by David Scoles
Despite these grim surroundings, Tihomir was pleased. He had what he wanted, lands and a title granted to him by the burgomeisters, local priests and land owners who wanted to pacify their lethal new ruler. They conferred on him the title of voivode, which means Prince, in the city of Bucharest in Wallachia.
Tihomir was not a kind ruler. If the people thought their lives would improve under the rulership of a Cuman, at least they were not hunted for sport. Cumans are a race of warriors, a people of the mountains. There was a danger of indolence, laziness and abuse if the men were not kept busy, so my father set out amongst the lands and people that were now his to rule. He did so leaving behind a girl named Marat. The same woman whom he had first found draped in the Barbat’s blood, but now filled with his child.
Tihomir spent much of his time slaughtering the bandits that haunted the Borgo Pass in the north and were also raiding settlements along the Arges River where it meets the Danube in the south. He filled Poenari Citadel with servants and distractions for those men and chattels he left behind. Money was no object, for one of the first edicts he instituted had been raising taxes on the burgomeisters.
Little seemed to make Marat happy or content. The truth was she hated my father and hated that she was pregnant with his child. Marat had threatened, cajoled and finally begged my father to return her to her father who was a Janissary of Orhan Bey: the aging ruler of the Ottomans.
“The Cumans are barbarian jackals and the Vlach’s are inbred pigs,” she would often say. Marat may have felt this way, but she still spent most of the duration of her pregnancy railing against Tihomir’s soldiers demanding their obedience as she carried Tihomir’s heir. Many wondered why the Barbat had ever bothered with such a disagreeable woman. She was never ransomed, nor was one ever offered. Marat probably knew this and the betrayal left her feeling alone, angry and resentful. If she ever felt any happiness about having a child, she never showed it.
Tihomir spent much of that winter wenching and feasting with his men in Brasov, one of the towns that owed him tribute. He had also lined the streets with the severed heads of bandits on poles. Children made a game of trying to toss stones into open mouths or knocking out the teeth from the severed skulls until scolding mothers chased them off. While Marat waited his return at Poenari, Tihomir became taken with a young Vlach girl named Kveta.
Word came from the Citadel that Marat was soon to give birth, so Tihomir left Brasov, taking Kveta with him. He had traded two oxen, a pig, two sheep, six woolen blankets, and ten silver ducats for Kveta’s bride price. Kveta’s father, the local Alderman, couldn’t believe his good fortune and blessed the union. There was only one catch: they must be married in the Church. Tihomir swore that he would return to Brasov in the Spring. No mention was made of Marat or of the baby she was about to have.
Tihomir returned to Poenari Castle to find he had a new son. Marat, weak from blood loss, was unable to feed the baby. The infant was given to a woman in the castle who had also recently given birth to a baby by one of Tihomir’s men and was easily able to fill a second baby’s belly. Tihomir gave the boy a Vlach name, Radu.
Marat was confined to her room for weeks as she recovered. In that time, she was not allowed to see or hold her child. She ranted, raved and cried out for Tihomir to have mercy. Not once had he come to visit her. In fact, much of his time was spent planning for his wedding. Tihomir was not a good Christian and therefore had to be schooled in much of what was expected of him as a Christian Prince.
Then the night came when Marat had enough. Marat bribed the girl who brought her food to tell her everything that was happening with Tihomir and her son. When she found out that Tihomir planned to marry some peasant Vlach girl and already laid plans to baptize her son on the same day she flew into an inconsolable rage. Marat slit the girl’s throat with a dagger she had secreted away and tore out of her room searching for Tihomir and Radu. Her screams filled the hallways of the Citadel with a wailing not heard since the days of torture under the Barbat.
“Truth be told I am not sure of all that happened next,” Radu said. Their horses nickered from where they grazed near the Somme’s grassy bank. Gwilym popped the last of his fish into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. For several more moments Radu was silent as he watched the river waters flow by. “I was only told much of this years later by a woman of Brasov who worked as a chambermaid in the Citadel.” Radu rose from where he lounged and took a wineskin from his saddlebag. Tipping it back he drank deeply while Gwilym waited impatiently.
“Well what do you believe happened.” Gwilym finally demanded.
Radu smirked and pushed the cork back into the wineskin. “Perhaps I should be a minstrel? I apparently can tell quite the tale.” Gwilym scowled and Radu allowed himself the briefest flicker of an amused grin.
Marat found Tihomir in a tower of the Citadel scowling at a robed and bearded priest of the Black Church of Brasov. He had been learning the Lord’s Prayer. Both men turned and beheld the bedraggled woman in surprise. Her dark hair was an unkempt bird’s nest. Her skin, normally a dusky cream colored tint so typical of those of Turkish decent was pale and gaunt. Worst were her eyes. They blazed with an unholy hatred that she fully turned upon Tihomir.
“You have shamed and spurned me. You deny me even the right to perform absolution and pray to Allah who is greatest of all. Now you steal from me my son for your Christian hedonism and replace me with a peasant slut!” Marat voice rose to a shriek. The priest backed away, crossing himself.
“Blaspheming harlot!” The priest hissed.
Tihomir’s frown deepened, his own rage building. “You think I care about any of this?” Tihomir gestured contemptuously at the priest. “You think I care for you?” Tihomir sneered in contempt as tears of rage spilled down Marat’s cheeks. “I do what I must to secure what is mine! A man is master of all he sees. A powerful man is master of all he dreams and I have grand dreams, mewling bitch!”
“I curse you…,” Marat whispered and she held forth her dagger menacingly. “I curse you and all of your bloodline. I curse my own son!” When Tihomir snarled and started forward Marat darted away, keeping a long table between her and Tihomir who was now so angry spittle was frothing at his mouth.
“I will kill you!” Tihomir spluttered. He snatched a fokos ax that was hanging on the wall as a decoration, a gift from a local burgomeisters.
“You and all who come after you shall be doomed to an eternity of sorrow. The sun shall never shine upon your lands. The forests shall yield no plenty, the fields will wither and die!” Marat continued.
Marat seemed in a trance now and backed towards an open window that opened upon the steep cliff upon which perched Poenari Citadel. Marat turned once to glance behind her and her face took on a calm, dreamy expression. She turned back to Tihomir and smiled.
“Bitch.” Tihomir murmured, also transfixed by what Marat was doing. Behind him, the priest prayed. Marat smiled.
“I understand now. I could never have seen the sun rise from here. Allah could never have heard me in a place like this.” She tumbled back out of the window into space.
Chapter 6
Gwilym’s mouth hung open, his mind latched onto Radu’s every word. What a tale!
“Your mother killed herself?” Gwilym asked. Radu shrugged as a reply. “What happened next? You do not speak of a land blessed of God’s grace, but surely a land better off than it was under someone as fiendish as the Barbat! Were you spurned in favor of Kveta’s children?”
“I would speak no more of this now,” Radu said, and he waved a hand before his face as if to wipe away the memories.
“But…” Gwilym began, eager to hear more about Radu, but Radu forestalled him.
“Look there.” Radu pointed out towards the distant line of the Somme’s curving route into the horizon. With the Sun long past its zenith, dark smoke could be seen on the horizon wheeling its way into the sky.
“The English army?” Gwilym asked hopefully. Radu shook his
head.
“The French. They are burning their own fields.”
What Radu said proved to be true. Gwilym and Radu had remounted and ridden quickly towards the darkening sky, yet there was plenty of light to see. Scorched earth burned brightly with settled coals, orange and red. Crops burned to ash, homesteads burnt down to their stone foundations and animals lying slaughtered and ruined in the fields, naught but charred flesh and blackened bone. The considerable stench settled upon the tongue like a thick soup no amount of wine could favorably flavor.
“The French did this?” Gwilym asked incredulously as he held the hem of his cloak to his nose. Smoke mingled with charred flesh and dung. The devastation was absolute. Farmsteads naught but pits. “Why destroy their own stock?”
“To deprive the English of such,” Radu answered. The mercenary forewent any sort of facial covering, but one could tell he found the smell unpleasant by the crinkle of his nose and set of his jaw. Gwilym could only gape in awe at the destruction. Had the peasants been ordered to commit such a heinous act? They must have been. Either that or French soldiers had fired the fields anyway and to Gwilym that seemed the more likely event.
As they passed through the wreckage Gwilym could see in his mind’s eye the frightened and thin faces of man, woman and child watching with tear filled eyes as their entire lives went up in smoke. Suddenly Gwilym felt his heart swell with an overwhelming hatred for King Philip.
Is keeping your golden crown so important that you destroy even the people you claim to protect, usurping bastard! Better than his Majesty take your throne and the sooner the better!
“It isn’t right,” Gwilym murmured then louder. “It isn’t right!”
“It is war,” Radu said emotionlessly. “Let your eyes be filled with the sight and never forget it.”
How could he not see? Gwilym’s heart rested in a country that was green and full of life. The forests of Wales were ever in his thoughts: the strong Beech and the hearty Oak with outstretched branches he had swung upon as a child. Flowers of such delightful hue and scent you could ascend a hillock and be awash in a rainbow of primroses, bluebells, ramsons and dog’s mercury. Grasses that fed thick, Welsh sheep near to bursting with the prized downy wool so coveted across all of Europe. His Welsh heart broke at the sight of such destruction. Gwilym knew he would never forget it.
“How can you bare it over and over again?” Gwilym said sorrowfully.
“I am paid well.” Radu stated.
Radu nudged his horse into a gallop. Gwilym paused. Had it been Gwilym’s imagination or had there been a touch of bitterness in Radu’s last statement?
Book 4: Blanchetaque, Monday August 22-Tuesday August 23, 1346
Chapter 1
Radu and Gwilym rode into the small village of Saigneville early evening as they followed rumor and hearsay as to where the army of Edward III marched across the country. If the rumors were true, Edward’s army was being trailed by a large body of French soldiers. Gwilym had been expecting yet another small square surrounded by shops, an Inn and well. It would be spartan, quiet and filled with another gaggle of superstitious and unhelpful peasantry who prayed that he and Radu left them unmolested. Gwilym wasn’t expecting the frenzied mob that awaited them.
Saigneville was filled to bursting with men and it took Gwilym little time to discern the French liveries prepared for war. “What goes on here, my man?” Gwilym inquired of one leather clad jack who looked the part of a hunter or scout and checked the fletching of his arrows. Gwilym took care to make his French as nondescript and humble as possible. It wouldn’t do to raise suspicions surrounded by so many of the enemy. The man looked up and squinted, his bristly brown beard looked like a porcupine’s backside.
“The English close upon Boismont. Won’t be long before his lordship makes us ride to meet them.”
“Who is your lord?” inquired Gwilym politely. Radu looked elsewhere and appeared to not pay attention, but Gwilym knew he listened. The huntsman eyed them both with interest eyeing the weapons they bore and the lute strapped across Gwilym’s back.
“You mercenaries looking for work? Godemar du Fay is master here, but ye’ll want to see that Savoyard fellow. He’s in charge of you lot. Goes by the name of Gobin Agace.” The huntsman gave Gwilym and Radu rather roundabout directions and due to the shifting nature of a town occupied by soldiers, supply wagons, horses, oxen, and beleaguered townsfolk it was all the two could do to follow the directions while staying out of the way.
“Should we even be here?” Gwilym whispered to Radu. The two had dismounted their horses and led them by the reins. Gwilym stepped aside to avoid a trio of French soldiers who haggled with a merchant over several skins of wine. “I’d rather not be executed as a spy and doesn’t our road seem clear? To Boismont and the King!”
“I know this Agace,” Radu answered. “He may know a thing or two worth knowing.” Radu threw a rare smile Gwilym’s way. “Wouldn’t the King throw a few more coins our way if he knew the disposition of Du Fay’s troops?” Gwilym sighed unhappily and allowed Radu to lead him.
So we are spies then.
Agace’s tent wasn’t difficult to find. Savoyard was a dialect spoken in the duchy of Savoy. It was French flavored with the lilting tempo of Italian and the smooth verbs of Geneva. Radu’s keen ear heard Gobin Agace well before he saw him.
What a sight he was! Gwilym gaped at one of the skinniest men he had ever seen yelling at a lad no older than ten or eleven. The man was positively emaciated with a head that lacked in teeth and a mop of long, greasy hair. The boy, on the other hand, did not seem chastised so much as bored by the treatment he received. He periodically shifted from foot to foot and seemed focused on the capon leg Agace shook in his face.
“You listen boy! You listen to me and you listen good!” Agace said, spitting bits of capon with each word.
“Who would listen to a scrawny, swindling son of a gypsy like you Agace!” roared Radu. Agace jumped. Whirling around he gaped at them in open-mouthed bewilderment.
“Radu! Radu of the Carpathian Mountains! Radu of the Wallachs! Radu of Transylvania!” Agace threw out his arms, letting go of the capon leg as he did. The boy had watched the meat closely and snatched it from the air before he ran off. “My friend, mon bon amie, you owe me money!” Agace snagged Radu in an embrace that amusingly, Radu did not immediately break from.
“Oh? Strange that I was about to say the exact same thing!” Radu responded. Agace adopted a confused expression.
“Oh? I am not from the Carpathians. How would such as I get up such steep mountains?” Agace roared with laughter and Gwilym couldn’t help but smile at the jest. This Gobin Agace did not seem a bad fellow! Then abruptly Agace’s expression changed to a serious glower. “Really, you own me about twenty livre. I’ll also accept fifteen ecus, forty-six groats or equal weight pfennig. I also change coin now.” Agace smiled with what teeth he had.
“Let us talk about what else you do, shall we?” Radu grabbed Agace by the collar and half shoved him into the tent behind them. Gwilym reluctantly followed. It appeared he had once again judged the wine before he had tasted the grape!
The tent smelled like animal scat, sour milk and unwashed lout, which is exactly what Agace turned out to be. Radu sat the scrawny man down on a stool and glared at Agace who seemed cowed, but his beady eyes still held a trace of calculating mischief Gwilym didn’t care for. This was not going to end well.
“I’m on his trail again, Gobin, and he is close. I found one of his men.”
“You were able to come this far with my help lest you forget, dearest Radu,” Agace said as he tried to regain control of the situation.
“He is in Paris with King Philip, but works for the King of Bohemia now it seems,” Radu stated. Agace’s shock appeared genuine.
“That… that I did not know. Why would he wish to involve himself in a crown dispute? He hates all Kings, nobility and clergy with equal, borderless contempt.”
Gwilym knew without a
sking whom they were discussing. It seemed that Agace was a part of Radu’s quest to confront the Nachzehrer.
“It’s a war, Gobin. A war is what he wants. Wars tear apart so that he can rebuild it as he sees fit.”
Agace grunted and reached for a chest. He flung it open and took out a bottle of wine. He pulled out the cork and offered Radu a cup, then handed one to Gwilym.
“Who might you be, my young friend?” Agace asked Gwilym with an ingratiating grin. “You a bounty he is returning somewhere? Kidnapping boys from monasteries now, Radu?”
“I am Dafydd ap Gwilym,” Gwilym said and glared at Agace with all the practiced disdain a nobleman has for the lesser born. “I am his traveling companion and chronicler!”
“His what!?” Agace threw back his head and laughed uproariously, his Adam’s apple bobbing merrily. “A jongleur, yes, I see. You want to tell the life of this one here?” He cocked a dirty thumb at Radu. “Never you mind lad, never you mind!” Agace said when he mastered himself and saw that his two guests were unamused. “I have no doubt that if you actually survive all of the certain death and inevitable maiming that surrounds a mercenary, it will be quite a tale! Now then!” Agace continued before Gwilym could utter another word. “Shall we get down to business?”
“We were told to come see you about mercenary work,” Gwilym said.
“In truth, I want to know what the French are doing here? They are leading the English back to Paris to flank them against the walls by my best guess,” Radu said. “Also, you owe me around twenty livre for pulling your sorry sack out of the fire with those bandits six months ago.”
“Now, now,” Agace put up his hands and smiled his most winning smile, still filled with bits of greasy capon. “One at a time, please! The honorable and very rich Godemar du Fay has put me in charge of all mercenaries, merchants and camp followers. Word reached his ear of my talents for organization and I have little choice but to aid him in his doomed endeavors. I know little of the strategy involved.”