by David Scoles
“Daniel had it easier, God bless me, Lord.” Gwilym groaned and ran to catch up.
. . .
From atop his horse, the Lord Warwick looked at the carnage which surrounded him with disgust. Beside him, Sir Talbot whistled. Even a knight as well blooded as he was amazed at the level of destruction the army had visited upon Caen and its people. This is not how I wanted it. Damnation, I’m going to have to string up a few of these bastards after all. I will have order!
“Hereward,” Warwick growled. One of his lieutenants, the youngest son of one of his own wealthier tenants who had proven himself loyal and discreet, marched forward. “Take the men forward across the bridge. Make them clear a path for the horses if necessary.” Warwick leaned down so as to speak directly into Hereward’s ear. Talbot rolled his eyes and smirked while he pretended not to hear the rest.
“After that make your way east along Rue de la Pièce de Monnaie and see to it my interests are looked after. If you see any men carrying interesting chattels see to it they tithe us appropriately.”
Hereward grinned. “Yes, my Lord.” The young armsman called out to his fellows, whose curly reddish hair betrayed their Saxon ancestry. Their English was clipped with abbreviation and jargon from their backwater Durham homesteads, but Warwick did not doubt their loyalty. They were rewarded for it after all. One had to look out for oneself in an uncertain world.
At that moment a messenger rode up from the southeast, the direction hardest hit by these so called ‘Red Swords’ mercenaries. He handed a note to Talbot. Warwick raised an eyebrow when he saw Talbot scan the note and scowl.
“From Oxford. Says the Jews have been picked clean and much of the cloth houses went up in flames. Shit!” Talbot leaned back in his saddle and sighed dramatically. “I gained almost nothing from those fucking Scots save a few bent silver pennies and now this! I swear, my lord, it almost makes sense to turn mercenary in this day and age.”
“I know what you mean,” Warwick answered wryly. One had to look after oneself indeed. “I may be tempted to give you a sack from the bounty on Count Eu if you can renounce profanity for the remainder of the day.” They shared a laugh then kicked their horses into a leisurely cantor across the northern bridge to the Inner City. Neither one commented on the dismembered corpses and limbs that lay strewn about.
Warwick’s men had grown used to seeing such sights after long years of war. A young soldier named Aldwyn, thought that such hellish sights were the only certainty one could actually count on in service to one’s King after all.
Chapter 10
The Compte d’Eu stared in horror at the formidable looking man seated across from him. His armor was an impressive suit of chainmail which covered him from head to toe. An axe and shield lay upon the Compte’s desk. Both were dented and bloodstained. The Compte had never heard of Johannes Abelard before, but knew enough about men like him to understand that he was in trouble. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down his cheeks to stain the neckline of his shirt a sickly yellow.
“We are peers: you and I. My grandmother was a Gräfin of Styria and as such you should address me as you would a dear colleague of blood and faith,” Abelard said.
“Yes… I see… my lord.” Count Eu stuttered.
“Wunderbar… das ist nicht zo schlimm! We shall see to it that you are delivered unscathed to the English King hastily and with full honor for one who held his city, well, shall we say with all the ability one can expect from a Frenchman!”
Abelard threw back his head and laughed. The Compte did not join him. Were some of his men still fighting to come to his rescue? Was it his imagination or had the sounds of fighting become more frantic? He heard a dying man’s scream of pain and the Compte shivered. He should have followed the Bishop’s advice and joined the rest of his retainers in the Abbey the day before. However, he had needed to wait for his co-conspirator to enter the city unbeknownst to his English colleagues.
The Compte d’Eu’s eyes narrowed with a sudden thought and he shot a glance at Abelard who finished off the rest of his prized brandy. Was I purposely made to fall into this commoner’s hands? Have I been betrayed? Certainty flooded his veins like a cup of Polish vodka. Had his co-conspirator decided the Compte’s usefulness had come to an end now that Caen was finished?
No. The Compte didn’t fully understand his patron’s need for revenge, but knew that the man had personally sacrificed much including his honor as a knight. Likewise, had the Compte sacrificed his honor as a French noble! However, the gold that had been promised was substantial. Enough to make up for the tax revenues he had withheld from Philip and to allow the Compte his continued comfort. With Hannibal now figuratively at the gates, there was no going back for either of them.
The fighting drew closer. Count Eu could hear oaths shouted in German and cries of pain and also what sounded like some unfortunate gargling out his last. Count Eu sat with his back ramrod straight while Abelard looked with eyes bleary from brandy at the locked door behind the Compte. Abruptly all shouting from without ceased. After a few moments there was a knock at the door.
Abelard licked his lips and voiced a query in German. The Compte didn’t know enough of that language to understand what he asked, but his heart sank when he heard an answering Ja! from outside the door. His men had failed and Raoul II, le Compte d’Eu of Caen would be pawned off like a piece of common drapery to King Edward instead of the honorable escort he had been promised.
The Compte knew he would be expected to promise a sizable ransom for his release which would be all but impossible if he was now cut out of his deal with the turncoat. It would be pointless to call out the traitor in King Edward’s midst as well. Even if anyone believed him— and he sincerely doubted anyone would— it wouldn’t change the fact that he was essentially bankrupt. The only one who could pay the ransom would be King Philip himself and the Count knew that his King’s intense hatred of King Edward would make that a sore point that could easily cost the Compte d’Eu his life.
Abelard stood up on wobbly legs. The Compte sagged in defeat as the German walked over to the door, turned the key he plucked from Count Eu’s hand in the lock, and threw open the door with a grin. A moment later a mailed fist slammed into that grin to send Johannes Abelard careening backwards into the chair where the Compte d’Eu sat. Both men spilled onto the floor with a crash.
The Compte groaned in pain and drew in a shallow breath. Abelard was unconscious. The weight of an armored man atop his chest was killing him! A moment later, the unconscious Abelard was rolled off of him and the Compte gulped in lungfuls of air. Someone hissed and in heavily accented French said, “It is fucking Horseslayer! I would slit his throat now were it not so satisfying a thought that he will awaken and find the prize gone. This makes us even you jumped-up thief.” Count Eu groaned, but this time not from the pain. From the hands of one mercenary into the arms of another!
The Compte d’Eu rolled over and saw a large man with long dark hair dressed in a tattered grey cloak and ash gray mail. Beside him stood a slight lad with curly blond hair and dressed in the garb of a troubadour. The Compte blinked. Never had he seen a more mismatched pair in his life. The smaller one also spoke in accented French though his command of the noblest tongue was considerably better than that of his companion.
“If you feel that you have satiated your bloodlust Radu— far be it from me to tell you when that might be— perhaps you can consider speedy egress to safer climes. I happened to glance out yon window as you cut a swathe through the ‘Bavarian wheat’ and could see the Abbey now stands surrounded by the part of the army commanded by my prince.” The small man glanced over at the Compte d’Eu and gave a slight bow.
“My lord Compte, though it be ignoble to ask a man of high birth for anything, save perhaps for a bit of salt and butter at supper if one has played exceptionally well, it would behoove you to do whatever my companion asks. I have already seen him kill more men today than many villages in my country have for a population.
”
Compte d’Eu swallowed and nodded.
Radu stared at the Compte for a moment then reached down and with some care helped the man to his feet. The Compte stared into eyes like bottomless pits. All thoughts of betrayal, conspiracy and bankruptcy were forgotten. All that existed were this man’s eyes, which held one in a vice like grip and squeezed until your lungs became two icy caverns and your throat sweltered like a blacksmith’s furnace.
“I am going to ask you a single question, Lord Compte, and you will answer it truthfully. Understand?”
“Yes,” Compte d’Eu managed to croak.
Radu lowered his head so that his and the Compte’s faces were but a hair’s breadth apart. “Where is the Nachzehrer?”
Chapter 11
Gwilym blinked in confusion. Had he just heard Radu right?
“What is a Nachzehrer?” he asked aloud. The atmosphere in the room had changed in an instant. The Compte d’Eu’s eyes bulged from their sockets and Radu’s gauntleted hand snaked out to grip Caen’s lord by his collar. It was clear to Gwilym that whatever a Nachzehrer was, Radu was prepared to forfeit even the large bounty for capturing the Compte alive in order to obtain it.
“Tell me!” Radu roared.
“I don’t know, Christ forgive me!” Compte d’Eu cried, tears in his eyes.
“You lie! He passed through here to collect on a payment from you. I have this from the lips of one who dared not speak a lie as he gasped out his last. My knife stirred his guts like a spoon in a pot of pottage!”
Compte d’Eu’s legs buckled and he sank to the floor with a sob. Radu’s face was like carved stone and his gaze was without a shred of pity.
“Don’t kill me. He did not come himself, but sent a foreign man to collect his money. I know not where he is.” Gwilym held his breath and looked from Radu to the Compte and back to Radu again.
“I’ll not kill you. One hundred gold florins speaks on your behalf.” Radu drew the sobbing nobleman to his feet and shoved him towards the door. “We’ll make for the Abbey and the Prince of Wales. I warn you Lord…” Count Eu’s shoulders stiffened and he felt Radu’s eyes bore into his back like an arrow fired by Athena. “Contracts with the Nachzehrer never truly end. Ever. He owns you now, whether you know it or not. Your end will not be kind. Pray the King of England takes you back to his island and locks you up tightly. It may be the only thing that keeps you alive.” With that, Radu guided the Compte forward and out the door, leaving behind an unconscious Johannes Abelard and a trembling Dafydd ap Gwilym.
“God in Heaven, pray let this day now end. Saint David, Saint Benedict, I’ll even beseech you Saint Judas Thaddeus, Patron Saint of Lost Causes! Let me find succor with the Prince and deliver me forever from Radu the Black!”
Chapter 12
The trek from the Compte d’Eu’s manor to where Prince Edward surrounded the Abbey of Saint Etienne was no easy feat. Additionally Radu and Gwilym had to escort the most well-known man in Caen and keep him alive, and it ranked near impossible. Mercifully for Gwilym, Radu fell into a morose silence after his rough questioning of the Compte and as a result chose stealth over violence. The decision suited the exhausted Gwilym perfectly. Radu even allowed Gwilym to lead them.
Again, Dafydd ap Gwilym called upon those ancestral powers common to the Welsh to merge with shadow and silently move the three of them past drunk and blood crazed attackers and defenders. The sun dipped beyond the horizon and torches lit upon those buildings that still stood. Torchlight moved with the roving patrols of English still in the business of looting whatever they could. Finally, Gwilym led the three of them to the first of the Prince of Wales’ picket lines where they were confronted by three common English arms men. Gwilym immediately identified them as Shropshire men by their speech.
“And we’ll be standin’ and deliverin’ our business then young master,” said one of the men who was older— perhaps in his mid-thirties— with a spattering of grey in his tawny colored beard. He held his ash spear in both hands.
“Aye,” answered another soldier who bore the surly look of one who felt he had been cheated of something and planned on taking it out on anyone else. The soldier eyed Gwilym up and down suspiciously and gripped his spear tighter when he saw Radu lead a sullen looking Count Eu into the torchlight. “Wot’s the password then, yer lordships? Gots to have the password to enter his Majesty’s camp, does ye!”
“Or some shiny, silver groats, eh?” said a third soldier from where he knelt by a low burning fire started of street trash and what looked to have once been the sign from an Inn.
Gwilym put up his hands and flashed a smile. “Good men of Shropshire, are we not kinsman? Surely you recall the Welsh minstrel Dafydd ap Gwilym who rides as one of the Prince’s own companions? You would not bar the way of one whose ancestors stood with your own against Caesar’s legions!”
“Huh?” said the first soldier.
“You wot?” said the second.
“Password or ten groats, methinks,” said the third. “Now that’s two each for me and my two mates ‘ere and another one each for sayin’ we was kin to a sneakin’ Welshman!”
“That makes nine,” answered Gwilym quietly.
“Wot’s that?” The third soldier screwed up his face in confusion.
“Nine. Two groats for each of you would be six. Then one each after that would be three more added onto the six and that equals nine.”
“Shut yer face ye snivelin' little runt!” the third soldier spat, his ruddy face turning red. “Ye’ll not see the inside of this camp until I see ten groats in this hand or by God’s fist I’ll…”
“Enough!” snarled Radu who drew his fokos ax and started towards the soldier, his look murderous. The Compte d’Eu shrank back eyes darting between Radu and the English soldiers.
“Yes, I believe that is quite enough.” All three soldiers snapped to attention and set their ash spears ramrod straight at their sides. From behind an English supply wagon walked a handsome lad fresh to manhood. He was dressed from the neck down in gleaming black armor that fit him like a second skin and in the gloom of twilight made him appear ghostly and ephemeral. His hair was like that of his father, flowing down to his neck in reddish blond waves. His Plantagenet eyes were the deepest blue, seeing all, some said, with all the wisdom of his ancestors. His features, which were much sighed over by ladies of the court, were the soft Dutch angles of his mother Philippa of Hainaut. Edward, called by some the Black Prince of Wales, was every inch a nobleman at a mere sixteen years of age.
“Dafydd ap Gwilym,” Prince Edward said, his highborn English accent both musical and commanding. Gwilym stood a little straighter, then executed a perfect courtly bow.
“Your Majesty, may I present le Compte d’Eu, his Lordship Raoul II of Caen and his worthy escort Radu of Transylvania.”
Prince Edward smiled mirthlessly at the cowering Compte, who under the Prince’s gaze seemed to wilt like a flower in heat. Yet he seemed to find his courage after a moment and drew himself upright.
“Your Majesty, I request succor by right of my noble birth. A ransom will be collected and paid on my behalf.”
“Will it now?” Gwilym had only known the Compte a short while, but even he felt bad for a man who was being judged by one who had only been a knight a few short weeks and if Radu’s voice was cold as iron, Prince Edward’s was like tempered steel quenched in fire. It was more than Count Eu could bear.
The Compte hung his head in shame.
“How were you taken, my lord?” the Prince asked quietly. All could hear the curiosity in the question.
“My men, those that did not desert me, were killed by German mercenaries, goodly Prince. Then these two,” the Compte indicated Radu and Gwilym, “came to my rescue, as it were, and took me from the mercenary leader whose name I do not recall.”
Radu snorted. A frown flickered momentarily across Prince Edward’s face.
“I see. Well then my lord, I shall grant you the succor you desire.”
Prince Edward smiled and this time it was a grin filled with genuine mirth. “How could my father not desire the company of so esteemed and… valuable… a man?” Prince Edward now turned to Radu and looked the tall mercenary up and down. Radu remained motionless with his arms crossed in front of him. He appeared perfectly at ease.
“The reward is yours, Sir Radu. The Exchequer would undoubtedly wish to pay you in promissory notes, however, I believe some gold florins might be found so that you can speedily be on your way. I don’t believe you are with the other mercenary companies who have taken my father’s coin for service against the French Usurper?”
“I have not, Your Highness,” Radu rumbled. He tactfully remembered to whom he spoke. “I am tracking some men and the one who leads them. The search brought me to France and hitherto to Caen, however the quarry as yet alludes me. This one…” Radu indicated the Compte, “was a profitable side trip.”
“And your connection to my minstrel?” Prince Edward asked.
“He… aided me some within the walls. I reckon he is worthy of some reward, though that be between the two of you.”
The three soldiers, who had remained silent and at attention, gaped at their Prince spoken to so familiarly by a mere mercenary. They seemed ready to chastise Radu with their spears, but Prince Edward threw back his head and laughed.
“I tell you, Gwilym! You never cease to draw the most interesting of characters about your person. Is it a characteristic of all poets? Or is it a Welshman’s chanson de geste?”
Gwilym slowly and then with more vigor joined in the Prince’s laughter. Radu scowled and held his tongue. Finally the laughter died down and Prince Edward turned to his three soldiers.
“Escort the Count will all due care and respect to our pavilion. See that he is given over to the care of young Salisbury and drink ye well from our own tap found within. Tell the lad I gave permission.”