The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  Joanna of Montfort ignored both Gwilym and Radu. Instead she strode up to Edward, who was a good meter taller, and frowned up at him. “If murder has been done upon my son’s lands then it falls to me to dispense justice! My lord would not rest easy in his tomb were I too shirk my duties as wife and mother!” The Countess de Montfort whirled around and seemed to notice Gwilym and Radu for the first time. She stared at Radu as though examining a strange beast that had been brought out for her amusement.

  “And here I thought that I stank. This one stinks of carrion, your Majesty, one of your well paid butchers, I take it?” She cast a skeptical eye Gwilym’s way. “That’s a pretty one. Too pretty for the battlefield, I think. This one’s catamite perhaps?” The Countess sneered and gestured at Radu, who didn’t blink. The Countess snarled when she received no reaction. She was about to launch into further insults when the King interrupted.

  “Enough Joanna. We have spoken with you about your outbursts before. I should hate to have to place you in… protective sedation out in the country away from the young Count. All for your son’s own good, you understand.” The Countess shrank back. Gwilym took a breath. She either has a set of balls or is as mad as Saint Simeon Stylites upon his pillar!

  “They are the ones I have chosen to see to this matter upon your lands,” King Edward stated firmly. “Be grateful I see to it at all, madam.”

  “Forgive me, your Majesty?” Gwilym began after clearing his throat. “I find myself at great disadvantage. Perhaps I am benighted, but I bear no acceptable level of martial capabilities and am both inconsequential and verily most unsuited in regards to wearing the mantle of one of your Justiciars.”

  There was a pause after Gwilym’s words then the amused Countess murmured, “He babbles worse than a priest giving homily.”

  “Nonsense!” thundered King Edward. Gwilym wished he could shrink to the size of a pea and slink away to some dark corner of the tent. To have the bile of a King aroused at oneself was enough to make any man wish for some quiet dungeon cell far away. Then the King smiled and laughed. “After all, I am several florins the poorer thanks to the efforts of the both of ye in taking that sack of suet prisoner. I would now bestow another task of great importance upon ye.” The King glanced at Radu whose brow had furrowed and added, “With an appropriate compensation of course.”

  Gwilym remained silent though inside he was in turmoil. How shall I decline this? The King gives tasks that move his battles forward with little care for the mortal cost! Why me, by all the watching Saints?!

  The Countess de Montfort crossed her mailed arms. “Some few nights ago one of my son’s manors was burgled and some local laborers killed. I am more concerned as to what has been stolen and by whom.” The Countess sighed sorrowfully, but Gwilym saw though it. Typical. Her concern lays mostly with lost chattels and to whom she can repay the offense.

  “Difficult. Holding land in a country not your own. Perhaps the French grew restless with their Breton masters?” Radu’s voice was low and held a hint of mocking sarcasm that was not lost on Countess de Montfort.

  “I assure you, sir, that the folk of Saint Josse are loyal to my son the Duke of Brittany and to their true King.” Gwilym watched the Countess tilt her head up proudly as she said this and King Edward gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. The King held the Countess’ loyalty unquestionable at least.

  “Then outside parties are responsible. Using war to cover their tracks and hoped to slip away under its distraction thereby avoiding detection.” Radu concluded.

  “Those are my thoughts as well,” remarked King Edward.

  “It will be ten silver groats a head. Another twenty florins for the return of stolen goods. Promissory notes for gold livres payable at another time will not be acceptable. Another twenty-five for feed for both our horses….” Radu ticked off expenditures on his hands one by one.

  He said “our” horses. Oh God….

  “I shall need a fortnight or more, depending upon how far they may have run.”

  The Countess visibly seethed over the cost and through gritted teeth asked, “Depending upon what?”

  Radu gave her a level look. “Whether they fled east towards Paris or followed a circumventing route west and south to return themselves to this army.” There it was. The unspoken question. Were the men truly local French capitalizing upon the war to enrich themselves or were there opportunists within the English army striking out on their own? Gwilym immediately thought of the foreign mercenaries that traveled with them. Gwilym determined Radu thought much the same.

  “I shall leave the manhunt in your hands Sir Radu with our redoubtable servant Dafydd ap Gwilym to manage the venture on our behalf,” King Edward said and clasped the mercenary on the shoulder. “I shall also add an additional monetary reward atop that already agreed upon. Countess?”

  Countess de Montfort sighed and nodded. Her right hand reflexively clasped and unclasped her missing sword that had been removed before entering the King’s presence. Gwilym wondered if she might actually have drawn it if she still had it.

  “But wait, sirs!” Gwilym exclaimed, a thought suddenly coming to him. “Is not Saint Josse back the way we have come all this past July? Does it not lay upon the coast facing distant England? Do you mean for us to… to backtrack along the skirmish lines?” Back across the devastation the army has wrought.

  “The speed at which two might travel greatly outstrips that of an army fearing to outpace its supply wagons Gwilym,” The King answered reassuringly. “Though Wheat Harvests of July have passed and now said wheat be Threshed in August ye shall investigate the Lord Montfort’s manor and return to us not long after the Ides I should think.”

  “I know the way,” said Radu and that sealed their fate.

  Gwilym hung his head.

  “Let us seal our bargain with a cup of wine. Pour it for us, won’t you, Gwilym?” King Edward barked for his attendants waiting without to return. Several lads, all younger sons of noble families, filed in to attend them with cushy chairs while Gwilym poured four goblets full of ruby red liquid. He then handed out a cup to each person. The King first of course, then Countess de Montfort who snatched hers without somehow spilling a drop, then finally Radu who took his gravely. So glad to see you are taking this seriously. Kindly take keeping my hide safe equally so!

  “To the hunt!” King Edward toasted and he was echoed by three voices.

  Gwilym held the goblet before his lips and looked at the red, swirling liquid. He remembered Vladimir Kessenovich’s staring eyes, red blood spilling from his slit throat. The sight of the German mercenaries hacked to pieces by Radu’s ax and sword. Dry as his mouth was, suddenly Gwilym wasn’t at all thirsty.

  Chapter 2

  King Edward sat upon his traveling throne of old oak and pondered the goblet before him. Inebriation was stealing upon him like a cat seeking a warm lap to lay upon. Gwilym and Radu had departed and the taciturn Countess de Montfort not long after. She had left with a word that he was welcome to come and visit her in her tent that night or she could come here if he so commanded. King Edward had needed to feign exhaustion to get out of that one. Not out of any particular loyalty to his Queen. It was just that the Countess was slowly descending into madness and all could see it. Edward didn’t need the additional aggravation. The loss of her husband, hatred towards her rivals and worry over her son were driving her over the edge.

  Not that Edward would leave this war unscathed. War changed people and not just once. Each battle, every skirmish chipped a little bit more away of one’s soul. Joanna de Montfort was a woman trying to take her dead husband’s place for the sake of her son. It was doomed to fail. She could dress herself in mail and wield a sword, even competently, but a woman’s mind could not handle the shock of such violence nor shield itself from the horrible hate that only men could visit upon one another. Yet how would this war change his own son? It was a question he wrestled with nightly.

  That mercenary, Radu the Black, Edward kne
w with a glance into the man’s cold, dark eyes that violence had stolen something precious from him. King Edward briefly wondered what it might have been. No doubt it was tied to whatever quest he was so set upon that he would initially dismiss a paying contract. Edward had discreetly tried to employ the man weeks earlier after hearing Gwilym’s tale, but the man had doggedly refused stating that he was about his own business that only currently coincided with the English. The men he hunted for, undoubtedly, would receive their reckoning when he caught up with them.

  Aye, Radu’s eyes. Like two simmering coals. Would his son’s eyes one day mirror them?

  Years before, King Edward had beheld a pair of eyes that belonged to a six year old Scottish boy: bright and full of fire. They had impressed him even unto the moment Edward had that boy, young Tomas Seton, strung up outside the gates of Berwick Castle in full view of his father.

  There were still nights King Edward awoke in a cold sweat with the nightmare still fresh that it had instead been his own son he had strung up on that gallows. The lifeless eyes of his son stared accusingly into his own. King Edward held his head in his hands and wept, but not for the atrocities he had committed. He wept for the ones he had yet to commit and would commit again and again if the crown he wore and the crown he would have so demanded it.

  Chapter 3

  Gwilym and Radu were an unlikely pair of companions. Gwilym’s bright colored clothes and cloak contrasted with Radu’s travel stained leathers, armor and well-worn cloak. Then there was the difference in height and build. One was small and slight, the other tall and muscular. To an observer they may have looked more like two lost Mummers.

  Their path led them through primordial forests so ancient even the leaves dripped with dark memories. Then into vast plains where hungry wolves stalked and displaced men twisted by ill fortune and war into bloodthirsty reavers prowled. Each morning Gwilym awoke to poor food and a surly companion who spoke as frequently as a monk under a vow of silence. The nights sweltered, long shadows cast by their small fire danced like hungry demons, and the distant howls of creatures on the hunt echoed throughout the night.

  Gwilym took several opportunities to examine his companion closer and saw something sad and tragic etched onto his grim features. What memories drove this warrior? Where would they take Dafydd ap Gwilym?

  Growing up in rural Wales Gwilym had been exposed to the hard lives of peasants on some occasions. He had seen them working in their fields from a distance and his family’s Chaplain had once explained to him the sort of life they lead.

  The peasant rose at dawn to eat a modest breakfast of teeth grinding bread washed down with small ale. Until late into the day they were out in their fields picking their beans, bundling the wheat— all seasonal of course— or seeing to their animals: pig, goat, cow, capon, rabbit and occasionally a horse or two. When the sun began to set they returned to their hovels.

  Peasant homes were dug slightly into the earth so that one would have to mind their head and step when they entered. The floor would be dirt, but with a thin layer of hay and fresh smelling rushes. The walls were made of wood and set firmly into the ground. A ring of stone surrounded the base of the hovel for added support. Door frames were typically a strong oak. A simple crucifix either carved from wood or woven from grass hung up on the doorframe. The building was topped by a thatch roof woven into the crossbeams. They typically leaked rain, were poor protection from wind and snow and would even blow off in a strong storm.

  The peasants’ evenings were spent huddled around a fire set within the ground in a pit dead center of the home. Probably jumping at every sound like frightened rabbits. They prayed for God to bring the sun back again and protect them from the devils and elves that crept forth from the forest each night to scratch at their windows and doors. Or at least that’s how Gwilym had always pictured it. He didn’t believe himself to be that far off.

  Gwilym’s impression of peasantry rose only slightly when he beheld Saint Josse for the first time. It had taken a week to get there for Radu set a punishing pace that pushed the horses to their limits. Gwilym saw no reason to argue, for many of the paths they traversed bypassed the English wake of devastation and misery.

  Burnt out villages and blackened remains of homes were an all too common sight. Fields had been trampled and wheat that might have been turned into loaves of hearty bread was now useless mush churned into the mud by thousands of booted feet. Worse were the wails one could hear carried on the wind. Mourners crying out to Heaven, “Where are you God?” Distant funeral bells tolled somewhere out in the barren countryside seemed to rumble God’s answer: Gone… gone… gone….

  The village of Saint Josse had been built around a church that looked as though it had stood for centuries. Its stone was old. The stained glass windows were a multitude of colors depicting angels encircling what Gwilym assumed was a local saint, probably Josse himself. Gwilym, who possessed a wealth of knowledge in regards to Saints, knew little about Saint Josse other than he had been a Breton prince who renounced his throne long ago. From the looks of this place, Josse had desired to lead a much more austere life.

  The cottages were simple and typical of the Northern French, decidedly French in design, but heavily influenced by its Breton roots. Thatch roofs, buildings that leaned upon each other for support and doors painted a variety of colors. There was also a deep appreciation for the agricultural with well-tended home gardens and crowded goat pens. It was actually quite nice. Or it would have been, had there not been devil inspired murders within its boundary a fortnight previous.

  Gwilym’s opinion dropped a bit further when their horses plodded towards the central square and beheld what appeared to be an inquest taking place outside the giant doors of Saint Josse’s church. There, seated atop a throne mounted upon the back of a wagon, a fat monk wearing a steel breastplate of fine quality vigorously deplored the Christianity of the gathered throngs of Saint Josseans.

  “Good God, what is he doing here?” Gwilym said. “Surely the King did not employ him upon this endeavor as were we?” Radu’s face betrayed nothing of what he thought or felt discovering none other than the Franciscan in Saint Josse. Waiting for them? Surely not. An unhappy coincidence only. “Well, he’s well and truly drunk at least. Ah! Poor Eurastes, still following around that fallen monk?” called out Gwilym to the sallow faced Greek standing beside the cart.

  “By the Grace of God, Braahp!” the monk belched. “I say by the Grace of GAAAHD dost thou not honor the LORD with your wealth, with the first fruits of all your crops? Then your pants will be filled to overflowing, and your vats will brim over with new wine!” The fat monk gave a great belch and Eurastes, who leaned against the wagon, sighed and muttered under his breath.

  “Barns, it’s ‘barns will be filled to overflowing,’ you fat fool. How does a monk misquote the Bible as often as you?”

  “Didst thou say something Eurastes the Blaspheming?” the monk bellowed down at Eurastes. Spittle and wine dribbled from his mouth onto Eurastes’ hood as the monk leaned over, nearly unseating himself.

  “Nay, your Grace. I spoke not a word, but perhaps we could contrive to be about our business?” Eurastes eyed the throng of villagers and noted that none looked him in the eye. A suspicious lot, by Saint Benedict! A den of witchery and hedonism if e’er I seen, just look at those flowers!

  “Eh? Whose is that mine eyes doth see? A pretty princeling’s bed warmer? ‘Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind for it is procrastination!’”

  “Abomination, not procrastination, you fucking idiot,” Eurastes muttered through gritted teeth.

  “Ah, tis his Holy Grace, the Franciscan! Father Angelo Romero Spoletto, bless us!” Gwilym hopped off his horse then moved quickly through the crowd of Josseans. Gwilym dropped to his knees before the wagon and crossed himself with head bowed.

  “‘For God has consigned all to disobedience, that he may have mercy on all. Romans 11, Verse 32,” Gwilym added with a wink at Eurastes. No
thing was more sincere to a drunken, psychotic monk than a Bible passage that acknowledged personal sin.

  The monk heaved his great bulk off his throne, which set the wagon to wobbling, the Franciscan threw his arms out wide and preached again.

  “A time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time to drink.” He tipped back his decanter and drank deeply of the ruby red liquid. Gwilym crossed himself again and smiled, nodding his head obligingly at the drunken monk’s words. Eurastes rolled his eyes as the Josseans automatically crossed themselves. What sheep! The Josseans glanced at each other in confusion, never having heard that last Bible passage spoken before, but years of oppression had taught them well to hold their tongues.

  “If ye came seeking devilry….” the Franciscan sat upon his rear on the edge of the wagon and carefully slid himself off, “Then ye need look no further than Saint Josse! Christ in Heaven! Josse, scion of King Jothael, renounced his crown and sought the glory of God!” The Franciscan teetered and weaved, his drunken muttering audible to all. His face was flushed and his chins were red. The goiter on his neck pulsated as he spoke.

  “How it is he found it here in this backwater? Aye, the holy relics within his church likely desecrated and defiled by the sheep shit stained hands of the rabble!” The Franciscan leveled a finger at Gwilym. “One wonders what the Holy Father would say! Aye! I say aye! For I know him well and know his mind, for he hath shared his thoughts with me many a time within the sacred walls of his palace in Avignon!”

  “In yer dreams, ye sot!” Eurastes muttered and returned Gwilym’s wink. If Pope Clement VI ever did learn about what the Franciscan got up to. Ha! What a joyous excommunication that would have been. But Eurastes knew who buttered his bread so he kept his thoughts to himself.