terribly slowly, Geoffrey unclenched. He smiled down at Henry, and spoke quietly. “Oh, well done, boy. How did you ever guess that’s what I wanted?” He held the point of Excalibur an inch from Henry’s eyes. “Now get up, and tell your people what I want them to do.”

  Henry stood and faced the crowd. “Bow down. Bow down to your lord, the Emperor of the West.” They stood, uncertain, looking to the lord mayor. Henry clenched his teeth, grabbed the Mayor’s collar, and forced him to the ground, where they both groveled, their faces in the dirt.

  “Very good,” said Geoffrey. He dismounted and pointed Excalibur at a two-story building that bulked over the other buildings in the square. “Your town hall.” He stalked toward the building, sword out. The crowd parted for him. “You don’t need it.” Geoffrey lifted up Excalibur and brought it down on the thick stone walls.

  The building collapsed.

  Dust and air shot outward, coating everyone in a thick layer of dirt, but no stones or wood moved even an inch toward the crowd. In an instant, the hall was nothing but a pile of rubble. Henry clenched his fists. Using the sword that way had nearly fried him; Geoffrey had done it as casually as swatting a fly.

  Now Geoffrey turned to the crowd. “No longer are you ‘Vannes.’ Now, you are called ‘St. Louis,’ after the patron saint of loyalty and oaths. No longer shall you have a mayor or a council or a charter of liberties. You shall be ruled by my regent, until such time as you beg my pardon and I grant it.”

  He sheathed Excalibur and remounted his horse. “Slanderers in your midst have murmured about Excalibur, about how I found it, proved myself worthy, won the sword, and won to kingship. I am your Emperor. I will not lower myself to dispute lies, like some clerk in a debate. Instead, I give you the Muttering Knight, Sir Henry of Sanbruc, who has held the sword Excalibur, who was there when I drew it, and who knows the truth!”

  Geoffrey nudged his horse closer to Henry. “You’ve just saved a lot of lives. That will be your service to me from now on.” He tossed Henry a parchment scroll. Henry unrolled it, and saw a long speech in Breton.

  “You will have many towns and villages to convince. Edmond will help you with your mission.” Geoffrey bent down to speak more quietly. “And remember, Henry, when your job becomes a sentence; when the taste of dead hopes threatens to choke you; when it seems that you cannot tell the same story even one more time…remember that each commoner you convince is one who will live a long and comfortable life, thanks to you.” He smiled. “Starting with your old Welshman, and the freak who made your swords.”

  Henry stared up at him.

  Geoffrey nodded. “As I said, I haven’t harmed them. Yet.” He straightened up and wheeled his horse through the gates, accompanied by his personal guard. Brissac remained, with his mercenaries.

  Henry stared at the crowd. They stared back. Henry started to read the scroll. “I am Henry of the Lost Village of Sanbruc…I saw Geoffrey Plantagenet, in Glastonbury, pull the swo
rd from the stone…”

  He tasted ashes on his tongue. Maybe it was from the rubble of the hall.

  32. Public Relations

  “…and thus he found the sword, and carried it forth out of the Chapel Perilous. This I saw with mine own eyes, I, Henry of Sanbruc, called also the Knight Who Mutters.”

  Henry stepped down from the dais and let the guards clear a path for him through the townspeople. There was one thing to be said for a lie: The more you told it, the easier it became. He adjusted his clothes—scarlet and miniver, with gold accents and plenty of jewelry—and walked to the inn at the far side of the square. As always, he walked straight ahead, not lingering, not looking at anyone. The guards fell in behind, their pikes gleaming. The bourgeois stared after him, ragged and thin. He could feel their eyes on the back of his neck.

  Inside, the Swiss had already cleared a place at the boards for him to eat in privacy, if he wished. Instead, he turned to Hauptmann and said, “I’ll eat in my room.” Hauptmann nodded, and Henry went upstairs.

  A book lay on the table in his private room. Henry picked it up—Aristotle’s Politics, just as he’d asked. He had long since stopped being impressed by the value of the books, or the fact that whatever volume he requested, Geoffrey sent him by fast horse. As bribes went, it was as subtle as offering wine to a drunkard, and as effective.

  He shrugged off his robes, lit a couple of oil lamps, and tried not to think of the day, or of what he’d have to do tomorrow. Taking occasional careful bites from the roast chicken the innkeeper had sent up, he opened the book and began to read.

  Henry had reached the Master’s examination of polities with mixed constitutions when the door opened and Brissac entered. The knight sat down opposite him, saying nothing. Henry closed the book and put down his table knife. He waited for Brissac to speak.

  Henry knew this might take a while. Since joining Henry on the Propaganda Tour, Brissac had become even more dour and withdrawn than before. He no longer gambled or chased tavern girls. To the mercenaries who knew his battle record, this indicated iron self-control. To Henry, it suggested that something was eating deep into whatever Brissac used for a soul, and it made him nervous. The only thing more unpleasant than a smug Brissac would be a Brissac with issues that he would inevitably try to work out on others.

  The hour-candle burned down. The fire hissed in the grate. Finally, Henry turned away from Brissac and reached again for the book.

  The knight spoke. “Are you happy now?”

  Henry turned over the question in his mind. What was Brissac getting at? Was he serious, sarcastic, bitter? How should Henry respond?

  “Why not?”

  “Yes.” Brissac stood, and paced around the room. He flipped through a stack of books, examined the remains of Henry’s dinner, sniffed the wine. “Your wants are satisfied, and so are you.”

  “And people aren’t getting killed. That’s always good, I think.”

  Brissac swigged moodily from Henry’s wine cup. “There are more important things than just staying alive.”

  “Easy to say, when you’re the one holding the sword.”

  Brissac lifted his head and stared at Henry. For the first time, Henry got the feeling that Brissac was actually looking at him, instead of at something playing out in his own mind. And Brissac’s sword was on his belt.

  Finally, Brissac stood. “Yes. It is easy to say.” He left the room.

  Henry shivered for a moment, and let out a long, pent-up breath. Normans. Crazy, just crazy.

  Henry shrugged off his tunic and climbed into bed. Tomorrow they had a long ride, and another town to save. At least, that’s how he was determined to look at it.

  As usual, they set off a little after dawn. Geoffrey had left a list of a dozen or more towns and villages deemed insufficiently loyal, where Henry was to expound upon the glory of Geoffrey, his successful quest for Excalibur, and the futility of opposing him.

  They traveled in style, Henry, Brissac, and the Swiss. Gold gleamed on their fingers. Gems winked from their scabbards and hilts. Geoffrey’s new device, a sword rising from a stone, flew on banners above them. They were followed by a full camp train, crewed by a team of cooks, reeves, manciples, and castellans from one of Geoffrey’s estates.

  At the crossroads to Dionne, they passed a long line of gallows carrying Geoffrey’s insignia. The dead men were strung up with the names of their crimes tied around their feet: Treason. Poaching. Stealing bread. Henry opened his Aristotle to the chapter on oligarchies.

  About midmorning, the camp train slowed to a halt. Henry jumped off the wagon and walked to the head of the train.

  A few yards ahead, the Swiss were pushing people to one side and clearing a path. Brissac looked down at Henry impassively. “We’ve run into a train of refugees,” he said. “It will take a while to clear the trash off the road so we can pass.”

  “Why not give them some food to—”

  “If we do, they’ll swarm the wagons.” Brissac turned back to the mercenaries.

  Henry opened his mouth, closed it, and returned to his wagon. A few minutes later, they rode past the other train. Henry kept his eyes on his book.

  When they arrived in Anbal, half the town was left. The eastern walls had been torn down. All the houses east of the main street and south of the church had been destroyed, leaving a plain of rubble and shattered timbers, as though a giant had carelessly stepped on that neighborhood and then moved on. The townsfolk wandered through the wreckage like ghosts, trying to salvage what they could from their homes. Henry looked down at his natty scarlet tunic and felt sick. Why linger here? What more could Geoffrey do to these people?

  He could wipe out the whole town, and all the people in it. He could kill Valdemar and Alfie. Henry got a grip and stepped off the cart.

  The Swiss took over the inn, tossing the other guests out into the night. The next day, Brissac and the Swiss gathered the bourgeois into the town square to hear Henry’s speech.

  It was hot and muggy. Thick clouds towered over the town walls. Henry opened his collar, but it was too little, too late—he was drenched in sweat from his braies on out. As Brissac walked beside him past the townspeople, Henry heard a voice.

  “…of course it’s not the real Muttering Knight.”

  He hesitated, but only for a moment. Then he continued on to the platform. He turned around to face the crowd—the skinny, ragged crowd. He opened his mouth. “I…I am…”

  Then he closed his mouth again. He walked off the platform, through the crowd, and into the tavern. He went up to his room and shut the door.

  He expected Brissac to throw open the door and yank him downstairs, but no one came. After a while, he fell asleep in the hot, close air of the room.

  When he woke up, it was late at night. Opening the door, he saw an empty, unguarded hallway. He walked down the stairs to the common room.

  It was all but empty, just Brissac, a cup, and a dozen jugs. Brissac stared at him and then drained his cup. Cautiously, Henry sat down opposite. Brissac handed him another cup and poured. They drank, and Brissac filled their cups again. And again.

  “When you kill somebody, do you go for the chest, or the head?” So this was pub-talk among the knightly classes. At least with the goliards, you could get some dirty Latin drinking songs.

  “I try not to kill people,” said Henry. “If I have, it’s by accident.”

  Brissac laughed. “That’s because you’re not Geoffrey.” Brissac leaned in. “He’s good at killing people. Very good. Better than I am.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “And he’s possessed.” This was followed by another swig of wine.

  “Really? Tell me more.”

  But Brissac wasn’t listening. “You think Geoffrey made me guard you now because I let you escape before? As a punishment?”

  “Well—” Brissac wasn’t as stupid as he looked, apparently. That’s exactly what Henry thought.

  Brissac gulped the dregs at the bottom of his
cup and poured more wine. “Who do you think sent in all those…those vultures with Greek fire? John? He can’t even build a fire. It was Geoffrey.” Brissac paused to study Henry’s reaction, then continued. “He knew there was an escape tunnel under the wall, see? All we had to do was set fire to the supporting beams, and when they burned away the wall would collapse. So he didn’t want to waste any time. Break the castle, grab the sword, go. And burn the town, the whole town, mothers and children…just so it wouldn’t get in the way.” The knight grinned, wide and sloppy. “But I ordered the Greek fire destroyed that morning, poured it into the river. The stuff that remained was just smatterings, here and there.”

  Brissac emptied his cup again. “It’s a filthy thing, Greek fire. Burns forever, water doesn’t put it out, it sticks to your skin…” He swallowed, poured again. “There’s no honor in it. It’s no weapon…for a true king. And that was before. Now, there’s a devil in him…he’s so much worse…”

  Brissac trailed off, staring into the middle distance. For a moment, Henry thought Brissac had passed out with his eyes open—it took years of practice to do it, but Brissac looked like he’d put in the drinking time. Then the knight spoke again.

  “You,” he said to Henry. “You make me laugh. Thinking you’d protect people. Thinking you could keep ’em alive if they kept their heads down. If they behaved. As if anything you do matters to Geoffrey. As if he won’t kill them all if he wants to. When he wants to. Just because he can. You’re a joke. A monkey he’s tormenting. Your friends, you think they’re still alive? They’re in the ground. Rotting.” Brissac’s eyes closed. In a moment, his head was on the table.

  Slowly, Henry stood and looked around. The inn door was open. He looked at his tunic, his rings.

  Properly pawned, they’d take him far.

  33. The Wild Man of Meilhan