The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  Meanwhile du Fay signaled for the mercenaries he had employed to start their own charge upon those English soldiers setting foot upon his side of the river. Many of the English, still confused after the initial attack, were cut down immediately. Mercenaries did not give quarter to those who were not worth a ransom. The fight was on and du Fay’s only concern was drawing the English further into the interior where the jaws of the trap being laid for them would snap shut permanently.

  Chapter 13

  Radu’s horse pounded down the path towards Blanchetaque and Gwilym was hard-pressed to keep pace along the uneven ground of what was little more than a deer trail. Sounds from the battle reached their ears and Gwilym felt his anxiety grow with each passing moment. He could smell the Somme waters; the scent mingled with that of jonquil, chestnut and yew. Soon, he knew, those sweet scents would be overcome by the now all too familiar scents of blood, entrails and black bile.

  By contrast, Radu seemed thrilled to be heading towards a fight. Not only that, but he seemed to believe Gwilym would be of some help in that respect.

  “You shall follow behind me,” Radu called back, his voice carried easily, even from horseback several meters ahead. “If you can, get behind one and slit his throat with your knife. They shall undoubtedly be focused upon me and perhaps won’t notice you at first.”

  “What if they should?” Gwilym tried to keep the tremble from his voice. He felt sick at the thought of cutting a man’s throat from behind. He wondered if Radu could sense his fear. Of course he can, a man like this can smell it like a wolf scents a frightened stag!

  “Then try to keep at least one occupied.” Radu reigned his horse to a halt and Gwilym followed suit so their horses were side by side. Gwilym had his first view of Blanchetaque. It appeared much as any other vigorous stream or riverbed, though the tide looked higher than he had expected. There were purple flowers growing in patches near the water and lush green grass proliferated. Under different circumstances, Gwilym could envision himself passing an idle afternoon in such a peaceful place. Now that gentle peace was shattered by still bodies contorted at unnatural angles and ringed in rust red patches upon the ground or floated face down in muddy water.

  The living were lined up in battle ready rows. Across the Somme, the French were arranged in three square cohorts, each numbering perhaps a hundred men. The English were tired, ragged and starving, but were concentrating on the central cohort which appeared to be the smallest of the three.

  “Who is it that leads the English?” Radu asked, pointing at the banners of the tightly ringed command position the English held. Gwilym peered through narrowed eyes as he searched for heraldry he might recognize.

  “I see Northampton’s standard and… three stars upon a red field would be Sir Reginald Cobham of Lingfield. Both experienced men.”

  “Their attack is flawed. They have attacked du Fay’s strongest knights. See there?” Radu pointed to where the fighting was thickest. English knights had successfully forded the river, but were pressed hard by French knights. There were also men who bore no standard and fought not as a unit, but as single fighters. These warriors seemed to relish striking men from behind or bearing the English fighters to the ground in rough melee stabbing with knives or hacking skulls with axes. Worse, behind them were crossbowmen dressed in checkered livery and yellow sashes bearing the coat of arms of the City State of Genoa.

  “Mercenaries,” Gwilym breathed. “The English can gain no foothold. The blackguards strike while water from the river still clutches at sodden boots and cloaks! There, those crossbowman can pierce the men’s armor afore they ever come even close to within sword’s reach!” Gwilym choked back his horror at the sight. His horse must have sensed his discomfort for it whinnied and tossed its head in agitation.

  Not missing a beat, Radu continued with his instructions. “A change in plans. Come! I ride for that center, but you must prevail upon Cobham in some fashion to send his cavalry across when those crossbowmen are pushed back far enough from the riverbed.”

  “Why me?” Gwilym’s voice was nearly a shriek. Gwilym’s momentary hope that he should be spared from being dragged behind Radu to his death had been short lived. “I shall make a tempting target, shall I not? Have I not acquired enough new holes in my body to now invite more?” Gwilym indicated his bandaged hand to accentuate his point.

  “The cavalry can ride down the foot soldiers, but those afoot must push forward to engage those Genoese crossbows.” Radu explained calmly. Radu drew the fokos from beneath his cloak and checked its edge. The point upon its base seemed akin to what a dragon’s tooth might look like. “Make ready.”

  Gwilym was about to draw his saber, but his hand hesitated and went to the shorter blade worn at the hip opposite the saber. Though he had no intention of seeking an engagement of his own he loosened his scramasax in its sheath. It would be easier to use on horseback. What would his father say when he learned of how Gwilym made use of a family heirloom? There was no need to check his saber. That blade hungered for blood he sensed. He made himself ready as best he could by breathing in and out slowly.

  “I shall avoid the Earl, lest he find some reason to continue the heraldic lecture he began at Caen. So to Sir Cobham I shall go thither and convey the message, but once that task is done I shall not wish to get in your way.” Gwilym eyed the dark water of the river and suppressed a shiver. “I shall await your return upon yon bank and afterwards we might both seek to ford a red river of wine rather than a red river of blood like Blanchetaque!”

  “So be it.” With that Radu put his heels to his horse and thundered down the remainder of the track making a beeline for the river to attempt his crossing.

  Gwilym let out a long suffering sigh and glanced toward a circle of knights upon horseback who milled about upon their own agitated horses. The beasts were eager to thunder towards the fight, yet held in check for reasons he hoped to soon discern. Gwilym put his heels into his horse and begged it to bear with him awhile longer. “That we should both hope to be given a meal of mashed oats afore long! By God, I should not have dipped my cup so deeply with the ale wench on a day of battle!” Gwilym groaned.

  Chapter 14

  As Dafydd ap Gwilym rode to beg a cavalry charge from Sir Reginald Cobham and Radu the Black forded Blanchetaque to cross blades with any who stood in his way, another pair of riders watched the battle atop a hill thickly settled with trees that provided ample cover from prying eyes. Their combined experience in warfare was extensive and both could see that the English— by sheer numbers— would undoubtedly take the day despite the best efforts of the French mercenaries.

  “A Mercenary’s meat and mead are sword and strife, but his blood pumps through a heart saturated by fear,” remarked one of the riders. This one was cloaked in black and rode a well bred horse, the kind that could only be bought with more coin than a common man could dream about. The second rider nodded, but said little. He still favored the wound he had taken when he burned down the mansion in Saint Josse. The anger still burned hot when he thought of that darting little infidel who had been part of the reason he had taken the bolt. If the fates favored him, he would ram his sword down that one’s gullet soon enough.

  “This is why you brought the Mamluks to this forsaken country. We fear only God’s wrath should we bring shame to our name and the names of our fathers.” Arabic was not a widely understood language upon this continent, nor was English in the lands east of Jerusalem, but both men communicated through a variety of languages to reach common understanding, if not total trust. He continued.

  “We are not mere mercenaries! We follow the code of furusiyya as knights of the Mamluk.” Taziz growled angrily, grunting when he saw a head fly off a kneeling body. He was too far away to tell which side was which, but then it ultimately did not matter to him how many of the infidel died. “It is for that purpose that we came to this land of infidels to strike a blow for the Sultan and the Prophet! That we take the infidel’s gold is because
we are skilled!” Taziz thumped a fist to his chest.

  “Oh, I heartily agree with the sentiment as does my… partner in this. You remember him, do you not?” From beneath his cowl the rider smiled when he saw Taziz stiffen. “Edward’s army draws ever closer to the pyre and then a great conflagration shall engulf all of Europe! Neither Edward nor Philip will realize where the blades descend from until it is too late.” Taziz could hear the eagerness in the man’s words and did not doubt their truth.

  “When one desires chaos above all else, he holds nothing to value.” The cloaked rider added softly. Neither man spoke for a moment or two. Then Taziz broke the silence more out of necessity then the desire to speak with a man so eager to plot the downfall of his own ruler. “That man, Hugo, he has not sent word of when we are to ride forth. My men were told nothing when he sent them from that forsaken forest!”

  “Hugo is dead. As are several others that were once sworn to our cause. It is no great thing. Such were expendable, ill-favored and without any grasp of the greater tapestry. Aye, such a weaving is best appreciated by one able to grasp the greater artistry being woven.”

  Taziz wisely kept his own council on that. He had only known this man a few months, but he knew enough to be wary. This one was hell bent on having a war even a Mamluk veteran scarcely believed possible. Taziz cared little for the politics of the infidel West, but when the Aldinach or as he was called in the West, the Nachzehrer, bade him bring his riders across the sea to this wet, muggy land there had never been any question that he would not.

  The wealth promised to Taziz would allow him to return to Egypt at the head of his own army and overthrow Sultan Hajji the Pretender and restore the Amirs of Ayyubid to power. The Aldinach had sworn to come as well, and Taziz knew that victory would then undoubtedly be his. The Aldinach’s sword was the equal of ten men.

  “What matters now is to remove those who are albeit inadvertently tugging upon the strings already set and threaten to undo the good work we have done.” The black cowled rider pointed down towards the battle and Taziz followed it to a particular warrior wading into a group of mercenaries near the center of the French line. Taziz gasped when he recognized this large warrior as the one who had killed several Mamluks at the manor in Saint Josse.

  The warrior cut a swath through armored men as if he harvested wheat. Then Taziz saw another figure galloping towards the English banners with all speed. Taziz snarled in remembered pain when he saw it was the meddlesome minstrel responsible for his wound.

  “I will have that one’s head!” Taziz declared. His hand instinctively went to the curved saif sword at his side and he murmured a prayer of vengeance upon the heathen’s head.

  “There is no need,” The cowled man chortled. “Look! Young Dafydd ap Gwilym delivers himself to his own doom and that mercenary the King employed to root out my identity is drawn into du Fay’s trap! Both of them shall meet an end and fall nameless and forgotten upon the white stones of Blanchetaque!”

  Taziz frowned but nodded. The sun would set with the English gaining the ford they so desperately needed, but only because it had been preordained. Soon the real battle would be joined and both the Aldinach and this turncoat would begin the final part of their plan.

  Taziz’s eyes flickered back and forth between the two below whose deaths he so wished he could mete out himself. He listened to the howls of the victors and the cries of the defeated. Taziz could no longer make out the figure of the mercenary. A cloud of dust had arisen where battle engulfed him like a Saharan sandstorm.

  The minstrel on the other hand had reached the banners of the noblemen who watched the battle encircled within their protective steel. Taziz closed his eyes and allowed himself a smile. He wondered if he would be able to hear their death cries echo on the wind?

  Chapter 15

  Gwilym reached the knights and called out to them in English. He hoped the knights would stay their lances and not think him some mad local hellbent on a suicide run. Some revenge seeking merchant come demanding the return of his favorite turnip or some sort. Gwilym was dirty and he was not certain he was known to any of the men present. How bitterly ironic to be cut down now!

  “Sir Reginald Cobham, I come to entreat your attention!” Gwilym called out. Several sets of eyes peered out from behind metal visors warily. None had barred his way as of yet and so Gwilym decided to boldly move past the two knights that were the left side of the square that surrounded Sir Cobham.

  The burly knight frowned and raised his own visor and Gwilym started in surprise. Gwilym had expected a man in his fifties. Instead, he saw a much younger man beneath the helm. This was Sir Reginald Cobham the Younger, heir to the Barony of Sterborough. Near Sir Cobham a squire held forth a skin of wine and poured a generous amount of it into a goblet Sir Cobham held forth in his right hand.

  “What do you want? Can you not see I must afix my gaze on yonder conflict? There are no ladies here to ply your silly poems upon and sweet flatteries are for bishops, untried knaves and peasant girls. Speak!”

  “Indeed, Sir. Alas, that my ‘nose of wax,’ my reputation of being inconsistent rather, precedes me in your mind. I declare myself your servant, as I am to His Royal Highness.” Gwilym knew his personality did not sit well with the rest of the Prince’s confidants, yet it couldn’t hurt to drive home the fact that he was still a part of Prince Edward’s entourage. “I come on the behalf of one unknown to you, yet within His Majesty’s employ. He fights there below.” Gwilym raised a finger towards the opposite bank and the fierce battle. At this distance Gwilym saw mangled forms scattered about the ground or floating face down in the mud churned waters of the river. Gwilym swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “What does a servant of His Majesty want of me?” The younger Sir Cobham smirked.

  “A cavalry charge, Sir Cobham,” Gwilym stammered. “The mercenaries will not break unless ridden down forcefully and made to retreat. The French will follow if they see their hirelings break!” Sir Cobham eyed Gwilym up and down and did little to disguise his distaste at what he saw.

  “I can see that the Welsh nobility still do not know overmuch of strategy and tactics,” Sir Cobham began and he paused to stifle a yawn then wiped his mouth. “To ride now would be to have my men slain by those cowardly bowmen. I’ll not have mine or their honor besmirched by dying so ignobly! My father takes a midday meal with my Lord Northampton and both have placed me in charge. I therefore say nay. Our men at arms shall push forward against du Fay and drive his mercenaries and Low Country bowmen away from the river. Only then shall we dare to ford!”

  Gwilym let out a sigh and wiped the sweat from his brow. He racked his brain for something to say, anything that might get Sir Cobham to attack now as Radu had suggested. Would it do any good regardless of what he might say to the arrogant knight? He doubted it. The man had already dismissed him and instead turned to address another knight beside him presumably to reassume the conversation he’d been having before Gwilym interrupted. If only the elder Sir Cobham were present rather than his son!

  Several of Sir Cobham’s knights eyed him dangerously so reluctantly Gwilym turned his horse about and trotted back the way he had come down the hill, but he did so slowly as he sought a solution to his problem. He could not dismiss the notion that each second that ticked by Sir Cobham’s hesitation allowed victory to slip away. Also, that Radu fought for his life and expected Gwilym’s help. An armored knight passed by Gwilym and he recognized the heraldry of Sir Walter Reed, a minor knight attached to Prince Edward. Sir Cobham called out to Sir Reed.

  “His Majesty grows weary of this war I think, Sir Reed. Tell me, does the Prince’s humours sway him towards Paris or Calais?”

  “I would remark that his humours sway him whichever way earns him his father’s favor! Or at the very least his respect, dear Cobb,” Sir Walter Reed replied with a chuckle.

  Gwilym hadn’t meant to be eavesdropping, but Sir Reed’s remark transported him back to Caen. He was again in an alle
yway, scared and hiding as two men dressed in black stalked the cobblestone streets towards him. ‘He didn’t bind himself to that horse, Walter.’ One voice had said. One can be forgiven for an overabundance of confidence when one bears sharp steel and a purse filled by a true master of coin, dear Cobb.

  “I asked that you not call me that!” Sir Cobham snarled then glanced over at Gwilym, noticing the minstrel’s face had gone white as a sheet. “What the devil is wrong with you, minstrel? Clear off! I have no time for frivolities!”

  Gwilym’s hands shook as he urged his horse into a trot. His mind was afire with his discovery. Sir Richard Cobham the Younger and Sir Walter Reed had been the knights in black! They who had killed Vladimir Kessenovich and it had been their secret cabal who had met with the Compte d’Eu! Gwilym knew he had to inform Radu. They were both in mortal danger and not just from the army holding Blanchetaque.

  Chapter 16

  Radu no longer had any sense for what was going on around him. Let knights count their victories. Let other mercenaries tally their spoils. For him there was only the fight, the rise and fall of the fokos and the slash and stab of his sword. Bodies without names or faces thrust themselves at them. He had momentary flashes of armor, weapons, cursing and pleading. All faded into nothingness as the black rage blanketed his mind.

  Radu’s ax found a fleshy neck and sunk into it satisfyingly deep. He slammed his sword up and under a chin. Blood spurted from a mortal wound and coated his sword and mailed fist. His blade didn’t stop moving until it punctured the warrior’s skull and chipped the inside of the dying man’s helm. With an angry wrench Radu ripped the sword free causing a fountain of gore and brain matter to splatter his armor. To die here would be to fail so many oaths. He would not fall here!