by David Scoles
The pretty redhead on Horseslayer’s lap allowed the Red Sword leader to rove his hands wherever they wished. His eyes were fixed upon her modest bosom. Bless my Saints for that, Gwilym thought. By the three gold sacks of Saint Nicholas, this lass pays him as much favor as he has probably paid her in coin! Cheap bastard clearly has no notion on how to properly whore!
The old Gwilym would have noticed the redhead’s attention and done nothing to encourage any trouble. The new Gwilym, however, had unknowingly developed a fatalistic streak and therefore flashed her a smile and a wink that did not go unnoticed by Horseslayer. Gwilym turned to the crowd and held up his hands for their attention and eventually the room quieted down.
“A tale for you good sirs, a tale! A priest, a goat and a noblewoman all meet on the first day of Lent. The priest has decided he shall give up the brothels, but decides to make one last trip the night before the observation of Christ’s sacrifice begins. ‘Merely to purge my humours of any lingering indecision,’ he says.” The crowd cheered in appreciation. There was a unity amongst all peoples in criticism against the Church even as men loved and needed it.
“Ha! Hark the Noblewoman, disguised as a milk maid, is on her way to the brothel to confront her adulterer husband. She leads a goat to complement her disguise. The priest sees her upon the road and mistakes her for a whore, for she has forgotten to remove her rouge and powder! Aye, he drags her off the road and angrily proclaims he shall ‘absolve’ her of her wickedness with his ‘Holy Rood’. The Noblewoman is quite put out, fearing that the priest might divine her true identity and therefore says naught. But lo! The sight of the priest’s ‘Holy Rood’ stuns her most favorably!” The crowd laughed uproariously. There were tears in some men’s eyes and even the barkeep was slapping the keg as he laughed. Gwilym had the crowd well in hand now.
“The priest’s hands rejoice in her body, his voice booms out as he speaks: ‘The lambs for thy clothing and the goats the price of the field! And goats’ milk enough for thy food for the food of thy household and the maintenance for thy maidens!’ She speaks: ‘My goat’s milk is sweet, take its teat in thy mouth. It feasts on grass tilled by Abel.’ He speaks: ‘Harlot! Wicked woman! Twas Cain who tilled the ground and Abel who tended the sheep! I needs must sanctify this grass twixt thy legs with my Holy Rood! Aye, the seed blessed of God shall be thine salvation!’”
The room erupted into even greater laughter as Gwilym mimicked the proper thrusting of a ‘Holy Rood.’ Gwilym laughed with them and took a long draught from yet another tankard given him by the smiling one-eyed innkeeper.
“Goodmen, goodmen wait!” Gwilym slurred holding up a hand for silence again. “You haven’t heard what happens with the goat yet!”
“Enough!” shouted Johannes Abelard rising to his feet. Immediately the laughter stopped and Gwilym was left frozen with the tankard halfway to his open mouth. Abelard approached the minstrel with narrowed eyes, the dark bruise underneath his left cheek standing out in stark relief. He was not a tall man, but he still stood a full foot taller than Gwilym. Bedecked in steel armor worked in gold leaf and embossed with a parcel-gilt laced red sword upon his breastplate, he looked more than a little intimidating to the diminutive Gwilym.
Gwilym winced when Abelard’s hand clamped his shoulder and he said, “Your face stirs memory, minstrel.” The mercenary leader turned about to address the taproom.
“All who are not Red Swords must now vacate to their respective camps.” Abelard eyed the many mercenaries who shared space with his own men, many still with drink in their cups. “You have your orders and have been paid. Your noble Master expects you to perform as you have been instructed. Begone!”
Some grumbling followed, but men began to find their feet. Gwilym watched with baited breath. Abelard had not as yet removed his heavy hand from Gwilym’s shoulder and sweat was beginning to run down the small of his back. When finally only Red Swords, the One-Eyed innkeeper and his wenches, and Dafydd ap Gwilym remained, Abelard slowly turned Gwilym about to face him.
“I did not catch your name Minnesinger.” Abelard said, using the German word for minstrel. Gwilym let out a slow breath.
“Francis… of Navarre.” he added quickly. Abelard eyed him for a moment longer then slowly nodded.
“You’ll do. Come with me then, Francis.” The Mercenary leader turned and walked behind the bar where One-Eye opened a before unseen door and ushered Gwilym, Abelard and three of Abelard’s Red Swords into another room. Gwilym felt the beginnings of panic stir within him. Where were they taking him and why? Did Abelard suspect he was not who he claimed to be?
The room was a storeroom filled with kegs of mead and small ale, and jars containing other foodstuffs like leeks and peas and sacks of what appeared to be millet. There was also a cellar door that stood open and waiting. Gwilym could see the flickering of a torch down below set into the wall. Abelard, followed by Gwilym and the rest, descended a rickety ladder down into shadow.
The change in atmosphere was nearly instantaneous. There was a chill and a damp beneath the Inn that immediately crawled under one’s skin. Gwilym shuddered, but had no chance for acclimation. A Red Sword mercenary shoved him forward with a growl of ‘Beweg dich!’ ‘Get Moving!’ and Gwilym began picking his way over an uneven and shoddily excavated corridor sparsely lit by torches Abelard lit as he led the way forward confidently.
After several minutes of near trips and falls Gwilym finally asked. “If I might enquire as to what you require of me, sir? There seems little in the way of an audience for one here and there is little reason to keep one not of your company detained in so… confined a space?”
“Do not open your mouth again unless bid or I shall see to it you are incapable of speech forevermore let alone singing.” Abelard’s tone suggested no argument, but there was also something else. To Gwilym, he sounded… frightened? His own fear strained at the leash. Wherever they were headed, it would be closer to Hell than he had ever been he was certain.
What of Radu? Gwilym doubted the mercenary would be aware of the Inn’s cellar passageway or that he had been spirited from the Inn itself. Was Radu still lying in wait for Hugo the Long? Or had he already succeeded? Or given up the search and went outside to await Gwilym’s emergence from the Inn?
Gwilym’s heart sank further when they finally emerged from the tunnel via an iron grate. Amazingly, they had walked right out of Acheux itself! An escape tunnel then, easily explainable in a town frequented by such low sorts. Yet what was Abelard escaping from?
The answer to Gwilym’s question was answered when emerging like ghosts from the cool evening mist came a group of men dressed entirely in black. Gwilym gasped in recognition. They wore no device nor heraldry, but the Turkish scimitars belted at their waists were dead giveaways. These were the same assassins who had attempted to kill him in Saint Josse! Gwilym tugged his hat low and prayed.
“Guten Abend, mein heirs! My what a fine summer evening for…” Abelard began in his most authoritative voice.
“Silence, fool.” A raspy voice cut Abelard off in mid-sentence. Gwilym could not see the speaker. A cowl was drawn over the man’s head. He was clearly the leader however, because he stood somewhat forward and apart from his silent fellows. He was taller than the rest of them and held himself straight as an arrow, but it was his voice that so unnerved Gwilym.
The accent was from somewhere east. Not quite Poland, perhaps Galician? It was difficult to place due to the rasp. Had the man taken some wound to his throat that had so altered his voice?
Abelard seemed put out by the insult, yet he held his tongue. The stout German shifted nervously from foot to foot. Gwilym now knew the source of Abelard’s discomfort: this cloaked and cowled man was someone experienced mercenaries found reason enough to fear. Gwilym’s own fear edged up a notch further.
“My men and I stand ready as agreed, Heir Hugo,” Abelard said, regaining his dignity. “We will spread downriver along the banks of the Somme and await sign of the Englis
h.”
Hugo? This is Hugo the Long!? Gwilym felt his mouth go dry and his knees nearly buckled, but he quickly recovered before any took notice or so he hoped. Hugo the Long’s voice was a harsh rasp laced with contempt.
“Had you not been dismissed from the King’s service after your failure at Caen, our Master’s plan need not have been altered. Pray you do not force him to alter it again Sir Horseslayer.” Gwilym kept his head low, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Abelard trembled slightly, although it was impossible to say whether it was from anger or fear.
“It is as you say, Heir Hugo.” Abelard’s words dripped with bitterness. “Yet, I say again I was thwarted by that bastard Radu the Black, the one I spoke of to you who rides for King Edward.”
Hugo the Long moved forward and Gwilym could better see how tall the man really was. Hugo would have had nearly half a meter on Radu as well. Hugo slowly walked over to Abelard who shifted nervously, but stood his ground. Hugo cast back his hood and Gwilym beheld a cruel visage shorn of all hair and criss crossed with scars. Most telling was the circular purplish wound around the man’s neck. It appeared that Gobin Agace’s story that Hugo the Long had been unsuccessfully hung was no tall tale. The man’s raspy way of speaking was explained.
Then Hugo turned his gaze upon Gwilym and the minstrel felt his stomach leap into his throat.
“Who is this?” Hugo inquired.
“A gift for you.” Abelard stammered, glad that Hugo’s attention had been diverted. “I thought perhaps this minstrel might provide some… entertainment for you.” Gwilym’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets and as he gaped in shock at Abelard’s words.
“That appears news to him, German dog,” Hugo said chortling at Gwilym’s discomfort. “Such a pretty deceit is the stuff of ballads is it not, Sir…?”
“Francis of Navarre.” Abelard offered ingratiatingly. Gwilym wanted to plant his fist in the man’s simpering grin. Where the hell was Radu when he needed him!? Gwilym backed up a step. Seeing Hugo the Long this close Gwilym could feel the malice radiating off the man in waves. To think that such a man actually served another, more terrible master!
“Well, Francis,” said Hugo, reaching out a gloved hand and slowly tipped Gwilym’s hat from his head until it fell to the ground. “We shall have to become better acquainted, you and I. I once sang poetry as well, before this.” Hugo indicated his bruised neck with a finger. “Still, as long as one lives, one can still enjoy the fruits of another person’s talents.” Hugo grinned down at him and there was nothing friendly about it.
Gwilym felt like he might be sick. He knew exactly what Hugo the Long wanted. He had seen the same look long ago upon the face of the Brother Prior at the Abbey where his father had once thought to place him. It was all more terrible now, because Gwilym felt even more helpless than he had back then.
“Wait a moment, Lord Hugo!” A voice called out from behind Hugo the Long. A look of irritation flashed across Hugo’s face and he whirled around in anger.
“You were instructed not to speak to me unless spoken to, Turkish mongrel!” Hugo snarled.
“Forgive me, but I know this boy!”
Oh, shit. Gwilym slowly backed up a step, but he had forgotten the two Red Swords behind him. They blocked his escape with outstretched hands.
“He was with that large mercenary, the one whom we fought with at the maison we were told to burn down! The one who had the ax such as those carried by Vlach’s in the Borgo Pass in Transylvania.”
“An ax… Transylvania?” Abelard muttered as he turned to stare in shock at Gwilym. “You! The minstrel they said was traveling with that god damn bastard Radu the Black! The Welshman!”
“What?” Hugo the Long’s face looked even worse wearing a look of shock.
“Yes… well.” Gwilym sketched a bow. He was a dead man now. “Dafydd ap Gwilym at your service. Hugo the Long, I have come for the price on your head!” Gwilym leveled a finger at Hugo who stared at in disbelief. For a heartbeat none spoke, then Abelard barked a single laugh. Hugo smirked.
“It must be quite a purse now for you and your companion to go to so much trouble to find me.” Hugo drew a long, wicked looking knife from a sheath at his side and tested its edge with a forefinger. A tiny bead of blood welled up from the tiny prick. “I shall leave your severed head as my response.”
“You overestimate my life’s value to the man, peasant.” Gwilym moaned in weary resignation of his fate. “He is perhaps the most driven of all men and committed to a higher purpose the likes of which even I can scarcely comprehend.” Hugo barked a laugh and advanced towards Gwilym, hand outstretched.
“I am no more than a sack of coins to him and once he finds your dismembered carcass scattered about Acheux he will take an easier path to coin!” Hugo snarled. Hugo gripped Gwilym about the throat and the hold was unbreakable. Gwilym gasped in pain and stars danced before his eyes. Even if he could break free, Abelard’s men would only cut him down or Hugo’s Turkish assassins would. Hugo said something then, but Gwilym could barely hear him. He sank towards unconsciousness.
“I’ll make it quick.” The fading visage of Hugo the Long was saying.
“He doesn’t want you.”
“What was that?” The grip loosened and the knife above his throat hesitated. Gwilym gasped and coughed and drew in a breath.
“He wants your master. The Nachzehrer is the one he wants.” Abruptly, the hand around his throat was gone and Gwilym fell back onto the cold dirt gasping for more air.
“Why do you now hesitate? Kill him and be done with it! He and that bastard cost me fifty livres!” Gwilym heard Abelard shout.
“Bind his hands.” Hugo ordered and Gwilym felt someone grab him roughly and thrust his hands behind him until he felt his shoulders might pop. Rope was wrapped around his wrists and when they were done he was hauled to his feet once again before Hugo the Long. Gone was the cold, cunningly cruel face Hugo had been wearing when he was about to kill Gwilym. It had been replaced by furrowed brow and worried eyes.
“What are you about, Hugo?” Abelard asked angrily.
“Return to the Inn. Find this one’s companion and kill him. The Welshman comes with me.” Hugo answered sweetly as he tugged on a lock of Gwilym’s hair. The minstrel grimaced.
“Why keep him alive?” Abelard asked in exasperation.
“Afterwards, return to where you have been instructed and await the signal.” Hugo continued as if Abelard hadn’t spoken at all. “If you fail, He will personally come for you. Oh, and Captain Abelard? Much has been staked upon this plan.” Hugo walked forward so that he could stare down directly into Abelard’s eyes. “It is the first tile to fall in a long line of carefully constructed plans.” Hugo’s eyes bore into the German’s unblinking. “I need to know what this lad or that mercenary might know or what they have told anyone.” Abelard grudgingly nodded his agreement.
“The Compte d’Eu?” Abelard inquired.
“Knew nothing substantial. I imagine our Master of Coin has already dealt with him.” Gwilym blinked. Master of Coin?
No more words were shared. Gwilym was hoisted onto the back of Hugo’s large destrier like a sack of flour. He grunted at each movement the unhappy horse made. Abelard and his two men returned to the hidden tunnel and Hugo the Long and his escort of assassins melted back into the woods outside of Acheux taking a terrified minstrel with them.
Chapter 6
Radu the Black grew angrier by the minute. It was a familiar sensation for one who faced death as often as he did. What wasn’t familiar was the reason. It began as a niggling feeling in his stomach then expanded to full on worry for his… what? Companion? Friend? Radu was angry at the guilt he felt over the unknown fate of Gwilym. His guilt made him angry.
The second floor of the Inn had yielded no results. A whore enthusiastically entertained a Red Sword. The lustful oaths uttered in German gave the man’s identity away. Other rooms lay vacant or were occupied by drunken German sots too deep in
their cups to bother acknowledging the stranger in their midst. Most snored, blissfully unaware.
Even upstairs Radu heard Gwilym’s singing and the noise from downstairs grew louder and louder. Radu scowled. If Hugo the Long had been hiding up here then surely he would have gone to investigate that caterwauling going on. Then abruptly the music had ceased and Radu heard Horseslayer say something to his men, though he had been unable to hear what.
Radu was no sneak thief. Moving silently was a skill reserved for throat-cutters and assassins, but Radu did his best to quietly approach the top of the stairs leading down to the common room and listen in. Men moved around down there and Radu wondered what was about. He heard Gwilym say, ‘Francis of Navarre’ in an answer to some question, but then heard nothing more from him.
Now, after several uncharacteristic minutes of indecision, Radu’s anger was close to getting the better of him and send him tearing down the steps into probable death. He couldn’t hope to best so many men, yet doing nothing was every bit as unacceptable. Was there another way? Could he perhaps divide the men somehow? Cause a distraction somewhere? What about Gwilym in the meantime? Could the minstrel hold his own, even weaponless for a time?
“Are you waiting for your turn with Abby the Virgin?”
Radu whirled around, a snarl on his lips and confronted a smallish woman with the dark complexion of a Romani. Radu blinked in surprise. So surprised was he to see one of the Romani here that he unthinkingly slipped into his native tongue when he spoke.
“Who are you?” The woman’s eyes widened a bit and she frowned. Then she replied in kind, if haltingly, in a tongue she had clearly not used in some time.
“Here I am called Abby the Virgin, Basarabi,” the girl said, addressing Radu with respect. “I lay with whomever pays me and give the Innkeeper a cut. I am a novelty because of the color of my skin, so I am allowed to stay here, but I am not permitted to serve food and drinks which suits me fine.” ‘Abby’ started to relax. Her eyes appraised Radu and a smile worked its way across her face. “It has been some time since I have spoken the Carpathian tongue. You are handsome, if a bit dirty.”