The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  The Minstrel and the Mercenary

  By

  David Scoles

  Copyright © 2018 David Scoles

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible if were it not for the love and support of my wife, Jessica.

  Table of Contents

  Part 1: Caen France Tuesday, July 26, 1346

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Part 2: The French Plains and Saint Josse, Monday, August 8-Monday, August 15, 1346

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part 3: Swanne Hill, Monday, August 15, 1346

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Book 4: Blanchetaque, Monday August 22-Tuesday August 23, 1346

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Book 5: Crecy, Thursday, August 25-Friday, August 26, 1346

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Names

  Part 1: Caen France Tuesday, July 26, 1346

  Chapter 1

  Caen was burning and Dafydd ap Gwilym could smell its destruction. The sooty air made him cough and gag. The screams of the wounded and the dying were yet distant, but he assumed death would eventually find its way to this part of the city too. Townsfolk barricaded themselves indoors or chanced the city gates. Gwilym hoped some might escape, but many would likely be cut down by the invading English.

  Gwilym managed to leap aside as horses baring French soldiers came thundering down the street headed in the opposite direction. Gwilym pulled low his wide-brimmed hat, but none of the soldiers so much as glanced in his direction. His itinerant disguise consisting of worn boots, tattered cloak, and a lute wrapped in a thick protective cloth of red and green slung over his shoulder, now proved its worth.

  I may typically prefer to stick out in a crowd, but now I’m just another unfortunate to them. I need to be about this business and escape. A Christian conscience may be the salvation of my soul, but could potentially mean the end of my life!

  Les Moutons Qui Rient, the Laughing Sheep Inn, located near the Jewish quarter, would soon be within sight. Gwilym had sung songs, drunk sweet Sancerre wine, and told stories to the common man there last Michaelmas. He remembered the innkeeper’s attractive daughter as well. They didn’t deserve to be slaughtered for what little they possessed.

  Gwilym had waited for the right opportunity to slip away from the Earl of Northampton’s entourage while the nobles toured Caen’s outer walls to note its structural weaknesses. A less noticeable weakness, a scalable bit of rubble of stone and wood that had likely been part of Caen’s older parapets, landed him on the southern edge of the Odon. Here the water was low and wadeable. A slight frame and quick reflexes made the sparse wall guard easy to avoid.

  The eastern part of Caen, where most of the layman lived, was composed of tightly spaced houses. Their decades old timbers leaned upon each other for support. The stone foundations had been laid centuries before and their wooden frames had been built and rebuilt time and again. Les Moutons Qui Rient was such a structure near a central square of shops, blacksmiths and carpenters. A lower-class man’s public house; it was a place that reeked of smelting steel, sweat, and nutty ale.

  Gwilym allowed scent to guide him. His mind he kept occupied in its singular focus to rescue the innkeeper, the innkeeper's daughter, and then smuggle them out of the city before the English breached the walls. Time was running short and his courage faltered with each step he took. He needed to take a short cut.

  A familiar narrow alley allowed him to leave the panicking masses behind. The tall buildings formed a natural canyon of shadow concealing his presence. Only a year previously, a person would have been surrounded even here by throngs of people of all classes purchasing goods and gewgaws from merchants hailing from as far away as Constantinople. Now it was as empty as Christ’s tomb.

  Gwilym continued down the alleyway and the eery silence seemed to press in upon him like hands slowly folding in prayer. He glanced over his shoulder every few paces having no desire to fall to some cutthroat’s knife. When finally he came into sight of Les Moutons Qui Rient, Gwilym was out of breath and exhausted from fear. His instincts screamed at him. Run now Gwilym!

  Gwilym burst through the Inn's door and almost stepped into a pool of spilled blood. A dead man’s severed head rested in its center. Gwilym’s stomach churned and his gorge rose. He spotted another corpse, and this one he recognized. The innkeeper lay sprawled across the bar with an axe buried into his skull.

  A soldier dressed in chainmail and a yellow surcoat smashed open an ale barrel with his sword hilt and helped himself. Two other identically clad men talked and laughed while they counted out silver coins spread out atop a table. Bloody weapons were haphazardly scattered upon the table as well. One of the men noticed Gwilym frozen in the doorway and snarled something.

  “Wer ist deiser junge?” This from an ugly bastard with a scar running from left eye to lip. As a result of his wicked facial wound, the scarred man’s voice was like a serpent’s hiss. The soldier who had smashed the barrel, a fat one with a bald head, glanced at Gwilym, but continued to fill his ale mug. None of the soldiers appeared concerned they’d been caught at theft and murder.

  “Jemand dumm,” the fat one answered after finishing his ale in one pull. Someone foolish.

  “Germans,” Gwilym gasped. Despite King Edward’s desire that all mercenary companies keep to the westerly and heavier guarded walls of the northern bank, bands of desperate treasure seekers had sought the easy prey of the city proper. The English, had they breached the main gate, could not have penetrated this deeply into the city so soon. How had these men?

  Christ Jesus, if you deliver me from this evil, I shall remain celibate until Solstice, this time f
or sure, I swear! His hand slowly drifted towards his dagger, a curved Saxon scramasax, worn at his belt. Kill whoever comes closest first then… what? Run? Sweat ran down his back. He had never killed anyone in his life!

  A female scream from above the taproom momentarily interrupted the standoff. A door upstairs flew open. A mercenary dragged a sobbing girl out of an upstairs room by her curly red hair. Gwilym recognized Marguerite, the innkeeper’s daughter, her cheeks red with tears and her face a portrait of humiliation. Bruises scored her throat and the welts on her face were swollen and purplish.

  “Wer ist der nächste?” The mercenary on the stair grinned as he gripped Marguerite’s hair. Gwilym understood him. Who is next?

  Gwilym’s rage was instantaneous.

  “Bastards! Fucking whore-son bastards!” His shout refocused their attention upon him. The soldier on the stairs manhandled Marguerite onto her knees. Gwilym dubbed him the Grimy Bastard.

  Marguerite’s eyes locked onto Gwilym. Did she recognize him? Gwilym couldn’t leave her here like this, but he was no warrior. He was a poet, a romantic. His scramasax was more for show or for a quick game of knife throwing. Sweat poured down his forehead. His hair beneath his hat was soaked. July was too hot for war.

  Surely he wasn’t meant to die in some obscure inn in France? Could he really fight these men and hope to win? Gwilym had never engaged in hand to hand combat outside of practice drills back home. Oh, there had been a handful of times when it had seemed like a manly idea, but prudence always won out and he always had run instead. He shook away his doubts and steeled his nerve. He would not leave a woman to suffer like this!

  Grimy Bastard released Marguerite and she slumped against the rough wooden staircase. A large blond fellow who looked to have never bathed a day in his life, started towards Gwilym. He angrily demanded that Gwilym leave in harsh, guttural German.

  Big Blond drew a wicked looking longsword that was notched and pitted from heavy use. Gwilym visualized it cracking open his skull like an egg. He retreated back a step and raised his hands above his head. He smiled disarmingly.

  “Ich bin ein freund.” Feigning ignorance had gotten him out of more than one confrontation. His scramasax was loose in its sheath, and small enough that Big Blond had not noticed it. Gwilym had a clear line of sight to the German’s unprotected neck.

  God forgive me, but it was you who put the fool notion into me that I should come here to begin with. Gwilym readied for the quick draw and throw. It was a maneuver he had performed dozens of times to impress tavern wenches. He often hit his target. He would use the momentary surprise to rush the table and make a grab for one of the loaded crossbows. Aye, then he would try to negotiate or scare off Scar Lip and Grimy Bastard.

  Gwilym’s fingers twitched and in one fluid motion the scramasax was in his right hand. He drew back his arm for the throw all in the same motion. With a flick of his wrist, Gwilym sent the blade flying.

  Big Blond’s eyes grew wide. Years of fighting gave men like him an instinct. He raised his sword to deflect whatever was coming, but it was too late.

  Blood spurted from the neck wound and Big Blond dropped with a thud, gurgling out his last breaths. Fat Baldy heaved himself up out of his chair faster than a man his size should have been able, his pewter mug shattered into dozens of pieces upon the floor. Scar Lip yelled a word Gwilym didn’t recognize and went for his weapon, that same crossbow Gwilym had seen laying atop the table. The same crossbow he would not win the race to steal. Grimy Bastard drew a sword and poised it above Marguerite.

  Fear took over and self-preservation prevailed against all else. Gwilym backpedaled for the door. He would go for help. Find an officer or knight who could bring charges against these men for rape and disobeying the King’s order. They would all be hung upon the Breaking Wheel and have their bones broken with cudgels. If they were lucky.

  He hit something that wasn’t the door, but felt just as hard. Gwilym sprang away like a cornered squirrel and, eyes wide, regarded what he had backed into. It was a man— a large man— dressed in black with the cowl of his dust covered cloak over his head. He was trapped. Of course they would have someone outside watching the horses or keeping an eye out for intruders. Fool! He should have been more careful. Now it was over.

  Gwilym’s foot slipped on the bloody floor and he tumbled backward. He felt something whisk over him and heard Fat Baldy cry out in agony. He dared to look up and saw Fat Baldy staring down in disbelief at the crossbow quarrel embedded in his crotch just above his manhood. Gwilym’s stomach lurched. Blood spurted from the wound and like a tapped keg. Fat Baldy screamed and sank to his knees.

  Stepping over Gwilym’s prone form, the stranger strode confidently into the taproom, casting aside a spent crossbow. He drew a black-handled Arming sword from a sheath he wore over his back and wielded it in one large hand. Gwilym gasped. The minstrel didn't dare move an inch as the stranger took a menacing step towards Scar Lip.

  Scar Lip stepped back, fear written across his features. Above, Grimy Bastard’s face purpled in rage.

  “Greed always clears a predictable path.” The stranger’s voice was deep and laced with menace. “You lot could not help yourselves, had to sweep for any moveable chattels you could lay your bloody hands upon. ‘Merchants will have goods, inns will have wine and abbeys will have gold,’ but you bastards had to get distracted by a woman and fall behind your main group. Too bad for you.”

  Chapter 2

  The newcomer spoke German, but Gwilym understood every word. When the newcomer cast back his hood, he noticed dark, shoulder-length hair damp with sweat. The ill lit room did little to detail his features, but he could just see the ghost of a smile on the man’s clean shaven face. Gwilym slowly regained his feet, but was still too afraid to move. The heat inside the inn was stifling. If that didn’t kill him, the smell of death and unwashed bodies certainly would.

  “Her name is Marguerite and these brigands have raped her and killed her father, a common freeman,” Gwilym said. It was stating the obvious, but he wanted there to be no mistaking his own identity. He had no desire to be cut down as a suspected party to this crime.

  “Aye,” the stranger replied, but never took his eyes off the mercenaries. Nobody moved, save Fat Baldy who groaned and cried upon the floor. It was as if time stood still and an angel of death now hovered above them all. They were all waiting for something to happen, an excuse to begin the bloodletting once more. That moment occurred when Marguerite whimpered from where she lay with Grimy Bastard’s sword poised at her neck.

  The large stranger exploded into action. He flew across the room, arming blade held horizontally. He slashed it right to left in a great swath of destruction. The blade bit into the sword of Scar Lip, severing it at the fuller and then cutting deep into the German’s chest. With a cry Scar Lip fell back with blood gushing from the wound. The stranger didn’t stop there.

  The keen edge of an axe head flashed in the dim candlelight and suddenly Scar Lip lacked a head. The body stood upright for three breaths, then tumbled forward like a puppet with its strings cut. The head rolled to a stop at Gwilym’s feet, who could no longer hold back his disgust. He vomited.

  With a great leap over an overturned chair, the stranger hurled the Arming sword like a spear at Grimy Bastard. Reflexively, the mercenary raised his own sword to block. Marguerite crawled away the moment the sword left her neck. Grimy Bastard was too caught up with his own protection to notice.

  Fat Baldy cursed and cried as he tried to pull out the bolt embedded in his nether region. Despite the wound, he fumbled with his sword belt. Fear written across his porcine face and pain aside, Gwilym thought he looked determined to revenge himself nonetheless.

  Grimy Bastard was pale after seeing three of his companions brought down so quickly by just one man. After removing Scar Lip’s head the stranger flew up the stairs to square off against Grimy Bastard. The ax dripped with blood. The German’s eyes darted about, seeking escape, but there was non
e.

  Grimy Bastard had successfully blocked the thrown Arming sword with his own blade, a large Estoc, that needed both hands to wield it effectively. His arms trembled and he held the Estoc with white knuckled anxiety.

  “Parley!” Grimy Bastard stammered. “We took money from their coffers. It is yours!” He never got to finish another sentence. The bloody ax sunk with finality between Grimy Bastard’s eyes. Bones crunched. Dislodged eyes stared at the wound the ax had made.

  There was an ominous moment of silence before the stranger spoke.

  “See to the woman and ready yourself,” he growled. He didn’t spare Gwilym or Marguerite a second glance as he retrieved his arming sword from where it lay, wiping it clean before returning it to its sheath. The ax he held loose in his left hand and he recovered the dual-bolt crossbow he had used to give Fat Baldy his slow death.

  Gwilym glanced at the fat German who had finally succumbed to his wound. Sightless eyes stared at him as if in accusation. Gwilym had not been so close to death since his grandfather had the ague and passed away some Winters ago. He could smell the metallic stench of fresh blood mixed with the fetid aromas of sweat. He mumbled a prayer to speed the deceased spirits to the afterlife.

  Gwilym was finally able to get a good look at their savior. Piercing blue eyes set in a serious, yet not unhandsome face. His nose was straight, brows thick and sharp canines that enhanced a menacing set to the jaw. This was a man whose heart was as hard as his sword blade. Gwilym fought to suppress his fear.

  “Be ready for what, my good man?” Gwilym croaked. “Be ready for the second coming? Are the angels about to blow their trumpets on high?” Gwilym staggered over to a table, forcing his legs to move, and snatched up a mug. He filled the cup from a half empty wine sack. Gwilym tossed back the wine in one gulp leaving red rivulets of wine running down his cheeks.

  “This is a city of reavers now. Be ready to fight or flee as you will,” the large man replied nonchalantly.

  Gwilym filled another cup with wine and moved to hand it to Marguerite, who had stumbled down the steps in a daze and had slumped into a chair. Gwilym moved to lay a comforting hand upon her shoulder, but she shoved him away, causing Gwilym to drop the proffered mug. Its contents splashed onto the floor to mix with her father’s blood.