The Wrong Sword Page 2

  “You just cheated Prince Geoffrey’s men out of a fortune. You don’t think there’s a risk?”

  “Prince?”

  “Geoffrey of Brittany. He’s staying with King Philip. And if there’s risk to you, there’s risk to me as soon as they catch you, break you, and find out who made the swords for you.”

  “Geoffrey…Geoffrey Plantagenet?” Henry couldn’t breathe. His mouth felt like it was stuffed with dust.

  “You didn’t know?”

  Henry flew out of Valdemar’s shop, back to the Rue St. Germain. By the time he got there, night had fallen, and Alfie’s tent had vanished.

  4. Fun in the Cellars

  Henry’s heart slammed against his ribs as he sprinted across the Plâce Royaume, searching right and left for Alfie. The mercers were breaking down their booths, the fishmongers and grocers were long gone, the tinkers—Wait.

  Henry breathed deep. Alfie must have already packed the tent, using his usual band of street kids. It was just common sense, never stay on the same pitch once you’ve made the sale. Which meant that Alfie would be waiting for him with the rest of the gold at the Cellars.

  Had to be.

  Fifty feet under the Île de la Cité, deep below the streets of Paris, the Cellars was holding its traditional Tuesday night fester. It didn’t differ much from the Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, or Saturday binges in terms of noise, stink, or crooked gambling, but it was more lively than Sunday nights, when most of the participants were still a little subdued after Mass.

  Alfie claimed that the Cellars had been there longer than the city itself, and Henry believed it: He’d seen Latin tags left by the legions, carved into the bedrock behind the wine casks…proof that if you provided sleazy entertainment, your business could last a thousand years.

  Henry found the dim courtyard a few streets north and west of the half-built cathedral of Notre Dame, and took the stairs that led to the narrow alley that ran past the river’s edge. It wound deeper and deeper until the walls around him met overhead and he was heading down into the earth, past foundation stones and buttress timbers and living rock. And there it was, noise and light coming up from the bottom of the stairs. He entered.

  It was a huge cave, expanded and smoothed out by some former owner. Henry handed the door guard a dixaine and descended the stairs that ran down the wall to the floor forty feet below.

  Torchlight and smoke, stench and noise. Two musicians at the far end were playing Bertran de Born’s latest peasant-bashing sirventes. There were dozens of boards—thirty-foot long tables on trestles—and they were packed with the scum of Paris: thieves, runaway serfs, grad students.

  “There he is! Three cheers for the greatest rebel in Paris!”

  The music stopped. Everyone turned and got a good long look at him. Terrific. He whipped his chaperon over his head as the applause rang through the hall and scuttled to the bottom, where Mattie was waiting for him. Of course.

  “You were incredible! A hundred livres! Everyone’s talking about it!” Mattie was pale and slender. A little taller than Henry, he looked even younger, with delicate features and reddish-brown hair. His big eyes were glowing with hero worship.

  “Is everyone talking about it because you told them?”

  “Well, sure, don’t you—”

  “Great. Now it’ll be even easier for him to find us.”

  Mattie’s face dropped instantly. “I…I didn’t think—”

  Henry handed Mattie some money. “Forget it. Just get us some wine and bread.” Mattie took it and left.

  Henry spotted Alfie and sat down. “Geoffrey Plantagenet, Alfie.”

  Alfie nodded sadly. “I know. That tall one, the Norman who put his hands on you, it seems he’s Geoffrey’s right-hand man.” Even though it looked like they had no secrets left to keep, they still spoke the Welsh Alfie had taught him years ago.

  “What do we do?”

  Alfie sighed and fiddled with his cup. “Richard and Saladin go out riding one day,” he said. “Suddenly, they’re surrounded by Moors. Richard turns to Saladin and says ‘Saladin, Saladin, what do we do?’ And Saladin turns to him and says ‘What do you mean we, infidel?’” Henry chuckled, even though Alfie had told him the joke a dozen times.

  “Henry, lad, you’re the one in danger. They saw your face. I’m just a ‘Turk.’ Maybe they’ll find me, maybe they won’t—there’s been swindlers ‘pulling the Turk’ in Paris since St. Louis’ time. But you—”

  Henry nodded. “I’m the target.”

  “Aye.” Alfie put his hand on Henry’s arm. “Don’t worry. We knew this would come some day, didn’t we?”

  No, we didn’t, thought Henry. I thought I could finally stop running.

  Mattie arrived with a jug and a loaf. “For the heroes of the revolution.” Henry grabbed the bread; he was starved.

  Mattie leaned down. “Listen. I could help with the next one. I know how to fight the feudal power structure.”

  “‘Fight the power structure’? Have you been hanging out at the university again?”

  “You need me. I understand the dominant privilege of your enemies.”

  Henry stood up. “Tell you what.” He picked up a broom. “If you want to help, all you have to do is stop me.” He snaked the broom around, and the point tapped Mattie on the shoulder, the arm, the stomach.

  “That’s a sword poking at you, villein.” Tap. Tap. “What do you do?”

  “I fight!” Mattie swung at the broom—but the broom wasn’t there. A tap on the head. A tap on the arm. Mattie swung wildly again, and again.

  “Oh yeah, peasant? Where’s your fight? I have the reach on you. I have you at my mercy.” Now the taps were pokes. Then jabs.

  “You—” And then Henry sent a jab straight into Mattie’s chest, hard. Mattie went sprawling on the floor. Henry leaned down. “I’m a knight. I have a sword. I’ve trained for years. I can touch you any time I want.”

  Mattie’s mouth opened and closed again. Feeling ashamed, Henry shoved his face into Mattie’s. “Stay down, Mattie. Stay down and live.”

  Mattie got up, trembling. “You REEK!” He ran off.

  Alfie watched him go. “A little rough on the kid, maybe?”

  Yeah. Henry looked down. “Well, what if he tried to attack a real knight? I’m saving his life.” He pushed away his guilty feelings and drank some wine—the St. Wandrille special, watered and sour, one step above drinking from the Seine. “Oh, I don’t know. He just gets under my skin.”

  Alfie hesitated for a moment, as if about to say something, and then shrugged. “Laddie, I know a man in Brest, a sailor. He can take you over the English Water, or south across the bay to Léon, or even the Inner Sea.”

  Henry grinned. “Just for the fun of it?”

  Alfie nodded. “Aye, but the two livres you’ll give him will probably help. In a year or two, someone will kill Geoffrey, and you’ll be able to come back.”

  “Sure they will, Alfie.”

  Alfie nodded. “One thing I learned in the rebellion, laddie. Men like Geoffrey come and go. They reach too high, and someone cuts them down. But the poor and the wronged—those are forever.” Alfie took another drink. “Enough philosophy. If I’m not here when you get back—”

  “Of course you’ll be here.”

  “If I’m not, Valdemar will be, and he’ll hold the rest of your cut for you.”

  “Really?”

  “He likes you, laddie. Don’t know why. But he’ll take ten percent. Or you could have the whole cut now.”

  Alfie reached inside his tunic. Henry stopped him. “Can you see me traveling with that much money? Give it to Valdemar.”

  Alfie snaked some coins into Henry’s hand. “Well, take these for the road, then.” Henry glanced down—five écus. A fortune, but he felt no joy now. “Go to Brest, and ask for Paul le Galois. He’ll answer to ‘Pwyll’ when you meet him.”

  “Well, if I’m going, tell me…how did a Welshman get a name like ‘Aelfred,’ anyway?”

>   Alfie laughed. Henry hesitated, then hugged Alfie. “Be smart, old man.”

  Alfie nodded. “Take the back way.”

  Henry walked to the rear, past the trestle tables and the kegs lining the wall, to the giant fireplace whose flue vented forty feet through the rock. There was a path through the fireplace, around the fire itself, to a rear exit. It wasn’t secret, exactly, but it would make anyone following him easy to spot.

  Up the back stairs and out on the street. The coast seemed clear. Then he heard it: the faintest rasp of steel on stone, as if by a sword accidentally scraping against a wall.

  Oh, Jesu. Henry tucked in his head and ran. Behind him he heard the clatter of hard boots against cobblestones, and the jingle of chain mail—these morons were actually wearing armor. Thank you, St. Dismas, patron of thieves! With that noise, he could know just how close they were—too close was the answer right now. He picked up the pace.

  There were two bridges off the Île de la Cité, and only one that would take him back to the Latin Quarter. Henry pounded for the other, the Pont l’Evecque, hoping against hope that Prince Geoffrey didn’t have enough men to cover both.

  He could tell from the sounds behind him that he was gaining. He turned a corner and the bridge appeared, shining in the moonlight, broad and empty. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  And then he was on the bridge. Behind him came the knights, but ahead of him—

  A troop on horseback.

  Henry spun toward the river, but before he could get to the edge of the bridge, a knight on horse grabbed him. The last thing he saw was the moon on the water.

  5. Interview with a Plantagenet

  Henry wiggled a little to the right, a little to the left. No give. The chains held him fast. You didn’t usually see this kind of workmanship from a prison blacksmith. But then, this was Paris; he wasn’t playing the provinces anymore.

  The black door swung open, and the prisoners groaned in the sudden daylight. Henry squinted. He could just make out two figures—

  “Henri de la Ville-Perdu!”

  Damn. All of the sudden, the filthy dungeon seemed positively cozy…at least compared to whatever was coming next.

  “There he is.” The bailiffs hauled him to his feet. “Up you come.” One of them actually looked at Henry with a little sympathy, and Henry felt his guts go loose with fear.

  They didn’t go down to the torturer’s cells, as Henry had been afraid they would. He had a few really bad moments when they took him out into the central courtyard, but they passed the headsman’s block too, and entered the central keep.

  There were tapestries everywhere, even on the floor. The bailiffs walked over them like they were straw. There were also servants, lots of them, all in velvet and cloth of gold. Trés fancy. The prince himself must be in residence. A personal audience with Geoffrey of Brittany. What an honor.

  “Kneel, pig!” A rap to the calves, another to the shoulders, and he was down on his knees, looking up. It was very efficient. Henry glanced at the one doing the shoving—of course. “Brissac, buddy! How’s the sword working out for yo—” This time, the blow knocked him to the ground. Brissac towered over him, blade half out of his scabbard.

  “Stop.” The man sitting in front of them raised a hand.

  “But, My Lord—”

  “Leave us, Edmond.” For a moment, Brissac seemed about to argue. Then he bowed and left. The man returned to his consideration of Henry, studying him like a horse that might just serve. Henry returned the favor. He saw a solid, well-muscled man about thirty. A neat beard covered a scar that ran from cheek to jaw; his hands showed the swordsman’s callus on the palm and the bridge of the thumb. Geoffrey’s brother Richard was supposed to be the giant in the Plantagenet family, a tower of war—but Geoffrey was no seven-stone weakling.

  “Rise, boy.”

  Henry got to his feet, but slowly. If beating prisoners was his job, Brissac was clearly a man who loved his work. “You are Geoffrey Plantagenet.”

  “Try ‘Your Lordship.’” Geoffrey smiled. “You will live longer that way, I guarantee it.”

  “May I sit…Your Lordship? It’s been a week in your dungeons…I think.”

  “By all means.” Geoffrey indicated no other chairs. After looking around, Henry seated himself tailor-fashion on the carpet.

  Geoffrey poured himself some wine. “And of course, they are not my dungeons. They are the municipal prisons of Paris, under the control of our right trusty and well-beloved cousin Philip, by the grace of God King of France and Count of the City. Good thing he didn’t put you there, eh?”

  Henry kept his smile firmly in place. King Philip was supposed to be relatively sane and even occasionally merciful—although the Plantagenets had certainly lowered the bar in both departments. Geoffrey was telling him that, just or not, Philip had nothing to do with this “arrest.” Henry could disappear at any moment, and the only persons who would know or care would be an antique Welshman, a phlegmatic blacksmith, and a tavern sweep with an overheated brain.

  “My Lord, surely a prince of your station—”

  “Spare me.” Geoffrey rummaged through a desk and pulled out a writing tablet. “Let’s see. The ninth of November of last year, a Frankish broadsword to one Etienne of Anjou, seven livres. The twelfth of December of last year, a Frankish broadsword to one Gaspar the Bold, eleven livres.”

  “Are you sure that doesn’t say ‘libres’? I borrow books all the time, and if I forgot one or two—”

  “Ah, yes. ‘libre,’ ‘livre.’ A pun. Very funny. In fact, my agent has it written down here—‘thinks himself clever.’ See?” Geoffrey pointed at the tabula. “Frankish broadsword, Frankish broadsword, Frankish broadsword…oh, wait, this one’s a spear. A Roman spear that just might be the Spear of Destiny, perhaps?”

  Henry tried to hide his surprise. This guy was good.

  Geoffrey closed the tablet and tossed it aside. “Did you rob a grave?”

  “A grave with six perfectly preserved swords?”

  Geoffrey smiled. “I only mentioned five.”

  “Let’s see you keep count after a week in your dungeons.”

  “Two days. How did you know about the sword?”

  Was this a trick? Some way to get him to confess and pack him off to the headsman? Henry needed a moment to think. A faint might be useful right about now…Henry went limp. His eyes drifted down—

  Thunk. The prince had barely moved. He’d just…flickered a moment, and Valdemar’s broadsword was embedded six inches deep in the wooden beam next to Henry’s ear. The twang of the blade stirred in Henry’s brain like the buzz of a mosquito, and choked the breath in his throat.

  Without a pause, without even a change in his breathing, Geoffrey was an inch from Henry, his face a mask. “My time is precious. Answer my questions, and you will see tomorrow. Do you understand? Say ‘yes, My Lord.’”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Geoffrey didn’t move. Henry was eye to eye with him now. In each pupil he could see a tiny spark, a little flame of royal arrogance, stoked and fed until it was a giant bonfire of pure crazy.

  “How did you get the swords?”

  “When one is able to read, My Lord, the past is open. I found a book that described the weapons of old.”

  Henry stopped. He didn’t want to prompt Geoffrey to ask about the smith he’d needed to make the swords, or the money he’d needed to pay the smith. But the questions seemed inevitable. Henry held his breath—

  “So you can read.”

  That was a surprise. Not that he was complaining, but why did Geoffrey care if he could read? “Yes, My Lord.”

  “This book, it was in Latin?”

  “No, My Lord. Saxon. One of the tongues of l’Angleterre.”

  “I’m moderately familiar with it.” Geoffrey’s tone was dry enough to parch a swamp. Of course. The Plantagenets were Angevin French, but it was holding the English throne that made them royalty.

  “And you can read Saxon, and
Latin, and…what else?”

  “I—” But now the shock and hunger caught up with Henry, and he slumped in earnest. Geoffrey sighed in irritation. “Oh, damn it, take a chair, take some wine. I won’t kill you.” He clapped his hands. Servants appeared with a chair, wine, and food. They seated Henry, handed him a cup, and withdrew. “Drink. Eat.”

  Henry grabbed at the meat and felt strength flowing back into him. Geoffrey put his hand on Henry’s.

  “Slower, or you’ll vomit it all back up. Chew. Take a moment.”

  With an effort, Henry slowed down. Geoffrey sat back in his chair.

  “You read Latin and Saxon. That’s good. We Plantagenets respect learning. What other languages do you have?”

  “I can make do in Welsh. And Breton and Norman, of course.”

  “That’s right, you’re a Breton. One of my subjects, in fact. And you’ve studied weapons…from a book.”

  Henry shrugged. “I know a claymore from a pike.”

  Geoffrey smiled. Even with the knives and threats, Henry was rocked by that smile. This guy had charisma, in spades. His men would follow him anywhere, I bet. A whole army of jerks. Let’s be very, very careful.

  Geoffrey paced to the window. “Then you know the fascination, the power the sword holds in the minds of men.” Henry said nothing. “Pikes have broken cavalry. Greek fire has destroyed fleets. We knights choose the lance as our most powerful weapon. And yet it is the sword, even now, that compels the hearts of men. We tell tales of the Nine Great Swords. Charlemagne’s. Roland’s. They have become…” Geoffrey thought for a moment. “…weapons of the mind. Standards. They say Saladin retreated to Damascus when Richard captured Mahomet’s sword from him.”

  “And here I thought it was the plague.”

  Geoffrey smiled again. “Peasants. You have no heart, and you wonder why we despise you.” It was interesting—the smile stayed charming, no matter what Geoffrey was saying. Something to remember.

  “I need a sword, a special sword, to inspire men. I need a standard.”

  The light dawned. Henry had to admire the scheme. “Ah. Say no more, My Lord. Name the king, and I will have the sword ready for you by next month at the latest. Of course, there will be expenses—”