The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  An armed man with long mustaches poked through a sack near the body of the dead woman. He muttered in a language Gwilym didn’t recognize. That was rare, for exposure to the languages of Europe had begun when he was very young. His Uncle Llewellyn had deemed it necessary education for any boy who wanted to be a successful minstrel.

  Gwilym identified the man by his horse, which stood attentively nearby. Oh aye, it was a horse he knew well. Not a fortnight ago, its owner had mocked him while he had been riding by. One tended not to forget insults about how neither Gwilym nor his horse had any balls.

  “That is Vladimir Kessenovich,” Gwilym whispered. “No mercenary east of the Danube is a finer rider and swordsman!” Gwilym expected a wariness from Radu upon hearing the man’s reputation, not the wicked grin that spread across the mercenary’s face.

  “Yes, that name I have heard,” Radu said. “His footsteps have been an echo of dropped coins for three months now.”

  “What do you mean?” Gwilym asked.

  “Vladimir Kessenovich!” Radu shouted. Gwilym flinched. Vladimir Kessenovich shot upright and drew his curved saber in one swift movement. The scene reminded Gwilym of his classics. Now they shall stand and each will trade dramatic barbs. Both will then salute one another with their weapons and offer up a prayer to St. George to guide their blades and then….” Yet he knew those chivalric stories existed outside of reality. If men who sold their blood for coin ever prayed to the saints, they knew there was no hope of being heard. Heroes didn’t leave the despoiled bodies of children lying in the dirt.

  Radu stalked across the courtyard and drew his sword and fokos ax from where they hung across his back. His eyes never left Vladimir. Across the courtyard, Vladimir grinned and remounted his horse, blade still in hand.

  “Radu!” shouted Gwilym as he backed away seeking cover. He held no illusions. These two men would fight across the entirety of the courtyard and should he get in their way… well then! Dafydd ap Gwilym would never sing another ballad again!

  “The advantage is his as long as he is astride a horse!

  “Take shelter!” cried Radu. Gwilym ran from the alley and dove behind the fountain, its cool waters trickled gaily into the pool.

  “You have come here seeking something more than what English King pays, yes?” Kessenovich laughed and gestured at some lumpy mounds on the ground. “Plenty of cheese from these dirt farming selyany. These peasants,” he clarified. “That and little else!”

  “A village on the border of Burgundy offered me something for a man who rode past their border stones last season,” Radu growled. “In broad daylight this man murdered two boys who refused him feed for his horse without compensation. The man swore oaths in poorly spoken French, possessed distinct mustaches and a uniquely bred horse.”

  Vladimir Kessenovich glared down at Radu and bared his teeth. “That village had money enough to buy your sword? I should have burned it down, the liars.” Kessenovich laughed again and spurred his horse forward in a gallop that took the saber wielding Cossack straight towards Radu. He whooped and shouted a war cry.

  Gwilym blanched as several hundred stone of horse bore down upon Radu the Black. He could see the murderous rage in Kessenovich’s eyes. How alike were horse and man! Foam flecked at the mouths of both. The Cossack and horse moved as one and in that instant Gwilym could see that Vladimir Kessenovich’s reputation as a one man cavalry was well earned. He was Odin upon Sleipnir. Boudicca upon her chariot. Yet Radu stared down certain death smirking.

  Gwilym wanted to close his eyes. He didn’t want to see this warrior smashed to a bloody pulp by the horse’s hooves or witness his head taken off his shoulders by the Cossack’s saber. But he couldn’t look away. Radu deftly sidestepped to the right at the last possible second to avoid the horse and twisted about, dropped his sword and grasped his fokos in both hands. Then, like one of the king’s own woodsman, he swung the ax with all his strength at the horse’s rear left leg.

  There followed a shared moment of disbelief. First from the horse, who realized it was bereft a leg. Next from Kessenovich, who sensed his horse’s agony and misbalanced his body and lastly from Gwilym who had never before witnessed such an attack against a man’s horse. Such things were simply not done! Even upon the battlefield, care was taken to spare horses the agony of human defeat. Were they not? Gwilym shook his head. There was so much it seemed to which he was simply naive.

  Kessenovich flew head over heels, saber flying from his hand. The blade clattered and skidded upon the ground to come to rest a few feet from where Gwilym crouched by the fountain. Kessenovich landed with an armored crash upon his back and neither moved nor made a sound. The horse collapsed in a shower of blood. Three legs kicked out wildly at the air as blood spurted from the horrid amputation Radu had inflicted.

  “Saint Eligius, Patron Saint of Horses, please put the poor beast from its misery!” Gwilym cried. Gwilym, like any Welshman, couldn’t bear to see an animal, especially a horse, in pain. Gwilym rose from behind the fountain and grabbed up Kessenovich’s fallen saber. Radu retrieved his own sword and moved towards Kessenovich. The Cossack groaned and managed to roll himself onto his stomach. Blood ran freely from a cut on his forehead. His eyes grew wide as he stared at his beloved Don.

  “Zarozinia,” Kessenovich gasped, eyes filling with tears. Gwilym’s heart was moved at the man’s loss. A Cossack and his horse were one being. Better for Radu to have cut off Kessenovich’s own leg than to have hacked away one from his horse. Kessenovich tore his eyes away from his dying Zarozinia and fixed them on Radu. Never before in his life had Gwilym seen such a look of pure hatred pass from one man to another.

  “You… you… will die for this!” Kessenovich hissed as he dragged himself to his feet then cast around for his missing saber, his long mustaches quivering. His eyes found Gwilym. “Give that to me, Kobzari, or I will tear out your throat with my teeth!” Kessenovich stumbled toward the minstrel.

  Radu paused next to the horse whose death throes had begun to calm. With one swift downward slash Radu’s sword tore a gash along the dying horse’s throat. The horse's cries and shakes came to an end.

  “That was a mercy I shan’t show you Cossack,” Radu stated coldly. Kessenovich bellowed in rage and yanked a misericord from his belt. Radu raised the sword in his left hand defensively, but Kessenovich’s move had been a feint. He darted to the right, away from Radu and straight towards Gwilym! The misericord in Kessenovich’s hand was now aimed straight at the minstrel’s heart. Gwilym moved in reverse, waving the Cossack’s saber out in front of him in a poor defense, desperate to put as much space between himself and the furious mercenary as possible.

  “My sword,” snarled Kessenovich. The cut on his forehead continued to run red with blood, seeping over his right eye and down to his chin. He was limping. The fall had injured him, but rage was giving him strength. Radu easily overtook him and grabbed the Cossack by his shoulder. He spun him around and delivered a right cross with his sword hilt. Kessenovich slumped to the ground unconscious.

  Gwilym stared at the fallen mercenary. Radu grunted and sheathed his weapons.

  “You may as well keep his sword. He won’t need it again.” Radu knelt and began to strip the armor from the unconscious Kessenovich.

  “Do you mean to rob him?” Gwilym asked incredulously, his voice shaky as his humours settled. Was this another difference between knights and mercenaries? The loser stripped naked and left with nothing? Off came Kessenovich’s chainmail, boots, leathers, scabbard (which he tossed to Gwilym), and tunic. The man was left bare chested and in nothing but sweat-stained hoes. Radu bound him with leather straps he took from one of his own pouches. He saw to it that Kessenovich’s hands and feet were done tightly.

  Radu stepped back to admire his handiwork. Gwilym glanced about nervously and avoided looking upon the dead peasants. I can do nought for them now. No way to bury them either. The sounds of a city at war were drawing ever closer. “What you said earlier… did this
man truly slaughter two innocent lads?” Gwilym fastened the scabbard about his waist, tightening the belt to fit his slender frame. Radu shrugged.

  “In the land he comes from the peasants know better than to deny a Cossack feed and water for his horse. The Burgundy lads should have known better, too, I suppose.” With a grunt Radu reached down and hefted the Cossack up and over his shoulder, adjusted for the added weight, but still kept his right arm free to draw his sword. Radu cast about the open square, then cocked his ear as if hearing the approach of fighting for the first time. “We need horses. This shall not be my only prize this day and I’ll be damned if that German steals it from me.”

  Gwilym didn’t bother asking what prize he meant. Undoubtedly, it was someone who knew to run far and fast if Radu was after him. Instead, he started walking towards the square’s southern exit. It wasn’t a random decision. There were no sounds of fighting from down that way.

  Gwilym breathed a sigh of relief when Radu followed, Kessenovich slung over his left shoulder like an old sack. “Do you not fear him awaking and causing some mischief?”

  “He’ll awake in good time. He knows I only really need his head.” Radu grinned. “He shall lay still or lay headless in the gutter.”

  Gwilym gulped and hurried down the street. Radu kept pace behind him.

  Chapter 5

  Gwilym and Radu stumbled upon two horses a short time later. Saint Herve the Blind, a Patron Saint of Bards, had a hand in it, Gwilym swore. This part of Caen was upon an island with well-defended walls. Gwilym and Radu were able to slip across one of the bridges by joining a group of refugees fleeing the chaos. The French guards hadn’t attempted to halt the mad press of bodies. Those desperate to find safety within the Inner City, a place normally reserved for high end merchants, artisans and nobility were all allowed through the gates. There still remained the chance they would be trapped between the iron gate of the bailey and the approaching army.

  Radu, with Kessenovich slung over his shoulder, broke away from the refugees shortly after crossing the bridge. Gwilym had to dodge dozens of fear maddened townsfolk to stay in Radu’s shadow. They took to the alleyways once again.

  That was when they found them, already bridled and bitted. Two horses swathed in the colors of the Red Swords mercenaries. Their previous owners, two Red Sword soldiers, were dead and leaned up against the wall to the Donjon. The Donjon was a large, walled mansion that Radu and Gwilym had made their way towards at Radu’s insistence.

  “These two were killed quickly,” Radu said. He knelt to examine the bodies after he fastened Kessenovich to one of the horses.

  “How can you tell? Do their spirits still linger about their gaping mouths like wisps?” Gwilym crossed himself and muttered the prayer to Saint Benedict to ward away the unquiet dead.

  Radu snorted and spat. A dry wind whistled down the narrow alley making it sail several feet before landing in the muck. “They bare the marks of daggers thrust from behind into their throats in an upwards motion.” Radu mimicked the attack on Gwilym by walking up behind him and thrusting an imaginary knife up and into his throat. Gwilym gulped and massaged his Adam’s apple.

  “A poor death to be killed so cowardly from behind, yet justifiable for such wretches as raped poor Marguerite. Undoubtedly, locals clever with skulking arts delivered them to Hades’ Realm,” Gwilym stated boldly.

  Radu blinked at him.

  Gwilym blushed. His manner of speech was perhaps a bit too courtly for Radu’s sensibilities. “Well, I am a bard sir and to write poetry under even the most extreme of circumstances is the mark of a talent bursting forth in want of recognition.” Gwilym struck a pose and mimicked holding his lute.

  “My heart was cloven in two

  Balanced upon thine sword blade

  My left hand reaching back to homelands barley

  My right hand seeking the grapes of infamy

  That stain thy blade red”

  Gwilym bowed while Radu raised an eyebrow.

  “What the hell did that mean?” Radu asked.

  “It means I am of two minds about taking a single step further down this unfamiliar and dangerous path you take me,” Gwilym said.

  “We shall be near a gate if these two were left to guard,” Radu said cutting him off. “Write your poetry o’er that way and I shall go this opposite way. After one hundred paces or so, if you should find entry, make your way back then to here.”

  With that Radu turned about and walked south and east following the curve of the wall. Gwilym didn’t have time to complain about being left alone or to wonder why he was being commandeered into this venture.

  Gwilym watched Radu’s retreating back. The mercenary’s tattered cloak fluttered in the warm breeze that flowed down the narrow alleyway. Gwilym could almost find something to admire about the man’s confidence in his purpose and the surety of his own path. By contrast, Gwilym’s life had been a series of avoided fate, dodged misfortune and shirked responsibilities. He felt guilty for leaving Marguerite behind to await aid from her own folk, but a part of him was also relieved. Could he, Dafydd ap Gwilym, truly take care of another when he could only just barely see to himself?

  “I think now I shan’t leave this city alive without his help.” Over his shoulder, Gwilym’s own stretch of wall curved west and north, but was draped in twice the shadow as the way Radu had gone. Gwilym groaned. He glanced at Kessenovich’s bound body stretched over the horse’s back.

  “Keep an eye on the horses Vladimir. If I don’t return let yon braggart know that e’er shall he regret not keeping close the one who might have made him immortal in song!”

  “Cut my bonds little bed boy and perhaps I shall leave you a tongue to sing with.” The voice was full of pain, but still Vladimir Kessenovich’s hate filled voice was enough to make Gwilym gasp in surprise. One of the mercenary’s eyes was caked shut with dried blood, but the other stared with the devil’s own rage into Gwilym’s pale face.

  “I… I think perhaps I shall not do so, sir. Keeping one’s tongue is preferable, but the one who bested you might do worse should I allow his prize to escape.” Gwilym felt proud that he was able to force his words out without too much trembling.

  “Little cocksucker. That man is cursed. I remember him now! The land he comes from is cursed. Even Cossacks will not ride there!” Kessenovich licked his cracked lips and smiled showing broken and bent teeth.

  “I am going to get loose and I am going to rape you, boy. I shall hold you down and take you like a woman you…” He never finished. Gwilym’s fist snaked out like a whip and cracked Kessenovich across the right side of his face. His eyes rolled back in his head and the Cossack once again entered forced slumber.

  Breathing hard and trembling Gwilym turned on his heel and walked quickly away. He massaged his right hand. Yes, I am slight and yes, I am fair. Yet God Bless me I am the son of Gwilym Gam!

  “I am a nobleman of Wales. I shall not suffer the abuses of such villains again. No, by Saint David, Patron Saint of Wales, I shall not!” He swore and muttered strong oaths in Cymraeg under his breath and moved swiftly along the wall in a northerly fashion. The wall here was as high as several men and made of a stone that had been cut and fitted so expertly that Gwilym could discern no handholds for scaling. He paused and looked up.

  “I shall even tell Radu that my forthcoming chanson de geste shall be of a mercenary and the noble bard who accompanied him. How the bard bravely faced both danger and the ill-conceived plans of the brute mercenary, yet still composed worthy verse to echo through the ages.” Feeling confident again, Gwilym walked on.

  The narrow alleys were reminiscent of the Dartmoor woods he had explored as a child. Tall stone now took the place of towering trees. Memories and imagination made the uneven cobblestones of the present shift into the narrow paths of leaf and soil of his childhood.

  As a child, Gwilym had been certain forest spirits observed him from behind tree stumps and wolds. It had made him leery of dark places. Was he
even now being observed again? Gwilym slowed his step and put his back against the wall. Skills long out of use came back to him naturally and he was a shadow amongst deeper shadows cast by the crenellations above.

  Each step Gwilym took was silent, each breath even and measured. Even amongst other Welshman, Gwilym had been gifted with an affinity for moving silently and concealment. It was thanks to these skills that he went unnoticed when he came upon two men swathed in dark cloaks and hoods masking their identities.

  Gwilym froze and willed himself into the wall. He let out a quiet sigh and pondered his next move. The two were standing not beside a gate, but by a rope whose end disappeared up and over the wall. The two did not speak, but one did glance in Gwilym’s direction. The other looked the opposite way. The rope was between them. Any sudden movement might reveal his location and Gwilym held no doubts that these two would not take kindly to having their lookout interrupted. That they guarded the rope for another was obvious. Was one of Caen’s lords seeking to escape? Or were they awaiting ill-gotten gains? Aye, even as the city burned there were no doubt those like Kessenovich who sought wealth by blade and by blood.

  One of them spoke. “The fighting draws close and soon these alleys shall fill with the blood and screams of these pig French.”

  “Our Master shall not tarry. He wields his purpose with a veteran’s hand.” Answered the other.

  “The Compte undoubtedly seeks assurances and would draw forth more o’er what has already been agreed.”

  “Then he is a fool, though he be a man of old blood.”

  The moment the cloaked man turned away, Gwilym didn’t hesitate. He moved backwards quickly and quietly, praying to Saint Nicholas, Patron Saint of Thieves, to soften his steps. Even as he moved Gwilym’s mind turned over. English! English spoken with the flavors of the court no less! These two were nobly born and bred. He would stake his life on it. Yet they were voices he had never heard before. This was not so strange, as the King’s entourage were several hundred strong. It was also not unbelievable that some of them might be about their own business in the city. A few even owned property here he had heard. Yet their black cloaks and darkened armor, along with the dead mercenaries left in their wake, were more than enough for Gwilym to wish himself unseen.