by David Scoles
There were three cook fires in total spread out amongst the trees. The first was near a group of Turkish warriors who all rose to confer with the assassins that had rode in with Hugo. The second was tended by a naked boy no older than four seasons who stirred a pot oblivious to what was going on around him. The third was set back from the rest near the foot of a large oak tree whose giant roots had long ago split the soil and stretched outward across the ground like a monstrous spider.
This fire burned so low that it cast strange shadows on the tree behind it. Gwilym thought the knots in the wood looked like glaring eyes and gaping mouths. He shuddered as he recalled tales from his youth, these from his grandmother, who had spoken of old spirits trapped within the bodies of the oldest trees, yet still able to watch the lives of those who passed under their boughs. Those spirits sometimes briefly touched the souls of those who slept beneath their branches bestowing visions of the future upon an unfortunate few.
Gwilym felt his tension move from his stomach up into his brain with each passing moment. Hugo still had not spoken a word. Instead, the murderer walked calmly towards the low fire near the tree to confer with the person who sat there. Gwilym couldn’t see who or even what it was.
I need to think of a way to escape this place even if I must draw blood to do so! Gwilym blinked. Had he really thought such a thing? At what point had he changed? When had the instinct for going into battle become second nature? No, I’m still afraid of dying, he thought. I’m just more afraid of doing nothing.
A smallish figure emerged from the shadows of the fire pit beneath the great oak and hobbled towards him. Gwilym’s breath caught in his throat and he struggled against his bonds. The small figure was one of the ugliest human beings Gwilym had ever beheld. Black warts speckled the ancient face, rheumy eyes appeared milky and half blind, and a few wisps of fine gray hair were all that clung to a bumpy, misshapen noggin. Were Gwilym any less educated, he would swear he gazed upon a hedge witch.
The Turks and other ragged men who wandered about the scole all parted for the old crone. Witch or not, Gwilym could see by the men’s body language that the old woman was in charge. She paused and spoke to a few of the men in a voice that reminded Gwilym of a frog’s croak, but was too far away for Gwilym to discern the words.
Hugo the Long said something and the old crone’s head shot up and her rheumy eyes fixed on the location where Gwilym sat near the horses. Now Gwilym could hear Hugo plainly.
“It is what he commands, wrinkled wench!” Either the old woman could not hear what Hugo had said or she chose not to. Instead, she approached Gwilym, fixed him with one baleful, rheumy eye and cackled madly.
“Harken to me, Interloper!” the crone rasped in perfect English. “Do ye walk in the light or must I needs curse ye most foully! Beorn, bear they any weapons? Wulfheard, is there more than one? I hear the creak of leather and the chink of metal! Oh, ye Good Men that love God let them not lay their red hands upon the wee ones!”
Gwilym stared at her blankly. What was she on about? Clearly mad, the old woman hissed and sputtered in a variety of different languages, many of which Gwilym didn’t recognize. He assumed them to be the gibberish of the crazed. There was movement from the forest and Gwilym saw five men emerge from the darkness.
The men advanced and the closer they drew the more Gwilym could discern their hideous visages. Like the crone, they were ugly as sin with a variety of ailments and skin diseases, though none appeared to be lepers, thank Christ! Some wore nothing but breaches and hair shirts or ragged tunics that had seen better days. The stink of wood smoke, blood and dung clung to them like a second skin. Gwilym gagged at the smell. These men were not armed as the Red Swords had been. They carried only wood clubs, a rusty old ax and ham-like fists.
Gwilym shot a glance towards Hugo who gestured rapidly and spoke to the Turks in their own language. One of the Turks, (was it the one Gwilym had wounded in Saint Josse?) said something while he pointed a finger at Gwilym. Hugo shook his head and said something else. Then without a word all the Turks, including those who had been awaiting them around the fire, mounted up on their horses and rode away into the darkness leaving Gwilym and Hugo with the old woman and the odd men and child with her. Gwilym eyed the naked child again. The boy still eerily stirred his pot; he neither moved nor uttered a sound.
“What makes the world are people,” the crone said suddenly, her English once again perfect and measured. “People are the creation of Satan. Flesh is the clay molded by Sin.” The crone reached out one bony hand and pinched Gwilym’s cheek, hard. Gwilym winced and jerked away.
“Who are you?” Gwilym demanded, more offended than scared of this bag of bones.
“I am an angel,” the crone cackled and spread bony arms that sagged with withered muscles. “Encased within an ancient frame of sin and awaiting my Judgement Day. It was, after all, sin that created this world and we are its prisoners until the day of Consolamentum.”
Gwilym blinked. Why did that word sound so familiar to him? His mind traveled back to his time with the monastery and suddenly the answer came to him in a flash.
“You are a Cathar!” Gwilym gasped. “A heretic!”
The crone sneered showing a distinct lack of teeth and a profusion of black stained gums. She leveled a finger in Gwilym’s face. “The true heresy is believing you were created with any other purpose but to suffer. Bound to an earth ruled by the Devil and his servant Church!”
“That’s enough, Emayn.” Hugo the Long marched over and stood glaring down at them both. “Words are wasted on those who have feasted upon the bread of idleness tended by the flocks of the common winnower.”
“He minces words like a poet on Michaelmas!” The crone muttered to herself as she hobbled away. Hugo watched her go with disgust. The look he gave Gwilym was worse.
“I had thought to pass some idle time with you, minstrel. Perhaps you might have sung sweet sounding Welsh words to me. I may have even sparred you for a time, a pity. Time is simply against us, I’m afraid.”
“Oh?” The sweat ran down Gwilym’s forehead. Hugo drew a knife and pared his nails. Contrary to his statement, he appeared to be in no hurry. “A shame to pass it instead with some old heretic witch and her followers in some dark wood.” Hugo barked a raspy laugh and continued with his nails. Gwilym, felt emboldened and decided to hazard a question. “Where is your Master?”
Hugo paused in his work and slowly glanced up. His stare was unfriendly. Then Hugo knelt down until he was eye level with Gwilym who shifted uncomfortably at the closeness. His bound hands ached terribly. He worried they would never be able to properly finger the chords of a lute or harp again.
“The Nachzehrer,” Hugo began, “is not my ‘Master.’ There are no ‘rulers’ in what he seeks to create, only a force. An embodiment of what men once were in ages past.” Gwilym recalled something Radu had said to him only recently.
“The death of everything,” Gwilym breathed.
Hugo blinked in astonishment then smiled. “Something your mercenary companion told you? Then he understands the Nachzehrer’s mind better than I had thought. He understands that in order to create you must first destroy.” Hugo reached out and stroked Gwilym’s cheek. “A pity. We could have had a brief peace together. The storm comes all too soon.”
“What is his plan?” Gwilym asked, and he jerked his head away. The mercenary’s touch left an ill feeling. “What are you trying to accomplish? Killing those innocents in Saint Josse? The Red Swords in Acheux? The Compte d’Eu betraying his King and the murder of the Bishop of Bayeux in Caen?” Hugo laughed again and clapped.
“I am impressed! My, you and your companion must certainly be eager to die to dog our steps so! Very well Dafydd ap Gwilym.” Hugo sat down cross legged in front of him. The fire at his back gave Gwilym enough light to see up close for the first time the horrid, purple-black welt encircling Hugo’s neck. “We shall play a game, you and I. I play it sometimes with other boys I take a liking to. I shal
l answer a question and for each I draw a bit of blood from you.” Hugo waved his knife under Gwilym’s nose languidly. “We play until you pass out from blood loss or….” The knife paused an inch from Gwilym’s left eye. “Or you say you wish to stop, in which case I win the game and take you like a woman in front of all these heretics.”
Hugo said it so matter-of-fact that Gwilym wasn’t certain he’d heard him properly. The rasp, after all, distorted Hugo’s voice and made it difficult to understand. The look in Hugo’s eyes told Gwilym he’d not misheard.
“Don’t worry, I shan’t kill you afterwards, but I doubt these heretics will ever allow you to leave this forest either.”
Gwilym had to fight hard to keep from vomiting then and there, but he steeled himself and promised himself he would die before he cowered before this monster.
“Shall we begin? Good. Let us start with your initial question.” The knife stabbed forward like a striking snake and suddenly Gwilym felt a lancing pain upon one cheek. He cried out in surprise and pain as wet blood ran down his right cheek. “Those people in Saint Josse were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. That old bastard, the Count de Montfort? He was something of a collector of secrets. A certain letter was intercepted and the Nachzehrer felt that Montfort conspiring with the Bishop of Bayeux might give birth to complications. Next.” The knife flickered out again and this time the pain centered around Gwilym’s left arm, a deep slash quickly stained his tunic red.
Dear God and all the Saints help me! The pain was sharp, its unfamiliar sting cut into the mind as well as body. Gwilym gasped in pain.
“The Red Swords are merely a means to an end.” Hugo’s grin widened at Gwilym’s discomfort. “An extra cohort to sow confusion. You were at Caen, were you not? They are a blunt instrument. A shame they were dismissed for it would have been to a greater advantage to have had them near King Edward a little longer. That fool with pretensions to nobility, Abelard? He is what a mercenary truly is, boy, a willing dupe for gold. He will swing his sword regardless of morals or better judgement for another sack of wine or doxy or whatever pleasure holds him enthralled. Moving on.” Gwilym screamed as the knife sank an inch deep into his right hand. Hugo held it there for a moment while Gwilym writhed in agony.
Tears filled his eyes and Gwilym sank backwards onto his back. Blood flowed freely from his wounds. Through the blur, Gwilym could see the naked child ceased his stirring and stared at Gwilym with his mouth agape.
Turn away lad, oh turn away and do not witness such atrocities!
“I’m afraid I can tell you little of the business of the Compte d’Eu. I had hoped to talk with him myself, but you of course know how that went. The Bishop of Bayeux was murdered you say? The Nachzehrer does often say that eliminating any who might stand in the way of the greater purpose should be done without hesitation. I imagine our Master of Coin handled that loose end.”
The Master of Coin again? Of whom does he speak?
Gwilym licked his dry lips. He was so thirsty he would even have accepted some water, which to him was only fit for animals, but he knew better than to ask Hugo. The scarred murderer had a dangerous light in his eyes then. The bloodletting fueled some dark desire within him, Gwilym’s could see it written across his face like the script in a monk’s codex.
“Now then, have you any more questions, minstrel? Or do you desire to stop?”
Gwilym drew in sharp breath after sharp breath. His hand ached, but it was blessedly starting to go as numb as his cheek and arm. He was lightheaded and he knew he would not be able to remain conscious for much longer and when he did finally fall unconscious….
When did I become a hero? Just lay quietly and let him do as he wants. At least you will live!
“Who…,” Gwilym croaked. “Who betrays King Edward? Who is the Master of Coin?”
No! I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be part of your world anymore! There are no stories here worth telling. No heroes like Roland or Prince Pwyll who might stop this from happening!
Hugo’s grin could not possibly have gotten any wider.
“I am afraid that will be your final question. I had hoped you wouldn’t ask it, but I suppose that is the way of things. I can’t let you live if you know that. The sheep always have to die in order to understand what the wolf already knows. You can see that, can you not?”
Hugo almost seemed sad when he poised the knife above Gwilym’s heart. “The Nachzehrer has never sought out anyone. It is always others who seek him out. Those not afraid to learn what strength truly is and how far their own desires can take them. It has taken me farther than you or that foolish companion of yours could possibly ever imagine. Even beyond death!” He indicated his scarred throat.
Hugo leaned in close. “Even those of noble blood who have the world in their hands ask ‘why not more?’ Empires are created by men who can live with the consequences of their actions, no matter how many graves are filled by them.”
Gwilym saw the knife descend and he felt darkness swirl at the edges of his vision. Exhaustion, blood loss and fear mercifully descended upon him faster than Hugo’s knife. He would not, could not allow it to take him before he heard the name! He would die, but first he would know whose name he would curse unto the gates of Saint Peter!
“It was…” Hugo was cut short and the knife stopped its descent. The old crone, Emayn, hobbled towards them.
“You dare spill the blood of sin in this holy place? That was not agreed upon! We took the coin of Satan only because it is his world anyway and what he does with this mortal realm is of no concern to the Good Men! Yet you do violence upon flesh that is unclean and spoilt with the word of Roman Catholic buggery!”
“I told you to stay huddled with your lackwit sons and mind your tongue old woman!” Hugo raged at Old Emayn. He brandished his knife and swore at her violently.
“You think the Good Men cannot defend themselves?” Emayn shrieked. “We did not survive the fires of Languedoc and the Pope’s whips to prostrate ourselves before the likes of you, Hugo Kosza!”
“Enough!”
“Here me! We have allowed you and your Moorish killers to hide within into our camps and use the hidden paths because He did promise us revenge against Church and Crown, though I may damn myself in this life.”
“Your life will end this instant if you do not quiet your spiteful old tongue, hag!” Hugo spat. Gwilym lay on the ground breathing hard and tried to gather his wits. The cuts were deep and painful, but he lived and his mind worked feverishly to come up with a plan. Saint Expeditus, Patron Saint of Quick Thinking, may have then took pity upon him for an idea leapt into his mind.
“I am Dafydd ap Gwilym, old mother, and a poet I am and well thought of from noble court to wayside Inn.” Gwilym called out hoarsely. “Even the Lord was given shelter from the elements to be born in a barn! Might I not have some water and be allowed to pray for my great sins?”
“Shut it!” Hugo lashed out with a boot and kicked Gwilym in the side who rolled over and moaned in pain.
“The baptismal waters are as corrupt as the prelates who pour it,” the old woman said. Her eyes almost looked sympathetic through Gwilym’s haze of pain. “When you are reborn in your next life, may it be in a time when true faith is more than just a stone building crawling with colored glass and Latin spewing charlatans!”
All of a sudden there was a commotion from somewhere behind Hugo. The horses nickered and clomped nervously where they were tied. Gwilym however had reached his limit. He coughed and gasped, bits of spit mixing with the blood that ran and clotted upon his cheek. His face lay in the dirt and he felt his vision going dark. Fear and pain had run their course to leave only exhaustion and remorse.
A good verse that, Gwilym thought, his consciousness slipping away like leaves caught in the wind. Tragic, but solemn. I could have made something of the English language after all. What a shame I cannot linger….
“On your feet, Gwilym!” a voice shouted from somewhere in the dis
tance.
Now a voice calls from somewhere down this tunnel. Has Saint Herve, Patron of Bards come to escort me to the Lord’s side personally? Such an honor, yet not unexpected….
“You’ll eat your own balls if he is dead!” the voice said, sounding nearer. The walls of the tunnel shrank and light returned to Gwilym’s eyes as he blinked away the tears within them.
“Wh… what? Vulgarity from a Saint?” Gwilym shook his head in confusion and rolled over with a groan. There, standing opposite a surprised and furious Hugo the Long was the equally enraged and dirty Radu the Black.
Radu had stumbled about the woods for the better part of the night and when the forest had grown too thick he had left his horse tied to a tree and continued on foot. He may never have found the well-hidden scole had not an armed band of dark clad men riding down a heretofore unknown horse path passed him. He had hid then until the men passed and then had quickly followed the path back to its source.
Radu was angry and hungry, but also relieved when he saw Gwilym rolling on the ground. More so, Radu felt a sense of eager anticipation when he recognized the scarred visage of Hugo the Long.
“You must be the one calling himself Radu the Black. What an unexpected, yet overdue honor this is.” Hugo still held his bloody knife in his hand, but he also drew a wicked looking Byzantine Paramerion blade, straight like a longsword until it curved in a wicked double edge at its point. “How much is my bounty these days anyway? It has been some time since anyone dared try to claim it.” Hugo sneered and swung his blade, loosening up his arms.
“Enough that I’ll be sure to preserve your head carefully so that Lord du Fay can take a good, long look.” Radu answered grinning wickedly. Hugo smiled back.
“Curse you, you Slavic jackal!” Emayn shrieked at Hugo. “You bring the devil himself into our midst?” The old crone backed away then screamed for her sons who rose to their feet, yet looked uncertain what to do. They were like deer frozen by the approach of hunters, or a pack of dogs who could sense the two strongest hounds were about to fight.