Something is wrong.
In his mind’s eye, Henry traced a route from the river through the building areas and into the cathedral itself. There was more than one way in, of course. The area around the cathedral was a maze of giant stones, wooden frames, vats and pits, and there were no guards: An ashlar or foundation stone might be worth a livre of silver to the master builder of a cathedral, but how would you steal it? And who would buy it from you if you did?
Once inside the building area, someone small and fast could climb the scaffold, get in through the great open gaps that would one day be the side wings of the church, and clamber down into the nave. But getting that close would be a problem on coronation day. Even though he was taller and heavier than he’d been a year ago, Henry knew he couldn’t pass for a mason, even an apprentice. And the island would be crawling with Geoffrey’s men.
Something is wrong.
Henry was missing something. He knew it, but couldn’t figure out what. Percy came out of the cathedral, waving a small burlap sack. “Knuckle of St. Gustaf, knuckle of St. Wulstan, and the big toe of St. Eleutherius of Nicomedia. This is a collector’s item! There are only three in existence!”
“St. Eleutherius had three big toes?”
“No, of course not. One of them is from when he was a kid. I need some reliquaries to hold them.”
Henry sighed and pointed to a relic shop on the north side of the plaza. Percy scampered off. Henry stared at the crowds. The whole city was clamped tight. There were guards and checkpoints. But he and Percy had practically strolled onto the island. There wasn’t a man at arms in sight. And according to the rogues’ marks on the walls nearby, the Cellars, the most underground (literally!) criminal slum of a tavern in the entire city, was open for business. Something was very, very wrong.
“Ave, frater!”
Henry looked up. It was Pete the Worm, freelance librarian—and looking very well. The hollows in his cheeks had filled out, and he had a nice, new robe.
“Ave, fra! How—”
The Worm took his arm. “Walk with me, brother.” They strolled toward the bridge. “Are you alone? Did you come back with anyone?”
“I—” Henry shut his mouth and looked around. Half the “workmen” had dropped their tools and drawn swords.
“THERE HE IS!”
The Worm was gone in a flash, dashing around the rear of the church. At least a dozen men closed in from the south, east, and west. They blocked Henry’s way to the Pont l’Evecque; the only way clear was the river. He sprinted to the shore and dove in.
The river was filthy. For some reason, it was warmer than he’d expected, which kind of made things worse, considering the garbage he saw floating in the water near him. Ferries and river boats rowed past, raising wakes that made it hard to see. He tried to keep the water out of his eyes and mouth as he swam for the Right Bank.
The current was sweeping him along the length of the island. If he didn’t get to the shore quickly, it would carry him underneath the bridge and near all those wonderful sentries—he kicked harder.
It would carry him under the bridge…and out of sight, if only for a few moments. Oh, I have a really dumb idea, he thought. Kicking just enough to stay above water, he stopped paddling with his arms and instead got busy unknotting his cloak.
An arrow flickered past him, then another. He dived deep into the filthy water and used the moment to unknot his boots. As he was untying the left boot, he hit one of the bridge’s stone columns with a thud, and grabbed hold. He raised his head out of the water. The bridge’s arch was low overhead, and he was out of sight of Geoffrey’s men. As fast as he could, he pulled off his cloak, boots and hose, tied them together, and tossed them back into the water. He watched them float away, out from under the bridge, one bundle surrounded by the rest of the river traffic.
Henry crossed his fingers—maybe Geoffrey’s men would believe it for long enough. Time for the second part of the plan. He was under one of the lower arches near the shore, too low for most boats. He inched his way along the west face of the column, paddling when the footholds gave out, until he reached the bridge’s central arch.
Here the current was faster and the small boats and ferries drifted past, one or two at a time. Henry dug one of the last dixaines from his coin pouch and stuck the silver penny in his mouth. The first boat was an open barge—no place to hide. The second was a ferry full of honest burghers. Now Henry was getting nervous. If the soldiers had been fooled at all by his little bundle of clothes, they would still have figured it out by now and would soon be coming back to the bridge. Time was running out.
A third boat drifted toward him, a barge full of rubbish and rags. He swam out to meet it and hauled himself on board.
THWACK! The broom hit him square on the shoulders, the twigs biting him on his ears and neck. THWACK!
“HELP! BRIGANDS!”
The old lady wasn’t little; she looked like she could tear Henry in two or three—and her yelling wasn’t helping either. As fast as he could, Henry spit the dixaine onto the deck. “My last penny, grandmère, if you take me down the river.”
The yelling stopped. The barge-lady grabbed the coin and looked out at the river, where one or two arrows still fell in the water around Henry’s clothing. “They want you for murder?”
“No, grandmère.”
She nodded. “Right, then. Get under those bundles, cover yourself, and stay still until we reach St. Marcel.”
The barge drifted out from under the bridge. Henry tensed, but no arrows came. They floated down the Seine, past the Île St. Louis. The barge-lady turned to him and opened her bag. “You want an onion?”
35. Old Friends
“I failed you. I should have been on guard against such treachery, but I was too busy looking for relics.” Percy’s voice dripped with self-disgust.
“Time for that later.” Henry toweled his hair and put on the new clothes Percy had gotten for him. “Geoffrey knows we’re here, so we have to get Alfie and Valdemar now.”
“But how?”
Henry shrugged. “I know a guy.”
“I see,” said Percy. “This man, does he know what we need to know?”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“Will we do ‘good gendarme, bad gendarme’? Can I be the bad gendarme?”
“We can both be the bad gendarme.”
From the hilltop of Montmartre, the city was spread out below them in the night: the Cathedral of Notre Dame, surrounded on all sides by the campfires of throngs of pilgrims awaiting the coronation; to one side the dark mass of the Louvre, hulking over the city and lit by torches; to the other, the Latin Quarter and its rats’ nest of churches, lecture halls, monasteries and back alleys, illuminated only by the bright harvest moon.
“Is the rope really necessary?”
“Silence, traitor.” Percy probed with his dagger, and the Worm subsided with a hiss of pain. Henry smothered a pang of guilt. Not so long ago, he’d been the one tied up, playing where’s-the-knife with a grinning killer.
“What do you think, Perce?”
Percy turned his attention from the Worm for a moment. “Not good, My Lord. Geoffrey has troops on all the bridges leading to the City Island, and we know he has spies in the crowds of pilgrims.”
“Sound about right, Petronius?”
The Worm muttered something.
“I’m sorry. What was that? I didn’t hear you.”
The Worm sighed. “I said ‘yes.’”
“Here’s the fifty-livre question. Are Alfie and Valdemar still alive?”
“As far as I know. Geoffrey swept up all the old Paris gang and keeps them caged in the Louvre.”
“And someone fingered them all, I’m guessing.”
The Worm sighed. “Come on, fra, you know the score. All Geoffrey had to do was haul in a few to get the names of a few more and then a few more. I didn’t turn in Alfie, I swear.”
“Has he moved them?”
The Worm shrugged. “How
should I know?”
Percy raised his knife.
“Really!” screamed the Worm. “I don’t know! I couldn’t!”
Henry waved Percy off. The knight was starting to enjoy the whole thing a little too much, anyway. “Why hasn’t he killed them all yet?”
“The pope’s coming for the ceremony, so he’s been making a big show of mercy.”
After the coronation would be a different matter, of course. “How do we get in and free them?”
“But—”
Henry raised a hand. “Ah, ah—no objections. And please, assume that you’re coming with us.”
Percy leaned in. “Shall I toss him down the hill, Lord?”
“That’s his choice.”
The Worm looked from one to the other. “I’ve done business with five of the regular guards. Two of them are on the fourth watch, right before dawn. They’re your best bets, Renard and Fouquet—”
Swimming a river through a hail of arrows, being dragged behind a horse to a darkling castle—this was getting all too familiar. Henry swallowed his gorge and reminded himself that this time it was different. This time, he had a plan.
Frankly, he would have preferred a big, magic sword.
Percy leaned back. “Lord, as a knight, I approve of rescuing prisoners from a castle. I mean, it’s what I do. But if we’re going to stop Geoffrey, shouldn’t we do that first, instead of tipping our hand even more—”
“If I’m to get Excalibur back, we’ll need Alfie and Valdemar. Trust me.” And I won’t let them die. But no way I’m going to let Percy get all knightly on me.
“Right.” Percy trotted to the front gate and yelled upward. “Hola, the castle! A prisoner for the emperor!” There was nothing but silence—which was to be expected in the middle of the night. In fact, the longer it took, the happier Henry would be. Slow sentries, tired sentries, few sentries…He started to count, getting to fifty plantagenet before a small door opened in the thick wood of the gate and a soldier peered out. “We’ve got enough prisoners. Come back in July!” Henry heard sniggering behind the door.
Percy nodded. “Sure, I’ll just let this Muttering Knight fellow walk, why should I bother you?”
The guard’s eyes widened. “Bide a moment.” There was a clanking of iron, and the door swung wide. “Dismount and enter with the prisoner.”
Percy got off the horse and shoved Henry ahead of him into the castle. The guard studied him, and Henry stared back arrogantly, doing his best to look like a legendary rebel. The guard was short, with red hair. This would be Renard—one of the Worm’s favorites. He’d try to grab a cut of Percy’s reward, but he’d have to split it with someone.
Renard nodded. “Aye, that could be him. Wait here.” He locked the door again and left them standing in the darkened courtyard of the gatehouse.
“Now what?” said Percy, quietly.
“Pray,” said Henry. It wasn’t that bad, really. They had at least a fifty-fifty chance. If Renard came back with his watch captain and a squad, or even Geoffrey himself, they were doomed, no question. But if he ran true to the Worm’s description, he would come back with Fouquet, the castle bailiff—it being the middle of the night and all—and they’d try to stiff Percy. And then it was possible, just possible, that they’d all go down to the dungeons together, just the four of them.
“There they are!” Henry sagged with relief. Renard was back with Fouquet, a grizzled man shaped like a wine barrel. Fouquet studied Henry and started to grin. “Aye, that might be him.”
Percy stepped forward on cue. “Where’s my money?”
Fouquet raised a thick, stubby finger in response. “Reward’s to be paid after the outlaw’s identity is confirmed, and he is genuinely in custody.”
“Well, let’s take him to the cells, then,” Percy growled.
Fouquet nodded. Henry breathed a sigh of relief—Fouquet could easily have decided to summon Geoffrey and more guards. They walked through the door and down the stairs to the dungeons.
The corridor was narrow, and Renard’s torch filled it with smoke. Henry walked ahead, shoved by Renard, his hands tied. He tried to commit the path to memory, so he could reverse it when necessary—past a courtyard on their left; through a great hall filled with rotted straw, sleeping troops, and long tables; down a spiral staircase and out into a lower courtyard near the Seine—he could smell the stink of the river.
Percy jogged up close, whispering in his ear. “The main hall with the retainers will be trouble, Lord.” Henry nodded, eyes front.
Then back into the walls, and down another staircase. And down. And down, and down. The walls were dank now, slick with scum and river water. The torch’s flame faded down to a blue and orange nub in the close air.
Finally Renard and Fouquet stopped in front of a blackened oak door, the top half of which was fitted with iron bars. Henry looked through and saw a giant room, barely lit by the moon shining through an air shaft, filled with ragged men chained to the walls. Percy turned to Renard. “That’s it? You keep them all here with the rats?” He wasn’t keeping his voice down; inside, some of the inmates stirred awake. Henry peered through the shadows. In the back—was that Alfie?
Renard laughed. “They’re not knights, man. They’re thieves and outlaws. No one will ransom them.” He grabbed his key-ring as more of the prisoners stood up. Henry searched through the crowd. They’d only have the one chance…time to wake them up.
“I’m not going in there!” Henry yelled, loud as he could. “I’m the Muttering Knight!”
His voice echoed across the stones, waking the prisoners. A roar of prisoners’ voices came back, in Breton, in French, in Latin.
In Welsh.
It was Alfie, there in the back, and Valdemar. The next instant, Percy knocked Henry to the floor.
“Shut up, you!” growled Percy, maybe a little too much in character. Henry glared up, hiding his smile. Underneath him, he felt the long knife Percy had dropped in passing.
Alfie and Valdemar were standing, tugging at their chains. Henry caught their eyes. That’s it, you gallows-birds. Get ready.
Renard pulled out a ring of keys and opened the door. “There’s a set of chains at the back.”
“With locks,” chimed in Fouquet. “You don’t need a blacksmith, a forge, or anything.”
Percy nodded. “Very advanced.”
They hustled to the back, the inmates awake and shouting on both sides. Renard turned to Percy. “Give him here and we’ll lock him in.”
A glance flickered between Henry and Percy. Henry’s falsely knotted ropes dropped to the ground. His knife came out in time with Percy’s sword. He went for Fouquet as Percy went for Renard.
But Fouquet was ready for him, and caught him by the knife hand with surprising strength. The bailiff wrestled him, trying to lever his arm up behind his back, while Henry tried to go limp and roll with Fouquet’s leverage. Whipping out in front of Fouquet once more, Henry swept his foot behind the bailiff’s, and they both dropped to the cell’s stinking mud floor.
Now all the prisoners were awake and yelling.
“Let me out, boy!”
“Let us out! We’re innocent!”
“I have gold!”
Henry heaved against the bailiff’s bulk. They thrashed for a moment, and parted just in time for Percy to rap Fouquet hard on the skull with his sword pommel. Fouquet rolled off, stunned and groaning. Renard was already unconscious against the wall.
Henry grabbed the keys off Fouquet and unlocked Alfie and Valdemar.
“Henry.” Alfie grabbed him and hugged. Henry smiled and hugged back, even though you could tell Alfie had been a while in a cell without plumbing.
“Took you long enough,” said Valdemar, rubbing his wrists.
“Nice to see you too.”
Alfie leaned in. “Free the rest, laddie.”
Henry looked around. “I don’t know, Alf, we need to leave fast and—”
“For God’s sake, boy!”
S
omething huge crashed far above them, the sound of metal against stone. Henry turned to Fouquet, who laughed at him from the ground.
“You didn’t think we just let you in, did we? That’s the king’s men coming for you.”
Henry turned to Percy. “Unlock them all.”
“But—”
Henry ran to the center of the cell. “You want to be free?” he yelled. “You’re going to have to fight for it!”
One sword, one knife, and thirty starving prisoners, they stumbled up the stairs as fast they could. The ones who’d been held longest drifted toward the back.
“Where do they keep the swords in a place like this?” Henry asked Percy.
A voice came from behind. “In the armory.”
Henry turned. Brissac stared at him from among the other prisoners, gray and ragged as a wolf in March. “Captivity. My reward for not sticking a knife in your back. Thank you for that.”
Henry swallowed. “Any time.”
Percy interrupted. “Can we get there from here?”
“Aye. But—” Brissac held up his hand. In the pause that followed, the sounds of footsteps echoed down the hall from the far doorway. “I think they’re between us and it.”
“Is there any other way out?”
Brissac shook his head. “The ki—Geoffrey is in residence. Every gate is locked.”
Henry leaned close and spoke low. “What about every wall?” He turned to Alfie. “Alfie, can you still hang from a rope?”
Alfie got a noble, constipated look on his face. “Don’t bother about me, laddie. Go on. It was a good try—”
“Don’t go soft on me, old man. I have a plan, and I need you. Now, can you hang?”
Alfie grinned. “Tie me in a knot if I can’t.”
“Right.” Henry turned to the other prisoners. “I freed you. If you have any honor, you’ll follow me. But I warn you, if Geoffrey finds out you joined me, he will hunt you down personally.”
The Wrong Sword Page 27