by David Scoles
“Do not touch me! Those beasts have defiled me,” she shrieked. Gwilym held up both his hands in surrender and backed away. What hearth and heavy door can ever make you feel safe again? For that matter, are any safe in Caen at all? His heart filled with pity for her, and for himself as well.
The stranger moved to help himself to the sack as well. He held it above his head and allowed the wine to squirt down into his open mouth. Gwilym swallowed the lump in his throat and shivered in the stranger’s shadow. The minstrel noticed a thoughtful look pass over the large man’s face as he swallowed the last of the wine.
“Wine not to your liking?” Gwilym timidly asked.
“Nay, a deep elderberry and oak flavored mixture. It is very fine.”
“Aye, I was first able to entertain here with my uncle who had heard from a spice merchant that this was an establishment that dared serve vintages fit for a nobler clientele than the Vintners Guild would allow. There are rules, you know.”
Gwilym set down his mug and removed his torn and travel stained cloak. He draped it over Marguerite’s shivering form. This time she made no protest, but drew it about herself protectively. Her eyes staring at something far away.
She does not appear capable of going anywhere at the moment, but leaving her in an inn surrounded by the slain would be an evil act of selfishness. Gwilym hadn’t realized he spoke that last thought aloud until the large man answered.
“Once the army takes the city, the French nobles will probably sue for peace.”
Gwilym watched as his and Marguerite’s savior helped himself to stores of bread, cheese and dates kept behind the bar in a pantry. He also filled a wineskin from an unbroken cask until it was fit to burst.
Gwilym felt a stir beside him and turned to regard Marguerite who was watching the swordsman help himself to her father’s… to her goods. Her face betrayed nothing, but she listened when he spoke to her.
“Your mind may whisper words like ‘ruined’ or ‘soiled,’ but they are just words. There is nothing clean about this world and a woman must simply endure more of its miseries. Yet as long as you live there is always another chance to take revenge. A lesson I have learned well.” The stranger did not turn around or stop his foraging as he spoke to her.
“Marguerite,” Gwilym said softly, trying to draw her attention away from the stranger’s dark words. “Is there somewhere you might go? You cannot stay here with things as they are now and our savior speaks truth albeit a grim one. The nobles have cast your kind to the wind.”
The stranger eyed Marguerite impassively, his full sack thrown over one shoulder. Gwilym looked on with concern. Marguerite gave her dead father a forlorn glance as she slowly stood upon her scratched and bruised legs, still clutching Gwilym’s cloak tightly about her. Tentatively at first and then with more confidence she smoothed her skirts and wiped her face. Remarkably, her voice did not waver when she spoke.
“Thank you Gwilym and thank you as well stranger. My father and Andre— the dead man lying there by the door— attempted to bar their way, but they were not strong enough. They cut down Andre immediately. He was a regular here. Always claimed he was going to marry me someday.” Her voice trailed off.
“I am called Radu of Transylvania,” the stranger replied.
“You have my thanks Radu. Caen was once never a place to turn away travelers. Would that you had come during happier times.”
“I would not be here Madam, were that so,” Radu answered solemnly.
“Is there someplace you can go?” Gwilym interrupted. “Relatives you can seek out?”
“There are friends I might call on,” she replied. “If they should still live.” Her gaze settled upon the dead mercenaries. “Good men who believe that women need be cared for, honored and respected unlike these vile bastards!”
For a moment, no one spoke. Gwilym moved aside to allow Marguerite to kneel beside Andre. She folded her hands and her lips moved in prayer. Gwilym wished that he might reach out and touch her hand. He was in no position to understand or offer succor. How could he ever understand such pain? Marguerite crossed herself. Tears flowed down her cheeks. As her shoulders shook, her matted hair fell like a shroud to cover her face.
Radu in the meantime moved swiftly to search the bodies of the dead mercenaries. Gwilym watched him pocket coins and scraps of what looked like vellum, and remove a ring from one dead man’s finger by wedging the tip of his dagger underneath the band. More than a little flesh came off along with the ring.
“Do you find much to want on those you kill?” Gwilym boldly asked. How unseemly to rob the dead!
“Only if they themselves were ‘wanted’ and therefore had prices laid upon their heads,” Radu said while examining his new ring. “What I find here now I take as compensation for saving your hides, rather than demanding so from you.”
Gwilym swallowed a retort. The man Radu knelt above had been the blond sell-sword that he had meant to kill before Radu interfered. God help him, he had actually meant to do it. The German’s face was pale save for the deep cut from which protruded one of Radu’s knives. Gwilym’s scramasax lay bloodless on the floor underneath a table.
Regardless, I feel just as guilty if it had been my knife who killed him. Spilling blood and sinning against the Commandments? I would have done so to save Marguerite’s life and my own. Why, I’ll not be so cynical as to ask for my knife back if this Radu takes it as part of his compensation!
Radu withdrew his knife from the dead man’s throat and cleaned it on the corpse’s faded yellow cloak, which bore the device of the Red Sword mercenary company: a red sword clutched by a black eagle. Then he recovered Gwilym’s scramasax from beneath the table where it lay and, wordlessly, he handed it over to Gwilym hilt first.
“That was well thrown.” Gwilym heard no sarcasm.
“The Saints of battle guided my heart, but not my hand,” Gwilym answered as he happily accepted back his knife. “They would not let me fall to such… such horrid villainy!”
Radu chuckled and stood again to his full height. He gazed at Gwilym thoughtfully. Gwilym shifted nervously under the scrutiny.
“You are an amusing fellow. Gwilym, did she call you?” Radu asked.
Gwilym blushed and stood up straight. He brushed aside his nervousness and remembered who he was and whom he served. He executed a bow while doffing his hat as though he stood before a prince of Europe and not a common mercenary. “Dafydd ap Gwilym of Ceredigion. I am bard, poet and singer of songs to his Highness Prince Edward of England.”
“You mean Edward the Prince of Wales.” Radu said with a grin.
“I… yes… yes, that is what I meant. Edward, Prince of Wales and recently knighted, I might add!” Gwilym scowled. What a cheeky bastard this fellow is!
“Oh ho, a knight is he? And your Patron to boot?” Radu said slowly as he held the smaller man’s gaze. “Perhaps I spoke too soon then and I should escort you back to your Prince in safety for a princely reward?”
Gwilym grimaced. “I do not believe the Prince would so pay you for something he had not asked for. That is not to say,” Gwilym quickly added, “that he does not value my work and companionship!” Gwilym tried his most disarming smile.
“Have you perchance heard of any of my works? I am told they are recited as far east as Bohemia. Cymraeg or the Welsh tongue as you may know it is the only speech that does it real justice, but perhaps one as well traveled as you has heard it translated into other languages?” Gwilym’s voice drifted off. Radu was no longer paying him any attention.
Radu walked over to where Marguerite was seated upon the floor. She’d drawn her legs up close to her chest and silently wept into her arms.
“Did your father keep mallet and nails?” Radu asked. “Are there strong boards kept in ready supply for protection from strong winds and rain?” Marguerite raised her head and sniffled. She managed a nod and a whispered reply.
“Kept below in the cellar, sir, where I might have hidden had I the strength to
lift the heavy latch.” Radu turned and beckoned Gwilym to follow him outside. Gwilym wondered what the mercenary had next in mind for the two of them.
Outside a smoky film had turned the sky a sickly yellowish color. Gwilym thought it looked like an infection poisoning what should have been a clear summer’s blue. The sounds of war carried from the nearby Jewish quarter. Violence always has a way of steering towards the moneylenders first, God help them. Gwilym wondered that many of the wealthier citizens of Caen had taken advantage of the chaos to forcibly rid themselves of their loans by whatever means necessary.
Radu sniffed the air and grunted. The doors to the cellars were crafted of heavy oak, but he lifted them effortlessly and descended below. Within a few moments he had returned, handing a clutch of nails to Gwilym.
“We’ll board up her windows and doors while she sets a barricade behind them. This way she might live the night to at least regret the good fortune of it on the morrow.” Radu hefted several boards over his shoulder and eyed the sickly clouds above. “Best hurry, for once they finish with the Jews they’ll start slaughtering the rest of the city.”
Chapter 3
The Irish howled like wolves on the hunt. The ancient clan markings of blue, green and red tattooed upon their bodies gave them a grotesque appearance. The Welsh were hooded wraiths. They darted from behind overturned wagons firing barbed arrows with unerring accuracy.
The mercenaries could no longer ignore the call of easy loot. Their blood was up and the rumored disobedience of the Red Swords fueled their baser desires for rapine and violence. Fires had sprung up about Caen’s old city from carelessly dropped lanterns or lit candles forgotten in one’s haste to escape impending doom.
Tearing through the city on a jet black charger, Vladimir Kessenovich of Muscovy grinned at the chaos surrounding him. His walrus-like mustache quivered as he sniffed the air like a hound scenting spilt blood and prey. He clutched his family’s heirloom saber. The gemstones set in the saber’s black iron pommel glittered in the sunlight. This anarchy was what he had been waiting for! He laughed aloud when a group of peasants; a husband, wife and four children fled down a side street. They clutched hastily gathered belongings tight to their chests.
Kessenovich whirled his horse about and charged. The sound of his horse’s hooves hitting the cobblestones echoed like thunder. The husband was no coward, but Kessenovich had always despised bravery when it manifested itself in the low born. The harried man shoved his wife and children forward down the street, urging them to move faster. He turned and faced his attacker with a determined look. The Cossack could see the man’s eyes held no illusion about the outcome of his decision.
Kessenovich handled his horse expertly. Though there was plenty of debris littering the filth ridden city, the beast neither missed a step nor stumbled in its charge. A Cossack learned to ride before he could walk and his beast was a Don; fierce, strong and bred for him alone. Rather than run the peasant down, as one of the so-called English knights would have, he reined his horse sharply to the right just before impact. Like an acrobat, the mercenary dropped the reins and steered with his legs. His saber flew from his right to his left as the peasant’s eyes widened in terror. He could only manage a single gasp as Kessenovich’s saber slashed to cut deeply into his exposed neck. The man was dead before he hit the ground, but not before Kessenovich used the bloodied tip of his saber to lift the pack from the peasant’s lifeless hand.
“Bah, you westerners and your cheeses!” Kessenovich angrily threw the sack onto the ground. Enemies at their gates and homes burning, yet they think only to pack an old sack full of moldy cheese? He sighed and gazed down the street where the mother and her children wept at the sight of their dead husband and father.
"Tell me you have something besides cheese, yes?" Kessenovich said. He was tired of chasing peasants in the blistering heat, and the fact that he had yet to acquire anything of value frustrated him. Kessenovich raised his sword and wondered why people just couldn't stay put and die as God intended.
Far away from the slaughter, two men stood ensconced within the tallest tower of a New City mansion. One of them felt the walls of responsibility closing in. Sweat beaded upon his forehead plastering dark, thinning hair to his brow.
Raoul II of Brienne, Le Compte d’Eu, was a man more accustomed to a leisurely life, and it showed in his ample paunch, pale cheeks and thrice-curled toes of his shoes. His pantaloons were trimmed in gold leaf upon a solid black background and spun from the finest satin. His doublet and coat were Messina fashioned and adorned with small gemstones: diamonds, jaspers and sapphires. Rings of gold and silver were upon each sausage-like finger and he sported a circlet of ivory set with an emerald upon his brow, a gift from his father-in-law Louis II, the illustrious Baron de Vaud.
All the wealth he was surrounded by— although circumstances had greatly diminished it— did little to settle the rising tide of panic that welled up in his stomach. Raoul felt ill and turned to the cowled and cloaked man beside him for succor.
“By all the trumpeting choirs of angels, I had thought you some plan in mind?” Raoul whined.
“I said no such thing my lord,” the cloaked man replied smoothly. “I merely told you that pulling your men back across the Orne was the only way to better defend the manors and holdings of your more… well established citizenry. What did you believe would happen if there were no soldiers defending the outer walls?”
From beneath the cowl, Raoul could see the man’s mocking smile. Briefly Raoul considered reminding him he did not deserve such scorn for he was nobly born too.
“You won’t come to any harm. I already have the King’s assurance on the matter. Do you understand?”
Raoul swallowed and nodded his head. “Clear as day, my lord.” Raoul wasn’t used to feeling vulnerable, but lately he had begun to feel as laid bare as Christ had been upon the Holy Cross. He’d never been a warrior, though his birth made him a leader of men, and he abhorred the thought of his body being wounded by sword or ax. Yet, just as terrifying was the notion of being destitute. He had long since squandered the money he inherited and his wife’s ample dowry was a distant memory of revels, clothing, wine and horses.
Raoul of Brienne had debts that would make a bishop blush. He had nearly sold his title to Guines to a moneylender of all people. A beautiful stretch of land bequeathed by his beloved mother. Then, out of nowhere, this mysterious patron appeared and made him an offer that saved Guines, but embroiled him in a heretofore unthinkable conspiracy. Raoul licked his dry lips.
“The letter… are you any closer to finding it, my lord? That piece of vellum Montfort intercepted could undo me. I shall lose my head should Philip ever read it!”
His patron hesitated, his black cloak swishing about his boots. Raoul paled and began to sweat anew when he saw his patron’s hand fall upon the pommel of his sword.
“Look at it this way Raoul. If your soul be truly burdened by the deaths of bakers, wainwrights and Jews, then perhaps you would rather explain to King Philip how you misplaced near 200,000 livre of taxes owed to him?”
The Compte d’Eu’s soul was not so burdened.
Chapter 4
Dafydd ap Gwilym’s unease with his mercenary companion grew with each passing moment. After they had left Marguerite at Les Moutons Qui Rient, they had kept to the alleyways and the narrowest of back streets to avoid the rush of both terrified townsfolk and roving bands of villains. Radu moved with a purpose, but Gwilym was tired. His sense of direction was becoming confused with each turn they took. There had been no doubt that he would accompany Radu. How else would he escape the city, but with a capable mercenary at his side?
“As much as I can appreciate Caen’s more quaint streets… wait, I believe I recognize that blue doorway. A tavern that serves a most excellent selection of reds, roast quail and rats. Never does one appreciate a decently done quail lightly sprinkled with rat shit quite like the French, I’ve always said. By Saint Augustine of Hippo’s wine
-stained goblet, I could do with a cup! I’ll forgo the quail this time. Shall we stop for a bit?” Gwilym was almost out of breath, but kept up a nervous stream of chatter.
Radu never slowed, nor did he deviate from the course only he knew. His eyes focused forward and he didn’t glance back once. Gwilym considered his predicament. Perhaps I can bluff him. If he thinks the Prince really will reward him for seeing me out of the city, he’ll not want to part company.
“Not that I mind a tour, but the city is under attack. Far be it from me, my most noble lord, to dictate our course or suggest an alternate route that might avoid yon sword swingers and blood-letters, yet the meat and mead of a minstrel’s life is wine and song. Perhaps it would be best if we went our separate, yet equally fortune blessed ways?”
“Quiet.” Radu said sharply, drawing to a halt. Gwilym obeyed without thinking. He crouched low behind Radu and peered from behind the much larger man. Radu scowled down at him. The alley had come to an abrupt halt. Ahead lay a public fountain square with exits leading east, west, north and south. Radu had led them down the northern path. Directly across from them, at the head of the southern path, was an atrocity that Gwilym would spend the rest of his life trying to forget.
Sprawled on the ground near the fountain were the bodies of four children and one woman. They had been butchered. Blood pooled beneath each body like rust colored water.
The youngest, a girl no more than three, did not even have shoes upon her feet. Clothes? Rags only, really, Gwilym observed. Her face planted into the cobblestones. Blond hair matted with blood.
Tears filled Gwilym’s eyes. Saint Bathilde, Patroness of Children, I beseech you to aid this child on her journey to the Lord’s side. Who could have done such a thing? Unarmed and certainly no threat? Have we truly entered the End Times as the prophets say?