The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  “Aye, and perhaps fewer survivors by at least two, eh?” Sir Walter dipped his hammer towards the Welsh minstrel and his large mercenary companion. Both were easily distinguishable from the rest of the men below. Surprisingly, the Welsh bastard was holding his own in the fight.

  “Perhaps that will make him less cross with us,” The Younger said nodding his head. Their Master had been out of sorts recently and eager for events to speed themselves to their conclusion so he could rise. They were all eager to rise. What other point to war was there?

  Sir Cobham the Elder kicked his horse into a quick trot and ordered the cavalry to advance.

  Chapter 17

  The ground trembled as if from an earthquake, then there was a great cacophony as torrents of water burst skyward at the pounding of each horse’s hoof into the Somme at Blanchetaque. White stones were dislodged and some horses stumbled. One or two riders nearly fell, but all plodded onward. Water splashed onto steed and rider. Droplets of water upon silvery armor glinted like precious gems in the sun. Lances were pointed and aimed at targets and a great howl arose from England’s cavalry.

  Centuries of strife and animosity were woven into that primal shout. It echoed back from when the first Britons, those primeval refugees of Troy, first encountered the painted and savage tribes of Gaul, those ancient precursors to the French… or so the tale went. Did the forgotten deities of those times now look down upon this sight a millennia later? Did they smile in delight at each cry of pain, each arm outstretched begging quarter? Gwilym could almost hear the laughter of the Valkyrie as dozens of souls departed for Heaven in that first charge.

  The center cohort of mercenaries folded like vellum. What amazed Gwilym was that they had watched it coming and hadn’t moved. The left and right cohorts both maneuvered to flank, but the speed and reaction of the mounted knight was too much for a man’s legs to counter. Even as lances pierced through armor and smashed shields to splinters, swords were drawn and fell upon skulls and opened throats. Godemar du Fay’s personal men at arms and sworn blades could only watch as their strong center fell apart in mere moments.

  Sir Reginald Cobham the Elder swung his Claymore until his blade was slick with Low Country blood. The Younger rammed a hole through the torso of a fleeing crossbowman. Sir Walter Reed’s mace decimated a man’s face at full gallop. The knight’s laughter trailed in his wake. Dafydd ap Gwilym could only stare in disbelief at the carnage, but the fight was not out of the French yet. Even as the French mercenaries met with their bloody fate, du Fay’s men united into a single cohort to counter the charge.

  “Fools, they have no spears! How will they hope to stop the charge? Does du Fay not issue orders to fall back and regroup? If they protect their archers they could still mount a counter attack?” Radu’s disbelief made Gwilym gawp at him in amazement.

  “Upon whose side do you stand, Radu? Were we not to win this fight?”

  “Nay, he’s right, lad.” Gwilym turned his head to see the old vintenar jog towards them, several of his men in tow. He had a gash over one eye and was as covered in sweat and soot as the rest of them, but the man still held himself erect and proud and he smiled fiercely when he indicated the dead strewn about.

  “There are more of them dead than us and they’ve a fool’s desperation about them now. I’d wager a whole florin du Fay’s already up and left his men to fend for themselves!” The center line broke and ran, the cavalry stood between them and the enemy.

  The French soldiers realized their situation and changed tactics. Bunching together and hoping for the best against mounted knights was a fool’s business. Best to run and seek higher ground, weave erratically, keep the English guessing, and trust to hope that the crossbowmen would get lucky in their shots. The French could also bring to bear their Estocs.

  The Estoc was a newer French weapon specially designed for fighting the plate wearing knight. It was a long, stiff blade without an edge. Just tapered to a fine point for the most precise of thrusts. The credit for possessing these weapons was not due to the foresight of Godemar du Fay however, for this good fortune rested solely upon one Gobin Agace, who perhaps foresaw a battle reaching this inevitable conclusion.

  Weaving and ducking a lance thrust, a French infantryman thrust upward and found the weak joint behind the knee of one mounted English rider. The rider screamed in pain and dropped his lance as his hand instinctively went towards the wound. Sharing its rider’s distress, the horse veered unexpectedly and the knight lost his balance and fell in a clanging heap upon the hard ground. The Frenchman was on him in an instant, misericord thrusting into the fallen knight’s visor. Blood fountained outward and a gurgled cry brought a smile to the Frenchman’s lips.

  This act was repeated, but not to any tide turning effect. The damage was done. Sir Walter Reed caved in the skull of one fleeing man with an almost lazy swing of his warhammer. His eyes scanned the battlefield through the slits in his visor. Only du Fay was worth taking for ransom and Reed expected he would have since retreated to the safety of whatever holdfast he commanded. He had lost sight of Cobb, but Cobb’s father was thoroughly enjoying himself. Sir Walter watched a man’s head nearly leave his shoulders when Sir Cobham’s claymore sliced through the weak gambeson and into the neck. Was it Sir Reed’s imagination or had that Frenchy’s head blinked at him before it hit the ground? He laughed. No matter. No matter any of it really.

  Unlike Cobb, Sir Walter had been taken fully into their Master’s confidence months before and he knew the full extent of the plan. He doubted oh-so-noble Sir Reginald Cobham would have the stomach for what was coming had he known all. As far as Cobb the Younger was concerned, he was merely enriching himself by seeing to it an English victory was neither quickly nor easily achieved. Fool.

  Sir Reed spied the Welsh minstrel the Prince kept. He trotted behind a dangerous looking mercenary and several of Northampton’s men. His master had been quite specific that if the opportunity presented itself, these two were to die. There was a significant amount of coin promised towards that conclusion. Sir Reed grinned. Being a knight came with a sizable amount of overhead. Covering those costs for the next several years seemed a fair trade for the blood of one Welshman and a foreign mercenary.

  “Hardwin!” Sir Reed called to one of his personal squires who was never far from his side. Hardwin wiped the blood from his sword and nodded to his master.

  “Aye, Sir Reed?” he answered, his voice sounded like rocks ground together.

  “Has Geoffrey rounded up some prisoners like I asked? How many have been taken?”

  “Only ten or so, lord. Herded ‘em down river a bit and out of sight like you asked.”

  “Inform them they have their freedom if they do a little job for me. Be quick and discreet. I’ll be cross if old Cobham finds out!” Sir Walter chuckled. It had been a simple thing to bribe a few of Northampton’s men to take some prisoners and disregard Sir Cobham’s orders. They were held in a ring of steel out of sight not far down river and probably wondered if they would face the rope or the headsman. The common man was nothing if not pliable. They wouldn’t give a damn who they had to kill to be free men again.

  Sir Cobham the Elder ordered the line of knights to reform for another charge. Cobb eagerly formed up beside his father. Sir Reed snorted derisively and put his spurs into his horse. He reminded himself that one day when he was an old man sipping ale in his own castle he would think back on this day with amusement.

  The French came out of nowhere. One moment Gwilym and Radu trailed behind a retreating host of infantry and the next men burst from the forest that ringed the river’s edge. Radu reacted instantly, fokos swung to block a sword thrust even as he followed up with a stab from a borrowed arming sword he had appropriated from a dead soldier. Gwilym was slower, but he still managed to draw his saber and parry a blade that had been meant for his heart.

  “Good Christ!” screamed Gwilym, doing his best to backpedal from the ferocious assault.

  “You dirty son
s of whores!” This was from the vintenar who watched helplessly as two of his men fell dead from mortal wounds from the sneak attack. “Filthy French buggers! Damn boy loving, piss swilling, merchant dealing bastards!” All was melee. Gwilym took a cut on his arm and suddenly he was at the eye of the storm. No sound, no pain, no color but red.

  I feel nothing. I was cut just now, wasn’t I? Why is this bastard moving so slowly? Gwilym saw a bear-like man draw back his sword for another stab. Spittle flew from flabby lips and Gwilym took note every mole, every scar on the snarling face. Gwilym cut a smile across the bastard’s neck.

  He moved reflexively, his mind was no longer in control. It was the blade, wasn’t it? Gwilym was a spectator, an observer of the arena of war fought by the mindless and the desperate. He offhandedly saw his saber pass through the guard of a soldier and spear through an armpit. An ax descended towards his head, but it may as well have been wielded by a grandfather. Gwilym sidestepped and finished the wielder with another slash to the neck. The man’s protective gambeson offered no protection from the peerless Cossack blade.

  Then, just as suddenly, it was over. Men were dead all about him and he was drenched in sweat. His arm ached where he had been slashed, but it was a pleasant sort of ache. His blood was up and his senses were beyond anything he had normally experienced in his life. He would have given all the coin in his purse for a quill, ink and vellum then to capture this feeling.

  “Radu,” he gasped. Forming words was a trial. He had killed, and it had been simple. So simple! “What has happened to me?” he begged an answer, even as he feared it.

  “Now your poem has a ‘why’”. Radu said solemnly. Gwilym didn’t answer. The tears spilled freely down his cheeks, but when he sheathed his blade it was with the deepest reluctance that the battle was over.

  Chapter 18

  Blanchetaque was taken. Not a man of Godemar du Fay was left alive and those few mercenaries who escaped the slaughter either kept running all the way back to their respective homes or discreetly joined with King Edward’s army. When the King crossed the ford, the waters swelled dangerously high, but the King pushed forward with a determination that both inspired his men and terrified his nobles. He would not quit. Not now. Even as King Philip pushed his army of thousands closer and closer, King Edward felt a keen sense of peace. He had entered the lands bequeathed to him by his mother, although he suspected if he had allowed her access to a lawyer towards the end of her life, the lands would have ended up in the Church’s hands.

  Storm clouds rolled in, heralding the approach of another summer storm. The distant rumble of thunder was audible even over the sound of many hundreds of horses. King Edward’s English marched on stoically, his Welsh drew their hoods low over their faces, his Irish laughed and called out to the sky in their Gaelic tongue either to entreat God to let the rains come or offering prayers to far older powers. His mercenaries grinned humorless smiles and envisioned the spoils of war. All of them knew the final battle was coming. Would it be victory or defeat? Who would be King and who would be dead?

  After Blanchetaque, the Prince had turned up after with several of his own men. His excuse had been that he had sought to guard the King’s flanks should any of Philip’s forerunners come nipping at their heels. Many expected the King to be heavy-handed that his son had gone without leave, but instead he had demurred on any punishment and accepted his son’s apology.

  King Edward glanced to his left and saw the black armored form of his son riding proudly at the head of the cohort he commanded. His heart swelled with pride, though he dared not show it! King Edward could not, would not undermine the man he wanted his son to be by making him look a boy in front of men he would one day rule. Yet by all the Saints he wanted to tell his son how much he loved him! That, and how unimportant it was to be King of both France and England, but to be a man who commanded respect! To be a man who shone like a beacon upon a stormy shore, guiding his people who knew not how tentative the civilization they enjoyed really was! A country was like a ship tossed upon a sea of violence, ignorance and sin. A King was ever the helmsman fighting against the tide.

  King Edward’s own father had been a failure, even as he in turn had perhaps failed his father. King Edward’s grandfather had only ever been concerned with building walls to keep the evil at bay, but he, Edward, the Third of the name and one day Edward, the Fourth of that same name would see the sun rise over a world that was England.

  Lord Warwick begged leave to approach. It was granted begrudgingly as King Edward was yanked back to the present.

  “Your Majesty, we approach Crecy. With your leave, we shall make camp and situate those victuals and men who await your pleasure.” Edward nodded and responded.

  “It shall be here, Warwick,” the King pronounced. Lord Warwick blinked.

  “My lord?”

  King Edward grinned and he raised his voice so that all around him could hear his perfect English and know his mind. “Here we shall a-camp and await the Pretender Valois! Here shall we fight a battle that shall echo down all the ages of man! Let the rains baptize these fields with life even as spilt blood sow it with our memories! Let England rise! Let Plantagenet be victorious! The winds of Olympus blow favorably and we shall hear the horns of the cherubs trill such a sound that Frenchy shall believe it be the time of Revelation! So shall France know England’s victory!”

  All who heard him arose in a great cry of victory. Swords were raised, his name chanted and the Prince exhorted as well. English, Welsh and Irish swore to victory as one. The words of the King carried to the whole army and all felt hope restored.

  All save one, who rode near the King. He smiled a secret smile within his steel helm and too said a prayer for Crecy, though none save him could hear it.

  “Here shall we know revenge. Here shall the Nachzehrer come.”

  Book 5: Crecy, Thursday, August 25-Friday, August 26, 1346

  Chapter 1

  The village of Crecy lies just north and west of Chartres. It is a quaint hamlet whose flowery meadows, cattle pastures and wheat fields boast a myriad of scents one might find almost pleasant were they not overwhelmed by the miasma of peasantry that pervades most of Europe outside of civilized cities. They pray to Saint Elizabeth du Moyne there, she who spread the belief that working in the dirt is God’s true plan for his children. She was canonized by a French pope and one has heard tales of miracles performed by her holy relics.

  Within the shrine of Saint Elizabeth du Moyne an entire hand said to be from the Saint lays in a sacred sepulcher. To touch the hand was to be blessed with miraculous healing— if one’s faith was strong enough. From here the town grew from a pilgrimage sight to a market town and on and on until the lands were given to a Lord Crecy who renamed the town Crecy to honor himself.

  Whispers said the English planned to steal the relic and take it back to England, but King Edward had forbidden his knights from plundering any more holy houses. Certainly due to Crecy technically being his land, no doubt. What truly mattered most to his Majesty, besides the claim he had to the French throne, was twofold. First, was the continued education of the Black Prince of Wales. This was to be the first time the sixteen year old boy was to take the field as a leader of men. The second was his initial excuse for war. King Edward had months before taken up the cause of John Montfort, the would-be Duke of Brittany.

  Battles were not often fought spur of the moment between great powers and the nobility of both France and England preferred a more civilized method of warfare. Letters were sent between the two. Promises of conduct, chivalry and quarter between nobility were agreed upon. Great Lords were allowed to gather their hosts and prepare their caravans, but mercenaries hold no such agreements or decencies.

  When Eberhard of Schleswig-Holstein rode forth to do battle against his ancient Bohemian enemies he did so with thirty men gathered from the alehouses— throat cutters all— and set them loose upon village, church and farmstead. When poor French peasants fell weeping at his f
eet for mercy he gave them a simple choice.

  “You are scum, ja? Ja, you are scum. French scum is almost as bad as Bohemian scum, or Bavarian scum, but perhaps you keep some gold hidden? Ja, all peasants steal when they can from their lords.” He glowered down from atop his horse, his flappy jowls and mismatched pieces of plate armor made him look like a patchwork hound. “I am also sehr thirsty, ja? Soif? Bring me ale, woman, and I may not spit your children on pikes, ja?”

  One of the villagers, a terrified woman who bravely held back her tears, quickly rose and crossed back into her family’s farmstead to do as she was told. She nearly tripped over her dead husband whose head had been caved in by an ax. Her face, sunburned and marred by a lifetime of toil and agony, was the face of all women.

  Hers was a life lived to bear children only to watch so many of them die. Her heart only moved for the hymns sung in Latin to the Holy Mother on Sundays and Holy Days. Her hands only moved to hold children, pull weeds and thresh the wheat. Her knees only sunk to the dirt to pray for forgiveness and the lives of her children, but never for herself. No, never for such a wicked and so despicable life as her own. Her husband had always said so. The priests had always said so. Only God had ever offered her succor and where was God now?

  Outside the mercenaries helped themselves to grain, carrots and whatever else they could carry. This they repeated seven times before they finally arrived at Poissy by way of the Duchy of Brabant. In each case they spared none. It was with reluctance that Eberhard took an oath not to attack any more French peasants before a stern faced English priest when he took service under King Edward. He did not mention he already had.

  Then the tide turned and the English were on the run. A night or so before the battle at Blanchetaque, Eberhard had taken his men and slipped away. Enemies the Bohemians may have always been, but Eberhard was nothing if not a practical man. Dying for sheep loving foreigners was not on his list of desirable outcomes.