by David Scoles
Brother Sweygiun had murmured something about being dirty, disrespectful, yet he said he was sorry that the Brother had beat him. He went on to say that he, Sweygiun, would be a good friend to him. Then Sweygiun had lifted up the thin white smock all novices wore and forced Gwilym onto the cell’s stone cot so that his face ground painfully into the stone. Gwilym cried out for him to stop, but Sweygiun just kept murmuring in that soft voice of his how he was Gwilym’s friend, how they would take care of each other from now on and how Gwilym was far too pretty to be a boy. Gwilym never stopped yelling as Sweygiun violated him.
The memories made Gwilym grind his teeth and grip his saber even harder, but then Sweygiun’s face changed and the leering face of Hugo the Long stabbed downward with that knife of his, slicing it into his cheek, his hand and held it tauntingly over his heart. Then he spoke, a mixture of both men’s voices together as one.
“This is what love feels like. Isn’t God good?”
With a cry of rage Gwilym swung the saber one last time, this time it sank into the tree he stood near, the blade biting deep. He sank to his knees and sobbed. “Why? Why am I so weak? I tried father, I tried to get away, but I couldn’t! I stabbed him in his sleep, because I was no match for him otherwise! I wanted to come home! I wanted to write poetry with you and sing at the Calan Awst with you and mother and uncle! Why do you always send me away to these places! These men think only of choking others with their own blood and bagging heads for Christ’s sake. Shit, forgive my blasphemy. Oh Fuck, I swore… Damnit!”
“You’ll dull the blade if you go hacking trees with it,” a voice called out behind him. Gwilym whirled around to see Radu the Black striding towards him.
“How did you… how long were you there?” Gwilym sniffled accusingly and quickly wiped his eyes. Radu ignored the question. He avoided looking directly at Gwilym and instead strode over to the tree and wrenched the saber loose from the wood. He pretended to inspect the blade while Gwilym dried his tears and attempted to recapture some of his dignity.
“I had a bit too much ale. It always makes me a bit weepy,” Gwilym grumbled. Radu merely nodded, still not looking his way. He flicked away a bit of bark that was still stuck to the blade, then reversed the blade so that he could offer it hilt first back to Gwilym.
“I came to apologize for your capture and the scratches you took. I was hasty in the plan I made.”
“Oh, an apology. Well I suppose… wait a moment, scratches I took?”
“Having things easy between us would be preferable if we are to continue to our goal so I felt it necessary to take some responsibility for….”
“I was stabbed through my hand! The hand I use to make a living, I should say!”
“Indeed,” Radu nodded, ignoring Gwilym’s ire. “You bare the wound well. Let it be a reminder of the triumph.”
“I… triumphed?” Gwilym asked confused, anger momentarily forgotten.
“Aye. All wounds heal. Even the wounds that mar the soul and heart may mend over time. There is no healing death, however. Those who caused the wounds are dead, are they not?” Gwilym slowly nodded.
“They are at that.”
“Then is that not a triumph that will continue to push you forward to win at all costs? Bare the pain of the wound Gwilym. Bind it with triumph and a victory sonnet if it please you.” Gwilym blinked. Radu’s words sunk in and he was surprised that they both made sense and made him feel better.
“In the name of God, you could teach the Benedictine a thing or two about stirring sermons.” Radu scowled and Gwilym laughed. When he finally ceased he turned serious once again.
“I want to end this business with the Nachzehrer. I owe him for unleashing those bastards Hugo and Esteban. I owe him for whatever lies he has put into the minds of men and also for my own piece of mind. I had thought to escape, you see. Slip away and find a boat back to England and thence to Wales.” Gwilym shook his head sadly. “I won’t run away again. I’m going to be strong like you and find more triumph.”
Radu nodded. Even though his face was as readable as stone, Gwilym felt that he detected what looked like satisfaction in that nod.
“So then, it is decided we shall continue this partnership and eventually divide all spoils.” Radu raised an eyebrow at that. “Speaking of which, did you ever locate Agace and trade him coins for a head? Probably not, eh? He and the French are probably running with their tails between their legs now that His Majesty has found a place to ford the river!”
“Now, now, lad, I have not run anywhere in years!” Gwilym’s jaw dropped when Gobin Agace appeared as if by magic leading a heavily laden pack mule. A sullen faced, yet familiar, boy trailed behind it. “It seems those stevedores weren’t lying when they told us a drunken Welsh minstrel was to be found here swinging a fine saber! Excellent work, lad! Strengthen that arm and don’t spare your legs either! Traveling with Radu will kill you eventually, but even Noah knew he had to at least learn to swing a hammer to escape that inevitable flood, eh?”
“Did the Lord deliver, Agace?” Radu asked solemnly.
“Oh, aye, and well pleased with your handiwork in fixing the departed bastard with a look of pure shock and horror upon which the Lord du Fay did mirthfully comment ‘Twould seem he regarded his place in Hell ‘ere his head left shoulders!’” Agace gleefully shook a bag of clinking coins to accentuate his point and Radu nodded, well pleased. Even Gwilym snorted in drunken amusement.
“Soldiers led by Lord Northampton and Sir Reginald Cobham now ride to Blanchetaque to meet Lord du Fay with cavalry and push through his lines no matter the cost!” Gwilym stated proudly.
It took Gwilym a few moments to realize he was being ignored. Radu and Agace both knelt near a tree with the bag of coins between them and argued over what each could expect as payment for their contributions.
“Twas I who niggled the extra ten livre out of du Fay for the rout of those ruffians in the forest you mentioned. Had you any decency, you should happily settle upon thirty livre and part as friend!” Agace argued.
“Nay friend for that would put us as equal at thirty livre each when the greater risk was ever mine to take! I’ll grant that the ten you finagled are yours to keep, but I shall part with forty livre from the original sum. Twenty livre total is a fair sum of coin for you.”
“Ah, Radu. You should consider a pilgrimage to Rome! Stop in Pavia along the way and learn to trade in the fashion of a Lombard by learning how to haggle with a dagger in hand! I should take you more seriously!”
“If I may interject a fair compromise,” Gwilym said, which drew him looks of irritation from both men. His inebriated state had passed into mournful memory and sobriety was an ache behind his eyes. “Twas I who took the greatest risk as,” Gwilym raised his bandaged hand, “this shall attest. Would it not therefore make fair sense to divide the spoils of so-wretched-yet-so-deserving-of-death Hugo the Long as follows.”
Gwilym licked gummy lips and wished he could haggle after a few more cups of ale. “Twenty livre to me, twenty-five to Radu and fifteen to you, Master Gobin. Yet allow me to say this.” Gwilym held up a hand when he saw Agace’s mouth form into a scowl. “Think on this. Twas you who arranged and executed this feat for a Lord of France. No small thing! I shall make of this venture a poem and chant it near and far in years to come. Your name shall be no single stanza either, by God!”
Gwilym flashed his most winning smile and hoped it appeared sincere. Usually, he reserved it for women of great quality or at least ample bosom. “Shall the name Gobin Agace be a name likened to Saint Maurice, your homelands own patron saint? Coins tarnish and only last as long as the monarch who minted them. Their value changes like the silver’s weight and the memories of those monarchs become mere hearsay! Words are what stretch the memories of men beyond death.”
Agace’s scowl slowly gave way to a wry grin that eventually split into a wide smile which made him look like one of the hounds Gwilym had played with as a boy. Agace laughed. “I take it back, R
adu. Learn to haggle like a Welsh minstrel!”
“Are we in agreement then good sires?” Gwilym asked sweetly.
“Aye!” Agace said with boisterous enthusiasm.
“Aye,” Radu finally acquiesced in his usual gruff manner. Gwilym was relieved to see he did not seem entirely put out. Truth be told, he seemed almost amused by it all.
Coins were exchanged and there was general amicability once more. Gwilym belched and went to relieve himself. The vast quantities of small ale he’d drunk all morning demanding swift egress. Radu turned to Agace who cinched up a noticeably lighter coin-purse. “How well shall du Fay hold this ford?”
“Better than the English might think, perhaps,” Agace said as he tossed what coins he still had to the boy who stood silently by his master’s horse. “Lord du Fay paid me to organize his men and draw what swords I could to his side of the river into Abbeville. What the Lord did not do was keep most of them. Cohorts were sent further north. To protect Paris perhaps, or await the coming of King Philip’s larger force. If du Fay wanted to hold the ford he would have kept every man there and dug in. Waited for King Edward to trap himself between the river and King Philip. However…”
“However… what?” Gwilym had finished his business and returned to listen to the conversation with interest. “Blanchetaque is the only ford the King’s forces might cross. Why did Lord du Fay not keep more men? Does he mean to lose the ford on purpose?”
“Aye, mayhap he does at that lad,” Agace said with a snigger.
Gwilym gaped and Radu frowned. “Speak plainly!” Radu growled.
“I mean only that du Fay seemed a little too pleased when I showed him Hugo the Long’s head. That, and what I heard him say as I was leaving his tent.” Agace said solemnly.
“Which was?” Gwilym asked quietly. He felt his stomach turn over in dread.
“‘Gold paid for silver spent,’ the lord said. Whispered, but as you know Radu, I have excellent hearing!”
“What does it mean? A rhyme of some sort?” Gwilym asked confused.
“Nothing of the sort.” Agace snorted.
“It means someone paid Lord du Fay a large some of money to see to it Hugo the Long was killed. He was paid gold, whereas we…,” Radu began.
“Were paid fifty, sorry sixty silver florins,” finished Gwilym.
“Well, lads!” Agace called out, hoping to shake off the dourness that had settled over the small group. “I must be off. My services have been purchased by one most excellent gentleman, Sir John Chandos, and I must away to the task he has set for me.”
Without further discussion the thin man strode away, followed by the boy leading Agace’s horse. Radu and Gwilym both stood silently for a moment then Gwilym asked the question weighing on both their minds.
“Who would pay du Fay to have Hugo the Long killed? Was he himself not avenging his wife’s kin?”
“The Nachzehrer may have decided to remove him before whatever plot he weaves comes to fruition. Tying up loose ends, as they say,” Radu said thoughtfully, lips twisting as he digested the newest bit of information. “But….”
“It doesn’t feel right, eh?” Gwilym replied. “While I was Hugo’s… guest there were men, Turkish mercenaries by the look of them, undoubtedly the same men who burned the chateau in Saint Josse.”
“Hugo meets with Horseslayer outside Acheux,” Radu said nodding, working backwards with Gwilym.
“Horseslayer and his Red Swords are drinking at the Inn, barrels of ale gifted from the King of Bohemia,” Gwilym said.
“The King of Bohemia is tied to the Nachzehrer somehow. He also fights for King Philip and rides with him in his host,” Radu added.
“Does the Nachzehrer fight for King Philip?” Gwilym asked fearfully.
“No. He fights for none but himself, that I will swear to. He might use people, even nobility perhaps, but his goals are always his own.”
“The Compte d’Eu is Constable of France and had ties to the Nachzehrer as well,” Gwilym countered, changing tact.
“Yes, but we also know that the Compte met with someone from King Edward’s army secretly in Caen,” Radu offered. Gwilym kept his lips tight and looked away, unwilling to share his suspicions. Too many coincidences pointed to one person, but loyalty made him hold his tongue for now. Gwilym groaned in frustration and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Plots within plots! I feel like we are all pieces upon a chessboard being played, Radu! I have not the mind for such things. I came to France as a part of Prince Edward’s retinue. A poet! Not readily made welcome either I can tell you. I hold no one’s confidence, hold no special title or office. I’m employed merely as a distraction, a reminder of home or a luxury, to recite tales of royal lineage, compose poems of ones heraldry or to entertain guests with ribald tales of noble men and lovesick women!” Gwilym paused for breath. Radu looked in the direction of Blanchetaque.
“I wanted to do something more, be something more. Escape my father’s shadow perhaps or at least be my own man. When I met you, well, I thought to myself ‘here is one who lives the tales!’ I thought I might remain in your company as a mere observer and write my own Chanson de geste,” Gwilym grinned. “‘The Tale of Radu the Black’ and what a poetic saga it would be! Your beginnings, your trials with your father and brother, coming into your own as a warrior and mercenary that you would one day reveal in detail to me….” Gwilym’s voice trailed off when he saw a brief look of pain flash across Radu’s face.
“If a saga is a tale of heroism and trials overcome you have found a poor muse,” Radu said.
“Aye, perhaps I see that now. Though not as you might think!” Gwilym quickly added. “The world I believed existed was just that, a poor muse, because it probably never was or is. A bard weaves history from the threads of dreams into an over idealized tapestry. It's all so that men might believe something great once existed and might one day exist again.”
“And what are men?” Radu asked solemnly.
“Brutal, dissatisfied, dirty, horrific. Noble, dreamers, clever, afraid.” The words rattled out of his mouth in a fast torrent borne on a current of Gwilym’s true feelings. He had more he wanted to say. He wanted to explain that this was how he would describe Radu himself! However Radu seemed to sense that already for he smiled sadly.
“Men are just men,” Radu said and turned to walk back towards Acheux. “Blood, tears, screams and prayers weighed on a scale against sacks of coin. All men are mercenaries, minstrel.”
Gwilym watched Radu walk away. A wind picked up and carried the sounds and smells of the army preparing for war. Gwilym shrugged. He couldn’t find the words to deny a thing Radu had said.
Chapter 12
The waters of Blanchetaque were cool despite the heat of the French summer sun. Sprays kicked up by agitated horses cast droplets upon shining armor that dissipated as waves of simmering moisture back into the air. The house knights of the Lord of Northampton were often considered fortunate by their peers. As men sworn to the service and household of one as wealthy as William de Bohun they had access to some of the finest weapon-smiths and armor-smiths in England.
Each man carried an arming sword sheathed at the hip and a stout mace shaped with steel flanges for when blunt force was a necessity. Shields bore the coat of arms of their lord: three stars upon a white vertical field dividing a blue field and bearing the golden lions of Plantagenet. As their Lord was a descendent of King Edward I on his mother’s side, he was permitted to bare such a royal standard. Finally, a tall lance gripped in a mailed fist complimented the half-plate of modern warfare soldiers. They were a sight to see and fear!
Lord Northampton proudly and confidently watched his men ford the waters from where he sat atop his horse at the center of his forces. His own armor shone brilliantly. His page, the son of one of his vassals, sat upon a smaller horse near him and bore aloft his standard.
“Hold our colors straight, Thomas! I’ll want Frenchy to know who rides him down when he start
s begging for quarter!” Northampton snapped at the boy.
“Your command, my lord!” The boy answered predictably and Northampton nodded in satisfaction. Had he bothered to turn and regard the lad’s face, which dripped as much sweat as his eyes dripped loathing, Northampton might not have been so well satisfied.
The boy, whose name was Peter, swore that if any arrows came his way he would take cover behind Lord Northampton. Peter also prayed that the French who saw his Lord’s standard would remember the hefty ransom they might win from taking Northampton and in pursuit of it ignore an insignificant standard bearer.
The horses down in the river were skittish at first, but their hooves found purchase and steadily moved forward. Du Fay had not yet shown himself, but that didn’t worry Northampton. He had met the man a few years earlier at a tournament held near Rouen and had found him to be as boastful and full of himself as most French were. Du Fay’s lineage was certainly unimpressive as he was merely the grandson of a minor lordling raised to higher station by King Philip V for some obscure service.
The first of the Northampton knights reached the opposite riverbank and that was when du Fay made his move. As distasteful as it was, Godemar du Fay was a man who could not fully surrender the morals of chivalry. Shooting down helpless men attempting to ford a river was unmanly. Du Fay, recognizable by the peacock feather attached to the top his helmet, raised his sword and brought it sweeping down.
The signal was given and the men he had placed hidden within a copse of nearby trees sprung from concealment, firing single shot arbalests. These small crossbows boasted powerful broadhead tips that could pierce mail armor from a hundred yards out. They did their job and the first dozen of Northampton’s men when down screaming. Drawing swords and shouting war cries the English, still mid river, doubled their efforts to reach the opposite bank.