The Wrong Sword

by Ted Mendelssohn

  “Oh, like you wouldn’t have changed it, too.”

  The doors of the cathedral opened, and they walked into sunlight.

  37. Under New Management

  Mostly, people had wanted a party, and they got one.

  King Philip made sure of it. A good party makes everything right. So minstrels and jugglers filled the streets, the students and criminals were roaring drunk on the Left Bank, and even the nuns of St. Agnes were ready to party like it was 999. And Henry, Alfie, and Valdemar had passes to the hot-ticket event of the post-Geoffrey season: the Park Royal.

  Despite the lateness of the year, Philip had decreed a giant festival area in the fields outside the city’s western wall. Bonfires of specially seasoned oak burned hot with very little smoke, turning the late October weather back into September. Tiny oil lamps with horn casings studded the trees. Tents and pavilions were everywhere, some private, some open for business: wine, food, entertainment.

  Henry, Alfie, and Valdemar were walking up the main avenue to the royal enclosure, dressed in their finest, courtesy of the Houses of Plantagenet and Capet. They’d even had baths.

  “Put on your hat. It cost sixty dixaines.”

  “I look like a damned Italian courtier,” said Valdemar.

  “That’s the style.” Henry looked around at the crowds. He hadn’t realized just how many people had attended the coronation that wasn’t. Most of them were here in the park, and the babble of different languages was incredible. In just a few steps, he’d heard Swabian, Frisian, Milanese, and something he was sure was Greek.

  “Lots of nobles, too,” said Alfie.

  “What?”

  “I’m just saying, lad—fat pickings if we want them. That fellow yonder, with all those spearmen, he’s a Hohen-something. Rich as Midas they are, and they dabble in alchemy. We could—”

  Back to your old ways, eh?

  “That’s enough out of you,” muttered Henry.

  Well, it won’t matter soon. Are you sure he’ll be at the Royal Pavilion?

  “I checked three times. You’re not the only one who wants this hand-off.”

  It was the one benefit of the coronation that Henry hadn’t considered—where you had a gathering of royalty, you might actually have someone Excalibur considered worthy. And they were meeting him tonight. By tomorrow, he’d be a free man. Goodbye, insanely dangerous journey to Constantinople. Hello, soft Parisian bedspread. Goodbye, evil Plantagenet emperor. Hello, smart, beautiful Plantagenet princess. Henry grinned like an idiot.

  The Royal Pavilion spread out in front of them. Philip knew how to put on a show—there were yards of silk, hundreds of torches, music, guards. This was clearly the place to be.

  Henry turned to Alfie. “If someone catches a hand on their purse, I don’t know you.”

  “But they’re the oppressing class—”

  “And no puking on people’s shoes. Valdemar, I’m looking at you.”

  Valdemar muttered something nasty in Flemish.

  I give them two hours, tops. Let’s cut their throats now, and save ourselves the embarrassment of having to do it later.

  “And another county heard from. Thank you all for your support. Shall we go in?”

  The guards opened the gate, and they entered. Inside, it was a blaze of light. Musicians were doing something classy with strings, and pages circulated with trays of food and wine cups. Henry looked for a central dining table, until he saw guests just reach out and pick food off the trays.

  “It’s all the rage in Rome.”

  Henry turned. The man had strong features, with black hair and eyes. And a crown.

  “Your Majesty.” Henry bowed. He didn’t have to look up to know that, with the instincts of true street rats, Alfie and Valdemar had already peeled off and scuttled for cover.

  Not a bad bow. A little stiff, perhaps—

  King Philip of France extended a suave, well-manicured hand. “Rise, Sir Henry. I see my tailors did good work for you.”

  “Yes, Majesty. The new clothes were much appreciated, as were the rooms at the Palais.”

  Henry tried to study Mattie’s new guardian without staring. He was handsome, Henry noted with displeasure. And tall. Too tall, really. Who did he think he was?

  Now THERE is a king.

  “Why not go with him, then?”

  Too cunning, too bigoted. My true bearer must possess a certain innocence.

  “No mind of his own, you mean?”

  But this one is a monarch nonetheless.

  “Were you addressing me, Sir Henry?”

  “No, Majesty. I’m sorry. Muttering is an affliction of mine—”

  “So I hear. As is the sword you bear.”

  How dare he! Some puppy of a prince, with no more than thirty winters behind him—

  Henry winced.

  Philip noticed. “I see the stories are true.” He gestured, and a servant brought them wine. “You know, many who did not see your final battle refuse to believe you fought Geoffrey at all. Some say he was trampled by a horse.”

  “I wish it were so, Your Majesty.”

  Philip raised an eyebrow. “This was your first time in combat?”

  “No, Majesty. But it was the first time I…looked into his eyes.”

  Philip nodded. “Indeed. Well, you offered him mercy. He refused.”

  I said as much! But would you listen to me? No—

  “But that is not the issue, is it? It is the act itself.” Philip put a hand on his shoulder. “I felt the same way. No one retains his innocence outside of Eden, Sir Henry. You’ll feel better soon enough.”

  “Thank you, Majesty.”

  Philip paused for a moment, and studied Henry. “Tell me, Henry…if I asked you for your sword, would you give it to me?”

  Excalibur shrieked. Henry ignored it, and tried to frame his answer carefully. Very, very carefully. “I hope that you would not, Majesty. For your own sake. It did no good at all to its…previous owner.”

  The king nodded. “Yes. We noticed. But you’re not drooling or screaming at phantoms. Are you stronger than a Plantagenet?”

  Hah. You’re about as strong as a custard. Tell him that.

  “No, Majesty. I am just…more humble. And less likely to commit atrocities. Excalibur frowns on them, you see.”

  Philip sipped his wine. “It dictates policy, does it?”

  “It expects to have a say, Majesty.”

  “That must have infuriated Geoffrey.”

  “I hope so, Majesty.” They shared a smile. Philip’s smile made him look dark and interesting; Henry smothered a pang of jealousy as big as the Louvre. “Majesty?”

  “Yes?”

  “Princess Mathilde…how is she? I haven’t spoken to her since the cathedral.”

  Philip nodded to the dais. “There she is. You can ask her yourself.”

  “No, that’s all right—”

  “Well, she has asked to see you. So stop by any time. I’ll tell her chaperone to allow you an audience.” Philip clapped him on the shoulder and left.

  “‘Chaperone.’ Nice. Letting me know where I stand.”

  Well, you did steal her once. If it is any consolation, your feelings are in the best tradition of knightly—

  “No. It’s not. Where’s Percy?” Henry stalked through the pavilion. Percy had promised to get the low-down on Excalibur’s hot prospect—some princeling they had spotted a few days before at one of the tourneys Philip had organized. Excalibur had seen the kid win joust after joust and offer mercy to his vanquished foes; naturally, the sword had fallen for him point over pommel. But he’d jousted in cheap, no-name armor (a mark of modesty that had sealed the deal as far as Excalibur was concerned) and so they’d set Percy on the trail of the Unknown Knight.

  “You’re a joust groupie, you know that?”

  You can tell more about a man by his lance than you can by his speech.

  Henry took a chair near the wine kegs and grabbed a cup. He had walked to the party from the Royal
Palace, and his wounds hurt. “Is it my imagination, or are people staring?”

  Yes, they are. Some are trying to gauge your worth as a foe in tourney; others wonder whether they can take me from you; still others are certain they can, but doubt they can do it honorably, now that you are wounded. Do not worry. By tomorrow, you will no longer be worth their consideration.

  “Well, thank you. It’s nice to know I was so important to your plans.”

  Honestly, there is no pleasing you. I was trying to cheer you up.

  “As soon as I give this knight a certain magic sword, I’ll be so happy I’ll need a purge.”

  Well, that goes double for me. Triple! In fact, I’ll—

  “Wait. Hold that insult.” Henry spotted Percy and raised a hand. Percy came over.

  “What’s the word?”

  “Good. His name is Frederick. He’s a German, a prince in Bavaria—”

  Henry glanced down at Excalibur. “The Alps. Fighting the storms, testing yourself against the elements. You’ll like that.”

  Although one must guard one’s edge against snow and sleet—

  “—and naught but good is spoken of him, and although young, he is said to be deeply learned.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He can read.”

  I won’t hold that against him. Arthur himself was able to sign his name.

  “He should be here soon. But I have a message from the princess.”

  “Yeah?” Henry swallowed. His Adam’s apple felt as big as a melon.

  “She wants you to meet her behind the kitchen, and to stop standing around like a…well, like something I can’t repeat.” Percy frowned. “I didn’t think princesses knew words like that.”

  “You’ll have to get used to it if you want to continue in her service.”

  “But—But I thought that I would…I would follow you.”

  “Percy, by tomorrow I won’t have Excalibur. Why on Earth would you want to follow me?”

  Percy crossed his arms and looked stubborn. “Sword or no, you still have a Destiny.”

  “God, I hope not.” Henry smiled to take out some of the sting, but Percy’s face had set like stale dough. He settled for clapping Percy’s shoulder and heading for the kitchen.

  The kitchen was an open area with fire pits and tables packed with cooks and servants. Henry pushed through it and spotted a single figure in white near the far edge of the pavilion.

  Henry put his hand on Excalibur’s grip. “I’d like a little privacy.”

  I promise to…look away until you draw me again.

  “Thank you.”

  Mattie waved. He ran to her and kissed her. For a long time. No one stopped them.

  It was wonderful.

  After what felt like forever, Mattie pulled her head back and said, “That answers my first question.”

  “What?”

  “You do like me.”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  “Is Percy right? You’ve found someone for the sword?”

  “We might even make the switch tonight.”

  “But that’s great! You don’t have to go East. You can stay here…with me.”

  “Uh, yeah.” Smooth. I’m a regular Abelard.

  They kissed again, and were just getting down to their third kiss when someone hissed at them from across the field.

  “Ignore it,” said Henry.

  “But it’s Percy. He looks serious.”

  “He always looks—”

  “Henry…”

  “All right, all right. But don’t go anywhere.”

  “I promise.”

  Henry grabbed Percy. “This had better be the best news in Paris.”

  “Prince Frederick has arrived.”

  At last! At last! sang Excalibur.

  “Let’s go then.”

  Inside, guests had gathered around the new arrivals, a small band of nobles in their best velvet who were presenting gifts to King Philip.

  “Oranges, I think, pepper, and…what’s that, Percy?”

  “I believe it’s silk, My Lord.”

  “Fancy.”

  He is a true prince, who understands the nobility of gifts and hospitality.

  Henry glanced down at Excalibur. “How do you want to do this? Just introduce ourselves and hand you over?”

  Speed is best.

  “Right.” Henry took a breath and stepped forward—

  Henry.

  “What?”

  In Glastonbury, when you let Brissac live…

  “Yes?”

  I knew you would be worthy. I thought I should tell you, before we part.

  After a moment, Percy leaned forward. “Are you all right, My Lord?”

  Henry blinked hard a few times and wiped his nose. “Fine. Fine.” He dabbed at his eyes. “Which one is he?”

  “The tall one with the red hair.”

  “Wait—I think…”

  Henry walked closer. Tall, red-haired, wide-shouldered—“Frederick of Swabia!?”

  The prince’s eyes widened. “Tyro!”

  “It’s Henry. Henry of Sanbruc.”

  “You’re Henry of Sanbruc?” Frederick’s hand whipped out and engulfed Henry’s in a bone-crushing shake. “I should have known! I’ve been trying to find you since we arrived in Paris! Here I give my spot to a tyro, and he turns out to be the greatest warrior in Paris!”

  Hmm…he doesn’t seem to have as much judgment and wisdom as I expected. Oh well.

  “We’re actually on our way to Calais to sail home. But I insisted we stop here before we went, so I’d have a chance to meet you—”

  Please, in the few minutes we have left, don’t disappoint the boy and do something ignoble.

  “—and this is my Uncle Raymond, the Prince Regent.”

  Raymond?

  “Well, well, Sir Henry. A pleasure to see you again.”

  There he was, Raymond of Toulouse, predatory as ever, from his sleek black hair to his pointed shoes. Henry swallowed. “So, you’re a regent now. Congratulations.”

  Raymond shrugged. “An honor bestowed by the late emperor, and not contested.” He glanced at Frederick, who was making friends with the wine steward, and then turned back to Henry. “And besides, I am the boy’s uncle, or cousin, depending on how one reckons consanguinity. Grandfather, too, I think. So it’s all in the family.” Raymond gazed contentedly at Frederick, who had now gathered a small army of admirers, from knights down to serving boys, and was telling them of exploits in the Alps. “Such a nice boy. So trusting.”

  Henry kept the smile fixed on his face. He made small talk for a few minutes, and then left the Swabians with Percy. Raymond was describing new methods of torture he had developed for the Toulouse courts of justice.

  Henry—

  “I know—”

  After two thousand years as the sword of heroes—

  “I know!”

  If you simply give me to Frederick, Raymond will have me away from him in a day.

  “You can’t be sure of that. You gave him a big old jolt last time.”

  Frederick needs someone older and wiser. Or at least someone nastier and sneakier. Someone to guide him in my use, so that he will not succumb to the wiles of his uncle.

  “There has to be somebody else who’s worthy, someone without the uncle problems.”

  I’ve been looking since we arrived in Paris. Don’t you think I would have told you if I’d found anyone else?

  “No. There is somebody. There has to be. You’re too picky, that’s the problem.”

  It won’t be long. A month, a single tourney season at the most. Frederick is a much more worthy candidate than you were. He’ll pick up the basics in a snap.

  “Sir Henry!” It was Percy. “The prince’s party is leaving for Calais. He wants to say goodbye.”

  Well? Hop to it. Calais is waiting.

  Henry sighed. “Percy, tell Frederick to wait. I…feel like some travel. Have you ever been to Calais?”

  Percy grinned. “I’d lo
ve to!” He dashed off.

  See how easy that was?

  “I hate you. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.”

  You’re just saying that.

  “No, I’m serious.” Henry grabbed his cloak and started to look for Alfie and…oh, blessed St. Nick, what am I going to tell Mattie? He ground his teeth in frustration.

  You like me. Admit it.

  “Be. Quiet.”

  They stepped out of the pavilion. Ahead of them, the moon shone silver on the road to Calais. The prince’s horses whickered in the darkness, and the night air was cool and smelled of adventure. Henry hitched up his belt and sighed.

  This was going to reek.

  Acknowledgments

  Nobody does anything well without help; despite the image of the lonely author in the garret, writers are no exception.

  First and always, my mom, my dad, and my brothers Alan and Lon (one by blood, one by time served in the trenches). Then there’s the rest of the extended Rabinowitz-Bilenker clan, from California to the New York islands. Such an accomplished tribe!

  The good folks at the Fire Rose Writers Lounge and the Secret Rose Theatre—Kaz Matamura, Mike Rademaekers, and “Pea” Chiba—who displayed superhuman patience with a cranky unpublished author. If you’re in Los Angeles, check them out.

  My agent, Michael Carr, a man of superlative taste and business acumen; and my editor, Matt Teel, the Dark Overlord of Urania Books; and Celina Summers, publisher extraordinaire.

  Thanks to all of you!

  About the Author

  Born in a humble hospital room, Ted grew to manhood in the untrammeled wilds of Brooklyn, where he learned to build a fire using only a downed power line and fifteen copies of The New York Post. After stints as a lighting tech, story analyst and freelance tango critic, he has finally found his calling as a paid liar.

  http://theswordthatnagged.blogspot.com/

  http://www.thewrongsword.com/