The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

“What do you mean?”

  “Do you care who gets your knowledge? Is it all right with you if it’s Geoffrey and Raymond?”

  “Of course not.”

  Henry blinked.

  Gervasius grimaced. “The man won’t fund anything except automatic shepherds now! Do you know how hard it is to find loadstones? And we both know that the shepherding aspect of the machine is fundamentally flawed. All it does is destroy castles!” He sighed. “I can admit it. A philosopher learns from his mistakes. That’s why I took refuge with the Benedictines.”

  Henry fought the urge to smile. “I need to get down there, fast.”

  Gerry brightened. “I have a device, a pneumo—”

  “I need your belt,” Henry cut in quickly. “And those of your brothers.”

  Henry had forgotten about the vow of obedience that you took as a monk; he hadn’t taken his own that seriously, after all. But these monks were hardcore, and they obviously saw something in Gerry that Henry hadn’t. Gervasius lifted his hand, and they turned to him. He took off his own rope belt and handed it to Henry, and the others lined up to do the same, singing the whole time. It was impressive.

  “You’ll need some help with the knots,” said Gerry.

  While the monks tied their belts together, Henry carefully took out the clay pot and broke the wax seal. Inside was a greased-leather pouch, submerged in a pool of water. Henry put a glove on his left hand and lifted out the pouch. Alfie’s instructions had been very clear. Whatever happened, he was to keep the pouch away from his naked skin. It carried a lump of white wax that, in a weak and adulterated form, was one of the ingredients of Greek fire. But in its pure form, according to Alfie’s alchemist friend, there was no “Greek” about it; it was the philosopher’s mercury, nothing more or less than the solidified element of fire itself. Henry was to pierce the pouch with the blade the instant before he confronted Geoffrey, smear the wax up and down, and pray that it worked as they said it would.

  Cheers and hosannas rose from the church entrance. Henry bent over the gallery rail, craning for a look. It was Geoffrey making his entrance. Henry scanned the prince’s face for any signs of incipient madness. There was still time to call it all off—

  No. He couldn’t tell; Geoffrey was too far away. Either he would believe the grift, or he wouldn’t. Henry studied the rope. The knots looked good. Carefully, he placed the pouch back in the pot and checked the knots. Solid. He turned to Gervasius. “I’ll need a loop for my foot. Can you lower me down?”

  “Sure. But are you sure you don’t want to try the pneu—”

  “And I’ll need to get Geoffrey’s attention. Can you stop the singing for a moment when I’m on the balcony?”

  “We can do better than that. Get ready.”

  “Uh—”

  “Trust us.”

  Henry tied one end of the rope around the closest pillar, and fit the last loop of the rope around his foot. Still singing, the monks lined up along the rope and grabbed it like a band of old men playing tug-of-war. Whispering a prayer to the Virgin Mary, Henry picked up the pouch, and pierced it with the sword. The glowing wax spread up and down the blade, shining coldly in the gloom of the cathedral like the full moon on a clear winter night. There was a faint hiss as the wax met the air. It was as impressive as it was dangerous. Someone less skeptical than Henry might easily think it was magical. Clinging to the pillar, Henry climbed onto the gallery railing and turned to Gerry.

  “Now,” he said.

  Gerry raised a hand. The monks turned upward, as if aiming their voices at a particular spot on the ceiling. All at once, they stopped chanting the Ave Maria and sang one word.

  “MURDERER!”

  It echoed through the cathedral. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. The procession stopped. Henry could see the knights and nobles looking around to see where the sound was coming from. Gerry leaned in and pointed. “Pitch your voice toward that arch and speak from your gut—it will carry throughout the cathedral.”

  Henry nodded. “LOOK UP, DUKE OF BRITTANY!” All the eyes down below turned up. “YOU SAY YOU HAVE THE SWORD OF KINGS. I SAY IT IS FALSE, AND SO ARE YOU.”

  There. Geoffrey saw him. They locked eyes. Even though Geoffrey was dozens of yards away, Henry felt his bowels drop into his boots, but he matched Geoffrey’s grin with his own. Through a rigid smile, he muttered “now,” and the monks lowered him to the floor.

  The singing had stopped. There was dead silence. Geoffrey stood in front of the altar, dressed in silk and ermine, a gold chain on his neck…and Excalibur in his hand. Henry walked toward him. Each step echoed. Henry drew his sword. In the darkness of the cathedral, Excalibur and Henry’s fake gleamed together with a pale, unnatural fire.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Henry,” said Geoffrey. The streaks of white in his hair were wider, and he was grinning like a death’s head. Henry met Geoffrey’s eyes and knew then that Brissac was wrong. Geoffrey wasn’t mad, not any more—he was as far beyond madness now as the sun is beyond fire. Had Excalibur done all that? Or had it always been in Geoffrey, waiting to come out? Henry’s life depended on the answer.

  Geoffrey raised his hand and turned to the waiting nobles. “You see this poor child. He helped me find Excalibur, but then went mad. Now he imagines himself a knight. Take him, but treat him gently.”

  Before anyone could move, Henry raised his sword and shouted. “I AM THE MUTTERING KNIGHT! I WIELD THE SWORD OF DAVID, GOD’S ANOINTED! COME AND FACE ME, PRETENDER!”

  There was a wave of confused motion, but no one in the crowd stepped forward to take Henry. Geoffrey’s face darkened. He turned again to the nobles and knights. “You want to see the blood of innocents? So be it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Henry saw a priest in vestments—the bishop of Paris, probably—race to the front, ready to stop bloodshed in a holy place. But he disappeared into the crowd, his voice muffled by Percy’s hand. So Percy was good for something, anyway.

  Staring into Geoffrey’s eyes, Henry wanted to run. If he couldn’t make Geoffrey believe his sword was magic, was one of the Nine, he was a dead man. But to make Geoffrey believe, Henry would have to act as though he himself believed, as though his sword really were magic. He couldn’t merely defend; he would have to attack. If he could attack, if he could survive the first few passes, that might be enough to convince Geoffrey.

  As he had at the prison, Henry tried to remember what it felt like to wield Excalibur. It was easier this time, with a real sword in his hands. He lowered his sword, point toward Geoffrey, took a deep breath—

  —and Geoffrey charged.

  Excalibur was everywhere, at Henry’s head, his guts, his legs. Henry had grown a few inches over the past year, but Geoffrey still had the reach on him, and he used it relentlessly, forcing Henry back down the long central aisle. Henry gave ground and gave ground, fighting to keep his balance and not be overwhelmed. But if Geoffrey had been deadly with a bastard sword, with Excalibur he was…supernal. He moved so fast Henry couldn’t even see the blade—every block, every parry was based on guesswork and hope. His only advantage was the memory of Excalibur fighting in his muscles and joints, keeping him centered, his legs bent, his wrist straight.

  “You’re still standing,” said Geoffrey. “So that really is a magic sword.” He wasn’t even breathing hard.

  Yes! Somewhere beneath the terror, Henry’s heart leaped. Geoffrey couldn’t believe Henry was fighting on his own. He believed that Henry’s sword was real. Henry grinned and flourished the weapon in a figure eight, Excalibur-style. “Come find out, old man.”

  “Now we end it.”

  Geoffrey swung at Henry’s head. Henry moved to block, but even faster, Geoffrey changed the attack, and Excalibur was humming toward Henry’s unprotected side. This time, Henry could see the blow coming, but he couldn’t move fast enough. He was going to die—

  Geoffrey’s face twisted. He groaned and faltered, giving Henry the moment he needed to parry. Sparks flew, and
Henry jumped back.

  “What’s the matter, Geoff?” Henry twirled his sword again. “Touch of gout?”

  Geoffrey snarled and lunged. Once again, Henry was at the center of the whirlwind. But he could see Geoffrey’s face—the prince was in agony. Excalibur was fighting her master.

  Henry leaped away from a cut that would have disemboweled him if it had been two inches closer. Staggering in pain, Geoffrey was still a better fighter. Geoffrey attacked again, hacking and slashing, until they stood corps-à-corps.

  “Give up, boy.”

  “I don’t think so, Geoff,” said Henry. “My sword’s better. You see, it doesn’t talk back.”

  You don’t know despair until you see hope. Henry saw it in Geoffrey’s face and knew what would happen next. Geoffrey shoved him back and bored in with a spiral that sent “David’s sword” clattering across the floor. Geoffrey dropped Excalibur and leaped for the other blade.

  In a moment that seemed to stretch forever, Henry reached down for Excalibur. He touched its hilt. His hand closed around it, and the sword’s spirit moved—

  So. What kept you?

  Henry and Geoffrey stood facing each other. Geoffrey stared at the sword in his hand. He waved it once, twice. “No magic.” He looked Henry in the eye. “Clever lad.”

  His standards for “clever” are obviously low.

  “You—”

  No time!

  The scimitar sliced toward Henry’s head in a blur. Henry ducked, parried Geoffrey’s backslash, and hopped out of range. Excalibur was light in his hands, and once again he felt the sword’s power rising.

  Geoffrey lunged twice at his head, then whirled at his chest. Henry ducked. The world lost its color; he could feel the sword’s cold ghost seeping into his skull.

  “Stay out of my head!”

  You do not command me!

  “Right back at you!”

  Geoffrey pressed him relentlessly. In his hands, the razor-sharp blade seemed to slice the air itself in pieces.

  But you need me!

  “Not that much!”

  Geoffrey caught Henry on the left cheek, just below the eye, and drew a line of fire to Henry’s nose.

  Very well.

  Henry’s vision cleared. The presence behind his eyes faded. But Excalibur still felt light. His arms and legs felt strong. He could sense Geoffrey’s stance—there was a slight imbalance, favoring the prince’s right leg over his left—he knew what to do.

  There. You have my power. Now finish it!

  Henry attacked, catching Geoffrey’s sword mid-blade with Excalibur. Sparks showered down on them, skittering across the floor of the cathedral. Henry chopped at Geoffrey’s head, throwing off Geoffrey’s rhythm, putting him on the defensive.

  They traded blows, cut, parry, riposte, their attacks carrying them up and down the nave. Henry’s body ran with sweat under the showy tunic. Blood ran from the slash on his cheek, and another, longer one on his torso. Geoffrey’s attack was so fast and Valdemar’s damned blade was so sharp that Henry hadn’t even felt the cut at first. Now it burned with the remnants of the chemical fire on Geoffrey’s sword, and the blood was trickling into Henry’s braies.

  Damned Valdemar. He didn’t have to be that good.

  Without Excalibur, Geoffrey was breathing easy—easier than Henry. He was unwounded, he moved light as a bird, and he fought with a terrible joy.

  “I owe you, Henry! You brought me magic, and now you’ve brought me freedom!”

  Henry ducked Geoffrey’s attack. A few stray hairs drifted to the floor, severed by Damascus steel. The crowd oohed and aahed at the nearness of the cut. Glad you’re enjoying the show, thought Henry.

  “Once you’re dead, I might not even torture your friends!”

  “You’re a giver, Geoff!” Henry pointed Excalibur and lunged. Geoffrey parried easily and riposted, forcing Henry to scramble to recover. “Shatter his sword already!” Henry muttered to Excalibur.

  What do you think I’ve been trying to do!? That cursed prince knows me to well. He turns the blade so I cannot catch it.

  “I’m bleeding. We don’t have a lot of time here.”

  “You’re losing, Henry.” Geoffrey attacked, was parried. “Yield, and…oh, hell, boy, we both know I’ll kill you, no matter what. Never mind.” Geoffrey grinned, and cut at him again. And again.

  Geoffrey forced him relentlessly down the aisle, past the Archbishop, past the assembled noble families, past Mattie, who was gripping Percy’s hand with whitened knuckles, rigid as a statue. Henry beat uselessly at Geoffrey’s attack. He felt like screaming. He had practiced, he had come all this way, Geoffrey had fallen for the scheme, he had Excalibur—and Geoffrey was still beating him. Was toying with him. It wasn’t fair.

  If you are about to die, shove me into the foundation stone of the cathedral. Geoffrey shall not move me from it, and I shall stand as a testament against his rule.

  “Yeah. You give up too easily, you know that?”

  Then what are you waiting for? KILL HIM!

  Henry screamed and leaped. Geoffrey grinned and raised his blade—strong, confident, with the sword’s edge turned just slightly toward Henry.

  There it is.

  Excalibur sang with certainty. The swords met with a metal shriek. There was a sound like a bell cracking, and more sparks.

  And Geoffrey staggered back, staring at his broken sword. The crowd gasped.

  Tell him to yield.

  “Do I have to?”

  Believe me, I am sorry, but…yes.

  “Geoffrey Plantagenet, tyrant and usurper, yield!”

  Geoffrey looked up. His face was slack. The focus, the driving, terrifying Plantagenet craziness, was gone. For the first time, he looked like an ordinary man, one who had been caught out by bad news that he didn’t quite believe. His mouth worked. “I…” Maybe it was over. Maybe—

  Then, like wine filling a skin, Henry saw the pride return. Geoffrey stood straight, and smiled. “I think…not.” He leaped at Henry, the broken sword seeking Henry’s face.

  Henry’s hand twitched. Excalibur rose. Geoffrey caught the sword square in his chest.

  Henry’s arm cramped with the sudden weight, and Geoffrey’s eyes locked with Henry’s. Henry saw the light blaze brightly for a moment, and then go out. Geoffrey sagged against Henry, and then fell to the floor, dead.

  Henry looked down stupidly at himself. He was covered in Geoffrey’s blood and his own. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to—

  Stay awake, Henry. Stay alert.

  “Wha—”

  You have killed their prince. Maybe they’ll kneel, maybe they’ll charge. We don’t know.

  “How about I run?”

  Then they will definitely charge.

  “Oh.”

  You always have a plan. Didn’t you plan for this?

  “I didn’t expect to get this far.”

  The noise of the assembled crowd grew louder and louder. It was starting to sound distinctly less happy.

  Do something quickly, Henry. Left alone, crowds go to the bad.

  “What should I do?” The nobles had hitched up their sword belts. Henry saw a few determined expressions he didn’t like at all.

  Raise me high. Claim the throne for yourself.

  “You’re kidding!”

  Why not? You’re better than that thing you killed.

  The mob inched closer.

  “Did you actually compliment me? Are you sure you’re Excalibur?”

  Henry…

  One knight had drawn his sword. Another did it. And another.

  Henry licked his lips. At least he had to make sure that no one got Excalibur. The sword’s suggestion made sense now—stick it in the bedrock of Notre Dame, and no one would chip away sacred ground to get it. He raised Excalibur, and aimed it point first at the floor. The knights were all around him.

  “GOD SAVE HENRY OF SANBRUC!”

  Mattie’s voice rang out through the cathedral. Henry turne
d, and the crowds parted to let her through, with a little help from Percy, who shoved away a couple of knights who didn’t move on their own. She walked toward him, one hand on Percy’s arm, dressed all in white, with a silver crown. Henry’s mouth went dry, and his heart punched at his ribs. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  “Kneel, Henry.”

  Henry knelt. Without looking away, Mattie held out her hand. “Guillaume. Your shirt.” One of the knights who had looked ready to kill Henry stripped off his tunic and handed it to Mattie.

  And all the knights with drawn swords knelt, too, bowing their heads.

  Oh, clever girl. She IS a princess, that one.

  Mattie held her hand out.

  What are you waiting for, idiot? Give me to her!

  Slowly, Henry presented Excalibur to Mattie. She wiped it clean of her uncle’s blood as casually as polishing a piece of silverware. Then she grabbed it by the hilt, and held it over Henry’s head.

  “Henry of Sanbruc, you have served us well. Take from our hands your knighthood. By St. Louis and St. Charles, we grant you the right to bear arms and to mete justice, to raise troops and to hold land. We bind you to our service, to the order of chivalry and the code of arms. Protect the weak, defend the helpless, confound the wicked.” She struck him lightly on both shoulders with the sword. “Rise, Sir Henry.”

  Henry staggered to his feet. Percy gave him the thumbs up. Mattie smiled, kissed him lightly on both cheeks and handed him Excalibur. “You have a way out of here?” she said quietly.

  It took him a minute to understand. “Brissac’s waiting with the Swiss. If you can get me outside—”

  “Right. Take my hand. Smile. Wave to all the pretty people.”

  She lifted his hand and turned him to face the guests.

  “THREE CHEERS!” yelled Percy. “HIP, HIP—HURRAY! HIP, HIP—”

  The cheering echoed from the pillars and the walls. It couldn’t be true, but Henry thought he could see everyone he’d met in the crowd—Alfie and Vee, Wulfgar and Madame Goncourt, Edwina and Ralf and Ulric…he shook his head.

  They walked smoothly down the nave, nodding to the crowd.

  “Berengaria?” murmured Henry, out of the corner of his mouth.