The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  Meilhan was in ruins.

  The walls were broken. Burned timbers and cracked stones marked the lots where houses had stood. Henry rode along the track of mud and rocks that had been the main street and listened to the wind blow across the wreckage.

  He came to the main square. This was where Old Lady Goncourt had offered him a bowl of onion soup to get her cat. It was rubble now. The tavern was a pile of charred beams. That’s where the party had been, after they’d beaten those robbers.

  Well, what could he do about it? I’m open to suggestions, he thought.

  He heard something move in the rubble to his right. He looked—nothing. Maybe it was a bird, or a rat. Henry swallowed. He’d eaten rat before, when he’d gotten hungry enough. It might be rat stew tonight.

  He quartered the town. Here and there a building stood, its doors ripped open, its shutters smashed. Again he heard the scuttling. He rode to the town’s main well. It was choked with rocks and dirt. The scuttling came back, closer this time. Henry’s hand went to his sword. His practice sword. His useless hunk of metal. It was probably a good idea to stop wandering and find a place where he could set up camp and get his back to a wall. He turned his horse to the church.

  It was as ruined as the rest of the town. The roof and windows were gone, most of the walls still stood. Henry led his horse inside and tethered her to a doorpost.

  The altar remained, but the furniture and fittings were gone. Henry walked to an open hole that had once held a window. The floor underneath it was coated with a skin of lead and colored glass. The church must have burned, and the window’s materials had melted in the fire and cooled on the church floor.

  The wind started to bite. It was cold, and night was falling. Henry built a fire. It took a while. Dry wood and kindling were hard to find, and he had to make sparks by striking a flint against the flat of his sword. He imagined what Excalibur would have said if he’d tried that with her. Heh. You dare use the Sword of Kings as a striking stone? Henry smiled.

  Finally, he had a fire burning against the church wall. He fed the horse the last of the oats. It was the fall, and the grass was going. If he couldn’t find more food for the horse, he’d have to sell it. He couldn’t eat the poor thing. He’d grown fond of it, and besides, he didn’t have a sharp knife to butcher it with.

  Then, over the crackling of the fire, he heard the scuttling again. This time it was nearer and louder. It could have been a rat. It could have been the slap of leather against stone. Something was out there in the dark. Henry stood.

  And then the sound changed to a howl.

  It was an awful thing, like a wolf from Hell. It raised the hairs on Henry’s neck and sent his hand to his sword—maybe it was a practice sword, but it was all he had.

  He stepped away from the fire so that it was behind him, illuminating the church. The howling was from outside. He thought about staying where he was, by the fire, but he had to sleep some time. And when he did…it was no choice at all, really.

  He stepped outside. The moon was bright and almost full. The howls filled the air. Now it was all around, in front, behind. Henry took another step out into the square.

  “Show yourself!”

  “AAAIIIYEEEEE!!”

  A big black shape flew out of nowhere, knocking him to the ground and screaming. He had a glimpse of beard and hair and big arms. Then he spun underneath the thing, knocking it off, and leaped to his feet, his sword out.

  It growled, drew a sword, and came for him.

  The wild man knew what he was doing. He struck at Henry’s head, his head again, his chest. He moved like a knight, like his sword was light as air. Without Excalibur, Henry was holding nothing more than a lump of iron, while another one whizzed at his head. He tried to move, to stay on the balls of his feet, to keep his sword up and threatening the stranger. But the power that he’d felt with Excalibur, the knowledge deep in his bones, was gone; every move felt slow, clunky, filled with effort. He was going to lose.

  No. Henry forced himself to focus, to remember Excalibur’s lessons. It wasn’t about stopping the blade. It was about anticipating where the blade would be, forcing it there, taking the initiative—

  There was a ringing crash, and the stranger’s sword smashed point-first into the mud, forced there by Henry’s blade. Henry’s next stroke was a blunt sword to the stranger’s temple. With the faintest of “oofs,” the wild man fell to the ground.

  Henry picked up the stranger’s sword. It was long and sharp, in excellent shape. It looked familiar. Carved on the hilt was a crude sketch—if you were charitable, you’d say it looked a little like a spastic badger. Henry kneeled down. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but under the hair, under the beard…It was Percy.

  It was easier than Henry expected to drag Percy back inside—the knight had lost a lot of weight. Henry laid him out by the fire and covered him with the blanket. He kept Percy as warm as he could, checking his breathing. When the sun came up, he boiled the last of his dried beef into soup and shook Percy awake.

  “Where—”

  “Drink it.”

  Percy grabbed at the cup as if he hadn’t eaten for days. He probably hasn’t, thought Henry. Percy finished the soup, put down the cup and stared at him.

  “Are you going to go crazy again?” asked Henry. “Are you going to jump me?”

  “I…I…” Percy’s face worked under his beard for a moment. Then he raised his hands to his face and started to sob.

  To Henry, Percy had always been big, dumb, and invulnerable. What was he supposed to do now? Hug him? Look away? He waited uncomfortably, pretending that Percy wasn’t crying.

  It was hard to find out what had happened, at first. Percy was half-starved and weepy. It was hard to keep him on the subject.

  “We followed you. We saw you fight Geoffrey, wounded and sick as you were, and almost defeat him.”

  “Almost defeat him?” Geoffrey cleaned my clepsydra. Maybe Percy’s still off his rocker.

  “Then you fell. And we resolved to fight on. But Geoffrey took Excalibur, and he could not be stopped. He needed no troops. He shattered our blades and then advanced upon us like Death himself.”

  “How…how many…did he kill?”

  “Five…of ours.”

  “What?”

  “When he came to kill us, he paused for a moment, Excalibur held high. His face twisted, as if he were suffering a fit. Then he shrieked, and charged like a whirlwind. He killed five of us and then, before his lieutenants could stop him, he killed two of his own in his frenzy.”

  He is possessed, Brissac had said. Henry forced the thought away.

  “I tried to reach the Princess, but a pikeman swung at me, and I knew no more.” Percy was calmer now. He took another gulp from the cup. “When I awoke, the battle was over. Raymond ruled in Narbonne for Geoffrey. I was one of dozens of wounded men left over from the battle. No one marked me, nor cared who I had been or what I had done. Except the Princess.”

  Oh, no. Henry’s heart sank.

  “She was determined to fight on. She escaped from Geoffrey and fled with a small retinue, including your friends from Paris.”

  Henry’s jaw dropped. “Alfie and Valdemar joined Mattie to be rebels?”

  “Geoffrey has taxed the land into famine. If the people don’t poach, or hold back their harvests, they starve. But if they do, Geoffrey hangs them as lawbreakers and rebels. And the Princess is very persuasive.”

  Well yeah, but still—What had she said to them? What could she have promised? The mind boggled. “I’m going to have a serious talk with them.”

  “We lived as rebels in the woods. We made our stand here.” Percy looked around. “We lost. Aelfred and Valdemar the Valiant were taken prisoner to Paris. The Princess is in a convent there as well, and is to be wed to Geoffrey as soon as he is crowned emperor.”

  “Valdemar the Valiant?” Blessed St. Dismas. And then, cold as ice—Alfie won’t survive.

  “How did you escape?” />
  Percy looked away. “I tried to die in battle, Lord! I really tried! But Geoffrey just beat me down again, and…and left me…” His face screwed into a knot, and he started to cry again.

  Henry put a hand on Percy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Perce. Really. I know you did your best.” Percy snuffled and nodded. “Now I need you to do one more thing for me. Can you remember when this battle took place? How many days ago? It’s important.”

  Percy tried to gather his scattered wits. “Two weeks ago…I think. It’s hazy…”

  Two weeks ago. The day after Henry had left Brissac face down in the tavern. They’re still alive!

  Geoffrey had lied to him. Of course he had. Why hadn’t Henry seen it? And then Geoffrey really had taken Mattie and Alfie and Valdemar prisoners. But he had left Percy.

  It was an invitation: Come visit scenic Paris. See the sights. Take the bait.

  Henry glanced at the two swords, his own blunted practice sword and Percy’s deadly earnest weapon. From a distance, you couldn’t tell them apart.

  He’d take the bait. And so would Geoffrey.

  34. Home Again, Home Again

  Did you sleep well, Your Majesty?

  Geoffrey skinned back his lips in a smile. “Excellently, madam. The apparition of my dead father that you sent me last night was most amusing. And yourself?”

  Swords do not sleep. We wait, and watch for the moment. The moment to strike.

  Geoffrey did not look up from his work—reckoning the troops he would need to secure Paris for his coronation and subsequent wedding. Most especially, he did not look behind him. He knew what he would see: a beautiful woman with silver eyes, who was somehow more frightening than the worst of nightmares. But you didn’t grow to manhood as a Plantagenet by losing a battle. Any battle.

  “It would seem to me you have had plenty of opportunity to strike in the last few months. There was the Count of Picardy, the lords of Toulon and Marais, that little town in Alsace—what was its name? And—”

  You have defiled me. I shall not forget. I shall not forgive.

  “I have your power, madam. I don’t need your forgiveness.”

  Indeed?

  The pain that shot through him was appalling. It was a lightning bolt roaring through his nerves and joints, but unlike a lightning bolt, it didn’t stop, but went on, and on—

  Clenching his teeth, Geoffrey stood and faced the Lady and the Sword. Staring straight into the eyes of the Lady, he shoved his hand through the apparition’s chest, drew Excalibur from its sheath, and slammed it against the wall, again and again.

  “Is that it? Is that all you have?”

  The pain stopped. No. That is merely a taste of what I will—

  “Listen closely, my blade. From this moment on, each time you move against me, each time you try to thwart my will, an innocent will suffer. Do you understand me?”

  There was silence.

  “Say ‘yes,’ or by nightfall you will be hilt-deep in the intestines of a child.” Geoffrey waited. Finally—

  Yes.

  “Excellent. I like my utensils well-behaved.”

  Geoffrey left the bed chamber and stalked down stairs. With each step, his mood improved. After all, the gifts had been arriving for days, all suitably lavish and gem-encrusted. Philip, Raymond, and the nobility of a dozen tiny German principalities were already in attendance. The Pope himself was riding up from Rome for the coronation—that had taken a lot of work. John had sailed in from England, abusing the castle staff until Geoffrey had found some compliant demoiselles to distract him. He had cleaned up that rat’s nest called the University of Paris, locking up the “students” for the duration of the coronation. And to top it all off, he’d just gotten word that Leopold of Austria had finally taken big brother Richard hostage on his way back from the Crusades. Things were going well. Now all he had to do was check on his bait.

  “How do I look?”

  “Very convincing.”

  “I want to try that trick where you mix vinegar and soap on your skin and it looks like boils.”

  “You look fine. Don’t overdo it.”

  “Well, how about the pilgrim drop? You said you’d teach me the pilgrim drop.”

  “That’s just what we need. A holy hermit who cheats pilgrims of their life savings.”

  Percy pouted. “I want to shave.”

  “Show me a holy hermit who shaves, and I’ll show you a holy hermit who isn’t giving it a hundred and ten percent.”

  “But it itches.”

  “Well, you’re the one who grew it. If you hadn’t let yourself go, I would never have gotten the idea. Now, babble and drool like we practiced.”

  Traveling back to Paris had proven to be as difficult as Henry had feared. Geoffrey had made refugee life hard for him before; now that the entire land was organized, it was almost impossible. Every big city had a dozen companies stationed in the surrounding countryside on the lookout for rebels and bandits and people who had looked at Geoffrey the wrong way. Each watch-post had a scribe who carried with him a book of lists of those wanted by the Emperor, with descriptions, sketches, and once or twice even a nice Italian portrait. Of course, all the male portraits tended to look like St. John, and all the female portraits like Mary Magdalene, but still…an “Alpha” for effort on Geoffrey’s part.

  The good news was that the book was thick. There were clearly a lot of people Geoffrey didn’t like. So, as often as not, the sentries just waved people past, rather than hold up traffic for another hour.

  Or maybe, thought Henry darkly, Geoff just wants us to get to Paris quickly so he can deal with me himself. Whatever the reason, the lack of scrutiny was good luck: While Percy was perfectly all right when it came to the real thing, he was terrible at faking crazy.

  “I didn’t ‘let myself go,’” said Percy. “Madness is expected of the knight whose lord dies or forsakes him. Sir Lancelot went mad. Sir Bedivere ate bark and howled at the moon. Sir Palomides wrote chain letters. It’s tradition!”

  “I forsook you?”

  “If the greave fits—”

  “Shut up and drool.”

  After passing four checkpoints on the way north, they were coming up on the fifth and final one, the entrance to Paris. They weren’t the only ones. Geoffrey’s upcoming coronation had attracted thousands of travelers to the city, despite the lateness of the year. Henry noticed, to his satisfaction, that there were dozens of other unwashed holy men entering the gates, often with novices of their own. At this rate, they’d just be two more sacred, smelly drops in the ocean.

  The crowds that had shuffled their way north were now compacted into a line of travelers, waiting before the gates for the chance to enter. The guards had divided the line into travelers and freight, an innovation that kept the manure off your boots, mostly. It had the Plantagenet touch—something clever that made life easier, without decreasing Geoffrey’s power one bit. And the troop of Benedictines in front of them were prettier than a bunch of horse’s rear ends. Almost.

  Soldiers walked down the line, asking questions.

  “Name?”

  “Roger the Hermit, plus one,” replied Henry promptly.

  The soldier stared at them dubiously. “We’ve got all the filthy beggars we need right now. Maybe your master could come back in fifty years?”

  Henry ignored the sniggers from the Benedictines. “But your honor, my master is of exceeding holiness! He passes miracles all the time!”

  “Entertainment, eh? Why didn’t you say so? What’s his line?”

  “Speaking in tongues.”

  “Brek-ek-ek-ex! Brek-ek-ek-ex! Ko-kwax! Ko-kwax!” babbled Percy obligingly. Maybe he was getting the hang of this after all.

  The soldier sighed. “That might play in the sticks, kid, but this is Paris. He got anything else up his sleeve?”

  “Uh…healings?”

  The soldier’s expression cleared. “Now that’s always good for a dixaine or two. My cousin, he’s got the leprosy—” />
  “Master Roger healed a blind puppy last week. We’re trying to work our way up. Got any sick goats?”

  Coming back to Paris was like coming home, even in the fall, under dead leaves and gray skies. But as he led “Master Roger’s” palfrey through the streets, Henry could see that things had changed.

  There were two cities now. The first was a festive Paris, preparing for a coronation. The streets were filled with minstrels, jongleurs, pardoners, preachers, and students. The great family palaces of the nobility, from the Tour St. Louis to the Chateau du Capet, were decked out in Geoffrey’s colors of crimson and gold. The lions of England were everywhere, and the crowds in the streets were all wearing little sprigs of the broom plant, the planta genesta that had been the symbol of Geoffrey’s grandfather, founder of the line. That was obviously the Paris that Percy saw. His eyes were big as saucers, and his mouth was just one big drool reservoir. This was Paris with a capital “P” to him, his first time in the Big Crêpe.

  But underneath, Henry saw a darker city. Looking past the wealthy visitors, Henry could see hunger in the eyes of the Parisians. Their cheekbones stood out more than they had a year ago. Buildings that he remembered decorated with gold leaf and mullioned windows now stood naked to the October wind, the expensive glass replaced by bare wooden shutters. And the great citadel of the Louvre loomed over everything in a way he’d never noticed before.

  “Where now?” asked Percy. “Er, I mean, veeblefetzer! Potrzebie!”

  “We’re going to try to find out what’s happening.”

  “Ah,” nodded Percy, knowingly. “We’re going to ‘case’ the ‘joint.’”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Something is wrong.

  Henry sat in the shadow of Notre Dame, waiting for Percy, watching the scene. The crowd was thick. A lot of them were pilgrims, but more than a hundred were workmen. Even with the nave, apse, and great glass windows in place, the cathedral wouldn’t be finished for years, and the transepts were still nothing more than stones and scaffolding. Masons carved blocks on the ground or perched high in the air, raising great stones in place for the cathedral’s walls and buttresses. Then there were the carpenters, preparing stands and barriers for the coronation ceremony, and the peddlers hawking wine and herb fritters.