The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  The soldiers nearly fell over each other in their gratitude. To drink from the Prince’s own ale keg, brewed for him by the Fair Maid of Kent, his angelic and beautiful cousin! It would be a story to tell their grandchildren! The Compte d’Eu was led away. The relief on his face was palpable. He would at the very least find the comforts to which he was accustomed whilst with Prince Edward. The Compte sniffed and shot one last glance over his shoulder at the Prince’s back.

  Prince Edward had turned his attention back to the minstrel and that bloody mercenary. When the Compte looked closer at Radu, a memory floated to the surface. He recalled a giant shadow cloaked in blood-stained mail and wearing a helmet shaped like a devil of old. He remembered the Nachzehrer and shuddered. You seek your death, Radu the Black. The Compte shook his head in disbelief and wondered at how he had ever allowed himself to be caught up in such events in the first place. He turned and followed the jubilant soldiers to the Prince’s pavilion.

  “Now then,” Prince Edward said and he gestured at the looming Abbey behind him. “I must bend my thoughts to the siege. The Bishop of Bayeux, although a boy-lover and a thief, knows something of defense. He is heretofore not a man of God, but rather an adversary to be vanquished.” The Prince sighed and craned his neck upwards at the formidable Abbey. A building of stone and mortar was not so easily brought down. Though a place of beauty and worship it had quickly been converted into a citadel by scores of French knights set to defend every inch of holy ground. Each stone carved window bore a flickering torch that illuminated the stained glass. The light cast forth an array of colors. It was an awe inspiring sight. It may have been the Bishop’s intent that it be so. The fiery lights lit the night like an Eisteddfod, the Welsh bardic festival Gwilym so loved. Yet the Abbey itself appeared grim and forbidding as though God no longer invested Himself in its stones.

  “I will take my leave now. I will seek your Exchequer on the morn, Your Highness.” Radu forced himself to give a bow. Prince Edward didn’t deign to turn around, but continued to contemplate the Abbey in silence. Radu turned to Gwilym. “Minstrel, good eve.”

  Gwilym considered him for a moment. “By the Grace of God.” Then Gwilym gave Radu a bow, a sign of respect and thanks for what the mercenary had done for him this day. Radu merely grunted an acknowledgement then strode away.

  Gwilym watched him go, his feelings a mixed bag. Was he sorry to see Radu go, most likely out of his life forever? There was little doubt just how extremely lucky he had been to have escaped death today, but never before had he had such an adventure. Was that not the meat and mead of great ballads?

  He had witnessed everything first hand as well: a fight with the terrible Cossack mercenary Vladimir Kessenovich, a trek through a war torn city with enemies around every corner, mysterious knights in black armor, the ‘rescue’ of the Compte d’Eu from the German Red Swords. Yes, it was truly a day he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his life. Radu disappeared into the night. Was he really pleased to see it end? Gwilym sighed. More relieved than pleased he decided.

  Gwilym turned back to the Prince. Although they were both the same age, it always felt to Gwilym as if he were in the presence of one far older and wiser than he. He thought back to the day the two had first met.

  It had been last winter on the day of Princess Joan’s twelfth birthday. Minstrels were summoned from all across England, Wales and even France and Spain. Gwilym had been one of nearly fifty minstrels that vied for an expensive handcrafted lute the Princess would bestow in a contest. The winner of said contest would be, as the Princess had worded it, “to the bard that moves our heart beyond earthly confines and favors us with ancient myths. Songs of fairies and elves that steal away Princesses whom they love.” Those had been her exact words.

  Dafydd ap Gwilym had smiled broadly to hear such a heartfelt request from the spritely young girl who already showed signs of blossoming into a great beauty like her elder sister, Isabella. However, unlike Isabella who was aloof, pouty and spoiled, Joan was full of laughter and curiosity.

  Gwilym smile grew even broader at the disapproving frown from the Archbishop of Canterbury who loomed near the King after the Princess declared the contest rules. Undoubtedly, he would not approve of songs that bordered on the heretical. Evidently, many of the attending minstrels had registered his frown as well.

  Most chose to err on the side of caution and sung songs, mainly in French, that were about safe subjects like chaste courtly love. Songs about knights of purity and grace like Roland. Songs of strong, holy women like Saint Katherine of Alexandria. They were good, Gwilym remembered, but Princess Joan had been unimpressed. To a twelve year old girl on the cusp of womanhood, she had little interest in stories about Roland’s heroic last stand, or a woman broken on the wheel by a pagan emperor.

  It had ultimately come down to Gwilym, the youngest minstrel there by years, and a cocky Castilian by the name of Gracias de Gyvill who had spent a great deal of time loudly lauding the virtues of his master Prince Pedro of Castile to the King. Gwilym thought de Gyvill could serve God’s greater purpose by inserting his massive head up Prince Pedro’s well shined ass.

  Accompanied by a harpist Gracias de Gyvill sang a song about his homeland. He added touches of fantasy to it by adding a fairy princess that looked remarkably like Joan. Gwilym grudgingly admitted de Gyvill’s skill was real. Then Gwilym stepped forward and strummed the strings of a hand-me-down lute given to him by his father. There was a poem in particular he had in mind he called Y Niwl Hudolus or The Enchanted Mist in English. It hadn’t been quite finished, but he had improvised. The melody filled the hall and Princess Joan gazed at Gwilym with dark eyes. Her eyebrows quirked with interest when Gwilym winked at her. Then, when Gwilym felt sure he had the attention of all he began:

  I took one step, and all too soon

  Land and sky could not be seen:

  No home nor hill, no sea nor shore

  Nor birch tree grove in all the shire.

  Sulfurous fog, engulfing all.

  My curse! You will not lift your pall.

  Your sooty cassock cloaks the land,

  A choking blanket without end.

  The clouds have sunk and spread a mantle;

  A black web binds the world in mortal

  Anguish: a hellish mire

  Like black smoke upon a moor

  Straight from Annwn: from fairy fire!

  A hooded habit hiding fear,

  A gleaming lattice laden with hate,

  A coal-cloud smoking without heat.

  The day is daubed with dripping night

  And all my hopes have come to naught!

  The verse went on and much of it painted a fearful atmosphere, but Gwilym knew it was a poem with two sides. A person becomes lost in an enchanted mist and fears that they shall never be free of it. Gwilym hoped the Archbishop might look upon it as a poem about the fear of losing faith and finding it once more. This was also a poem about letting go of comfort and setting out into the unknown— strange and dangerous, but also filled with fairy magic and adventure. Something Princess Joan clearly wished for.

  When the song ended and Gwilym stepped back with a bow the room was silent. Then a single person began clapping. It was Prince Edward, who had drifted around the room talking here, flirting there, until, like his father and siblings, he was drawn by Gwilym’s verse.

  The entire room erupted with applause and Gwilym had been overwhelmed. Even many of the other minstrels had gazed at him with surprise and respect. Within moments he was knelt before Princess Joan and bestowed the most beautiful lute he had ever laid eyes upon. The wood shone with a fine finish that gleamed red as blood. Inlaid gold leaf made loops and curves that seemed almost Gaelic in design. When Gwilym strummed the sheep gut strings he had nearly wept. Finally, Princess Joan bestowed a final gift by placing a kiss upon his cheek and whispered in his ear, “I too shall take that step into the unknown one day and I shall not fear.”

  Dafydd ap Gwilym was brought back t
o the present when Prince Edward spoke to him.

  “An interesting fellow, Gwilym, a very interesting fellow. One finds so many of his ilk tiresome and full of choler, yet he struck me as capable.”

  “He… he was quite proficient in the application of weaponry, your Majesty.” Gwilym wasn’t quite sure what to say so he said what was on his mind. “But he was certainly educated as well. I suspect he may be of high birth in his own homeland, though I never asked and he offered little.” The Prince grunted, but kept his back to Gwilym. Gwilym therefore did not see the strange smile the Prince wore. Gwilym slipped away shortly after and the Prince remained a while longer until the shadows deepened, true night fell, and Caen slept the sleep of the dead.

  Chapter 13

  The siege of Saint Etienne went on into the night. Word was sent to the English that the Bishop would be willing to parlay on the morrow, but Gwilym was too tired to care. He retired to bed. The day’s events had exhausted him, yet before he laid down to sleep he spoke a prayer to the Lord and Saint Denis, Patron Saint of France to watch over Marguerite and the surviving citizens of Caen.

  Gwilym laid upon his cot, arms cradled about the precious lute gifted by Princess Joan. His dreams were troubled. He tossed and turned until he awoke the next day feeling as if he had slept a few moments rather than hours.

  The Prince’s camp appeared as if it had not rested in the slightest. When Gwilym exited his borrowed tent he saw Prince Edward stood facing the Abbey as if he hadn’t moved the entire night. He was still outfitted in his black armor, though now he wore an English longsword girt about his waist. A surcoat and cloak fastened about his shoulders bore his new royal heraldry: the English golden lions on a background of red crossed with golden French fleur de lis on a background of blue. The Prince wore his claim to the French throne openly for all to see.

  Gwilym recognized the Prince’s closest friends and confidants: Sir John Chandos, Sir Robert Bouchier and Sir Thomas Holland. Gwilym liked Sir Chandos, who was a tall, well-built and striking man full of an Englishman’s vigor for battle. Sir John liked meat on Sundays, a full mug of mead and a bawdy song to fill the rafters of the most common taproom. He lacked noble birth and his red hair betrayed his Saxon heritage, but Sir Chandos had distinguished himself as a master tactician with a mind for war.

  Sir Bourchier on the other hand was a burly, sallow faced man given to drink. He was prone to criticizing anything considered heretical in the eyes of the church. On a night not so long ago while attending the Prince in his pavilion, Gwilym had recited a poem about how frustration during mass over the beauty of young nuns filled him with ‘agony’ in his codpiece. Both Prince Edward and Sir John had applauded and laughed. Sir Robert had stormed from the tent uttering curses. He was an overstuffed prick of a man.

  Sir Thomas Holland, Earl of Kent, was an enigma to Gwilym. He was serious and taciturn, but highly capable. He never gave his opinion on anything unless one drew it out of him. He was whip thin, with graying hair cut short to his scalp and an old scar across his forehead that rumor said was caused by his own father in some long ago disagreement. He was also one of the best lancers on the field. Gwilym always behaved himself a bit more than usual when he was around Sir Holland.

  “As I was saying, Thomas,” Chandos was saying, “the plan was a sound strategy of both siege and parlay, but who could have guessed the Compte would have pulled back so many men from the walls? Addled wits or not, one would think he actually wanted us to take the city!” Sir Robert Bourchier let out a disgusted grunt and tore at his beard.

  “By the Grace of God sirs, our service to his Majesty and to you my Prince, are as men of war. Are we not bound by tenants of chivalry? Honor’s sacred foundation laid out by Charlemagne after his victory over the Saracens and enemies of Christ. Were they not first spoken to anoint those of high birth with duty and responsibility?”

  “Speak plainly Robert,” Sir Thomas said in his dry, gravely voice.

  “I speak sir of those whose, shall I say, low birth seemingly disavow themselves of responsibility for the murder, rapine and carnage wrought in this place? I speak, Sir Chandos…” Sir Robert fixed Sir Chandos, who had been chortling, with a stern glare, “of these Irish heathens, Welsh villeins and mercenary coin snatchers!”

  The three knights looked to the thoughtful Prince. The Prince turned to Sir Thomas and asked, “Your thoughts, Sir Thomas?”

  Sir Thomas, mailed hands clasped behind his back, let out a big sigh. “I would merely remind my close friend, the Baron of Bourchier, that we are not in England but France. However, I find myself rather ambivalent as to the fate of traitors who do not yet seem to realize that it is you and not Jean le Dauphin who is their Prince.” Sir Robert grudgingly nodded and Prince Edward smiled. Sir John cleared his throat.

  “It is with sorrow I must agree with you on that point, Thomas, but I must needs agree with Robert as well. Caen is burning across the Orne. The streets are littered with corpses young and old, chattels are seized and duty forgotten.” He shook his head. “I’ll not even speak of what I found done in the quarter of the Jews. Order must be brought down upon this army— every part of it— including its purported leaders.”

  No one spoke for a moment. Even Gwilym, from where he stood apart listening, held his breath. Sir John had openly criticized Lord Warwick and Northampton, yet held Prince Edward apart from the blame. Well, Sir Chandos certainly isn’t going to betray his master, but I wouldn’t underestimate Lord Warwick to cast some blame upon the Prince!

  The Prince noticed Gwilym and crook ended a finger to beckon that he join them. “Attend us a moment, favored bard of our sister, Joan.” Gwilym’s cheeks flushed crimson. The Prince had not failed to notice that Gwilym now carried his lute in its case slung across his back. However, it was Sir John who first noticed what else Gwilym now wore girded about his waist.

  “By Saint George Gwilym, from whence does that doughty blade come? Is that a saber? Not a Welshman’s blade surely!” Sir John laughed. Gwilym knew the jest was without malice and so he joined in the laughter.

  “Merely a spoil of war, Sir John.” Gwilym stated, bowing low from the waist first towards Prince Edward then to the rest of them, even Sir Richard who scowled openly at him.

  “I was not aware the un-knighted were permitted to bear arms in his Highness’ presence,” Sir Richard sniffed.

  Prince Edward waved a dismissive hand when Gwilym’s back stiffened. “Our minstrel had a bit of an adventure this day past, my lords. Twas Gwilym and a stalwart arms man who brought the Compte d’Eu hence to offer his surrender to ourselves and thence into the custody of Sir Thomas.” The three knights rocked back a step.

  “Now there is a tale I hope to hear in full, my Prince,” Sir Thomas said, eyeing Gwilym with new respect.

  “Well done Daffyd ap Gwilym of Wales.” Sir John Chandos said with a grin directed at Sir Richard Bourchier.

  “Hurumph!” Sir Richard looked as if he had bitten into something sour, but he offered a congratulatory nod Gwilym’s way.

  “Indeed, perhaps tonight while we dine and toast our victory we shall hear such a tale,” Prince Edward said. He then returned his attention to the Abbey. “Any word from the Bishop, Sir Thomas?”

  “No, your Majesty,” Sir Thomas responded. Gwilym could hear a slight edge in the knight’s voice that betrayed irritation.

  “And my father?”

  “His Majesty left to visit the crypt of your worthy ancestor, William I.”

  “Ah, so it should be.” The Prince smiled a secret smile that made Gwilym wonder how closely king and prince discussed their plans with one another.

  “He shall undoubtedly pray there awhile and perhaps the Conqueror’s ghost might bless him. Although my father would not care to be blessed in Old French, now would he, gentleman?” The Prince laughed at his jest, for it was well known King Edward despised French being spoken within his court. Sir John reluctantly joined in after a few moments and he shot a glance at Sir Thomas and
Sir Richard who also seemed surprised at the jibe.

  Oh yes, I should most certainly like to know how things stand between the Prince and the King! Gwilym wondered.

  Suddenly there was a commotion from the Abbey parapets. Men moved up above and Gwilym could see that monks mingled with armed knights. One man in particular was an amalgam of the two. He wore a full suit of mail and gleaming plate, yet bore the tonsured head of a monk. He leaned over the parapet and addressed them all.

  “To those who do harm to the people of Caen and offend those servants of God who keep this holy house, let them sheathe their swords and give parley! Who speaks for ye below there?”

  “I do. Edward, Prince of Wales and Aquitaine and Duke of Cornwall!” Prince Edward grinned defiantly up at the armored monk. He then added “Son of his Majesty Edward, Third of that name, blessed King of England, Ireland… and France!”

  There were shouts and catcalls in French and broken English hurled down from above, but Prince Edward bore it. His was the upper hand and evidently the armored monk knew it for he said nothing, and instead glared down at them all.

  “My question remains unanswered, will you give parley?” The monk asked again.

  “Will you give parlay, Your Majesty?” snarled Sir Richard Bourchier, eyes glittering dangerously. Prince Edward held up a hand to silence them all.

  “Do I address the Bishop of Bayeux?”

  “You do, Your Majesty” the Bishop answered through gritted teeth.

  “Then let us talk.” At a signal from the Prince, the men all sheathed their swords in a sign of peace. “Descend and open yon doors and invite us to wine and supper, your Grace.” The Prince, far more diplomatic than a man twice his age, didn’t forget the Bishop’s honorific. Atop the Abbey parapets they saw the Bishop seethe while a gaunt monk whispered something in the Bishop’s ear. The Bishop nodded once and called down once more.

  “The doors shall be opened. Let God witness and strike down any man who breaks the truce.”