The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  There was a momentary pause in the mayhem. Crossbowmen several yards away attempted to line up shots at those men at arms who still struggled against the river. Radu risked a glance behind him: still no sign of that cavalry charge. He’d known Gwilym might fail. Radu had learned to trust his instincts though, they were telling him that the minstrel would think of something.

  The French and their mercenaries had taken notice of Radu. They could tell by his garb he was no English soldier. On the other hand, some of the English foot soldiers, undoubtedly recognizing that a man of skill fought with them, staggered to his side to form a line and regain some semblance of discipline.

  “Your name?” a grizzled vintenar barked at him. He bore the device of Northampton, walked with a determined gait, and fixed the enemy with a veteran’s eye. He spat in contempt. The French mercenaries had regrouped for another push.

  “Radu, old man.”

  “Old? Fuck all, lad, I’m scarcely thirty-six… I think.” He laughed and some of the men joined him, heartened by the veteran’s presence. Radu smiled grimly. More English filtered slowly and cautiously across Blanchetaque. Many had lost their footing in the swift current and the weight of armor threatened to pull them under if they were not careful.

  “Well? Will you form the line with us, lad, and help us push back these bastards? By my wife’s wart covered arse we need to get at those bowmen ‘ere they shoot us all full of holes they can then fuck us with!” The old vintenar held aloft a chipped arming sword and whirled it about his head. “To me! To me, men of the Wye! If you would taste the sweet waters of home again, then form the line on Sir Radu to the windward! The rest form with me on the leeward! We’ll have at these bastards and make them choke on English steel!”

  There was a ragged cheer and the men, three dozen and growing moved to comply. Shields were raised and arrows thunked into wood and steel. Far fewer found their way into flesh than before. Heartened, the soldiers alongside Radu started marching towards the crossbowmen. Radu himself held no shield, but when an arrow arched its way towards him, a backwards slash with the fokos cut it from the air to send it harmlessly into the ground.

  The vintenar meanwhile ordered his line into the phalanx maneuver. A timeless discipline of war tactics where men formed a wedge of overlapping shields, swords pointed forwards. Each man protected the other upon either side and should any Englishman fall, the wedge would reform and swords and shields would continue the march forward. The phalanx tactic had been passed down from the Romans who in turn had copied it from Egyptians and even further back to the Hoplites and Sumerians. The English phalanx was not perfect, for it was with polearms that the formation was at its most effective. Each man had an arming sword, but only a few had risked ferrying their spears across as well.

  The vintenar and his men turned their attention towards the mercenaries and the French. Marching in time, keeping their shields up and always positioning themselves between Radu’s line and the bowmen, the phalanx drew closer and closer to the mercenaries who typically fought as individuals and not as a group. That did not stop the mercenaries from shouting out taunts and moving forward eagerly. They outnumbered the English and had taken few losses, while English dead littered the bank. Feeling the day was theirs, the lines of mercenaries moved forward to engage the phalanx.

  Even as the Englishmen tightened their grips upon their shields, Radu’s line was less than fifty yards from the crossbowmen who started to feel agitated at the closeness of the enemy. A bowman grit his teeth and turned the crank on his crossbow as quickly as he could. He had just seen a man cut an arrow from the air with a strangely shaped ax and now that man stalked towards him. The bowman did not like the expression upon the warrior’s face. His breathing came in gasps and not from the exertion of pulling back the crossbow’s cord. He didn’t want to be here. He hadn’t wanted to set foot upon another battlefield, but without any form of scutage available to him it was march or see his family turned out of their farm by Lord du Fay.

  The crank turned agonizingly slow, but then there was the familiar click as the nut locked into place, the lathe now taught. The bowman hefted the stock up against his shoulder and placed a bolt into place. Confidence returning he sought out his target, but the large soldier had broken into a run at the sight of him hefting the crossbow. In a panic, Bernard fired his shot and the bolt flew true… into the ground where it was aimed.

  Radu let fly with his fokos the moment the bowman had raised the crossbow and the ax smacked into the Frenchman between the eyes. The bowman teetered for a moment, mouth agape and ogling the ax cross-eyed even as blood spurted from the wound. He fell backwards, his face a death mask of shock, but Radu did not stop to admire his handiwork. He ripped his ax from the corpse’s head and engaged another bowman. The men of his line howled and ripped into the enemy with a fervor, inspired by Radu’s ferocity.

  The fight lasted only minutes. The men with Radu decimated the remaining bowmen as the vintenar and his men tore into the mercenaries. The center French line had been forced back so far that English sergeants were able to form up companies, one to engage the left and another the right. The center line would be reinforced by Sir Reginald Cobham’s cavalry of a hundred strong… if they ever showed themselves.

  The fight was not yet won, but Radu strode quickly back towards the bank of the Somme, passing more and more soldiers who dumped water from boots and unsheathed blades from wet sheathes. To his surprise, Radu saw Gwilym galloping like a madman upon his horse towards the river. He didn’t stop even when the horse thundered into the river.

  “Radu!” shouted Gwilym. Then, seeing he already had the mercenaries attention, he shouted again. “Sir Cobham the Younger was in the alley in Caen!”

  “What?” Radu shouted back. He knelt and wetted a bit of rag he carried and began wiping the blood from his weapons. “Where the hell is the charge?”

  Gwilym urged on his horse. It whinnied in protest. The horse had already done much that day and neared the end of its endurance. Gwilym hated to punish the beast so. It had done nothing wrong. He was relieved to gain the other bank and slip from the horse’s back. A smack sent it running a short distance away. It seemed pleased to be finally be free of its rider. Gwilym let out a breath and turned to Radu.

  “Sir Cobham, or rather his son, was one of the men in black I encountered in the alleyway when we were in Caen. I would wager my lute strings he and Sir Walter Reed were the men who slit Vladimir Kessenovich’s throat!” Getting that out had been harder than he expected and Gwilym took some deep breaths. Radu gave him a level gaze.

  “You are certain?”

  “As certain as Thomas when he put his fingers into Christ’s wounds!” Gwilym declared.

  Radu glanced across the river to where the English cavalry still stood in tight ranks. Their features were impossible to discern beneath their covered helms, but their horses beneath them seemed restless and eager to do that which they had been trained to do. Many of the knights probably chomped at the bit as well and wondered what their current commander waited for.

  “They mean to draw this fight out,” Radu mused. “Both commanders will skirmish until the sun falls beneath the horizon. Nearby monasteries will ring their Vesper bells and both armies will be forced to withdraw rather than fight in the dark.”

  Gwilym’s jaw dropped. “To what bloody purpose?” the minstrel exclaimed in disbelief.

  “Consider how far behind Philip must be with his thirty thousand? We know the Nachzehrer seeks to draw all to a place of his choosing. Perhaps here? I would wager an English gold crown du Fay’s has been bought. Likewise has Sir Cobham’s son either been bribed or he too takes orders from as yet unknown traitors in England’s ranks.” Gwilym had not missed Radu’s pointed look in his direction when he said the word unknown.

  Does he want me to say it first? That I too suspect Prince Edward may be plotting his father’s downfall in collusion with a madman? Instead, Gwilym broke his gaze from Radu and looked away. �
�So Sir Cobham… Cobb up there will not force the victory and du Fay will throw away mercenaries until the two armies clash here! With the King’s back to a river held by an enemy, his defeat is certain! Oh Christ, here they come!”

  Gwilym raised and pointed his finger at a howling mob of men who had broken through the English line. The gap quickly closed, but the few men who had forced their way through were making a beeline for Radu and Gwilym.

  Radu whirled around at Gwilym’s warning with his fokos held loosely in his left and the arming sword in his right. That arming sword had seen better days, Gwilym noticed. It was pitted and its sharp point had taken a beating piercing through chainmail. Still, Radu displayed an outward calm as the men drew closer and abruptly came to a halt no more than two sword lengths away.

  “Ye know me Radu Negru?” the leader snarled. Gwilym saw black teeth, beady eyes and skin written in warts so foul that it was a wonder the man was not in a leper colony. He and all his men looked like the worst sort of cutthroats that gave many a traveler nightmares.

  “Aye, you are called Bast. Brother to the late ‘Joyeuse’ Charles.” Bast blinked and rocked back a step.

  “How did ye know?”

  “Because before he died your brother said the ugliest man I would ever meet would one day come to kill me. Who else could you be?” Radu replied.

  Bast’s face turned red and then an impossible shade of maroon. Undoubtedly, due to his skin diseases, Gwilym surmised with an uncomfortable gulp of air.

  “I am going to kill ye, ye whoreson of a cunt!” Bast screamed and cut the air with an evil looking falchion. Radu’s face went cold.

  “Come on then, you pigfucker.”

  Gwilym groaned. Then men exploded into action.

  Bast’s falchion cut horizontally at Radu’s chest, but the arming sword was there to intercept it and turn it deftly aside. Radu followed up with a slash with his ax, but not aimed at Bast.

  Instead one of Bast’s men— a wiry looking man wearing red striped pantaloons Gwilym was absolutely certain were stolen for who would ever purchase such garish things— took Radu’s ax in his face. The nose and cheek caved in and the pantaloon wearing man fell back with a gurgle of blood.

  Gwilym watched a runtish figure, barley higher than a dwarf, rush him with his short blade extended. He didn’t panic, but instead felt a calm settle over him. His mind was in a state of exhausted shock perhaps, but Gwilym drew the saber at his side in a single fluid motion. It was a near copy of Bast’s own horizontal slash aimed at Radu, but Gwilym’s connected with the small man’s left hand.

  Screaming, the small man clutched at his severed stump. As if he had done it a hundred times before, Gwilym lunged. The saber easily slipping through the man’s sweat stained gambeson and punctured his heart. Gwilym’s old fencing teacher would have been shocked and pleased.

  Within less than ten breaths five men had been reduced to three. Three more breaths passed and Gwilym had severed the hamstrings of a fat, bearded man who had hoped to catch Radu on his blindside. Radu had seen him coming, and he grunted in appreciation when he saw Gwilym’s blow take the bastard in the back of the legs.

  Radu pushed Bast, putting his weight behind the shove and knocked the man off balance. Reeling backwards, Bast raised a plain wooden buckler, but Radu’s fokos smashed it to bits in one stroke and the ax buried itself into Bast’s hand.

  Bast’s screamed loud and long. The remaining mercenary who had hung back slightly from the rest swore and turned to escape… into English infantry who wasted no time in cutting him down.

  “Bast… BAST!” shouted Radu in an attempt to get the screaming man’s attention. Bast was preoccupied trying to stick fingers back onto his hand. He picked up one finger, then found his thumb. Bast wailed and stared at them dumbly.

  “I don’t suppose your head is worth anything?” Radu asked calmly.

  “Ye shit-digging son of a mongrel whore bitch!” Bast screamed. “Rot in Hell!” The arming sword rose and fell and what was left of Bast’s neck clung grimly to a small strip of flesh stubbornly attached to the nearly severed head. Radu swore.

  “My blade needs sharpening.”

  “Friends of yours?” Gwilym panted.

  “I killed his brother, a craven murderer, who always ran from any real fight. It happens from time to time. Relatives seeking recompense, I mean. They must have heard I was here from someone. Surprising that Bast tried this in the middle of a battle, but fools are plentiful in this world. Bast and Joyeuse Charles were only blessed with being ugly and stupid.”

  “You should consider sticking to bachelors and bastards then,” Gwilym remarked wryly.

  Radu eyed his sword with distaste. “I’ll need a new blade. Not even sharpening will save the central ridge and point.” Gwilym nodded distractedly. He could only look at the carnage he had wrought.

  “From a poet to man of the blade. I have become tempered by battle, sharpened by death and quenched to a steel’s hardness by blood.” Gwilym lamented to himself. Radu guffawed.

  “Still a poet by any means! Use that line in your saga and perhaps I shall endorse it after all!”

  Gwilym sniffed in mock dissatisfaction, then chortled. His life was in danger still! Yet, did he tremble? Did he hesitate as he had in Caen during that pivotal moment when he might have died were it not for Radu? Gwilym clutched the grip of the saber in his hand and it no longer abhorred him. He had defended himself and won. Could a boy become a man in scarcely a month gone by? He would have to explore this new Dafydd ap Gwilym when next he paused for breath. Who was he now?

  Unbeknownst to either Gwilym or Radu a rider who bore the King’s colors rode into Sir Cobham’s command position and addressed the knight with polite, yet stern declaration. “The King comes personally to lead the army across Blanchetaque.” Sir Cobham’s face went pale.

  “My father led me to believe that the King would not sally forth until the moment the ford was taken,” Sir Cobham the Younger stammered, his surprise evident.

  “He rides now, leading the army here. I am not privy to His Majesty’s thoughts, Sir Cobham, however….” The messenger leaned forward to whisper in the knight’s ear. “The King’s humours are foul, Lord. His son, the Prince Royal, has ridden somewhere with his retainers and the King knows not where. It is likely you and your father shall feel the burden of these humours should you not take this ford before the sun dips further.” The messenger wheeled his horse around and rode off leaving a pale and distraught Sir Reginald Cobham the Younger behind him. To make matters even worse, his father chose that moment to return.

  Sir Reginald the Elder had finished a lavish midday meal with Northampton and both had played a game of Lucky Pig that had left Sir Cobham’s purse lighter. It had irritated him to no end. Cobham the Elder had been against his heir joining him in France. His son had never showed interest in anything beyond hunting and his falcons. Indolence was the preeminent quality of the younger generation in his mind. So now, seeing his son’s pale and sweating face as a rider wearing the King’s livery rode away, Sir Cobham the Elder expected the worst. His son’s excuses were lost in the foreground of his thoughts as Sir Cobham the Elder wracked his brain for a way to save face.

  “Father…” began the Younger.

  “Quiet! The Earl will take some blame, but he put me in nominal charge so I shall have two of the most powerful men in England angry with me alone! I shall not carry such ire. Fuck Godemar du Fay, I’ll take the ford now and leave none alive!”

  The Younger was more worried about the gold he had taken to draw the battle out as long as he could. Convincing his father to allow him to lead the battle so that his father might take his leisure with Lord Northampton had been simple, so eager was the father to see the son become a man.

  Sir Cobham the Younger and Sir Reed were in it deep and had been some for some time. Debts and promises that would have possibly seen him disinherited were given reprieve when their mutual benefactor offered them the opportunity for perso
nal enrichment. It had been impossible to refuse and so the two young knights had entered into a conspiracy against their sovereign. Yet even a traitor’s death seemed preferable to betraying that one.

  Sir Cobham the Elder drew his sword, a great Claymore he had appropriated while fighting David Bruce’s men during the King’s Scottish campaign. He brought it out to remind his son, Walter and the rest of them that when he rode into battle he did so as a knight who had tested the spurs of many an opponent in single combat. It was no idle boast to say that Sir Reginald Cobham the Elder was one of the most formidable men in King Edward’s service.

  “I want ranks of a dozen moving forward! The second and so on follows no less than twelve paces behind!” Sir Cobham the Elder shouted out his orders and the cavalry sprang into action. They formed as ordered, as they had trained. English cavalry, while not as storied as the French, could still ride as if a single entity. The men of Northampton’s cavalry were no less than these. His son and Sir Walter could only helplessly comply.

  Each man in service at Blanchetaque was a lesser knight, or esquire of Northampton’s lands in Berkshire, Wix in Essex and Kneesol in Nottinghamshire. They were garbed in half-plate and leather and while each man was allowed his own heraldry, they proudly bore the standard of Northampton at the end of their lances. Each man also was armed with sword and heater shield. The Elder was the exception with his Claymore. Sir Walter Reed eschewed the lance for a war-hammer whose head ended in a wickedly barbed spike. The Younger preferred lance and sword.

  Secretly, neither Sir Reed nor Sir Cobham the Younger felt they had betrayed their King. They would make their England stronger through profitable conflict and advance themselves at the same time. Killing French was certainly a duty neither would shirk from and if King Edward crossed the Somme before he was meant to? Well, that was a problem for their master and not them.

  “No prisoners, Walter,” Sir Cobham the Younger said.