The Wrong Sword
1. The Previous Owner
The king stumbled down the tunnel, trailing blood. He had ridden for three days without stopping, and he could barely stand. His queen was dead. So were his sorcerer, and his best friend, and most of his capital city. His own son was hunting him, with traitors and foreign mercenaries. His dreams of uniting the land again under one pax, one law, were dead as Alexander.
Sometimes, it sucked to be the king.
As he dragged himself forward, his sword whined and muttered, begging him not to sheathe it, to wield it once again for justice. Of course, it was the sword that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. It had taken him out of the stables, made him king, given him the power to do any bloody stupid thing he liked. A giant circular table! A Perilous Seat that only the pure could sit in! A Britannia-wide manhunt for a four-hundred-year-old cup! What had he been thinking?
And the sword was still making it hard for him. The prince, his appalling son, had enough pure meanness to force the sword into obedience, no matter how the sword itself felt about it. That was the one thing the king could not allow. So instead of expiring peacefully on a couch of shimmering samite, surrounded by weeping damosels, he was limping down a Welsh burial mound, leaking fluids, hoping desperately that he’d get there before —
“Hello, Your Highness.”
It was Hwyll son of Kaw, a nasty piece of work who loved knives and hated soap. The king had disliked Hwyll even before the knight had gone all Ostrogoth and woven those shark’s teeth into his beard. And behind Hwyll, filling the rocky shore between the tunnel mouth and the lake, were a dozen private military contractors. Saxons, by the look of them.
“Why, Hwyll, what are you doing down here? Come for the waters?”
“Hand it over, Your Highness.” Hwyll extended his hand.
The king smiled to himself. His son might have a spirit strong enough to master the sword, but Hwyll? The knight was a dead man, and he didn’t even know it.
“You want it? Here!” The king tossed the sword into the air. Hwyll caught it, hilt-first.
And screamed.
He staggered backward, then shook the sword as though it were red-hot grease clinging to his skin. He screamed again, fell to his knees, and with a final whimper, shoved it point-first into the cavern floor. The blade cut into the bedrock like cheese, sparks flying everywhere, squealing against the stone.
Hwyll collapsed, twitching. The Saxons backed away, making witch signs and muttering charms. Bloody pagans.
The king limped to the sword and grabbed the hilt. Strength poured into him, and he pulled it effortlessly from the stone. He twirled it casually in front of himself, once, twice.
“Right, then,” said Arthur, for the very last time. “Who’s next?”
2. Eight Hundred Years Later — Tuesday
It was a bright, breezy morning on the Rue St. Germain, and five or six knights were getting their post-Matins exercise by abusing random townsfolk. Henry had been on his way to meet a promising new friend
when he spotted the knights, but seeing the flower of chivalry about to single out a young dairymaid for some serious harassment, he knew at once he had to meet these bold cavaliers and share the good word.
“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Praise le bon Dieu and Our Lady of Paris! I have found it!” Henry stumbled into the street and fell to his knees in front of the knights. His teenaged face was a mask of well-practiced joy.
Caught up short, the knights stumbled to a halt, their swords snak- ing between their legs. The dairymaid fled. The leader of the knights, a tall, bony thug with big hands and long black mustachios, jerked Henry upright by his robe.
“What? What have you found?”
“Why, the—” Henry stopped, as if he had just remembered to keep his mouth shut. “Oh...uh. Nothing. Just a relic for our monastery. Got to be going, thanks for stopping by — ”
The knight grabbed Henry’s shoulder. His hand felt like a cobble- stone. “I don’t like monks,” he said, to no one in particular. “They think they’re better than honest knights.”
“But—”
“And I especially don’t like pimple-faced smartasses, and you look like one to me.”
Got that in one. But Henry didn’t have time to smirk, because the knight lifted him into the air and shook him like a rattle.
“What did you find, you scabby little novice?”
“The sword! The sword! I found the Great Sword, Your Highness!”
The knight dropped him to the ground. “Show me.”
When they got to the smithy, the knights made a point of filling up the place, bumping into things, pawing and dropping the merchandise. Henry had seen this trick before, but for real intimidation, you needed a shop filled with breakables, not a tent selling ironwork — it isn’t easy to shatter a horseshoe. These guys were thick, even for Normans.
“Shopkeeper. Shopkeeper! Show yourself!”
The rear flap opened. A Turk entered, wrinkled and exotic, with a pointed beard and a big green turban. “How may I help the noble sir?”
The knight, Brissac, shoved Henry to the counter. “I want to see the sword of Charlemagne.”
The Turk whirled on Henry. “You told him! I mean...me very sorry, monsieur, but me no have sword — ”
Brissac pushed Henry aside and leered at the merchant. Jesu, thought Henry. Does this guy have one expression that isn’t nasty?
“Show me Joyeuse, or I will see your anvil sunk five fathoms in the Seine.”
The Turk held up his hands in surrender. Then, reaching under the counter, he unwrapped a cloth bundle and laid out its contents.
In the dim light of the booth, it seemed to glow. Broad at the haft, pointed at the tip, its pommel a single ruby, it was every inch a broad- sword of the ancient Franks. Even Henry had to admit that it looked good. Brissac sank to his knees, tears in his eyes.
“Aye...” His voice was a whisper.
The other knights gathered around. “It is Joyeuse.” One of them pointed to the haft. “Look, there’s Charlemagne’s crest, etched in the blade.”
“Dieu et mon droit.” Another nodded. “The prince will love this.”
The Turk reached for the sword, but Brissac was there first. “Not so fast. What price did you give the monk?”
“My Lord — ”
“What price?”
“Two hundred livres.”
Brissac nodded. “I will pay you one hundred.” “But—”
Brissac leaned in. “Or would you rather I told my prince that Joyeuse, the sword that united all Christendom under Charlemagne, is in the hands of an infidel?”
The Turk wilted. “Very well.”
“No!” Henry yelled. “You promised — ”
“What can I do?” The Turk shrugged and turned away.
Brissac nodded at one of his men, who dropped a purse on the counter. Brissac took the sword, and the knights left. One plantagenet, two plantagenet, three plantagenet...Henry counted to twenty, then peeked through the door-flap. “They’re gone.”
“The Turk” carefully peeled off his beard and mustache, revealing Alfie’s wizened Welsh face, split by the biggest grin in Paris. “A hundred livres.”
Henry nodded. “A hundred livres.” Alfie’s eyes were wide. “A hundred livres.” Henry snorted. “A hundred livres!”
“A hundred livres!” Alfie was laughing helplessly now. “A HUNDRED LIVRES!” Henry threw his arms wide. “YEEEHHAAAAAAA!”
They locked arms and danced.
3. A Sword of the Nine
Henry raced down the Rue Marevál, the stash of silver testons and dixaines carefully distributed in six different pouches under his braies and tunic. And that was just the change from two of Brissac’s
gold pieces. A hundred livres! They could live like kings. Spanish oranges twice a week, pheasant for feasts and mutton for mainstays, chops and tripe and bacon and pies...and girls.
Henry grinned. Being fatherless, guildless, and just a hop from the gallows hadn’t exactly helped him to impress girls in the past, but that was about to change. With even one more of those gold écus, he could become a legend. New tunic, new hose, rent a horse, show up at the hayings next week. Jesu, he could buy a horse. Why not? Ever see a real Parisian before, ma belle? That’s right. We do things differently in the big city. But first, he had to run some errands.
The chaos of colleges, lecture halls, and scriptoria that was the University of Paris had grown up around the Abbé St. Genevieve like the mushrooms that sprout on trees after the rain. There were dozens of booksellers, but even with the new wealth, Henry wasn’t rich enough to buy a book. Not yet. But he had the next best thing.
A right onto the paved Boulevard St. Michel, a left into the muck of the Rue St. Severin, and he was cutting through the courtyard of Severin’s church into the chapter house, where Tomas of Padua was delivering his weekly theology lecture.
The Paduan was popular, and the oratorium was packed. Half the students had stolen chairs from the chapter house, more were leaning on walls or staffs, and a few were literally hanging from the rafters, dribbling wine on their comrades below. Even in a cosmopolitan mob like this one, Henry noticed, the students tended to divide up by dialect — the Allemani from across the Rhine sitting in the front, having arrived punctually at the hour of Prime: the Romani and Britannii perching where they could, and the Francii lounging around casually as if they owned the place.
“The disputed question is on the nature of Original Sin. Sic or Non?”
As the students roared out Biblical quotations for and against, Henry squeezed his way through the mob, getting some angry jabs in return, until he spotted a student he recognized.
“Ave, filius Golias,” said Henry. The other goliard raised his hand. “Ave, frater,” he replied.
Henry switched from Church Latin to Paris French. “Where’s the Worm?”
“He sold a copy of Aristotle yesterday. Follow your nose.”
Henry breathed deep. Above the smells of wine breath and unwashed bodies, he caught the scent of cloves. He followed it through the crowd, out the far door, and into the cloistered walk where the Worm did his business.
Short and pimpled, Pieter of Flores (AKA Petronius Vermiis, AKA Pete the Worm) was convinced he was St. Valentine’s personal representative to the women of Paris. He clearly had made a sale yesterday, because today he was wearing a red silk bliaut and enough clove oil to stun a horse.
“No chapbooks!” The Worm waved back a student who was pressing close with a sheaf of scribbled parchment. “I don’t need class notes. Get me something illuminated, and we’ll talk.” The student slumped. The Worm leaned in close. “You’re a brother at St. Barnabas. They’ve got a great library. Just...look around some time.” Then the Worm spotted Henry and shooed the other schoolmen away.
“Not too busy?” Henry smiled. “The usual?”
“Yeah.”
“Two sous.”
“Since when?”
“Since Joris of Bruges saw you changing gold coins for silver.”
Henry’s gut twinged. It was never good news when people knew your business. He promised himself to be more careful next time. As casually as he could, he counted out two of the new testons, and they haggled over the value of the coins until Henry threw in a few deniers du louis to make up the difference. The Worm led him out of the cloister and into the warren of dormers behind the chapter house.
The Worm was the biggest...freelance librarian...in Paris. Of course, he rarely kept more than one or two books on hand at a time, but he could procure a copy of The Four Books of Sentences or The Matter of Britain in a day — Aristotle or Augustine in two.
They scrambled up the stairs to the wide garret that the Worm used as his base of operations. He pried up a floorboard and handed the book underneath to Henry.
“There you go. Ave filius Golias.”
The Worm left, and Henry opened the book. The folio was huge and bound in oak, and chained to the joist underneath the floor. That was no surprise, of course; one stolen folio could feed a large family for a year, if you could find a buyer. The Treatise on Knightly Prowess, by one Gervasius Florentium. Probably a fake name — especially since the book was written in Saxon, not French or Latin — but the information was good. Good so far, anyway.
Quickly, Henry thumbed past the labyrinth design on the frontispiece and the descriptions of ancient armor, ancient horsemanship, forms of address, to the meat of the book — the weapons. Gervasius, whoever he had been, was some sort of eccentric: a learned man who didn’t use Latin, a scholar who apparently cared nothing for law, Aristotle or even theology, but only for history — the history of arms.
Henry had no idea where the Worm had found the book, and he didn’t ask. It didn’t matter: Thanks to Gervasius’ descriptions and drawings, six “Joyeuses” were floating around Paris. Now it was time to give Charlemagne a rest and see what other famous swords he could provide to gullible tourney enthusiasts.
Henry passed over Greek kuthrai and Viking broadswords, Scottish claymores and English pikes, until he found what he was looking for: the swords of the Tale of the Nine. Nine legendary weapons forged for the heroes of the great nations of history. It was amazing the hold this story had on the castle-building classes. Well, if they wanted magic, Henry would be happy to provide it. He leafed past Charlemagne and Joyeuse and went on to the more exotic members of the Nine. There was Arpé, the sword of Alexander, said to have been passed down from Perseus and to have slain the Medusa; the sword of David, lost in the destruction of Jerusalem; and there —
A Roman cavalry spatha. Slender, unadorned, with a cup of a hilt — just the weapon for St. Constantine, Emperor of Rome, benefactor of the Church, patron saint of knights and horsemanship. Now that he thought about it, it might even have a piece of the True Cross in the hilt. Of course, it was plain, and rather small...but Valdemar Smith could tart it up a bit, make it more exciting. Yeah, this was the one.
Henry dug a scrap of parchment and a stick of charcoal out of his scrip, sketched the spatha, jotted down all the information, and returned Gervasius to his niche under the floor. St. Constantine would ride again, with a little help from Henry.
The Paris smiths were clustered next to the fullers, an arrangement that kept the noise and stink where it belonged, in the eyes of the city fathers — off the Right Bank and the Île de la Cité, and firmly established among the students, vagabonds, and thieves of the Latin Quarter.
Henry didn’t care. It made his trip that much shorter. He walked past the open door to Valdemar’s smithy and waited in the alley. A few moments later, Valdemar’s apprentice left. Once the prentice was completely out of sight, Henry entered.
“As promised, one livre in silver.” Henry pulled out a pouch and dropped it on the counter. Valdemar — big, sullen, with muscles out to his ears — made it disappear.
“And we have a new job.” Henry slid the parchment across the counter. Valdemar picked it up and looked at the drawings. “It’s called a spatha. We need it three feet long, and you’ll have to make it — I don’t know — more pretty, I guess. It’s not too impressive, but it’s what St. Constantine used, so — ”
Valdemar dropped the parchment. “Five livres.”
“What?”
“The deal’s changed. Five livres for this...spadda.”
Henry chewed on that for a moment. “So you heard about the sale too.”
“Aye. So did my strikers. And my grinder. And the man who does the hilts.”
“You know it was an accident. We never expected a hundred livres, and we’ll never get that again. We’re lucky if we get ten. Five livres could mean almost our whole take for the spatha.”
“It’s not about the money, boy. It’s about the risk.”
Henry smiled and spread his hands. “Help me out, Vee. Where’s the risk?”
“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.
1. The Previous Owner
The king stumbled down the tunnel, trailing blood. He had ridden for three days without stopping, and he could barely stand. His queen was dead. So were his sorcerer, and his best friend, and most of his capital city. His own son was hunting him, with traitors and foreign mercenaries. His dreams of uniting the land again under one pax, one law, were dead as Alexander.
Sometimes, it sucked to be the king.
As he dragged himself forward, his sword whined and muttered, begging him not to sheathe it, to wield it once again for justice. Of course, it was the sword that had gotten him into this mess in the first place. It had taken him out of the stables, made him king, given him the power to do any bloody stupid thing he liked. A giant circular table! A Perilous Seat that only the pure could sit in! A Britannia-wide manhunt for a four-hundred-year-old cup! What had he been thinking?
And the sword was still making it hard for him. The prince, his appalling son, had enough pure meanness to force the sword into obedience, no matter how the sword itself felt about it. That was the one thing the king could not allow. So instead of expiring peacefully on a couch of shimmering samite, surrounded by weeping damosels, he was limping down a Welsh burial mound, leaking fluids, hoping desperately that he’d get there before —
“Hello, Your Highness.”
It was Hwyll son of Kaw, a nasty piece of work who loved knives and hated soap. The king had disliked Hwyll even before the knight had gone all Ostrogoth and woven those shark’s teeth into his beard. And behind Hwyll, filling the rocky shore between the tunnel mouth and the lake, were a dozen private military contractors. Saxons, by the look of them.
“Why, Hwyll, what are you doing down here? Come for the waters?”
“Hand it over, Your Highness.” Hwyll extended his hand.
The king smiled to himself. His son might have a spirit strong enough to master the sword, but Hwyll? The knight was a dead man, and he didn’t even know it.
“You want it? Here!” The king tossed the sword into the air. Hwyll caught it, hilt-first.
And screamed.
He staggered backward, then shook the sword as though it were red-hot grease clinging to his skin. He screamed again, fell to his knees, and with a final whimper, shoved it point-first into the cavern floor. The blade cut into the bedrock like cheese, sparks flying everywhere, squealing against the stone.
Hwyll collapsed, twitching. The Saxons backed away, making witch signs and muttering charms. Bloody pagans.
The king limped to the sword and grabbed the hilt. Strength poured into him, and he pulled it effortlessly from the stone. He twirled it casually in front of himself, once, twice.
“Right, then,” said Arthur, for the very last time. “Who’s next?”
2. Eight Hundred Years Later — Tuesday
It was a bright, breezy morning on the Rue St. Germain, and five or six knights were getting their post-Matins exercise by abusing random townsfolk. Henry had been on his way to meet a promising new friend
when he spotted the knights, but seeing the flower of chivalry about to single out a young dairymaid for some serious harassment, he knew at once he had to meet these bold cavaliers and share the good word.
“Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Praise le bon Dieu and Our Lady of Paris! I have found it!” Henry stumbled into the street and fell to his knees in front of the knights. His teenaged face was a mask of well-practiced joy.
Caught up short, the knights stumbled to a halt, their swords snak- ing between their legs. The dairymaid fled. The leader of the knights, a tall, bony thug with big hands and long black mustachios, jerked Henry upright by his robe.
“What? What have you found?”
“Why, the—” Henry stopped, as if he had just remembered to keep his mouth shut. “Oh...uh. Nothing. Just a relic for our monastery. Got to be going, thanks for stopping by — ”
The knight grabbed Henry’s shoulder. His hand felt like a cobble- stone. “I don’t like monks,” he said, to no one in particular. “They think they’re better than honest knights.”
“But—”
“And I especially don’t like pimple-faced smartasses, and you look like one to me.”
Got that in one. But Henry didn’t have time to smirk, because the knight lifted him into the air and shook him like a rattle.
“What did you find, you scabby little novice?”
“The sword! The sword! I found the Great Sword, Your Highness!”
The knight dropped him to the ground. “Show me.”
When they got to the smithy, the knights made a point of filling up the place, bumping into things, pawing and dropping the merchandise. Henry had seen this trick before, but for real intimidation, you needed a shop filled with breakables, not a tent selling ironwork — it isn’t easy to shatter a horseshoe. These guys were thick, even for Normans.
“Shopkeeper. Shopkeeper! Show yourself!”
The rear flap opened. A Turk entered, wrinkled and exotic, with a pointed beard and a big green turban. “How may I help the noble sir?”
The knight, Brissac, shoved Henry to the counter. “I want to see the sword of Charlemagne.”
The Turk whirled on Henry. “You told him! I mean...me very sorry, monsieur, but me no have sword — ”
Brissac pushed Henry aside and leered at the merchant. Jesu, thought Henry. Does this guy have one expression that isn’t nasty?
“Show me Joyeuse, or I will see your anvil sunk five fathoms in the Seine.”
The Turk held up his hands in surrender. Then, reaching under the counter, he unwrapped a cloth bundle and laid out its contents.
In the dim light of the booth, it seemed to glow. Broad at the haft, pointed at the tip, its pommel a single ruby, it was every inch a broad- sword of the ancient Franks. Even Henry had to admit that it looked good. Brissac sank to his knees, tears in his eyes.
“Aye...” His voice was a whisper.
The other knights gathered around. “It is Joyeuse.” One of them pointed to the haft. “Look, there’s Charlemagne’s crest, etched in the blade.”
“Dieu et mon droit.” Another nodded. “The prince will love this.”
The Turk reached for the sword, but Brissac was there first. “Not so fast. What price did you give the monk?”
“My Lord — ”
“What price?”
“Two hundred livres.”
Brissac nodded. “I will pay you one hundred.” “But—”
Brissac leaned in. “Or would you rather I told my prince that Joyeuse, the sword that united all Christendom under Charlemagne, is in the hands of an infidel?”
The Turk wilted. “Very well.”
“No!” Henry yelled. “You promised — ”
“What can I do?” The Turk shrugged and turned away.
Brissac nodded at one of his men, who dropped a purse on the counter. Brissac took the sword, and the knights left. One plantagenet, two plantagenet, three plantagenet...Henry counted to twenty, then peeked through the door-flap. “They’re gone.”
“The Turk” carefully peeled off his beard and mustache, revealing Alfie’s wizened Welsh face, split by the biggest grin in Paris. “A hundred livres.”
Henry nodded. “A hundred livres.” Alfie’s eyes were wide. “A hundred livres.” Henry snorted. “A hundred livres!”
“A hundred livres!” Alfie was laughing helplessly now. “A HUNDRED LIVRES!” Henry threw his arms wide. “YEEEHHAAAAAAA!”
They locked arms and danced.
3. A Sword of the Nine
Henry raced down the Rue Marevál, the stash of silver testons and dixaines carefully distributed in six different pouches under his braies and tunic. And that was just the change from two of Brissac’s
gold pieces. A hundred livres! They could live like kings. Spanish oranges twice a week, pheasant for feasts and mutton for mainstays, chops and tripe and bacon and pies...and girls.
Henry grinned. Being fatherless, guildless, and just a hop from the gallows hadn’t exactly helped him to impress girls in the past, but that was about to change. With even one more of those gold écus, he could become a legend. New tunic, new hose, rent a horse, show up at the hayings next week. Jesu, he could buy a horse. Why not? Ever see a real Parisian before, ma belle? That’s right. We do things differently in the big city. But first, he had to run some errands.
The chaos of colleges, lecture halls, and scriptoria that was the University of Paris had grown up around the Abbé St. Genevieve like the mushrooms that sprout on trees after the rain. There were dozens of booksellers, but even with the new wealth, Henry wasn’t rich enough to buy a book. Not yet. But he had the next best thing.
A right onto the paved Boulevard St. Michel, a left into the muck of the Rue St. Severin, and he was cutting through the courtyard of Severin’s church into the chapter house, where Tomas of Padua was delivering his weekly theology lecture.
The Paduan was popular, and the oratorium was packed. Half the students had stolen chairs from the chapter house, more were leaning on walls or staffs, and a few were literally hanging from the rafters, dribbling wine on their comrades below. Even in a cosmopolitan mob like this one, Henry noticed, the students tended to divide up by dialect — the Allemani from across the Rhine sitting in the front, having arrived punctually at the hour of Prime: the Romani and Britannii perching where they could, and the Francii lounging around casually as if they owned the place.
“The disputed question is on the nature of Original Sin. Sic or Non?”
As the students roared out Biblical quotations for and against, Henry squeezed his way through the mob, getting some angry jabs in return, until he spotted a student he recognized.
“Ave, filius Golias,” said Henry. The other goliard raised his hand. “Ave, frater,” he replied.
Henry switched from Church Latin to Paris French. “Where’s the Worm?”
“He sold a copy of Aristotle yesterday. Follow your nose.”
Henry breathed deep. Above the smells of wine breath and unwashed bodies, he caught the scent of cloves. He followed it through the crowd, out the far door, and into the cloistered walk where the Worm did his business.
Short and pimpled, Pieter of Flores (AKA Petronius Vermiis, AKA Pete the Worm) was convinced he was St. Valentine’s personal representative to the women of Paris. He clearly had made a sale yesterday, because today he was wearing a red silk bliaut and enough clove oil to stun a horse.
“No chapbooks!” The Worm waved back a student who was pressing close with a sheaf of scribbled parchment. “I don’t need class notes. Get me something illuminated, and we’ll talk.” The student slumped. The Worm leaned in close. “You’re a brother at St. Barnabas. They’ve got a great library. Just...look around some time.” Then the Worm spotted Henry and shooed the other schoolmen away.
“Not too busy?” Henry smiled. “The usual?”
“Yeah.”
“Two sous.”
“Since when?”
“Since Joris of Bruges saw you changing gold coins for silver.”
Henry’s gut twinged. It was never good news when people knew your business. He promised himself to be more careful next time. As casually as he could, he counted out two of the new testons, and they haggled over the value of the coins until Henry threw in a few deniers du louis to make up the difference. The Worm led him out of the cloister and into the warren of dormers behind the chapter house.
The Worm was the biggest...freelance librarian...in Paris. Of course, he rarely kept more than one or two books on hand at a time, but he could procure a copy of The Four Books of Sentences or The Matter of Britain in a day — Aristotle or Augustine in two.
They scrambled up the stairs to the wide garret that the Worm used as his base of operations. He pried up a floorboard and handed the book underneath to Henry.
“There you go. Ave filius Golias.”
The Worm left, and Henry opened the book. The folio was huge and bound in oak, and chained to the joist underneath the floor. That was no surprise, of course; one stolen folio could feed a large family for a year, if you could find a buyer. The Treatise on Knightly Prowess, by one Gervasius Florentium. Probably a fake name — especially since the book was written in Saxon, not French or Latin — but the information was good. Good so far, anyway.
Quickly, Henry thumbed past the labyrinth design on the frontispiece and the descriptions of ancient armor, ancient horsemanship, forms of address, to the meat of the book — the weapons. Gervasius, whoever he had been, was some sort of eccentric: a learned man who didn’t use Latin, a scholar who apparently cared nothing for law, Aristotle or even theology, but only for history — the history of arms.
Henry had no idea where the Worm had found the book, and he didn’t ask. It didn’t matter: Thanks to Gervasius’ descriptions and drawings, six “Joyeuses” were floating around Paris. Now it was time to give Charlemagne a rest and see what other famous swords he could provide to gullible tourney enthusiasts.
Henry passed over Greek kuthrai and Viking broadswords, Scottish claymores and English pikes, until he found what he was looking for: the swords of the Tale of the Nine. Nine legendary weapons forged for the heroes of the great nations of history. It was amazing the hold this story had on the castle-building classes. Well, if they wanted magic, Henry would be happy to provide it. He leafed past Charlemagne and Joyeuse and went on to the more exotic members of the Nine. There was Arpé, the sword of Alexander, said to have been passed down from Perseus and to have slain the Medusa; the sword of David, lost in the destruction of Jerusalem; and there —
A Roman cavalry spatha. Slender, unadorned, with a cup of a hilt — just the weapon for St. Constantine, Emperor of Rome, benefactor of the Church, patron saint of knights and horsemanship. Now that he thought about it, it might even have a piece of the True Cross in the hilt. Of course, it was plain, and rather small...but Valdemar Smith could tart it up a bit, make it more exciting. Yeah, this was the one.
Henry dug a scrap of parchment and a stick of charcoal out of his scrip, sketched the spatha, jotted down all the information, and returned Gervasius to his niche under the floor. St. Constantine would ride again, with a little help from Henry.
The Paris smiths were clustered next to the fullers, an arrangement that kept the noise and stink where it belonged, in the eyes of the city fathers — off the Right Bank and the Île de la Cité, and firmly established among the students, vagabonds, and thieves of the Latin Quarter.
Henry didn’t care. It made his trip that much shorter. He walked past the open door to Valdemar’s smithy and waited in the alley. A few moments later, Valdemar’s apprentice left. Once the prentice was completely out of sight, Henry entered.
“As promised, one livre in silver.” Henry pulled out a pouch and dropped it on the counter. Valdemar — big, sullen, with muscles out to his ears — made it disappear.
“And we have a new job.” Henry slid the parchment across the counter. Valdemar picked it up and looked at the drawings. “It’s called a spatha. We need it three feet long, and you’ll have to make it — I don’t know — more pretty, I guess. It’s not too impressive, but it’s what St. Constantine used, so — ”
Valdemar dropped the parchment. “Five livres.”
“What?”
“The deal’s changed. Five livres for this...spadda.”
Henry chewed on that for a moment. “So you heard about the sale too.”
“Aye. So did my strikers. And my grinder. And the man who does the hilts.”
“You know it was an accident. We never expected a hundred livres, and we’ll never get that again. We’re lucky if we get ten. Five livres could mean almost our whole take for the spatha.”
“It’s not about the money, boy. It’s about the risk.”
Henry smiled and spread his hands. “Help me out, Vee. Where’s the risk?”
“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.