by David Scoles
Sir Talbot crossed both arms over his breastplate and sighed. Sir Talbot and his cavalry had successfully ridden down a French battalion encamped at the small town at Boismont. Sir Talbot had massacred every French soldier who stood between them and the town, but no sooner had the victorious, yet weary English entered Boismont that the cry went up that the town was afire. Sir Talbot had given no such order, for fresh supplies were greatly needed. Sir Talbot had watched in shock as a victory turned to ash before his very eyes.
“Perhaps it is time to consider… terms,” Sir Talbot said finally. Sir Chandos turned to look at him somberly.
“Surrender,” Sir Chandos said flatly. “The King will never see it any other way, let alone Prince Edward.”
“Forgive me John, for I know that the Prince is your dear friend, but he is a boy only just come to his spurs! We stand upon a precipice of ruination! There is no more money, though his Majesty believes he keeps such a thing secret from us. Anything his nobles may have gained upon this venture shall barely pay down the debt owed to the men!”
Sir Talbot fought to contain his temper. Weeks of frustration bubbled over. “The plan was to make King Philip capitulate, not by force of arms but by the laws of succession! The armies brought here were supposed to only be a show of force, not some mob of brigands raping the countryside!”
“The Prince knows…” Sir Chandos began.
“The Prince knows nothing John!” Sir Talbot raged. “Was he there with us in Scotland? Does the Prince know war as we do? Has he been knee deep in blood and feces, wading through corpses while Gaelic mad men howl wild blood oaths at you?”
Sir Talbot stood nose to nose with Sir Chandos who didn’t blink. Surprised at his own outburst Sir Talbot moved back several steps. “For… forgive me, John. That was unworthy of me, to speak to you so.”
“No offense is taken, old friend,” Sir Chandos said quietly. He understood. “Yet might we not find some way to win? Not all paths may as of yet be revealed.” Sir Talbot sighed and nodded.
“There will be another battle most likely, a great battle that will echo down through the ages. Foresee your place in it and take comfort that your name might at least be remembered,” Sir Talbot wearily replied. “Neither the King nor the Prince will entertain a surrender. It was a foolish notion and a cowardly one. Forgive me, my moment of weakness.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Richard. Come.” Both men exited the hovel then and brushed aside surprised looking soldiers, unused to having such notable personages mingling amongst them. The road was churned completely into mud by the steady tread of boots, hooves and wagon wheels all day so the going was slow, but then a page covered in more mud than clothing slipped and skidded to a stop in front of them just as Talbot and Chandos turned off the main road and started back towards the King’s main camp.
“The King bids Sir Richard Talbot and Sir John Chandos attend him at his pavilion at once to lay plans for the immediate fording of the river!” The lad was out of breath, but both Sirs Talbot and Chandos didn’t wait for him to catch another breath.
“A place to ford has been found, boy? Speak no lies or I’ll thrash your hide as raw as a sow’s backside!” Sir Talbot threatened.
The lad paled, but nodded. “A vagrant named Gobin Agace, an acquaintance of the Welsh minstrel Dafydd ap Gwilym, revealed a safe place to cross, my lord! I heard Lord Warwick say so. God keep me if I fib, sir!”
The two knights didn’t wait a moment longer. They were off; their armor and weapons clanked and made enough racket to startle a group of nearby horses. Being knee deep in shit and mud didn’t deter them now. They kicked up sacksful each as they shouted orders to the men around them.
“I want those Mercian horses saddled and those tents broken down soldier!” Sir Chandos shouted to one astonished soldier as he and Talbot ran past.
“Stow the ale and send word to O’Neill and McMahon to get their fucking clansmen moving towards the fore!” Sir Talbot shouted to another man he recognized as a sergeant-at-arms.
“The fore where, sir?” The sergeant said open mouthed, wooden mug halfway raised to his lips.
“I don’t fucking know! Word will be sent when ready, now move by Saint George’s mailed fist!” Talbot swore at the sergeant until the man dropped his mug and ran off to find the Irish.
“What was that you said about terms, Talbot?” John Chandos cried with a whoop. Sir Talbot laughed and whooped as well. King Edward’s Army might ford the river only to find themselves even more enmeshed in an untenable situation, but it was better than just waiting for King Philip to entrap and destroy them!
If they could ford the river in time.
Chapter 10
When Sir Talbot and Sir Chandos finally arrived at the King’s Pavilion still coated in the rank filth of Acheux, they found a heated meeting already well underway. It was full dark and the moon had only just begun its cycle back to full light. The Pavilion candlelight illuminated several road weary forms encased in suits of armor, which bore the dents and grime of battle and extended use. One man still managed to remain spotless however, his armor gleamed silver even in the tent’s low light. King Edward’s finely forged armor may have shone, but his face was as dark as a moonless night.
“You say we cannot get the army moving for a cross at low-tide as I command?” The King’s voice was soft, but it carried easily to every ear. None missed the menace behind his words.
“Your Majesty,” began Lord Warwick, “The army simply cannot muster so quickly, not after the order was given to occupy Acheux but a day ago. Godemar du Fay moves his men in haste to Blanchetaque even as we speak. Our forward scouts have not gone unnoticed.” Several heads nodded in agreement, among them Northampton, Dorset, Oxford and Arundel. The King took note of that.
“How do we know that Savoyard bastard spoke the truth?” inquired Lord Northampton crossing his arms and frowning. A page stood behind him and handed him a goblet of wine. Northampton had been in the process of getting drunk for the better part of the day and saw no reason to stop now. “The news of a river crossing by that Welsh minstrel, even though he be nobly born, is suspect to say the least,” he said, quaffing his wine in one swallow.
Across from where Northampton stood Sir Thomas Holland shot him a venomous glare, though it went unnoticed. “I will vouch for his word, my lords,” Sir Thomas said. “You may recall Dafydd ap Gwilym aided in taking the Compte d’Eu in Caen with the aid of a mercenary.”
“Radu the Black?” came a voice from a shadow behind the King.
Nearly everyone in the tent started in surprise. Prince Edward! None had seen the Prince enter from the rear of the pavilion flanked by a knight of his entourage. Sir Walter Reed of Bedford, garbed in armor as black as his prince’s, was among the least of the Prince’s knights. Sir John frowned, wondering at the cocky smile Sir Reed wore.
“I believe that is what he is called, my Prince.” Sir Thomas and the rest of those in the pavilion, save the King, bowed to the Prince. “It was to me that they both brought word of this ford the locals call ‘Blanchetaque’ named so for the white stones commonly found in the area.”
“Strange,” said Prince Edward who moved further into the candlelight to stand beside his father. One could not help but notice how the two now stood nearly the same height. Another year or two and King Edward would be forced to look up at his son’s face. “I had thought that mercenary departed from our company after the battle at Caen?”
“I employed both he and our Welsh minstrel upon a small errand,” the King answered yet not turning to look at his son. “It would seem by the wounds the two bear that there was some difficulty in its execution.”
“It does my heart glad that my Welsh poet did not simply desert my service then.” The Prince did not deign to look at his father, and instead accepted the offered goblet of wine from the small page who brought it forth. “I was not aware of his royal commission.”
Nobody spoke, for the bite in the prince’s statement
was unmistakable and suddenly many high lords and knights wished they were elsewhere. One could clearly hear the sounds of the camp being broken down without and the cries of sergeants mustering their men.
“We do not always inform our royal son of all that we must do in the process of securing for him his inheritance. It would rather be our wish that he remain silent and learn how a war might be won from those who have worn their spurs for far longer than a few fortnights.”
High summer could not have dispelled the sudden chill that permeated the King’s pavilion. Sir Talbot had to subtly put a hand over his mouth to hide his satisfied smile. Sir Chandos felt his heart sink, but then he felt a shiver of trepidation when he regarded the Prince’s face.
The Prince’s eyes glittered with a malice Sir John had witnessed before in men who charged fearlessly across battlefields and ship decks or even as they lay dying at the end of his sword. It was a promise of violence and serpentine cunning from a mind turned towards dark thoughts. Had personal issues between King and Prince, nay, Father and Son, drawn them so far apart?
Prince Edward slowly arched forward in a subservient bow, but the King did not acknowledge it. The King instead looked down at the rough map that lay upon the table in front of him. It detailed much of the surrounding areas.
“We will send who we can to this Blanchetaque under your command, Northampton. Your second shall be Sir Reginald Cobham. Do try to sober up just a little bit, won’t you? I don’t believe Godemar du Fay deserves quite the amount of laxity we might otherwise grant his command.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Northampton said, eager to dismiss himself from the awkward setting this had become.
The King rubbed his bearded chin as he considered the map. “Gather at least one hundred men-at-arms, bowmen and let some of those mercenaries earn their keep as well. Sir Cobham, you shall have a command of a hundred men a-horse.”
“Father,” interrupted Prince Edward.
The King’s face noticeably tightened. “Yes?”
Sir Chandos swallowed a lump in his throat.
“Please forgive my lax in protocol, but allow me to lead the charge across this Blanchetaque and take du Fay, so that you might safely ford the river whilst watching the sun rise!” The Prince’s words were confident and heartfelt. Sir Chandos felt his heart swell with pride to hear them.
There was an air of expectation that hung in the air until the King with his usual calm, stony expression finally turned to regard his son.
“Let there never be charges of laxity laid upon a man who desires to find glory for his King and his country,” King Edward said, laying a gloved hand on his son’s armored shoulder. There was an almost audible sigh of relief that rippled through the pavilion and several of the assembled knights and lords traded looks and glances. Kingdoms rose and fell by the blood and bile of its rulers and too many had fallen in the past when the ruling family had a falling out with one another.
“I have another role in mind for us both. One that shall soon take us to a place that entwines crowns of gold with swords of steel.” Edward looked deep into his son’s eyes and stepped closer so that son could see the lines of age etched upon his father’s face and father could see the wispy beginnings of a beard upon his son. “Do not lose sight of why I brought you here, Edward,” the King whispered. Prince Edward smiled.
“I know my role, father, and I shall play it to the fullest. Let it be that England’s crown, your crown, entwines with that of France. Let it be so!”
“LET IT BE SO!” cried the assembled knights and lords and had men been allowed to carry arms in the King’s presence many a blade would have been raised high. Sir Thomas clapped and cheered. Sir Richard Talbot also found himself swept up in the moment and clapped Sir John Chandos upon his left shoulder pauldron. It was the sort of moment the Saxon bards of old sang of in Old English when they attempted to stir hearts and win loyalties in the days when Britons had as many enemies without as within. However, Sir John found he had little desire to clap or cheer.
Aye, Prince Edward smiled and appeared the gracious and conciliatory Prince. The Prince beamed and raised his wine goblet to further cheers. Sir John remembered when he first met Prince Edward. He had only recently been sent to court by Henry of Derby, a patron, and was still a young squire trying to lose his Northern English accent. Sir John had been a relatively shy and quiet man at court and Prince Edward had taken note.
Prince Edward, always more mature than his age, had declared to John that: “My father’s advisors say that a man who holds his words, but knows when to smile and appear gracious is a gentleman. A King who surrounds himself with gentlemen is therefore twice the grander for their company. Can John Chandos swear allegiance to his Prince as the first of his Prince’s gentlemen?” Sir John had fallen to his knee then and there and sworn his fealty to Edward, his poor accent forgotten.
Sir John had grown used to his Prince’s moods, his temperaments and judgements, his frivolities and passions. His wants and ambitions were often written upon his face like frescos carved in stone. The smile Prince Edward now wore was a smile that did not reach to his eyes. They remained the eyes of a serpent just before the strike. Sir John suppressed a shudder of dread.
Chapter 11
Dafydd ap Gwilym sat upon a wooden stool in a tent that had been rigged up as a temporary ale house. Some industrious sort had saw no reason why the English should stop being English even when on the run from an overwhelming army in a foreign land. The air in the tent was fetid and damp. The canvas was stained with old vomit and piss, which added to the already interesting odor of unwashed soldiery and murky ale. Just like home.
Gwilym could faintly hear the sounds of men moving about in haste. Apparently his information about the ford at Blanchetaque was being taken seriously and a foray would soon venture out to secure the English passing. Gwilym was the last in the tent to remain. His head was bent over a pewter cup half drained of its contents. He could no longer remember how many he had drained.
“This was all… not what I expected it to be,” Gwilym said to nobody in particular. He had yet to notice he was alone. The old wench who had been pouring his cups had disappeared somewhere. Soldiers still clad in arms had been here as well, but they had all rushed out together leaving Gwilym wreathed in pipe smoke that swirled above his head like dark thoughts given insubstantial form.
“Are there any stories about the chivalry of knights that are true?” Gwilym murmured. “Did Tristan really pine for Yseult or did he rape her? Did Roland and his paladins hold the line at Roncevaux or was the poem so much tripe to cover up the carnage, theft and betrayal of so-called ‘honorable men’?” Gwilym quaffed the rest of the ale in a gulp.
“For a ha’penny a cup you certainly are slow with your pours, wench!” Gwilym finally raised his head and blearily looked about. “Ah. Alone with my ghosts and scars I see. No matter.” He stood slowly, knees buckling for a moment as they found their strength. “We shall write a new Chanson de Geste in their honor! Title: Swords of Knights Rust when Sheathed in Sin. Too long? Aye, perhaps more topical Gwilym? How about Princes Conspire Like Merchants in the Temple?”
Drunkenness was no stranger to Gwilym, but there were different ways one might respond to its effects. Being melancholy was a new one for him. Gwilym parted the pavilion flap with his uninjured hand, and limped his way out into the muddy road of Acheux. He followed the path that would take him beyond the town limits. He paused a moment to grab a torch against the darkness and shouted at passersby who at this point were those who tended supply wagons loaded with livestock, flour, tents, ale kegs and those necessities upon which one relied to successfully make war. Some watched him with amusement. Most simply chose to ignore.
“I’ve had enough, I have! Fuck all! Kings, Princes, Knights, Priests and mercenaries! Trading coin for blood or songs of remembered love and virtue? I shall keep my skin upon my bones and sing of fair Morfudd, though she married my brother, rather than fell Nachzehrer!”
Gwilym was angry. His wounds throbbed and ached, the ale had been unsuccessful in its reliability to stave off pain. Fingering his lute would be impossible for weeks, though he could still strum a harp with his right hand. He could still draw his saber. That thought stopped him in his tracks.
Draw my saber? Aye, and why not? I’ll never be manhandled so again! “I swear it by Saint Michael, Patron Saint of Protectors!” A snarl was on his lips and suddenly he was no longer Dafydd ap Gwilym the Poet and Bard, but Gwilym the Mercenary. He drew his saber and swished it through the air menacingly. He felt strong and powerful with it in his hand. Those lingering yeoman thought he looked more a dangerous drunk, and wisely kept their distance.
Gwilym half walked, half stumbled that way out of Acheux, saber leading the way. Each step brought him more confidence and desire to fight. What a marvel holding a sword was! Oh, he had held them before of course. The son of a noble was expected to learn such things at an early age. But to hold one and desire to use it on another human being! That was a new sensation and a small voice at the back of his mind tried to whisper that it was not a good one.
“I’ll revenge myself on all of them,” he said aloud when he was finally alone. In the distance he could see the torches of the army moving along the road to converge upon Blanchetaque. “I shan’t be caught so weak again. I shall learn to wield you so well that one day men will hold you aloft and only know you as the blade that was once wielded by Dafydd ap Gwilym!” He held the saber up so that the early morning sunlight reflected off its polished surface. He looked and saw his blue eyes reflected back at him.
“Where have I seen you before? I have seen those eyes before….”
Suddenly, he was back at the Abbey. His feet were bare and dirty, his curly blond hair sweaty and clumped in a mess atop his head. He was young, younger than he was now. How old had he been? Ten or Eleven perhaps? Brother Wulfheard had switched his backside again for skipping Matins, but he ached more from hunger. Strange and quiet Brother Sweygiun had led him by the ear into a small cell far from where the other young novice monks worked in the garden or mixed dyes for writing.