The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  Gwilym reached a safe distance where he felt comfortable enough to relax when he heard voices coming towards him from the other direction! For a moment he hesitated. He was about fifty paces from where Kessenovich and the horses waited, but there were no turns or doors before the fork. Instinct warned him of danger. Common sense told him that Radu would not be having a civil conversation with the bound Cossack. No, as the voices drew closer Gwilym heard two men speaking, again in highborn English, and Gwilym knew he was again in trouble and this time well and truly trapped.

  Chapter 6

  Gwilym moved without thinking. The refuse and muck that lined the alleyways his only possible salvation, he dove into the foul mixture of dung, wood scraps, chunky bits of stone fallen from the ancient walls and even some suspicious looking bones that looked all too human. He gagged at the smell, but kept his arms and legs tucked in tight as he burrowed like a badger into the refuse. He willed himself to disappear and invoked Saint Nicolas once more. Let them not see me!

  The voices were now close enough that Gwilym could hear what was being said. Titles and faces he could not attach to them and neither did he dare move to adjust his line of sight that he might get a look at them.

  “Well he didn’t bind himself to that horse, Walter,” one of them was saying. “Methinks prudence determines our next steps rather than blind confidence!” It was an arrogant voice, one used to giving orders and having them obeyed. A slight northern accent betrayed itself to Gwilym’s ear, though this man was trying hard to mask it behind flowery language. Gwilym smirked. A typical tactic of those only recently invited to the King’s court.

  “One can be forgiven for an abundance of confidence when one bears sharp steel and a purse filled by our master of coin, dear Cobb.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that, sir!”

  “And one also feels a sense of satisfaction in knowing that the King’s Fodder are spreading chaos throughout the city as one would expect them to do.”

  “Expect?”

  “Naturally, dear Cobb. The one back there most certainly had a falling out with his fellows whilst fighting over scraps. You didn’t honestly believe Talbot or Warwick would be able to rein them in, did you?”

  Cobb grunted a reply and then Gwilym could hear no more as they passed out of earshot. There was no time to waste. He wriggled out from his damp, stinking hiding space and jogged-ran back towards the fork and away from the mysterious knights. He yanked off his hat and knocked it against stone to dislodge some refuse then unceremoniously plopped it back on his head, ignoring the interesting juices that ran down his neck and back.

  During the small number of years Gwilym lived as an itinerant minstrel, he had grown used to certain smells as well as to a modicum of dirt that always seemed to cover one like a second skin when on the road. He had plied his trade to the great and small: large, bustling cities like Caen and Cardiff and small hamlets like Devonshire and Harfleur. Sometimes he would be welcomed, given food or a sack of coin for a night’s entertainment of songs and stories. Those nights that brought furrowed brows from ill amused lords, humorless chaplains, and spurned ladies meant one also had to know how to disappear. To blend with the shadows and skulk as silent as a farm cat was a talent Gwilym could employ as well as any Welsh bowman.

  Within minutes he was back at the fork and could see Radu had returned before him. The tall mercenary stood facing the horse where Kessenovich was still tied and unconscious. Had he really hit him that hard? Gwilym allowed himself a satisfied smirk. Perhaps when the Cossack mercenary awoke he would take greater care against offering insult to Dafydd ap Gwilym!

  The sun dipped westward and late afternoon shadows draped the Caen alleyways in a cooler, deeper shadow than before. Radu heard Gwilym’s approach and turned to favor the minstrel with a glare darker than black.

  “You saw someone down there.” It was not a question. Radu yanked Vladimir Kessenovich’s head by the hair and Gwilym was confronted by glassy, sightless eyes. He gasped at what he beheld.

  Across Kessenovich’s neck a deep, vertical slash had been drawn and the jugular continued to dribble and ooze the last of the Cossack’s life onto the cobblestone below. The horse’s flank upon which he was draped was similarly coated in blood. The mercenary had been killed while perhaps still unconscious. For a moment, guilt robbed Gwilym of breath. Had he simply walked away after the man had insulted him he may have had the wherewithal to cry out for help. As such, he would never know.

  “Yes, down the alley yonder there were knights of English persuasion in discussion. Should I have hailed them? I did not think it prudent, sir! They were cloaked with dire purpose, girded for war and I am simply as you find me. Why, I should hate to think you might feel ill of me for guarding my life that I might return to you and make report!”

  Radu let Kessenovich’s lifeless head fall back upon the horse’s flank. “I think ill of those who have cost me a bonus of ten florins for not bringing this bastard back alive!” Radu snarled and drew his blade. “No matter, the head will bring an amount worth the trouble.”

  Radu cut Vladimir’s bonds and the body fell unceremoniously to the ground. Then after measuring his strike carefully he swung the blade hard and fast to thunk into the back of Kessenovich’s neck, severing the head from the body in one clean blow. Gwilym was fast enough to run three steps away before he vomited.

  Chapter 7

  Gwilym kept his back turned while Radu claimed the head and placed it within a sackcloth he produced after rooting around within the former Red Sword’s saddlebags. The bottom of the sack turned red with gore. Gwilym choked back another dry heave and tried to focus upon what Radu was saying to him.

  “What was that you said?” he asked. “They were English knights?” Radu frowned, his brow creased in thought. “They could not have come this far through all of the fighting so quickly nor unbeknownst to those French fighters falling back to the Inner City.”

  “They wore no device and carried no standard.” Gwilym thought carefully. “They wore armor blackened with soot or more likely pitch and free of tabard. One would have thought them mercenaries were it not for their manner of speech. I swear by Saint David who is Patron of the Welshman’s Truth it be so, or may I never kneel before his bones in Pembroke again!”

  Radu grunted and tied the bloody sack to the saddle of the bloodstained horse. Kessenovich’s headless corpse lay arms akimbo upon the ground; the illustrious career of the Cossack mercenary ended in a filthy alleyway.

  “I would consider changing thy tactics with highborn English, whether they seek to move secretly or not,” Gwilym said as they each took a set of reins from the remarkably docile horses. They proceeded down the alleyway once more, now on the tail of the mysterious and murderous knights. “Beating such men unconscious, tying them to a horse and leading them bound through a besieged city will most like not endear one to the King or his host.”

  “I shall give them leave to disarm and thus spare themselves such a fate,” Radu answered without a trace of humor.

  They moved onward. On nearby parallel streets looters ran rampant. Windows broke, doors splintered to the ax, cries of rage and whoops of glee carried easily to their ears on a wind befouled with the scent of blood and rotting meat. Gwilym led them back to point where he had first noticed the black knights standing guard.

  “The rope is gone, as are the men. There would have been four standing here now: the two that guarded the rope and the two who joined them after, ahem, murdering your prize.”

  Radu gazed upward and looked about. “Well they are not here now, yet I notice scuff marks upon the wall as if a mailed boot sought purchase on the stone as it either climbed or descended.” Radu scowled. “The one who went in, the leader perhaps, concluded his business within and then made good his escape with his escort who saw to it there were no witnesses.” His eyes flickered to Gwilym. “Save yourself, minstrel. I doubt they would have left you alive had they found you.”

  Gwilym swall
owed a lump in his throat. “Aye, as I feared. Though we might have all harkened from English shores, I doubt such familiarity would have mattered a wit.” He let out a breath. “What lies on the other side at this spot I wonder? I had no occasion to visit the Inner City upon my last visit. A rich man’s house perhaps?”

  “The richest in the city. The richest prize to be taken here as well.” Radu smirked when he saw recognition in Gwilym’s eyes.

  “The Compte d’Eu.”

  Chapter 8

  The Compte stumbled as he descended a tower of the Donjon on his way to seek a sack of gold he kept secreted in his study. His coins and a few other trinkets would make the journey with him to the Abbey of Saint Etienne and sanctuary offered by the Bishop of Bayeux. The best defended structure in the city, the Abbey would withstand the English siege until proper terms could be negotiated. That and Count Eu wanted to ensure his co-conspirator meant to make good on his promise that King Edward would not make an example of him by hanging his carcass from the city walls.

  “Who the hell are you?” screamed the Compte. Men stood within his foyer over the still warm bodies of several of his personal guard. The strangers were dressed in ragtag armor, but with identical tabards and cloaks of yellow with a black eagle clutching a red sword.

  The men stared at him for a moment. Then one of them dropped the sack he was carrying and drew an arming sword with a flourish.

  “Das ist das Schwein selbst! Abelard will ihn! That is the pig himself! Abelard wants him!”

  “Shit!” the Compte cursed as he made to run back up the stairs. He had no idea what was said, but he didn’t need to. He knew who and what these men were. He had employed mercenaries before and knew they didn’t always take prisoners, even noble ones.

  “Where are my guards?” The Compte shouted. Fear turned his voice into a shriek. He tried to force his bulk to move faster, but the men below caught the porcine man easily. One of them cracked the Count across the face with the hilt of a dagger. It might have been enough to render a normal man unconscious, but the Compte had several layers of fat that acted as a natural barrier to poorly made dagger hilts. Instead he howled in pain and lashed out to backhand the offender, who lost his balance and crashed back down the stairs in a clatter of armor.

  The Germans yelled and the Compte heard several more blades clearing their sheaths. He shook his head to clear his vision. He spat blood onto his expensive hand woven carpet from Flanders.

  “I am to be taken to King Edward unharmed. It was agreed upon!” The Germans either didn’t understand him or didn’t care. The Compte, accustomed to a degree of civilized behavior and safety, voided his bladder then and there.

  One of the mercenaries chortled. As he was about to say something to his fellows, he stumbled forward blood spurting from his neck and mouth. A crossbow bolt had punched through the back of his gorget and lodged in his neck.

  The dead man pitched fell to the floor. Men dressed in the livery of Caen and the House of Brienne poured through a portal that led to the kitchens firing crossbows. More mercenaries fell to the ground pierced by bolts while others hastily raised shields or took cover behind what they could. The Count sighed in relief and bellowed a “Kill them all!” before he crawled up his stone steps.

  If he could get to his study, he could lock himself inside until his men secured the manor. His soldiers discarded their crossbows and drew swords to meet the enemy in a whirlwind of steel. He heard glass breaking. The Compte imagined expensive tapestries and furniture smashed to bits and he sighed over their loss. No matter, he would live and soon receive a promised share of coin great enough to settle all debts and then some.

  The Compte gained the top of the stairs and tried to run down the hall, but a stitch in his side made him cry out in pain. He managed to limp to the door of his study teeth gritted and lungs burning at the unaccustomed exercise.

  Sweat poured down his face and his gold necklace with his medallion of office felt heavier than it ever had before. His ermine trimmed cloak with its wolf fur mantle stifled. He ripped open the door to his study, ducked inside and slammed the door shut. He fumbled for a moment for his key, the only one he carried, and pushed it into the lock. He twisted it until he heard the tumblers click into place. With a sigh he stepped back from the door and then undid the string holding his cloak. The garment sunk to the floor behind him. Then he removed the chain of office and let it fall to the floor beside the cloak. There. That was better.

  “Now a jot of brandy will….” He wasn’t alone. The Compte stared at the armed and armored man seated behind his oak desk. His bottle of very expensive Parisian brandy was open and in the man’s hand. The man smiled up at the Count’s shocked face and raised the bottle in toast.

  “Compte d’Eu, I presume? Shall we drink to our mutual good fortune in finding one another? I am Johannes Abelard, Commander of the Red Sword Landsknecht, at your service. You, of course, are now at mine.”

  Chapter 9

  Gwilym and Radu exited an alleyway after failing to find a side gate or any sort of hidden ingress into the Compte’s Donjon. They would have to circle around and enter through the Inner City’s gate and thence to the Donjon’s gate. It was the long way around, but Radu was adamant.

  They were immediately greeted by several small pitched skirmishes being fought in front of burning shops and upon the dung filled main street, which led east to the Inner City gate. That gate was their only remaining option.

  Radu stalked forward, the fokos ax held loosely in his right hand. He ducked a sword swing from some fear maddened Frenchman and returned a slash that sent the Frenchman wheeling away clutching his face as part of his cheek was cut away.

  Onward a bit further and this time it was some unknown looter who thought Radu unwelcome competition. Radu ran him though with his sword, leaving the looter clutching ruined guts. Radu’s ax and sword did not discriminate. If he was attacked, he fought back and killed more often than wounded. If he and Gwilym were allowed to pass, then he ignored the opportunistic looters.

  Gwilym, for his part, had drawn Kessenovich’s— no— his saber and held it at the ready, though he prayed he wouldn’t have to use it. His attention was too divided anyway as he attempted to come to grips with the horrors he witnessed. To describe it as a slaughter was too simple. As if one described Cardiff castle as “big.” To think that a human body could hold so much blood! He watched it flow down gutters racing towards the Orne like a flood of muddy water would in London’s gutters during a storm.

  Gwilym felt numb from his curly blond locks to his toes. I have been here mere hours, but it feels a lifetime! Shall I ever see beauty and love in this world again? Can I see it in men at all? All for want of a crown.

  Gwilym watched a group of Irish stumbled out of a public house roaring drunk. Evidently satisfied their fighting was done, they had helped themselves liberally to the ale and food of some poor Frenchman’s taproom. On the corner there! English knights bore the devices of Warwick, Northampton, Edington, and more he did not recognize.

  The English knights and the Irish saw each other at the same time. From their facial expressions and rapidly moving lips neither side was thrilled to come upon the other. Gwilym was too far away to hear what the English and Irish said to one another, but old grudges often led to insults and vulgar expressions. Radu strategically altered his route to circle wide to the right of the two groups and passed overturned market stalls.

  An English knight drew his sword. One of the Irish gallowglass drew a wicked looking scramasax and hurled it end over end at one of the knights. Both sides roared and charged one another. Gwilym quickly followed Radu out of sight.

  “No discipline with this army,” Radu spat in contempt. “The only advantage you currently have is numbers. If the French meet you on open ground they will rout you back to England. Your own army gnaws at itself like a rabid fox.”

  Gwilym had no words to counter. He was no man of war or strategist.

  “What of you
then? Does your extensive knowledge of discipline aid in your decision to disobey the king’s order and enter the city ahead of Lord Warwick’s vanguard? An offense punishable by flogging I might add?”

  Gwilym skipped ahead of Radu after they skirted the edges of a busy thoroughfare. Here, it was clear the invaders had come and gone. Buildings were in ruins, some smoldered with still burning fires. The dead were strewn about like puppets with their strings cut. Ahead lay one of the bridges that forded the Orne to the gate of the Inner City. Hastily made barricades of wagons, barrels and whatever else the defenders could scrounge had been destroyed and tossed into the Orne along with countless bodies. The way across was clear.

  “I am not a part of your army. I have not taken your King’s coin,” Radu answered. He stepped onto the bridge. The rotten smell of the river here was at its peak and Gwilym wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  “Then by all the Saints what do you do here man?” Gwilym demanded. “Why not make good our escape whilst we can? I shall repay your protection this day with an introduction to my Lord of Edington, a man of high blood and quality, who would undoubtedly seek to employ a man as capable as you are.” Radu grunted in unfeigned disinterest.

  “I swear it! And as God delivered the exile Daniel from the den of lions in reward for his faith so shall I return to Wales and spread word through song of the heroism of Radu the mercenary who did deliver me from certain death!”

  Radu laughed and shot Gwilym an amused look. “You are not unpleasant company minstrel.” With that he turned and continued across the bridge leaving an open-mouthed Gwilym behind.