by David Scoles
Gwilym breathed a sigh of relief. This signaled a hopeful end to the horrific killings and massacre visited upon Caen. Prince Edward would undoubtedly, in his father’s name, broker a peace between the conquerors and the conquered. If only it had come about sooner, so much and so many could have been spared. Gwilym remembered the family butchered by Vladimir Kessenovich, those innocent children lying dead in the street.
The Prince turned and strode away to prepare for his meeting with the Bishop. Undoubtedly, Chandos, Bourchier and Holland would accompany him to the meeting. Yet what of the King, Gwilym wondered? Had King Edward truly placed so much faith and trust in his young son? What would come next? Would the army move on towards Paris and the inevitable meeting with King Philip? The French King could field far greater numbers of men so close to his source of strength. The English might well be best served to take what chattels they had acquired and head home.
Gwilym longed to see Wales again, to walk its fields and forests and trek over its hills and down into the dales. He would again wander through small villages and seek hidden paths that meandered through the golden meadows and into the mountains of Cadair Idris. To think he had been so eager to leave it! War had changed him. The reality of war that had changed him.
Knights trading feisty barbs and sword blows? Proud lancers bearing down across the field into a great and majestic joust? No. It was innocents laying in stagnant pools of their own blood, flies buzzing in and out of their gaping mouths, blackened skulls frozen in eternal agony, skeletal arms outstretched in a wretched mockery of prayer to a God that hadn’t answered. It was madness.
And the mercenaries, those heartless profiteers who traded the blood of others for gold. What had possessed him to want to elevate such men in song? He thought of Radu the Black. True, the man had saved his life and could just as easily left him to his fate, yet he had not. Was Radu an exception? Who was he and why had he come to this battlefield? In search of men who had prices upon their heads. The Nachzehrer. Gwilym clutched the pommel of his new saber. As much as Gwilym tried to bend his thoughts towards home, they were carrying him forward on the trail of the mercenary and a dangerous mystery.
Chapter 14
Later that evening within the besieged Abbey, the Bishop of Bayeux, or Wilhelm Bertrand as he had once been known, was deep in thought. The Bishop had not always been a man of God. He had drank, whored and swung a halberd through much of Germany, Bohemia and the Low Countries for many years before a hammer wielded by a Hungarian Hussar had shattered his knee forever ending his career as a roving mercenary. However, thanks to family connections, bribes and blackmail, he had entered the priesthood and set up as the new Bishop of Bayeux when the former Bishop, another Wilhelm as fate would have it, ‘accidentally’ fell down some stairs and died.
The Bishop knew how to make enemies, but he never forgot to repay a slight, either real or imagined. The English army outside his Abbey walls was very real however and the Bishop was trying to decide who to blame for it and what he would do to them if he got out of this mess alive.
The Bishop climbed a set of stone steps. He wheezed loudly and coughed up phlegm. He had just spent the better part of the day negotiating and his mood was as sour as old wine. He voiced aloud his complaints with each step.
“The Compte for his incompetence,” he grumbled. “The King for sitting on his backside while his country is ravaged by English cunts. The people of this city for being such lowly shits!”
The Bishop had parleyed with that arrogant little prick of a prince and had attempted to salvage something from this catastrophe. However, in the end he had been forced to make concessions that would undoubtedly not go over well with the King. It was no great matter. He would see to it that simpering Compte d’Eu took the blame.
The Bishop had coin stashed about the Abbey and a knight or two in his employ who could be trusted. He would flee to his manor near Amiens and wait out the rest of this war in comfort. He didn’t care a wit who won this war, although he would put his silver on King Philip eventually gaining the upper hand through sheer numbers.
The Bishop sighed. Undoubtedly, this place would be looted to the bone. Nothing was sacred anymore, even holy offices like his own.
Someone was descending the steps towards him. Who could it be? These steps led only to his private chambers! The Bishop saw only shadows upon the stairs. The steps were worn smooth from three centuries of use and curved upwards into darkness. He cursed his folly in not bringing a torch and one of the novice boys to carry it for him, but they were all terrified of him and were always keeping out of his sight. The Bishop waited, his heart began to pound and sweat trickled down his neck onto his robes.
The figure who descended the steps came into view and the Bishop blinked in recognition. It was the last person he had expected.
“Are you lost, sir? I would have thought you returned to your own camp by now. Why were you in my…” The Bishop never finished his statement. There was a flash of steel and the Bishop of Bayeux clutched at his throat. The blade had moved so quickly he hadn’t even seen it clear its sheathe.
The Bishop sagged against the cold stone wall as his vision began to go dark. The dark figure brushed past him quickly descending the steps. The Bishop’s last thought was that they could have held out longer against this bastard. He might have in the old days, before bitterness and greed made him just another corrupt servant of a Church he no longer believed in.
Chapter 15
Deep below the Abbey of Sainte Etienne lay its crypts. Interred within it were the bones of many great men and not a few women. Some ancient tombs bore plaques that had cracked and shattered when the earth had suddenly moved a century before. The memory of whom lay within lost forever. The crypts were silent and the air thick with the scent of earth and limestone.
Colorful mosaics that depicted Christ and his Saints lovingly wrought in colored stone and semi-precious gems adorned the walls. Sconces kept the area dimly lit at regular intervals. These were kept alight by dutiful monks so that family members and well compensated priests could recite prayers over the departed. It was a crypt fit for a king, though no king had ever been put to rest there.
The Abbey had only ever allowed one of royal blood to receive eternal rest within its walls and that was William I, also called the Conqueror. Upon his death, William’s coffin had been so large that those long ago Normans hadn’t the desire to lug the obese carcass into the crypts. The Bishop at that time had wanted to discreetly have the body cut up and taken piece by piece below, but upon bursting the dead King’s guts a horrendous stench had flowed out causing nobles and monks alike to retch uncontrollably. The King’s remains were quickly tossed into a pit and buried near the center of the then still under construction Abbey.
In the main hall of Saint Etienne rested the heavy stone slab marking the resting place of William the Conqueror. In Latin, the stone read, “died in the evening on the 5th day before the Ides of September 1087.” This was incorrect, though King Edward III was one of the few who knew it. In truth, William had died on the 4th day before the Ides. William’s sons had needed a day to strip the corpse of valuables then hightail it to their respective castles to prepare themselves for a fight for the crown.
King Edward rose with a grunt from where he knelt before the slab then crossed himself. His German forged armor creaked and groaned in protest as the powerfully built King gained his feet. He was alone in the Abbey’s main hall against the wishes of both Warwick and Northampton. Their constant vying for favor bored him. It had always been so since they were boys. Both sulked over his displeasure. This was his city now, thanks to his son.
While King Edward didn’t doubt he might be watched over by spies or assassins, but he had lived his life balanced on the edge of a knife. His mailed fist clutched the adder skinned grip of his sword, a mighty two handed blade he had named Durendal after Roland’s famous blade, for reassurance.
So much now rested upon the shoulders of others. It wa
s a difficult thing for a King to trust, especially for himself, who had been betrayed by his own mother and ashamed of his father. Family was everything however, his family more so. His wife Philippa: demure and loyal as a wife should be. His elder daughters Isabella and Joan: one golden as the sun and graceful as the moon, the other fresh as a forest glade and whose laughter was the tinkling of a babbling brook. His younger daughters Mary and Margaret: Mary, whose blue eyes lit up whenever they saw him and little Margaret whom he had yet to meet! Then there were his sons: feisty and athletic Lionel, serious and grim John, portly and happy Edmund and the eldest, his heir Edward. It was for them he strove so hard and for them that he would succeed in his endeavor, no matter the cost.
The only thing that stood in Edward’s way was Philip Valois or rather the scores of knights and mercenaries in the French pretender’s employ. Edward had gone out of his way to scout the forces arrayed against him and as things now stood, Philip could field 30,000 men. Edward had a third that number, mostly made up of men levied by his own lords. Then there were the Welsh and Irish.
Though their numbers were small Edward knew that the Irish gallowglass and Welsh spearmen that protected his English longbow men could win him this war. His own mercenaries would launch splinter attacks on Philip’s flanks and rearguard, there was a chance for victory. He believed he could win.
When and where will you meet me Philip? For now, Philip remained safe behind the thick walls of Paris. A city which had not fallen to invaders since antiquity. It could not last. With each mile the English army put behind them, Philip heard the cries of alarm from his lords to take action. Many of those lords would defect to him, he felt, when finally Philip was subdued in battle.
The Compte d’Eu knew little. Though he appeared competent Edward still felt the oily little man was holding something back. Something in his manner when Edward, Warwick and Sir Talbot had spoken to him at supper in the King’s Pavilion. What was it the Compte had said? ‘I would fain sup at this Plantagenet table knowing that its generosity fills not only belly, but the pockets of those who swear it gratitude and loyalty!’
Was the Compte hoping Edward would pay him for some pretense at loyalty? That he needed to pay the men who loved him and served him regardless that he was their King? Were the Compte d’Eu not of noble blood he would have left him swinging from the walls of the city. But a King needed to show generosity and violence in equal measure. So he made a simple offer to the Compte, ‘Never open your sniveling mouth to me again or I’ll have your arms and legs off.’ After Talbot had translated that into French, le Compte d’Eu had fainted dead away. The King had needed to call in two men to escort the Compte back to his small tent.
A King had to be patient as well, even when he knew that time was against him. The Bardi and Peruzzi banking houses as well as other coin counting merchants from the Low Countries had advanced him huge sums of money to progress in this war. Letters he had received from Philippa confirmed that representatives from his creditors loitered around his Court, eagerly awaiting word of when they would be repaid no doubt. The short answer was Never of course, but Philippa would keep them at bay for now. His Flemish born Queen haggled with the best of them.
Northampton chose that moment to open the Church door and thrust his head in. Edward thought he looked like one of those exotic birds his mother had kept in the gardens when he was a child, all neck and bug-eyed. Thinking of his mother always soured his mood. Behind Northampton stood his stalwart bodyguard, Sir Boeth. As ever, Sir Boeth was as silent as the grave. His gaunt and skeletal visage always made it seem as if he had just come from such a place as well.
“Your Majesty a word s’il-vous plait.”
Edward sighed.
“We shall give ye several if it be in our own English and with proper deference my Lord.”
“Um… yes, well.” Northampton drew himself up straight and cleared his throat. “His Highness, your son, the Prince of Wales hath….”
“Out with it Bohun!” Edward snarled.
“The Prince has left the camp! He gathered up several of his followers and rode East, I know not where?” The Earl stammered, stunned by the King’s sudden flash of temper.
The King slowly turned around and stared at William the Conqueror’s cold stone slab. What was it they had written as the old King’s last words: “wash my bones as I lie and cleanse from them the impurity contracted in my sinful and neglectful life.” King Edward believed that to sin was human, but to neglect was a human fault that bred indolence, deceit and in children especially-indifference. He did not move for several moments, then faced Northampton once more, calm and collected.
“I want the men moving east by daybreak two days hence. I place you in charge of seeing to my son’s chattels if he has not returned by then.” Northampton blanched at being given so menial a task, but wisely said nothing and merely nodded his head in acquiescence. Behind him, Sir Boeth smiled a mirthless smile.
“A keystone is still the central part of any castle and if it bears a flaw the entire building crashes to the ground. Those who come after us must be made to understand that all we do now is for their elevation. Upon this continent shall I build something greater than any castle.” King Edward turned and locked Northampton with an intense piercing gaze.
“Here shall I build a King the world shall remember for all time. By any means necessary.”
Part 2: The French Plains and Saint Josse, Monday, August 8-Monday, August 15, 1346
Chapter 1
Dafydd ap Gwilym shifted nervously from foot to foot and tried his hardest not to sweat, but the day was hot and the royal pavilion had all its tarpaulin doors drawn closed. The presence of Radu the Black also was unexpected and left Gwilym feeling a bit disconcerted. They were in the King’s Pavilion! For all its opulence— beeswax candles, Syrian rugs, tables laden with fresh fruits and salted meats— Gwilym’s interest lay mainly in the pitchers filled with wine. Saint Vincent of Saragossa, Patron Saint of Wine I can smell the Sancerre! I am as tormented as a Celestine monk upon Sabbath!
What was Radu doing here? Gwilym looked askance at the mercenary, but Radu seemed as bewildered as he. Both had met outside the pavilion and Gwilym had been about to greet the mercenary, whom he had assumed to have long since moved on. The English army had left the still smoldering Caen a few weeks earlier. Earl Northampton barked at them both to “keep their mouths shut” and enter the King’s Pavilion.
The month of July had passed quickly. Riding and camping. Singing and poetry. Occasionally, a hunt sponsored by local lords who had swung their allegiance to King Edward. Gwilym passed many a leisurely afternoon in courtly pursuits pleasing to the young Welshman. His experience in Caen was a bad memory made real only by the jeweled saber that now hung permanently at his waist.
Truth be told he only wore the saber to inspire the other nobles to engage him on the story of how he had come to have it. With each telling Gwilym embellished and exaggerated more and more until he scarcely even mentioned Radu. As Gwilym told it he had personally slain a viscous mercenary who had cut down a hapless family and rescued Compte d’Eu from certain death.
There was one good thing that had come of Gwilym’s tale. The Red Sword’s mercenary company and their captain Johannes Abelard were dismissed from the King’s service by Sir Thomas Holland and sent packing. Their blatant disregard for the King’s orders was not forgotten or forgiven. Purple faced, Johannes Abelard and his men rode away.
Now the army was determinedly, albeit slowly, making its way to Paris to engage King Philip on favorable ground. It had taken Gwilym completely by surprise when King Edward, who had ignored Gwilym’s presence up until that point, summoned him that day.
Gwilym assumed Radu cowed by his surroundings as he waited grim faced and silent beside him. They did not have to wait long, for soon after they arrived the King entered. The King paid them no attention at first. He walked over to a short table that held a silver inlaid pitcher and basin. Raising the pitcher, wh
ich was probably worth more than all of Dafydd ap Gwilym’s possessions, the King poured cool, clear water into the basin, removed his gauntlets and washed his hands. A servant held a towel and when the King turned, the lad immediately dried his Majesty’s hands, then bowed and withdrew.
King Edward was a tall man, as tall as Radu certainly. He had a long mane of blond hair flecked with strands of red that blended with a mustache and beard of matching color. It framed a stern face with piercing blue eyes, a staple feature of the Plantagenet bloodline. The King’s was not a kind face, for life had not been overly kind to this King. Lines were visible on his forehead and around his eyes that made him appear older than his thirty-four years. His lips were thin and straight, but held a hint of sarcastic mirth about them that Gwilym had always found intriguing.
“So,” the King began in his rich baritone. “The minstrel and the mercenary. A worthy tale, I’ll wager. A good tale brings a merry sort of color to the grayness of these battlefields. That and allowing ones blade to water the field with weak French blood, eh?” The King moved to stand before Radu and the two men stared into each other’s eyes unblinking for a few moments until Gwilym shifted uncomfortably. Then a herald from without cried, “The Countess de Montfort seeks entry!”
A smile tugged at the edges of the King’s mouth. “Let her enter!” No sooner had the King’s words left his mouth then a stunning woman dressed in full mail armor and surcoat swept into the pavilion.
“Edward, we must speak!” the Countess de Montfort demanded.
“May I present the Countess Joanna de Montfort, a woman whose cause we have taken up. Said cause being rights of inheritance, which of course ties to our own greater matter of the inheritance of the French Crown.”
Gwilym could not help but gape. A woman dressed as a man… in armor! He felt his loins stir at the sight. Joanna de Montfort somehow made travel stained armor and tousled brown hair cut short seem regal. Yet he noticed a wildness about her eyes and a twitchiness in her right hand that bespoke a trauma either physical or of the mind.