by David Scoles
His Englishman walked in followed by the Navarrans, Otto and Renaud. All three were dressed similarly in bits of boiled leather, gambesons and dented half plate, much of it scavenged from the battlefield. Each had a knight’s longsword at his side too, but Esteban knew that he and possibly Englishman were the only true knights. Otto and Renaud were just a pair of grave robbing opportunists. Anyone could have told by looking at their idiotic faces they were common blood.
The elder brother Otto looked like he had been kicked in the head by a horse at birth. His eyes were too close set and his nose was as flat as old ale. The younger one, Renaud, just looked a simpleton. He had the annoying habit of twitching and blinking his eyes constantly. Both were probably from some village that still married cousins. What could one really expect from the country French bumpkins?
Esteban wondered why he had ever left Castile? Warm breezes, talented women and food that didn’t give you instant dysentery seemed like another life. Fortune and glory indeed! Ah well, one more murder and then he’d leave these fools to their own devices and seek adventure elsewhere. Perhaps a pilgrimage to Rome might help clear his conscience?
“We are about to have company, gentlemen. Let us give him ease from his hard journey, a drink surely.” Esteban refocused on the present by turning to Otto and Renaud, eyeing both brothers intently. “Make no move until I say. We shall all divide what he has, and then be on our way.”
The Englishman nodded his ascent then went to sit at a table by himself. Little Sister hurried to get him wine. Esteban nodded in approval at the Englishman’s unspoken plan. They would all act like they were strangers, thereby setting the newcomer’s mind further at ease.
Esteban wondered if perhaps he would offer the Englishman the opportunity to continue riding South with him? Minus the two dolts they might find opportunities further in the Low Countries. Neither Otto nor Renaud made any sign that they understood the plan. Instead they stood and gaped at him like oversized fish out of water.
“You two go and sit at that table there,” Esteban indicated the table at the far right of the Inn, directly opposite the Englishman. “Drink some wine until it is time to strike, n’est pas?” Renaud looked up at Otto and both moved towards the table. Esteban had to fight not to scream at them.
“Perhaps you should take your weapons with you gentlemen?”
Esteban glanced at the Englishman, wondering if he shared the Castilian’s disdain for their French compatriots. The Englishman was eyeing Little Sister with a hungry look. She set a wooden goblet filled with wine before him as he leered. Perhaps Esteban wouldn’t extend any invitation after all.
All thoughts fled then because the door banged open and in walked a smallish man dressed in a long gray cloak and wide brimmed hat, with a lute slung over his shoulder on a leather strap, and a curved saber sheathed at his side.
“Good morrow, friends, Christ keep you all!” With a flourish the newcomer swept off his hat and bowed low from the waist. “I bring merriment and song to this sorry hole and hope to earn both your admiration and my fill of the fine wine of this sweet region. Upon my soul, I have seen naught but grapevine on every hill and valley for three days! Surely some song or story might make fair Dionysus tip his decanter?”
The newcomer’s clear blue eyes swept across the room taking in everything, but they revealed nothing as to what he thought of what he saw. The stranger’s eyes raked over Otto and Renaud who ceased their drinking to gape in amazement at the flamboyant outburst. The stranger regarded the Englishman who returned the stare, his goblet halfway to his mouth. Englishman’s eyes flickered to Esteban, who fought to keep his own face impassive as he took in the amusing figure.
The newcomer’s French was decent, but familiarly accented. Esteban glanced inquiringly at the Englishman who nodded back. As Esteban had suspected, this newcomer was also from that island sheep country. The Englishman said something then in his native tongue to the stranger who turned and bowed again with a smile. He replied with something in kind.
“Welshman,” Englishman said aloud for Esteban’s benefit. He wanted his partner to know there was a difference between them. Like Esteban cared a wit. They were all sheep shaggers.
Esteban nodded in welcome then pretended to care only about drinking the vinegar the Inn passed off as wine. The stranger clomped over the muddy floor to stand before the bar where Big Sister regarded him with wide eyes and a slight tremble in her lip. Esteban grit his teeth and willed her quiet.
While the stranger’s back was turned Esteban got a better look at the saber he wore. The handle looked well-worn and the pommel had a black iron symbol of a sort Esteban had never before seen. Was that a gem set in its center? Esteban licked his lips.
“Have someone rub down my horse. Food and wine over there,” the stranger said indicating the only empty table left. Without waiting for a reply the stranger turned briskly and with three quick strides was at the table where he sat down with a satisfied grunt.
“Dafydd ap Gwilym is my name, good folk,” he said with a wink in Big Sister’s direction. “And you, gentle sirs?”
“I am called Diego de Santos of Toledo, God keep you well, good minstrel. I fear I do not know these gentlemen as I have only just arrived myself.” Esteban studied him for any reaction. His name and face were not that well known, but you never knew. He guessed this Gwilym to be in his early twenties or possibly even younger. Under the road grime Esteban envisioned a handsome face, high cheekbones and pouty lips. His hair was blond and curly. With that lute, patchwork cloak and hat he seemed exactly as he claimed to be: an itinerant minstrel.
Both the Englishman and the French brothers introduced themselves and professed not to know the others. Esteban couldn’t help but grit his teeth as Otto mumbled his greeting while staring at Esteban, but thankfully this Dafydd ap Gwilym seemed to pay it no mind. Esteban thought quickly.
“You have the look of a man who has seen much of the road, friend. Blood of Christ, woman! Fetch this man a flagon of the Marly and I shall see it paid!” Esteban flashed a grin at the stranger and placed a gloved hand over his heart in what he hoped appeared sincere admiration. “There’s a tale in that dust by the bones of Saint Gregory and wine was ever the muse of Virgil.”
“An educated man,” Gwilym stated in his sing-song voice. It reminded Esteban of one of the Moorish whores he had dallied with years ago. She had sung and danced with tiny bells around her wrists and waist. She had tried to knife him in his bed after failing to rob him. His dislike for the stranger rose a notch.
Something in Esteban’s body language must have tipped off his companions. Behind Gwilym and from the corner of his eye Esteban could see the Englishmen sit forward a bit and put a hand on his sword. He heard Renaud and Otto mutter to each other in Navarran. Esteban could not understand a word as that language was nothing more than a harsh bastardization of French.
Not yet you fools. First we learn if he is truly alone or has ridden ahead for some others! Esteban silently willed them to compliance.
“I have had some education, yes. What songs do you know then?” Esteban said quickly trying to change the subject. Gwilym grinned.
“With your permission and naturally with the permission of the lady of the house…?” Big Sister gaped at him in surprise from behind the bar. She flushed a deep red, but managed a nod when she felt Esteban’s eyes upon her. “I should like to recite for you a poem inspired by a conversation I had with a certain Franciscan friar of passing acquaintance.
The Poet and the Grey Friar is what I call this poem. Now I shan’t recite it all, nay, rather the parts which so deeply touch me and— I hope— you as well.” Gwilym took a long pull from the clay goblet Big Sister set before him and managed to pinch her backside when she turned away. She shrieked loudly eliciting a surprised look from Gwilym. Serving wenches rarely reacted with such terror to having their backsides pinched. Usually, the response was feigned anger or a flirtatious slap.
Esteban forced a laugh. �
��Silly wench, you pretend to be anymore the virgin and we’ll drag you before your hovel’s priest for confession.” Everyone in the Inn laughed and Esteban breathed a sigh of relief. Bitch, I’ll give you something to scream about soon enough. Now drink up my friend, we’ll dull your wits a bit before we dull our blades on your bones.
Another clay goblet of wine was set before Gwilym to replace the one he had just finished and he drew it to his lips. He sniffed it experimentally in the fashion Esteban had seen high lords do when about to savor a particularly fine vintage. Esteban sniggered. The minstrel drank deeply and smacked his lips in appreciation.
Esteban had the fleeting thought that it was a confident man who traveled alone through dangerous country. Or drank so at ease with men he had just met for that matter. Men dressed in armor and girded for a fight to boot. Yet this Gwilym appeared to not be in the least bit intimidated.
Gwilym removed the lute from behind his back and delicately removed its cloth and rug covering. Esteban grinned in genuine surprise. The lute was clearly well made and polished to a fine rosewood sheen. It would undoubtedly fetch a few silver pennies with the right buyer. This lad was turning out to be an excellent find.
Gwilym strummed a few cords and made some adjustments to the pegs. He smiled and winked at Little Sister who had poked her head out from behind the bar to stare open mouthed at the lute whose sounds were new and strange to her. Gwilym’s fingers danced over the strings, drawing out a jaunty tune.
The two Navarran brother’s grinned and thumping their fists in time upon the table. Abruptly, the tune changed, this time to a fast paced melody that took Esteban back to a time in Toledo where a night of drunken revelry had taken him into the arms and then the bed of a married noblewoman— a night that had seen Esteban set out upon the path of the mercenary and leaving his comfortable old life behind.
Each man sat quietly and momentarily lost themselves in the skill of Dafydd ap Gwilym who seemed to instinctively know when his audience was neatly in hand. The tune changed a final time. It started slowly in the low cords and built itself higher until he abruptly softened the tone and brought it down again. It was like the ebb and flow of life itself. Each man recalled differing memories in that sound. Even Otto and Renaud who had spent the better part of their lives abusing and being abused softened their gazes. Big Sister and Little Sister were both frozen in place, but for just once in over a week not in fear.
Then Gwilym opened his eyes kept shut as he played. He stared off towards some faraway place, but instead was fixed upon the straw crucifix that hung over the door. Gwilym smiled and began his poem.
Chapter 2
The Friar said to me:
Ease the pain of the Day to come:
It will profit your soul to cease,
And be silent with your rhyming
And give yourself to praying.
All your songs, you poet-wand’rers,
Are only lies, vain cries,
And urging men and women
To falsehood and to sin.
Praise of the flesh, that is not well;
That may bring your soul to hell.’
And I gave answer to him:
‘God is not as cruel
As old men do tell;
God won’t damn the soul of man
For love of maid or woman.
Three things are loved the whole world over:
A woman, and health, and good weather.
‘A girl’s the fairest flower
In heaven, apart from God himself.
It is from women that all men were born.
All joys come from heaven [through grace],
And sadness from the Other Place.
‘A song makes all men joyful,
The young and old, the hale, the ailing.
As needful to me my singing
As is, to you, your preaching,
And as proper my wandering
As is, to you, your begging.
‘It’s not with just one food or relish
That God provides for man.
There is a time set by for eating,
And a time set by for praying;
There is a time set by for preaching,
And a time for entertaining.
A song is sung at every feast
To make the maidens merry;
And in Church are prayers sung
To seek the land of Paradise.
“A full house for a happy face:
Evil awaits a sullen face.”
Though some may care for sanctity,
Others love frivolity.
The greatest sin is not a song.
To hear sung a merry song,
By my hand, I’ll keep on singing
My prayers without ever ceasing.
Until that day it would be wrong
To sing my prayers, not my song.
The final tones of the melody faded and Gwilym’s poem ended. He was pleased to see that the two girls looked enraptured. It was a poem about the virtues of gaiety, love and song. To conquer vice not only with prayer, but with happiness as well.
Gwilym smiled and nodded at Esteban’s polite applause. The Englishman in the corner also slapped his table in appreciation. The two Navarrans were busy guzzling their wine and Gwilym desperately hoped they would become so inebriated they might collapse. Then Gwilym noticed that the younger girl was grinning at him shyly.
“Little Maid, did that please you? I am heartily at your service and may God keep you and this fine establishment in boundless fortune and happiness.”
“Yes, a pleasing thing are words delivered in verse. You have my admiration. However, God rarely keeps their kind in fortune let alone happiness, eh?” Esteban indicated the two maids who noticeably cowered at his attention. Esteban pretended not to notice and chuckled at his own quip.
A desperate plan suddenly blossomed in Gwilym’s mind. He had caught the subtle looks that passed amongst the highwaymen and that weapons were being readied. The hairs on his neck stood on end and sweat soaked his brow.
“Not so, friend Esteban. Fortune favors Swanne Hill with the approach of several Flemish wagons laden with goods bound for Triers. Why, I imagine some commerce visited upon yon village might improve fortunes for all.”
Esteban froze with his cup halfway to his lips. “Flemish merchants, you say? When might they be expected?” Esteban’s eyes flickered to the Englishman who raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
“I imagine they shall arrive not long after sunrise. The wagons were heavily laden and it may be near supper when we see them crest that sorry hill where swings the Godless unfortunates.”
Esteban drummed his fingers on his table in thought while Gwilym idly strummed a tune. What is one more night? Procuring a wagon full of goods then taking to the road might… Wait a moment!
“Minstrel,” Esteban growled dangerously. “I told you my name was Diego, but you called me Esteban.”
Gwilym’s eyes widened in horror when he realized his mistake. “Ah, well. So I did. I suppose you just looked like an Esteban, yes?” Gwilym said weakly.
Chapter 3
The chair flew backwards to crash into the worn walls of the Inn and Esteban of Castile leapt to his feet sword in hand and face full of fury.
“Up and draw blades!” screamed Esteban. All thoughts of robbery were forgotten. Esteban cursed himself for a fool! They had been drawn in, distracted by the curly haired minstrel’s skill. He never would have guessed he was the one being drawn into a trap!
“Bar the door William!” Esteban shrieked even as the minstrel leapt to his feet and ran back towards the bar where the two sobbing sisters held each other in terror. “Bar the fucking door….” It was too late. The door crashed in, a heavy boot smashed the rotted wood into splinters. A similar crash resounded from the rear of the Inn.
“Oh shit!” Esteban whimpered when he saw a dangerous looking man storm into the Inn from the front door, ax blade batting away the Englishman’s sword as if it wer
e no more than an annoyance. Two eyes set in an unshaven face glared at him and a mouth split into a wicked grin.
“Found you,” said the towering figure.
“Who the Hell are you?” Esteban asked hoarsely.
“They’re all dead, Esteban. Hugo, Richard and Ivanovich. You’re the only one left,” Radu said even as he parried a wild swing from the Englishman.
“Bounty Hunter. You killed them and now come for me?” Esteban gasped. He needed an escape. Otto and Renaud fought against some wild bearded man who wore armor over a monk’s habit. Where had that bastard Welshman got to? There! He was standing protectively in front of the girls, saber held defensibly and his look one of determination. Esteban snarled.
“No,” said Radu. He slid several inches of cold steel into the Englishman’s neck. Radu never took his eyes from Esteban as the dying Englishman, William, sank to the floor bleeding out his last. “He killed them. Be thankful I got to you first. I shall make it quick.”
Esteban screamed in rage and made to rush Gwilym who stood protectively in front of the girls. Radu headed him off. Esteban swung his broadsword, a Toledo Salamanca, with all his might. He aimed a vertical slash at Radu’s midsection. An ax blade caught it and turned the blade aside, but then a dirk snaked out wielded in Esteban’s other hand and cut into Radu’s left shoulder. Radu grunted and stepped back. Esteban smiled and pressed forward.
“I’ll not fall here in this shithole to the likes of you!” The dirk darted in again and Radu moved to block with his ax, but the move was a feint. The Salamanca was a blade best utilized in quick, stabbing attacks or quick vertical and horizontal slashes meant to cause serious if not fatal wounds. Esteban swung it hard and horizontal as if he meant to decapitate Radu and indeed the attack caught Radu by surprise. Radu leapt back, but not quickly enough and he endured a slash that tore down his chest and narrowly missed his groin.
“Ha! I have trained with the best you base born pig farmer!” shouted Esteban in triumph. His victorious laugh choked off when he saw that Radu was not falling.