The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  “Doomed?” Gwilym asked confused.

  “Oh, yes, lad,” Agace spoke while he filled a dirty tankard from a small cask he kept within his tent. Gwilym could smell the hops and felt his mouth water. Agace saw his expression and smiled wider.

  “Have a beer, lad?”

  “If you insist,” Gwilym swallowed and eagerly took the proffered cup. Dirty or not, he was thirsty and freshly brewed beer always satisfied a Welshman’s palate. Radu shook his head when Agace offered him one as well. Agace shrugged and clinked his tankard to Gwilym’s.

  “To your hopefully, yet unlikely, long life, jongleur!”

  “Um, yes, and… to yours as well,” Gwilym drank deeply and wondered if he had just been cursed.

  Agace sighed in satisfaction and licked his lips when he finished drinking. “The English under Sir John Chandos captured a ford near Poissy. Put the whole town to the torch too. Nasty bit of business that. They then crossed the river and they’ve been trying to break our blockade on the Somme ever since then.”

  “Then the English are trapped between the Seine and the Somme?” Radu asked thoughtfully. Agace laughed.

  “Aye, that’s right. You would think somebody would try to take advantage of that little fact.” Gwilym swallowed in trepidation. Agace noticed and chuckled. “Worried about your kin, lad? Ha! Your French is good. Very good actually, but I pride myself on being able to pick apart sounds and I can hear those distinctly Welsh sounding ‘o’s’ and ‘ah’s’.”

  “My French is a damn sight better than yours, sir!” Gwilym retorted. Agace’s chuckles exploded into full on laughter at that.

  “Radu, I like this boy! Spare his life, I beg you! Ha! You’re probably right at that, lad, but then I’m not the one sneaking around an enemy camp either.”

  “I wouldn’t say you’re exactly around friends either, Agace,” Radu said, a sinister grin slowly spreading across his face. “Especially if these French were to know what became of le roi de bandits.”

  Gwilym looked at Radu in confusion. “‘The King of Bandits?’” he asked.

  “Now, now,” Agace said again, although this time he looked a shade more worried. “You both have little to worry about with old Gobin looking out for you. No need for threats! Why, I have a bit of business that you may be interested in, Radu!”

  “Will we not be in a difficult position trying to rejoin his Majesty if the French army entraps them?” Gwilym asked Radu, then he turned to Agace and asked, “How large does the French army stand now?”

  “Oh, I’d say around thirty thousand,” Agace replied. “King Philip rides with another host including his brother the Duke of Alencon, King John of Bohemia and his son Charles, King of the Romans.”

  “Thir… thirty thousand!? Gwilym asked incredulously.

  “Well, there are a lot of French in France, lad.”

  Gwilym sank to his rear in dejection. How could King Edward have so miscalculated? Even with his allies, the English host was only twelve thousand! I’ll have to make my way back to the coast and find a boat out of Calais back to England. I’ll throw myself at the feet of the Queen and promise a dirge of mourning in memory of her husband and son. Perhaps little John of Gaunt would like a minstrel? Aye, such a sorrow faced little whelp like he could stand a little poetry. I think I’ll…

  “It doesn’t matter,” Radu said.

  “What?” Agace and Gwilym both said together.

  “My quarry rides with the Bohemian King, I must believe. Eventually, the English will have to engage with the French and I mean to be there when they do.”

  “Ah, then you will want to hear about the business I should like to involve you in!” Agace clapped gleefully. Radu frowned.

  “I’ve little time to deal with your schemes, Savoyard.”

  Agace shook his head. “No, no, nothing of the sort. No scheme this time, Radu, only a simple killing I swear.” With that, Agace drew out a rolled up piece of parchment from within his dirty chemise and unrolled it, held it up and displayed the coal sketch. “A bounty.”

  “A bounty?” Gwilym asked amazed. Surely engaging upon a manhunt while thirty thousand French were about to descend upon them was a fool’s errand?

  Agace grinned at Radu whose eyes had narrowed in recognition.

  “The hand of fate, eh, Radu?”

  “This man is supposed to be dead.” Radu jabbed a finger at the sketch.

  “Oh, they tried.” Agace nodded in agreement and rolled up the parchment again and returned it to his chemise. “Strung him up and let him swing, thought he was dead so they lowered him back down and cut his bonds.”

  “He wasn’t dead,” Radu’s frown deepened and Gwilym gulped when he saw the light of violence kindle in Radu’s dark eyes. This would not bode well for him. He felt the hand of Saint Dymphna, Patron Saint of Ill Luck upon his shoulder!

  “He sprang up quick as you please, grabbed a knife and killed no less than four men including the reeve of Troyes who just happened to be a cousin of du Fay’s wife.” Agace licked his lips in avarice. “There be quite a purse on his head now, my lads.”

  “Who is he?” Gwilym asked, certain he wouldn’t like the answer.

  “Hugo the Long,” said Agace. He spat a wad of filth on the ground.

  “The Nachzehrer’s right hand man,” Radu added with a growl.

  Gwilym sighed. Times like this he hated being right.

  Chapter 2

  Leaving Saigneville proved little problem. The French were leaving, Agace told them. Heading to Boismont to oppose and hopefully cut off the English who continued to follow the river north in search of a crossing.

  “They’ll not find one,” Agace said. “The only good crossing is right here, a little ford the locals call Blanchetaque. Growing closer to flood thanks to all the rain, but still crossable. I think my side might actually win this time if that idiot du Fay doesn’t screw it up. Kindly don’t kill him until he pays us the bounty, Radu.” Gwilym wrangled the location of Blanchetaque out of Agace and fixed it in his memory for later.

  After that Radu and Gobin Agace haggled like a pair of alewives at market and finally settled upon how they would divide the bounty. The lion share would go to Radu of course, minus the fee for the information so key to locating Hugo the Long, which only Agace possessed.

  “He’s holed up in the town of Acheux, my little spies tell me. Small, out of the way place. A popular haunt for bandits, gypsies, killers and mercenaries too nasty to show their faces in Paris. You shall both love it!”

  Gwilym scowled at the memory of Agace pumping his hand in an insincere goodbye. It had been clear that Agace did not expect to see Dafydd ap Gwilym alive and in one piece again. Gwilym was beginning to suspect he might be right.

  “So what do we do, just ride in and announce ourselves?” Gwilym asked sarcastically. Radu had firmly turned down the notion that they ride ahead of the French to Boismont and await the coming of King Edward. “If all goes to plan, they will come to us.” Radu had said. When had there ever been a plan?

  So they rode east and south along a road that bore the remnants of Roman construction. The road had been built of cobbled, milky white stones broken here and there by nature’s unceasing desire to wipe away the efforts of man. It seemed as if he and Radu were the only people in the world. It was all so barren. Not that Wales was particularly well populated, but even this close to Paris Gwilym had expected more farms, more homesteads and the scents of hearth fires burning.

  Gwilym glanced at the sky and saw dark clouds flying eastwards as the wind picked up. An ill omen, he thought. There was a faint scent of rain carried on the wind. The tall grass bent and swayed. The horses snorted and whinnied at one another. Radu’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead; Gwilym drew his hood over his head.

  Gwilym felt a sense of melancholy and wondered what his parents were doing right at that moment. Did they worry over him? What would they have said had they learned he’d been pressed into service by the King to accompany a mercenary from
a country Gwilym had never even heard of a few weeks previous?

  Gwilym couldn’t help but smile. His father would have been proud probably, his mother would have worried, his uncle would have encouraged him to rise to the occasion. His brother… would have shaken his head and told him he would probably fail. Gwilym sighed.

  “What is it?” Radu said, hearing the sound.

  “Nothing.” Gwilym answered. “I was just thinking about my family. I hope they are well. Even my brother, who loves me not.”

  Radu grunted and they rode again in silence awhile. Then Radu spoke again.

  “I had a brother.”

  “What was his name?” Gwilym asked, curious that Radu might share a bit more of himself.

  “Mircea.” Radu answered after a moment. “The Nachzehrer killed him.” Gwilym’s eyes widened in surprise, but he remained silent. Radu began to speak and Gwilym listened intently to the next part of Radu’s tale.

  Chapter 3

  Cumans by their nature are a restless people. Hearth, family and contentment is a foreign concept to a race of warriors. So it was with Tihomir, who wasn’t always content to remain in Poenari Citadel with his much younger wife, Kveta, and his two sons Radu and Mircea. The mood was often solemn around the Citadel during my childhood years and our father preferred to prowl about his lands with his most trusted men at his side.

  The weather is often poor in the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains. Dark clouds and chill winds are the norm, even in the summertime. Poenari itself seemed infused with a fell spirit of gloom that was felt by all who dwelt there. It was often whispered that the restless spirit of Marat haunted the halls. Indeed, there were nights that a great wailing could be heard echoing in the valley where she had thrown herself to her death.

  What also echoed about the countryside was that Tihomir’s family was cursed, and through them, the land as well. A cow with two heads was born at a farm nearby. A child drowned in a bog. The dead boy’s sister swore he had chased after the spirit of their dead mother. A woman was found drained of blood in the Hoia-Baciu forest near the small town of Cluj Napoca. It was weeks later that her grave was found disturbed and the body gone.

  Misfortunes, famines and diseases were the plagues God sent to test the resolve of the faithful and as such could be borne. No amount of prayer however could erase the fear people felt that the dead were restless in their graves and that their already difficult lives were made all the more unbearable by an accursed Prince.

  Radu and Mircea may have lived together, but they did not grow up together. Kveta, perhaps out of fear of Marat’s curse or perhaps because she saw something she did not like in Radu, kept him separate from Mircea. Different tutors and separate rooms prevented any brotherly bonds. Kveta’s affection was reserved only for her own son, while Radu was ignored. It was the most telling difference between two brothers who looked so much alike that one would grow up knowing a mother’s love and the other would never know it.

  What united the brothers when they reached the age of squireship was the desire to prove themselves to their often absent father. It was already certain that Mircea, though second born, was Tihomir’s heir. Kveta had seen to that. Radu would one day have to leave and seek his fortunes elsewhere. It was a day both Kveta and Radu looked forward to greatly. What I wanted most was that my father would take an interest in my life before the day of my freedom arrived.

  Tihomir, when he was at the Citadel, remained distant. He would eye both his sons and none could guess his mind when he looked upon us. He seemed neither pleased or displeased. To a Cuman, having children was a necessity to breed more warriors. Daughters one might use to negotiate with one’s enemies. As time passed, the brothers both grew tall and strong with a Cuman’s superior physique, but instilled with the courtly manners of Christian Vlach princes. As they were soon to learn, Tihomir dreamed of far grander things than being a mere voivode of Transylvania. He wanted a great legacy and the surest way to achieve one was to use his own children.

  The opportunity came when Vladislav the Elbow-High, King of Poland, passed away leaving his son Casimir to succeed. Tihomir decided to attend the young King’s coronation in Krakow. Tihomir waited impatiently for the weather to turn favorable to make the journey, but while he waited he took his eager to please sons under his wing and imparted to them the only lesson he ever personally gave.

  “Titles are nothing,” Tihomir began from where he stood facing the same window Marat had flung herself from years ago. “The dead Dwarf King believed as others do that all that one deserves in this life is imparted to you at birth.” He turned to face his sons who stood side by side: Radu was thirteen years old, eyes intent, mouth set in a straight line beside twelve year old Mircea who was equally intent and almost Radu’s mirror image, save that Radu was taller and burlier.

  “Yet, what have I, save what I have taken with my own two hands?” He held out his meaty fists, hands that had crushed life from enemies since before he was even younger than they. He let his sons gaze at them. Even if there was gray in Tihomir’s long beard and lines about his eyes, his body was still as powerful as it had been in his younger days. His sons looked upon him with awe.

  “The little runt’s son probably expects me to kneel to him and pledge fealty, pfah!” Tihomir snarled and got within an inch of Radu’s face. “Do you think a man should kneel to one weaker than himself, boy?”

  “Never, father,” I answered breathlessly. Tihomir swiveled over to Mircea.

  “Then what is a title?” Tihomir demanded of Mircea. The boy thought for a moment.

  “Something you must earn?” the boy asked. Tihomir grunted.

  “That is what it should be, but no. A title is something you must fight to keep every single day of your life.” He drew himself up to his full height. “What is my title?”

  “You are voivode of Wallachia. Prince of Transylvania,” Radu answered and the boy attempted to mimic his father’s stance. Mircea nodded in agreement.

  “I was not born with those titles,” Tihomir growled. “First, I was the leader of a band of killers. These thin blooded Vlachs, like your mother.” Tihomir poked a finger at Mircea. “And these Slavs, Germans and Turks all would like to see another be voivode and so I must fight for it every single day, do you understand?”

  “Will they try to kill you, father?” Radu asked.

  “Perhaps.” Tihomir’s face turned thoughtful for a moment. “Remember always that the strong never die. They are remembered forever for creating the world and their sins are forgiven by a merciful God. Or so that fat Bishop in Brasov keeps blathering,” Tihomir spat.

  “Does the new King want someone else to be Prince, father?” Mircea asked curiously.

  “We shall find out when we meet him.” Radu’s eyes widened and Mircea’s face split with a grin. “I am going to Krakow and the two of you are going as well.”

  There was only a single incident before the trip to Krakow. Two nights later Kveta finally summoned her courage and confronted Tihomir. The Prince no longer sought out his wife for comfort and instead had found a very pretty and very young serving girl to fulfill his needs. Husband and wife rarely spoke.

  “Please do not take Mircea. He is your heir and is safer here,” Kveta pleaded with tears in her eyes.

  “He goes.” There was no room for negotiation in Tihomir’s tone. Had Kveta been more sensible she would have turned about and gone back to her embroidery, but she persisted for the sake of her son who was her only joy in life now.

  “Please, you need only take Radu to squire for you, surely? It is a long ride and you must pass close to the Hoia-Baciu, must you not? The things they say live in that dark place….”

  “You have been a dutiful wife, Kveta,” Tihomir interrupted, “and I tolerate much of your unwarranted generosity towards the peasants of the nearby villages. Even that gypsy woman who reads your auguries and fills your head full of nonsense.” Kveta paled at that, but Tihomir sneered and got within inches of her face.


  “Never mistake my leniency for compliance or agreement. You may do as you will, but never ever question my decisions.” Then he grinned a dangerous grin, his teeth white stones within his black and grey beard. “What sort of Christian wife would?”

  Tihomir took his sons and a party of his most able Cumans and set off for Krakow. It was March and snow still covered the ground, but it melted swiftly under the approach of Spring. Mircea and Radu discovered an awkwardness between them when they were forced to share a tent. They were strangers thanks to Kveta and neither of them knew how to approach the other. Had they been given the time, the brothers may have found a way to break down the barrier between themselves. They might have even become friends, but as was ever the case, their father had other plans.

  For weeks Radu and Mircea learned styles of riding and swordplay known only to warriors of the mountain. Ways of catching an enemy off balance, exploiting weaknesses, and using strategy over might. Tihomir also taught them the rudiments of fighting with the fokos ax.

  “This is an ax for chopping limbs, catching at flesh and if wielded correctly can throw your opponent off balance granting you the opportunity for victory.” Tihomir demonstrated his own skill when he twirled the ax end over end and made it whistle through the air. He cut at invisible enemies, captured opponents behind the legs and weaved the ax in a dizzying pattern that left both my brother and I mesmerized. Both boys in that moment swore they would master the weapon.

  Their training continued until the day they camped outside the Hoia-Baciu forest. The change in mood became instantaneous the moment the sun set. It was in the way the birds suddenly went silent and the creak and the groan of tree limbs stirred in the wind made the travelers feel the need to be some place, any place, but there. Each man felt it in his own way, even Tihomir felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and for a moment as he stared into that impenetrable darkness that even the Romans so long ago had shuddered at, he could have sworn he heard the mocking laughter of years dead Marat.