The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  “Enough.” Radu dismounted from his horse and pointed at a Saint Jossean. The man blanched and twisted the worn blue cap in his hands nervously. “You. Which house was it where the murders occurred?”

  “Now just a minute….” the Franciscan set his bloodshot gaze on Radu and tried to summon up a name to fit the face.

  “The manor house top of the hill, m’lord.” The Saint Jossean’s French was accented with the flavors of Brittany, but Radu and Gwilym both understood him well enough. Radu nodded and led his horse by its reins through the crowd. The manor was easily identified as it was the only grand house in Saint Josse. The manor sat upon a low hill and overlooked the Church and the village below. The Countess de Montfort’s manor here was more eye-catching than Gwilym or Radu had expected.

  “It looks to be built upon the ruins of a much older holding, witness the tower there?” Gwilym said. He indicated the old spire that sprang up upon the left side of the manor. Radu nodded thoughtfully.

  “Who in the name of Saint Peter are you?” The Franciscan leveled a finger at Radu’s chest and punctuated his last word with a belch. The Franciscan was tall, but Radu was still able to glare down at him menacingly.

  “A man about his business and I’ve no witty Bible passage to fart back at you. Now stand aside!”

  “Now see here!” The Franciscan dropped a hand to the wicked mace at his side. Nicknamed ‘Baptizer,’ it had caved in more than its share of skulls. Radu’s face grew darker. Gwilym interjected himself between the two men and flashed a disarming grin in the Franciscan’s face.

  “This is my assistant, Radu, good friar. A swordsman of no small skill from the east, where orthodox piety takes a more Byzantine approach to devilry. An eagerness to deal with injustice as quickly as possible one might say. We have been commissioned by King Edward to seek out an explanation for the murder which occurred here. Really, I had thought you to still be riding with the army?”

  The Franciscan harrumphed and blew his nose loudly on the corner of his sleeve and never took his eyes off Radu. Gwilym kept his smile fixed in place.

  “I grew bored with that lot a few days past and set out on my own. Those German bastards are thugs, the Poles scurry about like fleas on a Sicilian whore and that windbag, Father de Lisle, keeps secrets like a… like a….”

  “Like a priest?”

  The Franciscan blinked. Gwilym grinned. The monk barked a laugh and swigged his wine.

  “Ah, but it’s no wonder the Church dislikes bardic mirth! Come! I’ll take you both up the hill and show you how heresy festers where people give more time to their sheep than to scripture! Eurastes, you stay here and secure me a bath and supper from yon hovel.” His earlier vitriol forgotten, the Franciscan trudged up the hill towards the manor. Eurastes flashed an obscene sign at his retreating back.

  “Aye, yer Grace.”

  Gwilym raised an eyebrow. By the look on Radu’s face he wasn’t pleased to have the Franciscan’s company. The Saint Josseans slipped away to their homes and the daily toil of low birth. Gwilym and Radu followed the Franciscan across the square and onto a well-worn cart trail that led from the village up to the manor. Gwilym kept to Radu’s rear, but both quickly passed the Franciscan. The huffing and puffing monk swore loudly about the heat and the chaffing monk’s robes he wore under his breastplate.

  “We had heard it was a family of laborers in service to the former Count de Montfort who were murdered?” Gwilym called back to the sweating monk.

  “Aye, they were,” the Franciscan moaned and placed his hands on his knees. “What prompted me not to have Eurastes bring me in the wagon?”

  “You told him to prepare your bath and supper. Such a grand mansion for peasants? The Countess is generous to her tenants.”

  “The old Count only lived here during high summer, but after his death, his mad wife at war and his son a mere lad, it has lain mostly dormant. The tenants cared for the mansion and the grounds, but lived in a cottage some distance from the main house.”

  “So they were squatters then? Strange that the Count made no provision for his tenants upon his death or perhaps the Countess merely forgot this place until these deaths reminded her of the property?”

  “I do not know, young Gwilym. I am no lawyer, a pox on all their litigious hides. I only learned of this atrocity the day before yesterday as Eurastes and I made our way along the south faring road towards Paris. I’ll make my own way to the battle, Father de Lisle, I need not your approval!” the Franciscan roared.

  Gwilym fell into his own thoughts. Tenants who believed the widow Montfort no longer cared for her Saint Josse property took up residence in their dead lord’s mansion, but are murdered as a result. Could it have been supporters of the hated Blois family rivals as the Countess believed? No fell conspiracy, but merely another chapter in the rivalry for the Duchy of Brittany?

  Gwilym shook his head. There were too many unanswered questions. They gained the summit of the hill and approached the abandoned mansion. Gwilym hoped answers might be found within.

  The sooner done, the sooner he could return to the comforts of a court favorite.

  The house had become dilapidated in the months since the old Count’s death, but Gwilym suspected it had fallen on hard times long before. War depleted coffers as quickly as it claimed lives.

  The manor was constructed almost entirely of wood, save the stone frame cut from coastal granite. Windows were boarded up on the second story. Stonework was pitted and worn. Gargoyles that leered down from the doorway were so smoothed by wind and rain that only the faintest of expressions could be seen. They hadn’t been enough to ward off whatever evil had crept inside.

  The rest of the mansion was lost in the shadow of its windowless tower. Similar towers could be found in Wales, Ireland and Scotland as well. Built hundreds of years ago to stave off Viking attacks when those northern raiders had ravaged Europe. Apparently the mansion builder had decided to incorporate the tower into the house rather than tear it down.

  The Franciscan finally caught up to them and let out a breath. “The corpses were removed the day they were discovered. The husband, wife and three children along with all the livestock they owned.”

  “How many?” Radu rumbled.

  “How many what?”

  “Animals, monk. How many animals did they have and what were they?”

  “How would I know that and why should it matter?” The Franciscan eyed him suspiciously. The name Radu tickled his memory, but still he couldn’t place it.

  “It might have mattered, but now we shall never know, will we?” The monk began to snarl a reply, but Radu had already shoved the door open and disappeared within.

  Gwilym quickly followed and left behind a fuming Franciscan. Gwilym hoped the martial monk didn’t sober up just yet and seek a conflict. Gwilym preferred not to witness such a fight.

  The interior of the mansion swallowed the light from the candles Radu lit. Gwilym could smell old death. The atmosphere of the manor exuded a subdued gloom that tightly grasped Gwilym’s heart. A sense of unease unlike any he had felt before stirred his guts.

  The stench pulled them from the foyer down a dark hallway and through another door into what must have been the dining room. Faded tapestries and old weapons hung on wall racks. A long trestle table was laid out as if for a meal. Radu moved about the room and lit more candles. Gwilym held his nose. His eyes wandered about the room.

  As the Franciscan had said, the bodies had been removed, but the stains of death remained. Blood had splashed onto the walls and floors. Even the ceilings bore swathes of red pinpricks. How had the blood reached such height? Had it been thrown? He felt sick and stood back as Radu investigated the room.

  Larger blood stains were on the floor near the head of the table and close to a doorway. The doorway led into what one assumed was a larder. Gwilym had been in enough noble homes to guess at the predictable layout. He could probably find the stairs to the second floor with his eyes closed. Radu indicated
the stained table with a wave of his hand.

  “Someone was killed here upon the table. See the deep cuts into the wood?” Radu mimicked sword slashes and stabs. Gwilym visualized a victim held down and piteously murdered where they had only a short time before been at supper.

  “Surely they fought back? The husband at least?”

  “No, twas his body murdered upon the table. The wife died there, near the larder.”

  “How can you tell?” Gwilym asked curiously.

  “Size of the stains, but how it is spread out as well. He was the only one who struggled, hence the bench here is broken where he kicked out at it and bits of hair and skin are here,” he pointed to a depression near the table’s center Gwilym had not noticed before. “A war-hammer or some other blunt instrument bashed his brains in. And here….” Radu walked over to the wife’s bloodstain and waved a candle about the area of the walls and doorway. “No blood save the stain on the floor. She might have been taken unawares or fell to the floor in horror to beg for her life. A woman’s way of meeting death.” Gwilym said nothing. Caught in such a way, behind closed doors where one was supposed to be safe, he probably would have done the same.

  “So what of the children then, though, by Saint Nicholas, I am not sure I wish to know.” Gwilym swallowed the lump in his throat and followed Radu to stand before the blackened hearth. Radu held aloft the candle and showed Gwilym a vision of horror painted in blood above the cold hearth.

  “They died here. The killer or killers used their blood to paint this.” What he was looking at? Gwilym gaped in horror. The grizzly artist had painted in feverish detail a figure with the head of a leering stag and the body of a man surrounded by what appeared to be capering figures. Most telling of all were the prone figures of five people, three of whom were clearly children. Gwilym crossed himself quickly.

  “Christ in Heaven, we reject the works of Satan. Surely this is the work of devil worshippers after all!” The candles flickered as though stirred by an ephemeral hand and Gwilym shivered.

  “It looks to be the Horned God, a pagan deity of ages past. He who leads the Wild Hunt,” Radu said.

  “I… I have heard of the Wild Hunt. Upon Saint Brighid’s Day the festival of Imbolc.” Gwilym had attended the festival with his father and brother, but never had he seen nor heard anything related to this Horned God? This was a horror birthed of the darkest woods, the most ancient groves once tended by men who gave obeisance before altars of blood and gore. The picture radiated a coldness, as if a void existed where its bloody print stained the wood.

  “You seem to have knowledge of things best buried deep and forgotten.” The Franciscan entered the dining room carrying a candle in each hand. He stared at Radu and Gwilym felt his earlier nervousness return. The monk looked far too sober for comfort.

  The Franciscan walked over to stand in front of the blood portrait and Gwilym could clearly see the rage painted across the monk’s face. No, it wasn’t just rage. There was a light in the Franciscan’s eyes, one which Gwilym had seen reflected in other men’s eyes before. It was an awakening of purpose. A kindling of fanatical devotion. If the Franciscan ever found who had committed these murders, there would be no holding back his righteous fury.

  “Surely this is Satan? Look at the horns by Saint Michael’s fiery sword!” Gwilym exclaimed.

  The Franciscan grunted in agreement. “The murderers are devil worshippers who secret themselves within King Edward’s army.”

  “How do you know this?” Gwilym asked nervously. Such men seated at fires and sharing mead with him filled him with a sickening sense of betrayal.

  “I have made inquiries. Since the day the King landed at Saint Vaast la Hogue there have been whispers amongst the peasants and townsfolk of riders in the night. Men on horseback wearing black armor who kidnap innocents whose corpses turn up days later massacred and defiled.”

  “Black armor?” Gwilym’s mouth went dry. The alley in Caen, Vladimir Kessenovich’s lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

  “Surely there is no connection? It is most likely routiers pillaging at will. There are as many lawless men in France as there are cows!”

  The Franciscan crossed his arms and grinned with a mouth full of yellowed and broken teeth. His wisdom came from experience. Well past thirty, he owed his longevity to drinking heavily and killing often. Why, the only time he had ever been sick was many years ago when he had given up drinking due to the incessant nagging of the Archbishop of Pisa.

  The Franciscan had lingered close to death for two weeks, but had recovered. No sooner had he regained his strength than he had strangled that buggering old Archbishop after discovering the pious bastard was a regular at Bacchanals held in the old Roman forest.

  “You are a capering Welsh fop, but you’re not a fool, Gwilym. The Countess has committed men, arms and supplies to Edward’s army as do her son’s vassals. How would it look if men in the King’s employ were riding across her lands killing tenants and engaging in devil worship? Perhaps those vassals would withdraw their support and other French allies would do the same. It would be quite a blow to the campaign.”

  “Or perhaps that is the intent,” Gwilym said, catching onto the Franciscan’s reasoning. “Hired bandits paid with French livres to drive a wedge between the King and his allies!” It made sense. Mercenaries’ loyalties were easily bought by gold. Gwilym frowned as their faces flashed before him. Who could it be? Sanjelio and the Milanese? Pepindeau the Navarran was a secretive man with a dubious past. Were any of them secretly minions of Satan? Had this family been killed only to create a scene of carnage and plant fear into the minds of Edward’s allies?

  “This was not the work of bandits,” Radu said. Gwilym was surprised that he seemed to be considering the Franciscan’s conclusions. “I can think of a few that might commit such murder, Guillaume ‘Turncoat’ Beauchant butchers his victims, but he waylays well-traveled roads and never hurts children. There’s that Flemish bitch, Megina, but would a former nun sink to such depths?”

  “I once traveled the whole of the land as a young exorcist battling the demonic and the pagan in the villages and homesteads of the morally weak and easily corruptible. Do not disavow the evil that men or even women are capable of. Aye, I have seen it.” The Franciscan crossed his arms and looked thoughtful. “You have forgotten Cambius Burgi. It is rumored he fled to France after he murdered the entire Spocili family right down to the infant son. I would not be surprised to see such a man add heresy to his list of crimes.”

  “It was not just a rumor that he fled here, but Burgi did not do this,” Radu answered. He turned away from the Franciscan and started towards the entryway that led back towards the front of the house.

  “How do you know this? By Saint Matthew’s balls, Burgi’s head is worth a hefty purse!” The Franciscan demanded.

  “It was,” Radu said with a smirk and he exited the room, leaving the Franciscan open mouthed.

  Chapter 4

  Gwilym walked out another archway to explore more of the house leaving the Franciscan to mutter curses by himself. There might have been a clue left behind, some inkling of the killers they sought and where they might have gone. Radu probably searched for clues as well if Gwilym had read the look in the man’s eye correctly. He had begun to get a handle on reading Radu’s near imperceptible moods.

  Gwilym entered a dust covered room. The stone floor had rat droppings and other debris scattered about. Nothing adorned the walls. Nobody had entered this room in a very long time. He was about to leave and walk back the way he had come when he noticed something strange.

  Gwilym walked over to the far wall and examined the stone. It was far older than the stone used to line the floors and walls. He remembered the old tower that had been incorporated into the mansion and realized he was looking at what had once been part of its outer wall. Of course! Gwilym smiled and held aloft his candle to examine the old stone more closely.

  Gwilym played the candle up and down as he looked
for loose stones or a latch that might indicate a door. He was about to give up when suddenly he saw a stone that was darker and worn smooth as though by constant handling. Reaching up Gwilym took hold of the stone and gave it a twist. There was a click and a sound reminiscent of a tomb being opened. Gwilym shuddered and stood back as a section of stone swung outward to reveal a set of wooden steps ascending upwards into shadowy gloom.

  The darkness yawned like the maw of a beast and Gwilym briefly entertained the thought of fetching Radu. Instead he hardened his resolve. I am no boy. What man fears an empty tower? The candle threw twisted shadows upon the wall. The stairs creaked with age and Gwilym took care where he stepped. One false step and he might tumble off the edge, for there was naught to grab hold of to steady his balance.

  The tower felt cold, a huge difference from the summer’s heat outside. The air smelled musty and stagnant. It was not so strange for old castles to have hidden rooms and secret passages and Gwilym wasn’t surprised there was a hidden entrance into the old tower. His own family’s castle had such rooms, after all. But his father used such rooms merely to store goods. What might the old Count have kept within his tower?

  Gwilym sighed with relief when he made out a ceiling after climbing what felt like a hundred steps. His candle illuminated a wooden trapdoor set with a brass ring. With a heave and a shove Gwilym forced the old trapdoor open. The hinges hadn’t been oiled in ages and they creaked loudly.

  Gwilym thrust his candle upwards into the darkness, but as he did he lost his grip on the trapdoor. It swung completely open to fall onto the tower room floor with bang. Gwilym cringed and froze in place for a moment, the loud slam from the door echoed strangely within the space. He was in a large room, he could tell that much, but with just one candle he could not see the room’s true width or breadth. For a moment he felt at a loss as to what to do. Here he was… now what?

  “I need more light. Surely there must have been candles kept here somewhere, for lacking a window, this room is in perpetual darkness.” Unless I merely stumble about a storeroom that holds nothing more than worm eaten books and crumbling furniture. Gwilym silenced his thoughts and focused on carefully playing his candle about the room, looking for candles to light or anything that might dispel his doubts about poking around through a dead man’s refuse was anything but a waste of time.