The Wrong Sword Read online

  “Nice…try.”

  Henry, it is our only chance. I do not wish to be stranded here, at the mercy of the first footpad who comes along. Let me do this, and I will go no farther than giving you the strength you need to continue.

  “You…won’t be in my head…”

  No.

  “Swear on your soul.”

  I swear on my honor, which is more important.

  Henry tried to think, to weigh his choices, but it was too late. He couldn’t think clearly anymore, and even if he could, he couldn’t see that he had any choices left. He would have to trust. “Do it. Do it!”

  Place your hand upon me, and do not fear.

  Henry breathed deep and clutched Excalibur’s hilt. Cold and dark, like a brook in winter, strength flowed into him. His mind cleared, and it was his own.

  The Caesar road is over that hill. Keep your hand on me, but do not delay—I cannot maintain this forever.

  “Let’s go, then.” He got to his feet.

  The hill was dry and brown, three times the height of a man, but at least the wind had blown it clear of snow. In a few minutes, Henry had reached the crest and hiked down the other side to the Roman road.

  Straight as a lance, wide as ten men walking abreast, it cut through the countryside to the horizon. No roots broke its surface, no mud covered the fitted stones, there were no gaps where scavengers had pried up the paving blocks. Henry knelt down to touch it.

  Have you never seen a relic of Empire?

  “Sure. The aqueducts at Lyon. But no one has the money to maintain them.”

  This was built by the Romans at the height of their power. And even this is nothing compared to the works of the Men of the Western Isles. It was for the return of these works that Arthur raised his knights…for a pax that bound together all peoples.

  “I thought it was for the Holy Grail.”

  The Sangréal…we found it, and lost it. It waits.

  “Really? Where?”

  We have little time.

  “Right.” Henry stepped onto the road, heading east.

  Walking the road was like moving in a dream. No fear of bandits, no detours, no roadblocks or fallen trees. Fields and castles appeared in the distance, vanished again. Even the wind seemed quieter. Henry marched forward without hunger or fatigue, like a thing of metal himself.

  Night fell, and Henry looked for a place to set up camp.

  I would not advise it.

  “What do you mean?”

  Continue on instead. Trust me.

  “Why?”

  Excalibur hesitated. Every man has…reserves in his body that he cannot touch, cannot use, except in the most dire emergencies. That is what we are using now, to reach Southampton.

  “And this means…”

  If we do not reach food and shelter in time, you shall collapse. In fact, if you break your bond with me even now, you shall be in grave danger.

  Henry swallowed. “You mean, I have to eat a sausage before I let go of you, or I’ll die?”

  Essentially…yes.

  “Oh, I hate you. Hate, hate, hate.”

  Would you rather I allowed you to die on the road?

  “I wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t alerted the knights and scared our horse away!”

  I save your life and all I hear is complaint!

  The argument lasted all night and twenty miles. In the morning, they rounded a crest of hills, and in the farthest distance, Henry could make out the blue line of the sea. Ahead, the Roman road intersected a newer track that led southeast.

  “That should take us to Southampton. Another half day, maybe, and then to sea.”

  The sooner, the better. We have little time left.

  “Wait.” Henry held his breath, listening. There it was, faint but growing…the sound of hooves. “Oh, no, no, no—” He looked around wildly. They were on a wide, gentle slope that ran down to the shore. It was completely open, with no snow and no cover. Hiking up his braies, he sprinted down the track.

  “Any more tricks up your scabbard?”

  “Tricks?” No. I have done all I can—until you actually meet these men. If you choose to stand, and not run, I can help you then.

  “You got your wish. They’re on horseback, and I’ve got no place to hide. Doesn’t look like I have a choice.”

  Fear not. You shall have a glorious end.

  “Terrific.”

  The hoof beats grew louder as he ran. Leaving the road to scramble up the rocky slope of a nearby hill, he saw the horseman ride out of the pass and turn east after him. It was a large band, flying two banners—the lions of England, and Geoffrey’s personal insignia, a silver helmet on a blue field.

  As the knights rode in closer, Henry noticed something he’d missed before: Sir Fashion, the knight from the road, was leading them…and he wore a small gold crown. Sir Fashion had to be Prince John, and he was leading his own knights, with Brissac, Geoffrey’s representative, bringing up the second team—what was left of the Swiss.

  Henry thought about that as he reached the top of the hill.

  That’s it. Higher ground befits a hero.

  “Oh, I’m not keeping you.”

  What? You would sell me for your miserable life? Have you no—

  “Honor? No. A plan? Yes.” Climbing a convenient boulder, Henry sat down on the top, tailor-fashion, with Excalibur lying on his lap.

  He didn’t have long to wait. In minutes, the knights had arrived at the base of the hill. It was too steep for the horses; they dismounted and climbed on foot, with John and Brissac in front.

  “Give it up, boy,” said Brissac.

  Henry licked his lips, and looked past Brissac to Prince John. He saw a tall, languid young man with jet-black hair and a perfectly groomed beard. John wore blue and scarlet, and looked like he owned half of the world and held the mortgage on the rest. At first, he didn’t resemble Geoffrey all that much. But then his eyes met Henry’s, and Henry saw that little spark of arrogance, honed by royal family life into sheer insanity. No question, he was a Plantagenet.

  “Sure, Eddy,” said Henry. “Should I surrender it to you, or to Prince John?” Henry bowed from the waist. “Your Highness.”

  “Don’t play games, boy. You’ve done well, but it’s over now. Give me the sword, and you can go free. I promise.”

  “You shall give Us the sword and be free to go.” Prince John stepped in front of Brissac. “We are the regent, and of the Blood Royal. Our Word may be trusted.”

  Henry hid his smile. “Of course.” He held up Excalibur in its scabbard, and turned toward John. Brissac tried to get between Henry and John—only to find John’s sword, a giant claymore, drawn and in the way.

  “Kneel, Edmond de Brissac.”

  Brissac went down on one knee.

  “Ah, good. You do remember your oath to our family. We thought you had forgotten it, and turned thief and traitor.”

  “No, Your Highness. I merely follow my lord’s orders.”

  “We are your lord.”

  “I have sworn fealty to Prince Geoffrey, Your Highness.”

  “We are the Prince-Regent of England, not the Duke of Brittany. You shall obey Us.”

  “Your highness, I—”

  The attack was like lightning. One moment, John was relaxed, standing, surrounded by retainers like a proper prince—the next, he was swinging the giant claymore one-handed like an arming sword. Brissac rolled away and bounced up on his feet, his own sword out. In a flash, John’s men squared off against the Swiss. Steel rang against steel; blades cut at each other, at the open air, at an enemy’s armor, or tunic, or flesh.

  Henry took this as his cue to leave. He slid off the far side of the boulder and stumbled down the slope as fast as he could. Hmmm, he thought. I might even be able to grab one of the horses.

  Excalibur shrieked. Oh, despicable! Oh, vile! Fleeing the battle while good men fight!

  “Good men? Name one.”

  That is neither here nor there.

/>   “And neither are we, with luck.”

  And his luck seemed to be holding. The two men left with the horses had run up to join the fight. If he could just circle around in time, he might be able to grab one horse and panic the rest.

  Henry pelted down the slope, one hand on Excalibur, praying under his breath to St. Dismas to get him to the horses and away before the soldiers realized what was happening.

  He had gotten almost to the bottom when his foot turned on a rock. He went down hard, and Excalibur flew from his outstretched hand.

  The bond with Excalibur was broken. The strength drained out of Henry’s body. A ton of weight crashed down on him, and the ground reached up and smashed him in the head. He could barely move his eyes to follow the sword as it arched up and up, and then slowly, ever so slowly, turned point down and plunged earthward like a comet, to bury itself in the ground, with only its hilt sticking up. The world went black.

  Henry. Wake up, Henry. Henry. Henry!

  Henry opened his eyes. He could hear John’s men yelling and whacking. And then Brissac’s men. And then both. He fell asleep.

  HENRY!

  He opened his eyes again.

  We may yet succeed. Take my hilt.

  Henry lay there, limp as a corpse. Moving was hard, but wanting to move was even harder. He stretched out one arm, then the other. With infinite weariness, he lifted his body from the ground and crawled. Excalibur was barely a man’s length away, but it seemed as far as Constantinople. He gulped thick breaths of air, hoping it would wake him up. Finally, he reached out and touched the sword.

  Strength returned. He stood up and pulled Excalibur from the ground. He looked back at the knights—still fighting. Jogging to the horses, he scattered all but one and hopped on.

  Congratulations, vile creature.

  “What crawled up your scabbard? Annoyed I’m still alive?”

  Your trick. Your low stratagem. It was shameless. It was base. It was—

  “—clever?”

  Yes, said Excalibur, in utter disgust.

  Henry lowered his head and goaded the horse. They raced down the road, the waves getting closer and closer on their right as the path cut down the slope toward the sea. Desperate plans whirled through his head. He tried to remember if high or low tide was near, but he couldn’t. Like all the children in his village, he’d been raised knowing the tides and currents for the whole year on both sides of the Channel. But that had been a long time ago, and besides, his village was dead.

  Since he couldn’t know when, or even if, the ships at dock would sail, he would probably have to hide until he could make his move, and pay through the nose when he did. He touched the tiny purse that the monks had given him. He had silver, enough to get him on a ship, but not enough to bring him back…assuming he lived to come back.

  The horse topped a rise and there was Southampton spread out before them, from gatehouse to docks. Henry tapped the horse’s flanks, and they descended toward the town.

  14. Out of the Frying Pan

  Southampton Free Port. Henry smiled. After relics, tombs, and otherworldly apparitions, Southampton was the splash of water that ends the dream, a reminder of the big, bright, ordinary world. The docks were still full of the yard-sailed cogs that had carried Bretons, Gauls, and Easterlings back and forth across the water for a hundred years. There were still the bales of furs, beads of amber, and bundles of finished cloth that had made the Baltic trade so profitable, and merchants from the Low Countries, the Hanseatic League, and points even farther North and East. The air was filled with the bustle of people closing deals, telling stories, jabbering away in two or three different languages, making a living from brains and drive, and not a noble in sight.

  Why do you smile?

  “I like Southampton. Don’t you?”

  It’s no Tintagel.

  Henry had sold the horse at a significant discount within minutes of getting inside the town walls, and taken the coins to an inn minutes after that. The place was seedy and run down, but its walls carried the marks of a dozen guilds, from the mercers to the boatwrights, and places like that usually didn’t cooperate with the nobility if they could help it. He ate, drank, and crawled to his pallet to sleep, never once breaking his grip on the sword.

  In the morning, he felt like death warmed over, but he could take his hand off Excalibur without fainting. The next two days were cold and wet; a freezing storm had blown in from the North Sea. Henry spent the time hidden in his garret, dozing, eating, and spying on the streets below, watching John’s knights ride through the town. On the third day, the weather cleared.

  So? What does the weather have to do with us?

  “Now that the winds have died down, half a dozen ships will try to beat the next storm and set sail for Brittany. For all John knows, we could be on any one of them. I give them another day of looking for us here, and then they’ll give up. Prince John doesn’t strike me as the patient type.”

  You are quite adept…at hiding.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  The next day dawned clear, cool, and apparently John-free. Henry strapped on Excalibur and headed through the city’s gates to the docks. He felt the terror of the last few days fading. All he had to do was sail to far Constantinople, find a hero, give him the sword, and let him slice Geoffrey (and John, and Brissac) into pork chops. And then privacy, no more nightmares, glorious peace and quiet. He could let Mattie yammer away about the revolution, while he and Alfie and Valdemar figured out some new cheat, something entirely unconnected to swords. Maybe real estate.

  The odds of getting a ship weren’t great, but after four or five hours up and down the wharves, Henry finally found the Gorgonoki, headed for Bordeaux, Bayonne, and points south. The ship was…eclectic. He recognized the prow of a Viking longboat, the lateen sails of an Araby trader he’d seen once in a drawing, and the big square back of a Saxon cog, not to mention about fifteen different types of wood scattered throughout the hull’s planking.

  I don’t like this vessel.

  “Of course you don’t.”

  Is the sail supposed to have those mildew stains?

  “Gives it character.”

  You almost stepped through a weak spot in the deck.

  “Captain Dimiturglu says that’ll be fixed tomorrow. A little tar, a little planking, good as new.”

  And what kind of name is “Gorgonoki” anyway? Where is this ship from?

  “Switzerland.”

  Switzerland!?

  Well, yes, it did sound suspicious, but Henry wasn’t going to admit that to Excalibur. And whatever the sailors were speaking, it wasn’t French, Italian, or German. Plus Captain Dimiturglu was a hugger, and Henry didn’t like anyone who hugged strangers without an excuse…or a bath. But the Gorgonoki was the only ship heading south. Every other ship in the harbor was either a Channel hopper, or sailing north and east for the Baltic run. Rather than wait around for John or Brissac to return, Henry was inclined to set sail now and ask questions later. Besides, if worse came to absolute worst, he could always draw Excalibur—

  Henry shook his head. He didn’t want to think about that nightmare again. Knives behind his eyes and in his heart. The worst would really have to come for that to happen.

  The tide would go out around sunset, taking the Gorgonoki with it. Henry rose at dawn and walked to the main square in front of the gates leading to the harbor. Everything seemed fine—

  “Uh-oh.” Henry sidled quickly but casually into the shadow of an alley.

  What is the problem? Too much sunlight burning your paws and tail?

  “Hah-hah, I’m a rat, I get it.” He peeked around the corner again. “No, there’s just a lot of soldiers hanging out by the dock, poking their swords into barrels and hay wagons.”

  Even in Arthur’s day, we sent soldiers to investigate pirates on the docks.

  “Yeah, well, did Arthur go himself?”

  What?

  Because there was no doubt. The tall, hooded figure tryin
g to look all mysterious and silent by the wharf was Prince John. And the “priest” trying to hide his mustachios in his cassock was Brissac.

  Hmm. Inconvenient, but at least this will give you a chance to redeem yourself. Now, when attacking two opponents at once, audacity is—

  “Wait.” Henry watched the troops closely. A fur merchant tried to move his cart, and was subjected to a thorough search. A mercer found all his goods unloaded before he was given leave to board his ship. But a party of knights slouched on board their sailing cog with barely a glance from John’s men.

  “Huh.” Another knight rode through the gates. And a few more. The soldiers ignored them. The first knight trotted to an inn with a stable attached and led his horse inside. Henry followed.

  Henry, what are you doing?

  “Getting us out of here.”

  Henry lingered outside the stables as the knight’s squire undid the knight’s armor, took his horse, and settled everything in its stall. The knight spent a few minutes yelling at the squire, and then went inside. The squire sipped moodily from a wineskin. Then he took a longer swig. Then a longer one. The squire’s head drooped. He started to snore.

  Don’t you dare.

  “Dare what?”

  Impostor!

  The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and Henry was trying hard not to fall on his face.

  It wasn’t easy. The armor he had…borrowed…was eighty pounds of dead weight and about as comfortable as the pillory. He was sure he’d missed at least two of the straps on his breastplate. Plus the horse was obviously used to being ridden by a sadist with a weight problem, because it was trotting all over the place like a six-foot high puppy. Judging by the scars on the poor beast’s flanks, just about anyone was an improvement over its former master.

  Outrageous, brazen pretender.

  “What’s your point?”

  To steal a knight’s armor. What more vile crime could you have committed?

  “Oh, not using a fingerbowl, burning down a village, torturing a family to death for pearls and coral they don’t have, it’s all good.”

  Henry had trotted the horse through the streets at the far side of town, trying to get used to the new gear and transportation. It hadn’t been a notable success.