The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  “Lackeys?” the Franciscan asked.

  “Aye.” Radu nodded and set aside his whetstone. His ax blade was again razor sharp.

  “What are their names?” Gwilym asked, though almost feared to hear the answer.

  “Hugo the Long, Richard Turncoat, Ivanovich the Muscovite and Esteban of Castile.”

  The Franciscan grunted in recognition. “Hugo the Long? A bad one that.”

  “Aye, but dead by all accounts. As are Turncoat and Ivanovich,” Radu answered.

  “So you seek the man and his lackeys,” Gwilym interjected. “But why do so?” Gwilym paused, then asked, “Who are you, Radu?” The whetstone in Radu’s hand gave one final swipe over his ax blade and he eyed the glint of its edge with satisfaction. It was more than a weapon to him. It was a memory, a link to a past that was as painful as any of the countless wounds he had taken in battle.

  “I will only say this of any reward. Sometimes the most precious coins are the ones that are taken from you and that you one day take back.”

  Chapter 8

  Radu spoke then of his past.

  “There is a land, far to the east, yet not as far as the Silk Road where the mountains of Wallachia, the fiefs of Hungary and the fierce mountains of the Galicians frame a small country known to some as the Cursed Land and to others Transylvania.

  “The trees of Transylvania are bent and sharp, but thick and numerous. Endless forests stand like grim specters dotting the landscape. Grim, jagged mountain ranges give way to valleys of small villages populated with an even grimmer people. Vlachs, they are called. Small, pale, sad faced and fearful of an outside world that has ever been hostile and strange.

  “Years ago, a band of mountain men came down into a valley of the Vlachs and made their intent clear with sharp blades and arrowheads. They were Cumans and they were not like the Vlachs. The Cumans sported long braided mustaches, rugged faces and large muscled bodies forged in the high places of the world. The greatest or perhaps the most violent of these men was called Tihomir. He claimed descent from some great warlord known as a ‘Khan’ and told the Vlachs he would be their Prince, but the Vlachs already had a Prince known as the Barbat.

  “Now the Barbat was a sadistic man. He paid only lip-service to the Church and openly forced himself upon women he then made his wives. The Barbat stole much, lied often and tortured as a matter of principle. He kept wicked men about him and rewarded them well with gifts of gold and women he stole from merchants and other Hetman. It is said he had a throne he decorated with the bones of his own daughters and the daughters he had with those daughters. As to whether this was an exaggeration or not, I never learned. I only know that all of Transylvania feared him, all despised him. The Vlachs were a people of misery, want and cruel fate under him!

  “Then Tihomir came into the filthy keep of the Barbat and was not afraid. This warrior, this Cuman, gazed with contempt upon the bedraggled, so-called Prince of Transylvania who was surrounded by what he at the time thought were urchins and servant girls taken from the local peasantry. They were so dirty and disheveled that some seemed little more than beasts, even to the Cumans who are not by any means as civilized as you from the West. Cumans do no keep women dressed in finery and touched with perfumes and fed with sweet meats, but what the Barbat had done was inexcusable. Tihomir and his men were disgusted with what they saw.

  “Tihomir demanded the Barbat relinquish his title and keep. The Barbat refused and he cackled like a madman upon his throne of bones and his women screeched like harpies and threw themselves upon the Cumans even as the Barbat’s own wicked men attacked from all sides. Little did those men understand the prowess of that mountain folk.

  “The Cuman swords slashed and cut, the Barbat’s men hacked with axes and stabbed with spears, but the Cumans wore Brigandine and Hauberks forged by the Galicians and the peasant weapons of the Barbat’s men could not pierce a single foe. In ones and twos the Cumans made a bloody business of the keep, even cutting down some women who were mad with fear and a lifetime of abuse at the hands of men. They were incapable of seeing the Cumans as saviors, and instead saw them as another brutal slaver. Tihomir himself slew the Barbat, but not with any blade. Nay, with this bare hands Tihomir lifted the Barbat from his throne and strangled him to death in full sight of all.

  “When all death had been meted out only carnage remained. Blood spattered walls, furniture broken and mangled to say nothing of the bodies and body parts that were strewn about. Tihomir came before one of the few survivors, a young woman. The girl’s eyes looked away to some distant place only she could see, her mind jolted long ago into simplicity. She had stood still during the fight behind the Barbat’s bone throne neither moving nor uttering a sound, still blood had somehow found its way onto her face and clothes.

  “‘Well, wench, what do you say for yourself, eh?’ Tihomir's booming voice filled the ruined hall. ‘The pig’s protruding tongue turns black as his heart and shall never taste your lips again. See his hands? Forever locked in the rictus of death— they shall never again claw at soft flesh nor tear at bodice.’

  “Tihomir gestured imperiously at the corpse of the Barbat and slowly the girl turned her head to regard it as well. At first there was nothing, but then a flicker of hope kindled in her eyes. Tihomir reached out a giant hand and clasped her by the chin turning her head so she stared into the large Cuman’s eyes. ‘You and every Vlach wench here serve me now. You shall warm our beds, keep our chattels safe and perhaps bear our children. They shall have a Cuman’s fierceness, but a Vlach’s beauty eh?’ The light of hope in her eyes died.

  “It was not so long after that Cuman horses, bred strong and swarthy for frigid mountain passes and high forests swept down upon barony, town and stronghold. Wolves howled in the night, screams echoed throughout the forests and peasants huddled in terror together around fire pits. Men avoided the roads that became strewn with the crucified remains of those who had served the Barbat for their own ill— gotten profit. Pits filled with victims were discovered near mottes and castles. Only chapels and houses of Christianity were spared. Few were visited.

  “Then abruptly it ended. A tender stillness settled over Transylvania. The weather grew colder, bog lights flickered like unquiet spirits in the night. The forests became dens of bandits, wolves and unnamable blasphemies. The land had reverted back to a more savage time, ancient magics awoken by blood sacrifice and strife. Tihomir ruled as a Prince from his refortified castle at the center of the Cursed Land and he rejoiced in his new rule. That is the story of how my father Tihomir came to Transylvania.”

  Chapter 9

  The moments spent on the road back to the English camp when Gwilym might have further pressed Radu for information on his past were completely taken up by the ceaseless banter of the Franciscan. Neither Radu nor Gwilym had suggested the mercenary monk accompany them, but he had volunteered to go with them.

  In the Franciscan’s own words, “I would be foolhardy not to see God’s hand in guiding these events nor the Devil’s cock in attempting to bugger me! Someone is going to pay for burning down a mansion atop my head, Nachwhatzit or not!”

  Gwilym rode in the back of the Franciscan’s wagon and didn’t mind a break from horseback. The wagon, guided by the dutiful if sullen Eurastes, bumped and squeaked upon worn axles as it traveled old cart paths and sheep tracks. The air was still and Gwilym smelled the pungent odor of his companions instead of the plentiful flowering plants of summer. The aroma of soot was the most prevalent, an olfactory reminder of the near miss of being burned to death.

  “Were I a gambling man and, as a man of God, I am not, I will wager you an entire sack of florins that your quarry’s former companions would know his whereabouts.” The Franciscan’s sober demeanor was in sharp contrast to his usual inebriation. The man was actually making sense.

  “Were you a gambling man there might be some truth to what people say about you,” Radu retorted. “Yet it is a fair wager and one that I would make. I followed
Esteban of Castile to France, but can find no trace or clue.”

  “Make the wager,” the Franciscan said with a grin.

  “What do you mean?” Gwilym asked. “If Radu can find neither hide nor hair of this Esteban then the point is moot.”

  “If you make the wager,” the Franciscan said airily, “I may just be so emboldened as to point you in the direction of an English deserter Sir Richard Talbot has placed a bounty upon. A deserter who has fallen in with some highwaymen if rumors are true.” The Franciscan took a swig from one of his wineskins and winked at Gwilym. “The highwaymen’s leader is apparently a Castilian speaking fop with a penchant for waylaying travelers.”

  Radu’s eyes widened and Gwilym swallowed the lump forming in his throat. The minstrel had a feeling the road back towards the English army would be much more dangerous and roundabout than he had hoped.

  “Alright, monk. I will take your wager,” Radu said. “Now, point the way!”

  Part 3: Swanne Hill, Monday, August 15, 1346

  Chapter 1

  The gallows atop Swanne Hill was never meant to support three corpses. The decades old wood creaked and groaned as three strangers: Willem Turnpin, Peloux the Thrice-Damned and Keldo the Pole swung together in death. Each man had a crudely written marker tied to the rope just above their rotting heads. Above Willem it read Theef, above Peloux Rapist and Keldo’s simply said Gew.

  The stench atop Swanne Hill was almost always carried westwards, but that day it wafted eastwards down the hill and enveloped the village in a miasma of filth. None from the village were bold enough to venture forth and bury the three corpses, thereby ridding themselves of the smell. Not since a cadre of so called “knights” had taken up temporary residence up at the Inn. These armed and armored men had been the ones to string up Keldo after they had seen the identifying Star of David sewn into his shirt.

  The village was silent and had been each day since the knights had arrived. The knights were a motley collection of men, who called distant lands home and spoke a variety of tongues. To families that had scarcely ever seen what lay over the next few hills, the coming of such men was heralded as a portent of doom.

  The chief tenant of Swanne Hill was sixty years old. An incredible feat, but not one the people of Swanne Hill celebrated. His name was Foulque and he owned the largest curtilage for miles around. He was bent in his gait, coarse in his language, rude to his neighbors who often referred to him as a mean old bastard.

  His home was the Inn where his two granddaughters ran the day to day operation. Far too run down to be considered a manor, but too expansive to be owned by any poor peasant it owed its success solely to being located near an old Roman road that ran from Nantes to Tours and then on to Orleans. Foulque also served wine, mainly a poor Marly served with grayish goat meat (which sometimes was horse). Lice ridden beds that were little more than wooden pallets rounded out the accommodations that had made Foulque the wealthiest man for thirty leagues.

  Esteban of Castile led the vagabond knights into the Inn, boots scuffing on the dirt floor, and surveyed his surroundings with disdain. The farmers drinking cheap ale stared at the newcomers in alarm. With his advanced age, Foulque could not see and could barely hear who had just entered his establishment. It was his sense of smell that caused him to sniff the air in confusion and then, smelling rosewater, settle his milky gaze upon the blur that was Esteban of Castile.

  “Oy, who let that woman in ‘ere?” Foulque asked in his usual belligerent manner.

  Some days later Foulque’s mouth was still open, but it now served a different purpose. His head lay outside and leaned against the Inn’s east wall, the mouth agape and filled with urine. The rest of him had been tossed into the field behind the Inn as fodder for pigs. The farmers weren’t half as sorry for Foulque as they were for themselves as they became prisoners in their own village; their captors, a group of men, who took what they wanted without paying and beat anyone who got in their way.

  Esteban of Castile sat upon Foulque’s old stool and eyed the young, sandy haired wench cleaning up the vomit one of his men had left beside one of the tables. She moved too slow, he thought. Such deliberate care was being placed in mopping up each individual nugget of old food set in a pool of regurgitated ale that it was comical. He knew why she was doing it. She hoped he would grow bored with watching her and look away.

  Occasionally, the girl would look up at Esteban with not entirely unattractive blue eyes (if one went in for that pale skinned, fair eyed Frankish look) before quickly lowering them again to her work. Was she interested or not? Esteban couldn’t stand dealing with these bloody peasants. Few of them could even speak properly or be made to understand even the simplest of instructions. Women were women, however, and no matter where he traveled all women everywhere still had the same parts regardless of their background and rank.

  Esteban had three other knights with him who shared a common interest in not returning home with only their rusted swords, sick horses and empty saddlebags to show for their time abroad. Esteban leaned back on the stool until his back settled comfortably against the wooden wall and glanced towards the Inn’s only door. He had sent the Englishman outside to keep watch for any more merchants on the road. That whimpering Jew had been laden with decent chattels and a good mare. What else might come down the road if only he waited a short while longer?

  The other two swords at his command were down in the Inn’s cellar helping themselves to whatever wine was left. Both were Navarran and therefore unreliable, but Esteban knew that the older one, Otto, would do as he was told as long as Esteban continued to lead them to profit. The younger, Renaud, would do whatever his elder brother said. Esteban was certain higher functions of thought were quite beyond that one.

  Esteban sighed as the girl finished her cleaning and made her way swiftly, head bowed, back towards the stew pot that hung above a stone fire pit fashioned from smooth, egg-shaped river stones. Esteban admired the way her hair cascaded freely down her back and though her face was damp with sweat from fear and exertion, he felt his loins stir at the sight. He was going to rape her, he knew that, and he figured she probably did too. Still, she should at least try to make the best of it. Perhaps I shouldn’t have killed her grandfather after all, he mused.

  The former Innkeeper had acted improperly towards a knight and Esteban had run him through immediately, but he had spared the girls had he not? Surely then they ought to be grateful to him for that? The Englishman had wanted to rape them both immediately, but Esteban had forbidden it saying the girls would serve them all better if they believed the men would leave their virtues intact. A falsehood if a convenient one.

  Esteban sniggered. Aye, convenient falsehoods he knew well. Esteban had once ridden with another group of men, five in all including their leader and never had Esteban feared another person as he had feared those four other men. Still, Esteban had believed they would lead him to wealth. Their leader, a mercenary feared and renowned across the Continent, was someone whispered about in dark corners. Esteban had enjoyed the coin strewn in his wake until he could no more stand their company. He finished his wine in one gulp. Aye, a convenient falsehood indeed.

  The door swung open. Esteban took his eyes away from the wench’s backside and saw the Englishman walk in, armor clunking and clattering. His real name was William. Esteban only ever seemed to meet Englishmen named William.

  “A single rider coming up the hill, dressed commonly, but riding a fine horse. Probably another freeman from the Low Countries.” Short, terse and to the point. That was why Esteban hated this Englishman less than others. His French, the only common language understood by all four of them, was piss terrible however.

  “Go down to the cellar and get the others. If they aren’t too drunk we’ll kill this traveler and be on our way. Nobody else seems to be using this road and it is really starting to stink around here.” And I have been here far too long already. If He is on my trail….

  The Englishman nodded an
d walked towards the larder at the back of the Inn. This Inn had been built low in the ground to anchor it more firmly into the earth and the cellar was a damp mud pit accessible through a trap door located on the floor of the larder. Esteban would be damned if he ruined his boots tromping around down there. Let the uncouth do that for him, he mused.

  Esteban poured himself another cup of wine then called out. “Wench! Bring yourself and the brat out here!” There was a shuffling from behind the counter in the pantry where the late innkeeper had stored his wheat flour and turnips. The girl came out holding the hand of her younger sister. The little one had her timid eyes downcast as always. Esteban eyed the younger, darker haired one with interest. This one would have been a beauty if she had grown a bit older, he thought. She looked perhaps ten… eleven winters? A shame.

  “We are soon to have a visitor, my dears, and I’m sure he won’t thank you for running such a shoddy house. Let’s have some hay spread over this dirt and perhaps light a few of those candles a little early to burn off some of the stench? Your grandfather was quite niggardly with his beeswax candles, but we shan’t be as, eh?” Esteban flashed his toothiest smile, but it quickly disappeared when he saw it registered no effect.

  Esteban sighed. “This hot weather is wearying so he’ll want that fresh ale you brew too so have it ready.” He reached out and stroked the older girl’s cheek and as he did she flushed a deep red. Was it interest or wasn’t it? Damn, but low born scum could be such a test of one’s patience!

  Esteban eyed the younger one. She hadn’t taken her eyes off the hand that touched her sister’s face. Her face was unreadable, but as his father had always said, there was nothing more treacherous than a peasant that tried to think on its own. This one was probably having thoughts that would undoubtedly displease him. No matter, she would soon know what it meant to be a woman in this world.