The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  Brissac laughed hollowly. “‘If’? Try ‘when.’”

  The other prisoners stared at Henry. In a minute, they were gone, leaving only Alfie and Valdemar, Percy and—sweet Jesu!—Brissac.

  Henry turned to Brissac. “We want a wall with a catwalk, overlooking houses on the other side…or at least something soft. And any spare rope, if we can find it.”

  Brissac nodded. “This way.”

  As they hustled up the corridor, Percy gasped. “Oh, I get it! The prisoners will distract the guards—”

  “Right.”

  “You didn’t want them to come with us! You wanted them to be a diversion! That really is dishonorable.” He frowned. “And not in a good way.”

  Henry sighed. “I know. Should we go back?”

  They were outside now, in a small courtyard under the stars. Percy glanced back. From behind them came the far-off sounds of yelling and steel. “No. I guess not.”

  Brissac led them through a series of stables and carters’ sheds, which had the rope they needed, and some barrel staves for makeshift weapons. Valdemar started right away, making climbing knots in the rope. Brissac pointed toward a gate in the far wall. “Through there. The courtyard beyond has a flight of stairs that leads up to the battlements.”

  Henry smothered a smile. They might actually get away with this. He led the way to the gate, his heart rising with every step. Then, just a few yards from the gate, he heard the faint jingle of chain mail, and low voices echoing on stone. He stopped them and peered around the gateway into the courtyard.

  The guards stood between them and escape—a squad of ten led by a knight, some still buckling on swords and armor, but enough to take them all down even if they’d had weapons. Henry’s crew stared at him, waiting for him to come up with an answer. Henry shivered, because he had one. A really, really crazy one. Well, if knights were as sword-crazy as they seemed to be, it should work. And if it didn’t, then his plan for Geoffrey wouldn’t work either. Better to know now…

  He tossed his knife to Brissac. “Alfie, Valdemar—make for the stairs when you see your chance. Take the rope with you. Percy, give me your scabbard.” Percy moved to unbuckle the whole affair. Henry raised his hand. “Keep the sword. Just the scabbard, please.” Henry took it and strapped it on.

  “Let’s go.” He stepped out into the courtyard, not bothering to look back.

  It was frosty cold. He straightened his tunic as he walked forward, throwing back his mind to the time with Excalibur, trying to remember how it felt, to be a…a vehicle for the sword.

  And then he was face to face with the knight.

  “I am the king’s man. Yield.” The knight was Percy’s age, with a patchy beard and unscarred face. A kid.

  Henry looked dead into his eyes. “I am the Muttering Knight. Yield to me.” He grinned the lunatic killer’s grin he had stolen from John. It was all he had. He felt light and empty, a shadow without strength.

  “The Muttering Knight? The rebel?” The knight drew his sword. “Don’t you have a magic sword?”

  But the knight’s en garde opened a door in Henry’s mind. Now he remembered a time with the sword, when a warrior’s stance had been etched into his flesh and bone.

  Rooted to the earth. Light on the balls of the feet. Legs bent and right arm extended. The blade heavy but easy to move, a fearful engine, perfectly balanced.

  He grinned wider and slowly, ever so slowly, drew an invisible blade from the scabbard. He held up his right hand, fist perfectly cupped around an invisible hilt, every muscle revealing the weight of a sword that wasn’t there.

  “This is my blade, magic and invisible.”

  The young knight grinned nervously. “Is this a joke?”

  Henry just smiled.

  “Are you mad?”

  “Come find out.”

  The knight licked his lips and looked back at his squad. “There’s no honor in fighting a lunatic…”

  Around them Henry could hear the scuttle of feet on stone—Alfie and the others pattering through the shadows, making the most of his distraction. Henry edged right, putting himself between the stairway and the hesitating knight. One foot up, then the other, he slowly climbed the stairs backwards, his imaginary sword extended, as the rest of the crew raced above him to the parapets.

  “They’re going over the wall!” shouted one of the guards. That broke the spell. The young knight charged ahead, closing the gap that had opened between him and Henry.

  “My turn, now.” Brissac’s hand was on Henry’s shoulder, shoving him back up the steps. Percy’s sword in hand, Brissac shoved himself between Henry and the knight. With two swings, the knight’s sword clattered down the steps and away. “Go on, before they raise the alarm.”

  At the catwalk, Valdemar had looped the rope around a merlon and draped it down the outside wall. He was lowering Alfie, slow and steady, to a wagon that was drawn up to the wall, one of a line of carts waiting for the gates to open at sunrise.

  As Henry joined the others on the catwalk, the castle’s bells began to ring out. His bladder started to loosen. “Faster is better, Vee.”

  Valdemar grunted. “Lower him yourself, why don’t you?”

  “Percy, you’re next.”

  “But, My Lord—”

  “Just go.”

  Percy grabbed the rope and clambered down as Brissac arrived. “None of them wanted to rush me, but they’ll come at us from the towers in a few moments. Archers too, probably. Here.” Brissac shoved a new sword in his belt, and handed Percy’s sword to Henry. “Nice bluff, boy.”

  “Wait till you see what I have planned for Geoffrey. I’m going to fake him out of his codpiece.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “Help us get out alive, and I’ll show you the real sword of kings.”

  An arrow whistled overhead, a taste of things to come. Valdemar shoved Henry to the rope. “Your turn.”

  Henry grabbed the rope and kicked off from the wall. Valdemar had knotted it well, every five feet. Then he was down, the sides of his fingers raw from the friction of the rope. He looked around. Alfie and Percy waved to him from behind one of the supply wagons. In minutes they were joined by Brissac and Valdemar. Crouching low, they ran into the darkness of the alleys and away.

  36. The Wrong Sword

  The bells rang at dawn. The noise echoed across the city, from St. Marcel to St. Lazare, scattering birds into the air, sending rats scuttling back into their nests, waking pilgrims and Parisians alike. The nobles, with their knights and troops, had been awake and waiting since the third watch. The gates of the family palaces opened wide, and the retinues rode out along broad, muddy avenues through suburban farmland toward the heart of Paris, the Ile de la Cité, and the cathedral where their emperor would be crowned. With nothing better to do, the students and slackers of the universitatis lined the processional boulevard of St. Michel to watch the free show, grabbing the best spots before the town’s merchants and craftsmen could even wake up to make a try.

  Soldiers dotted the intersections along the Boulevard St. Germain, the Rue St. Jacque, and the Rue du Temple. They patrolled in squads through the mucky alleys of the Latin Quarter and stood guard over the guild houses on the Rue du Bourgeois. Their livery was fancy, but they were not: blank-faced Swiss mercenaries, Teutons with the hard stares and red crosses of ex-Crusaders, twitchy Angevins who were loyal only to the Plantagenets.

  By the time the sun rose fully over the eastern Marais, the retinues of the nobles had entered the city. First came the heads of the households, in their finest robes, riding war horses. Then came the house’s vassal knights, in order of rank or favor, and the ladies of the house, on horseback or in sedan chair, surrounded by men-at-arms. The knights rode their best horses; the noblewomen wore their wealth on their necks and fingers and gowns. Today was a coronation—a chance to impress, to socialize, to make marriages and other business deals.

  From the roof of the inn, Henry watched the nobles advance up
the Boul’ Miche. He was wearing the knightly tunic Geoffrey had forced on him. It had been cleaned by a fuller, its rips and holes carefully mended. He was sick of it, the sword and stone insignia, the whole stupid show, but this would be the last day he’d ever wear it…one way or another. He wore a sword on his hip, and in a small leather pouch he carried one of the two reasons he’d rescued Alfie from prison: a clay pot sealed with wax and inscribed with alchemical symbols.

  “Let’s have a look at the sword, lad,” said Alfie. Henry drew it. It was an odd weapon, but so obviously precious that it had cost their last gold pieces from the Charlemagne score. Henry turned it over in the sunlight.

  “Vee’s a genius. How did he do it?”

  “The Worm had a book. From his brother, he said. And it seems one of Valdemar’s strikers is a Saracen.”

  The blade was as long as a man’s arm, flexible and bright, with patterns on the steel like oil on water, and an edge sharper than a razor. Gems studded its hilt and pommel. It was beautiful. It was light, too, maybe half the weight of a knightly sword—and without Excalibur, every ounce was important. For what Henry had planned, it was perfect.

  “It’s a different kind of steel. How will it take to the treatment?” Alfie was worried about the stuff in the pot. So was Henry—“the treatment” was as nasty and dangerous as wearing a snake for a bracelet. Just being near the stuff gave Henry the shivers. They kept it in clay because it ate through wood, and they had tested it twice on steel before they decided to use it.

  Henry shrugged. “I’m sure it will last long enough.”

  “I don’t like it, lad. In a good cheat, the mark comes to you and suspects nothing. Geoffrey’s waiting for you.”

  Brissac hawked and spit over the edge of the roof. “For what it’s worth, I still have some friends in Geoffrey’s retinue. They say he’s gotten worse. Crazier.” He was dressed as a Swiss mercenary, down to the crossbow and mail shirt.

  Henry nodded. “I’ll bet Excalibur is making his life interesting.”

  Brissac smiled. “We should help the man. Take it off his hands.”

  “It’s time.” Henry held out his hand to Alfie, who gave him a monk’s robe. He draped it over his clothes and pulled the hood over his freshly tonsured scalp. “Where’s Percy?”

  “With Princess Mathilde’s retinue. Geoffrey has been too distracted to pay close attention to her men-at-arms.”

  Alfie fussed with Henry’s robe. “And Valdemar is downstairs with the Worm.”

  Henry turned to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

  They climbed down the stairs and out on to the street. The crowds were already thick, and the invitees to the coronation paraded past in good order. Valdemar was waiting, one hand clamped tight to the Worm’s shoulder.

  “Pete, where’s this brother of yours?”

  The Worm pointed down the road at a band of monks progressing toward them, chanting. “There. They’ve been given the honor of singing the coronation mass.”

  “You kept your mouth shut?”

  The book thief looked offended. “Of course!” He licked his lips. “But I told him you’d make a gift. A copy of Avicenna.”

  “After. I’ll pay him directly, if you don’t mind.”

  “Fine. Now let me go.”

  “Valdemar is going to stay with you until after the coronation. Vee, what will you do if something goes wrong?”

  “Burn his books.”

  “No! For Christ’s sake, Henry—”

  “Sorry, can’t talk. That’s my retinue.” Henry pushed through the crowds and joined the monks. One of them looked up.

  “Henry! There you are!”

  Henry whimpered in terror. It was Gervasius, the mad monk.

  “I knew it was you! As soon as Pete started talking about swords and alchemy, I knew it was you!” Gervasius—or Gerry, or Wiglaf, or whatever name he was using now—seemed unharmed by his lightning machine. Maybe being crazy was its own form of unbreakable armor.

  “Shut up!” Henry whispered fiercely. “Don’t—”

  “It’s okay!” Brother Gerry whispered. He winked elaborately. “I understand about secrets!”

  Wait a minute. “You’re the Worm—You’re Petronius’ brother?” But of course he was. He had to be. The height, the complexion, the nose—

  “You mean Pete? Of course. He loaned out my first manuscript.”

  Naturally. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree in the Florentium family.

  The sky was clear, and the sun was bright on red banners and cloth of gold. The onlookers were cheering like mad, and after a moment, Henry saw why: Geoffrey had stationed men throughout the procession who scattered pennies into the crowd. It was clever. Too clever—it was hardly the work of a desperate, easily fooled madman.

  Henry shrugged off the fear and concentrated on walking in step with the other monks. It was harder than it looked, and the manure left by the nobles’ horses didn’t make it easier—no pedestrian lane here. But at least Brother Gerry was quiet now, and the route wasn’t long—from the Rue Cujas up the boulevard to the island was less than a mile. Before Henry knew it, he could smell the Seine, Notre Dame was looming ahead of them on their right, and they were facing the guards on the bridge. The sentries were Swiss mercenaries, guarding the way with pikes.

  The one on the left was Hauptmann.

  Henry’s breath caught. If Hauptmann spotted him, it could all end here. The band of monks got closer. Hauptmann stared at them, made eye contact with one or two, then looked directly at Henry. Henry felt all his luck draining away.

  Then Hauptmann nodded to the other sergeant, and the Swiss stepped aside. Henry snuck a peak at Hauptmann as he walked past. The mercenary looked exactly as he had before. Just a soldier doing his job.

  They walked over the bridge and joined the huge crowd in front of the cathedral, waiting for the coronation. Here Geoffrey had put another bright crowd-control idea in place—everyone was separated. Monks were with monks, townsfolk with townsfolk, knights with knights. Mercenaries patrolled the borders. It was tidy and impressive, and if Henry wanted to take a look around, he’d stick out like a pork roast in Lent.

  Henry turned to Gervasius. “When do we go inside?”

  The monk smiled. “The Holy Father is inside already. We enter next, and then Geoffrey will enter, the nobility will follow, and the pope will crown him emperor. Quite an event, eh? And we’ll have a terrific view from the gallery on the second floor.”

  Henry fought to keep the smile on his face. “The second floor? The gallery?” High above the action, with no way to get down? How was he supposed to reach Geoffrey from the gallery? Would he have to run down the packed stairwell past a dozen monks and twice that many armed killers before he even got to the altar? Maybe if I just wave hard enough, Geoffrey will see me and ask me to come on down.

  Gerry nodded. “Of course. It’s not like we’re knights or anything. But don’t worry, you’ll be able to see everything, even better than the nobles on the floor. Oh, the bell is ringing. Time for us to enter.” The monks got to their feet, singing, and walked out to the processional avenue. Facing hard stares from the patrolling mercenaries, Henry rose and followed.

  Rope. If he had some rope, he could climb down…The monks filed toward the entrance, passing row after row of nobles and knights. Every few feet they would stop to chant an Ave Maria, and then continue. Henry looked around frantically. If Percy was around—There! He was on horseback, in the front rank of what had to be Mattie’s retainers.

  The monks stopped again for a hallelujah break. Henry tried to catch Percy’s eye without being too obvious. It wasn’t easy. Eye contact—nothing. A little wave—zip. Finally Henry pulled down his hood, and Percy figured out who he was. Percy’s whole face lit up like a puppy with a new bone, and Henry had to make frantic little “shushing” gestures. Finally, Percy seemed to figure it out and nodded. Next, Henry tried to pantomime “rope,” twisting his hands, miming a hangman’s noose, even pointing to the rop
e of his monk’s belt. Percy just looked more and more puzzled.

  Finally, Henry pointed to the sedan chair. Get Mattie. Percy understood that and wheeled his horse around, but as he did, the procession started up again, and Henry was forced to enter the church.

  It wasn’t the first time Henry had been in Notre Dame, of course, but no matter how many times he entered, it still stopped his heart—the vast walls of colored light that were the stained glass windows; the great rose window above all, illuminated by the sun, glowing in the darkness; the pillars that marched down both sides of the nave and reached high above, leading to the glory of the altar…even for someone like him, who liked to keep Mother Church at a distance, it was a reminder that there were bigger things in the world than Henry of Sanbruc…or Excalibur, for that matter.

  But not today.

  They marched down the southern side aisle, toward the winding stairs that would lead up to the gallery. Henry looked right and left, but Geoffrey’s men at arms were on either side, marking the way for the monks. Waiting until it seemed that the mercenaries weren’t looking, Henry wandered into a side chapel. In a heartbeat, a soldier was at his elbow, pointing toward the stairs. Geoffrey might be evil, but you had to admire his organizational skills.

  Henry trudged up the circular stairwell with the monks and out onto the gallery. The soldier shut the door behind him.

  “Wasn’t I right?” asked Gervasius. “About the view, I mean.”

  “You’re right, Gerry,” said Henry. “It is a great view.” For a dead end. They hung halfway between floor and ceiling, flanked by the pillars, the arches of the roof vaulting far above. The gallery was a full thirty feet above the floor, not even counting the distance to the altar itself, which was dozens of yards farther east, beyond the church’s transept.

  A full thirty feet. Henry fingered the rope around his waist. Four feet, at most. But it was strong and clingy and flexible, and there were more than a dozen monks here with him. Maybe Gerry could help. If he wanted to.

  Henry turned to the monk. “Where do you stand, Gerry?”