by David Scoles
So it was that Eberhard and his band of mercenaries two days later were allowed into the main camp of the King of Bohemia who at that moment camped outside the town of Abbeville, just a few miles from where the French had billeted for the night. The smile upon Eberhard’s face as he rode through the camp of wary eyed Bohemian’s was forced. Bohemia’s force looked like veterans to his experienced eye and without a doubt their numbers in addition to the French greatly outnumbered the English. He had chosen wisely in switching sides. Now it merely remained to negotiate a price.
Men surrounded the King’s black canvas pavilion, but strangely they were stationed in a circular ring several paces distant from the pavilion itself. Undoubtedly, King John wanted privacy. The pavilion itself was plain, it's only adornment the heraldic arms of Bohemia: a silver double tailed lion ensconced in gold and black leaf. The motto “ich dien,” “I serve,” was sewn in gold threads across the double entry flaps of the pavilion itself.
Eberhard chewed his lower lip and spared a glance over his shoulder at his chief lieutenant Dietz. They marched over to a soldier cloaked head to toe in black. Eberhard couldn’t speak any other language well except Lower German and a smattering of French, so he addressed the soldier with the former.
“King said he wanted to meet all captains, ja? Those who seek employment for themselves and their men. I have thirty men, all veterans who can swing a sword, hold a spear, or dig a trench as His Majesty needs, ja? That is, if the ducats don’t bend between my teeth.”
Eberhard flashed a smile full of broken teeth, but the cloaked soldier made no move or sound and instead stared at Eberhard as if uncomprehending.
“Damnit, you only speak Bohemian then? Bah, I can’t understand a word of that flowery shit.” Eberhard scowled and wondered if he should call out in the hopes that someone might understand him, but the decision was made for him a moment later.
“He speaks only his own tongue and never to infidels,” a silky voice answered. Eberhard blinked in surprise as a similarly black clad man emerged from the pavilion and limped towards him. To Eberhard, this newcomer seemed identical to the rest of the guards, but despite the noticeable limp he carried himself with a confidence that bespoke command.
“Want to see the King, I do.” Eberhard growled. “Me and my boys want to negotiate a deal for killing English and we have the blades and the balls to do it!” Eberhard couldn’t see the cloaked men’s expressions beneath their facial coverings, but both men shared a look. The silent one said something in a language Eberhard could not place and the limper responded. Both men then chuckled and Eberhard felt his patience begin to fray.
“We going to have a problem here, are we? Ja?” Eberhard’s hand moved slowly to the blade at his side, but neither man seemed concerned as they regarded him with eyes the color of coal. Eberhard had sworn never to show weakness especially to foreigners. He held their gazes and didn’t blink.
Finally after what seemed like ages the Limper nodded and turned on his heel. “Follow” was all he said and Eberhard breathed a silent sigh of relief. Eberhard barked at Dietz to billet the men nearby and the mercenary followed his guide to King John’s pavilion. Eberhard quickly steeled himself for negotiation. Each man would need at least a florin, but for himself he would not settle for less than half a mark. Not to mention a small side guarantee he would make with the King’s Exchequer that should any of his men die he would be able to collect their due for “burial expenses.” Not that a ditch would charge him for rolling a corpse into it, but only he and Dietz knew that small detail.
Eberhard’s grin was genuine as the pavilion flap pulled back and he was admitted into the presence of King John, the Blind King of Bohemia. What struck Eberhard at first was that the only light in the large pavilion came from a handful of candles set upon elaborate silver candelabra placed seemingly at random about the interior. Eberhard could not see where the pavilion’s interior actually ended. It was as if he stood at the epicenter of a great void and if he left the sanctuary offered by the candles he should become lost in it forever.
King John himself was an older man of average height and strong build. Clearly being blind had not led him into a life of indolence. His hair was long and steel gray, his face lined and pitted like a landscape that had seen too many hard winters. Eyes the color of milk stared through Eberhard. His earlier negotiation strategy forgotten, Eberhard swallowed the lump in his throat.
Why is it so damned cold in here? Eberhard cleared his throat to speak, but the King spoke first.
“Why do you want to fight for me, mercenary?” The question was spoken directly and quickly. This was a King who didn’t mince words and demanded instant answers.
“Eberhard of Schleswig-Holstein I go by. I… I want money, ja? I want to live to spend it too.” Eberhard licked lips that were salty and dry as a bone. “The English are going to lose and I don’t trust the French to pay fair.” King John snickered and his lips pulled back in a feral grin.
“So I throw some gold at you and you shall fight perhaps to the death for me? No cause, no goal or dream? Just clinking metal in your purse, is that it? I may be blind, yet I can steer a man’s will wherever I so wish, would you not agree?”
Eberhard hadn’t encountered many Kings in his life and this was the first he had ever spoken to directly. This wasn’t how he had expected a King to behave or speak. It rankled at him that he had been caught off guard, but he was a man who had faced down death on several occasions. What was a King if not just another man who wanted bad things done to those who stood in his way?
“I just want to get paid. What else is there, ja?” Eberhard sneered.
“Spoken like a man who doesn’t believe in anything except the wounds he inflicts upon a corrupt world. As did Thomas, would you dare to place your fingers within those wounds as when he beheld the risen Christ?” The sepulchral voice that spoke came from the shadows beyond the pavilion’s candlelight. Eberhard reacted instantly by half drawing his sword and whirling about in surprise. When the figure moved into the light Eberhard gasped and drew back.
He beheld a huge man encased in stone gray plate armor from head to toe with a great helm completely obscuring his features. Giant stag antlers adorned both sides of the helm, strange lettering appeared scratched into the surface of his breastplate and gauntlets and a mighty Schlachterschwerter was slung across his back. What strength this man must have to wield such a mighty two handed blade, Eberhard thought. By Saint Boniface’s pierced book, is this the King’s bodyguard?
“Eberhard of Schleswig-Holstein, you ask what else there is? Feel the weight of the sword at your side, the mail covering your back and chest. Are these not the tools of change? In this age of weaklings, do the strong choose to count coins and be content with mere scraps?” The dark figure moved slowly towards Eberhard and the Bavarian backed up a step. He shot a glance to King John who still wore his sneer and made no move to reprimand the warrior for speaking out of turn.
“What the hell are you on about?” Eberhard demanded, his voice cracking under the stress. “I am a mercenary. I fight for who pays. I don’t care about causes. Causes get you killed and penniless, ja?” The warrior threw back his head and laughed, a terrible sound that echoed hollowly within the small space.
“I see you do understand, Eberhard. A cause is born out of a man’s desire to right wrongs, win renown and to elevate one’s station. I also despise causes.” The warrior moved to the side of King John whose sightless eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire at the warrior’s words. They moved the King, Eberhard could see. Why? Strangely enough, something about them also moved him.
“This is no cause of which I speak. No playing at the politics of birthrights like France and England. For what? Scraps of dirt? Strength, as it was in times past, is no longer the sword by which empires are forged. Rather swords have been replaced by pieces of paper upon which genealogies are wielded by inbred pretenders. I spit upon them and all their heraldry and dynastic entitlements! I s
hall make a pyre of all they hold dear and recast people’s beliefs as they should be: honor thyself and take what thou wilt if you have the will and the strength to do so!”
Eberhard gaped. An armored hand reached out to grip his shoulder. Eberhard stared upwards into the antlered helm’s visor and felt himself fall into that gaping darkness from which eyes hard as diamonds held him spellbound.
“Will you place your hands in my wounds, Eberhard? Will you bleed this world so that it might be born anew?”
“Who are you?” Eberhard’s voice was barely a whisper. The warrior told him and suddenly the void that was King John’s pavilion grew claws that seized hold of Eberhard’s heart. Eberhard would rather have faced a horde of Moors in the Holy Land than to go against the man who held such a fearsome reputation as this warrior before him did.
“God have mercy upon my soul,” Eberhard breathed. King John, who had remained conspicuously silent through the exchange, asked his question once more.
“Why do you fight, mercenary?”
“I would have starved. What is there for an apprentice who never would have made journeyman when his Master’s son stood to inherit all? Night after night, working fingers to the bone to learn an honest trade, but honest men do not inherit!” Eberhard said. Old wounds he had thought buried deep inside suddenly rose to the surface. He put a hand on his sword.
“I’ll thrust both my hands into this world and rip out its guts to bleed it clean! I’ll do it, because by Heaven and Hell I am sick of this shit! Whether it be the English dogs and their contempt for all others or the high-handed French. I am tired of being ruled by men who never have had to work down in the dirt because they fell from a noble cunt!”
“The world punishes men who do not kneel with the rest of the sheep,” the warrior warned.
“I shall no longer kneel before weak men,” Eberhard answered firmly. His eyes were serious, his face grim.
King John’s laugh was cold and cruel. He was a King who saw the world as only a blind man could: a howling black maelstrom that tore apart one’s soul until nothing of self remained. To him, people were just voices. Those voices were to him a cacophony of wants, hates and regrets. Eberhard was just one more scream added to the chorus.
The warrior smiled from beneath his helm. Then he shared bits and pieces of his plan with Eberhard of Schleswig-Holstein who listened in open mouthed astonishment. His feelings sprinted between fear and elation, surprise and awe and at the end of the telling tears ran unchecked down Eberhard’s cheeks.
“I am with you,” Eberhard swore.
“Then be a wolf among the sheep,” the Nachzehrer answered.
Chapter 2
Within the English camp established at Crecy, the mercenaries kept to the westernmost pickets and haphazardly made camp wherever they could. A small contingent of Milanese rode jet black chargers and wore armor gilded in gold. They carried curved swords looted from dead Moors and long spears tipped with barbs that would sink into flesh and rend it mercilessly when removed. They were led by the notorious Sicilian Sanjelio whose perchance for duels was well known. To offer even the slightest offense to him was to invite a challenge and certain death.
Pepindeau the Navarran was a yeoman who wore only chain mail and carried a long black bow made of ash wood unstrung upon his back. He was accompanied by a hunchbacked ‘squire’ he called Flip. In truth Flip was a gravedigger for the ones Pepindeau killed. Like Radu, Pepindeau was only interested in collecting heads, but believed it Christian to give burials to what was left over. He did not hate the French, but he despised King Philip. The French King was responsible for the death of his cousin Simon Pouillet whom the King had tortured then quartered for a minor offense. Pepindeau’s letters of restitution had been ignored so now he took up arms with the English to, in his own words, ‘take whatever I can get out of Philip’s own hide’.
Stirdensky the Polish Long-Arm had also come, as had Lorencio of Toledo. The Franciscan was a surprise to some. The monk turned mercenary had disappeared along with his man Eurastes and had been thought to be dead or captured. They had lately been seen about the camp much to the irritation of the English bishops and priests. An altercation with Father de Lisle had nearly seen blood drawn.
There were others as well, some famous and others less so. Names earned through rumor, skill and self-aggrandizement. They demanded gold and luxuries for their service and in return wagered their lives. The youngest was a mere thirteen, the oldest a remarkable fifty. Some were with retinues and others alone. It was a motley crew of a hundred and a few score men camped well away from the knights and their vassals.
When night fell, camp fires sprang up far as the eye could see. The victory at Blanchetaque was still fresh, but the men all knew that another battle was imminent. Celebrations were minimal. August is a hot month, but there was a chill that night. The smells of horse, leather and smoke were like an unseen blanket that might have choked the untrained, but were sweet and familiar to men of fortune.
Dafydd ap Gwilym paused before one such campfire when he heard a language he understood and prepared to step forward into the light and introduce himself, but he held himself back when he heard the discussion.
“I tell you it is him,” one man said. “I ‘eard of him o’ course, but some things ye just cannot believe I mean… it can’t all be true, can it? What they say about him?”
“And what’s that they say about him then?” said another. This one’s voice was like a growl, but it was apparent he was also deep in his cups.
“Radu the Black… the Devil’s mercenary….”
“You had better cut that shit Debon. If the Franciscan hears that…,” cautioned a third man.
“Fuck the Franciscan,” said Debon before he spat into the fire. “If half of what they say is true about Radu the Black, that fat, fallen monk is the one who had best turn away.”
“Good evening, friends, and I pray you we sing and jest a bit before we sink into Queen Mab’s realm for the night?” Gwilym chose that moment to make himself known, and all three men jumped to their feet and drew naked steel in surprise.
“Ha, it is only the Prince’s minstrel. Debon put your pig sticker away. You too Stefan before you hurt yourself.” There was grumbling as weapons were returned to their sheathes and ill looks shot his way. Gwilym settled himself beside the fire and took out his lute and strummed a few cords.
“Forgive the intrusion, gentlefolk, I seek only to avail myself of the stories and tales of greater men than I. Ye God, yes, for what is a minstrel if not a gatherer of stories? I could not help but overhear the name Radu the Black, a tale you have some knowledge of, yes?”
All three men glanced nervously at each other, but the talkative one who identified himself as Louis seemed eager to speak more of it.
“I heard it from one of those Milanese bastards who heard it from some Bulgarian whore that travels with a gypsy band or another that he is here about. Right now… in this camp somewhere! A loner, they say never fails in any bloody task in exchange for a few florins.”
“Well, I heard he guarded a caravan that traveled through the Alpine passes some time ago. They was attacked by bandits, outnumbered twenty to one…”
“And?” Gwilym sat forward eagerly, devouring every word.
“He killed every last one of them bandits and got the caravan through, but the merchant master paid him and sent him on his way before they reached Munich. The merchants were terrified of him.”
“He is from the Cursed Land,” said Debon, eager to join the gossip. “Through the eastern gap of the Carpathian mountains into the Borgo Pass and beyond into Transylvania. I met a man who made the journey and he told me thus: ‘Naught but bandits, twisting woods and the biggest wolves you ever saw! Ones that do not fear men and attack with an unholy intelligence that reeks of Hell’s influence upon them.’”
They paused and sipped ale from pewter goblets. Gwilym digested the information silently.
“He’s a Pagan too, I
think,” Stefan added offhandedly.
Gwilym listened for what seemed like hours to bits and pieces of different stories, mismatched and without any verse or rhyme to them. Before long the three mercenaries had all passed out into oblivion with the aid of their ale sack. Some of their information remarkably coincided with what Radu had told him, while most was clearly hearsay and rumor. Gwilym was already writing verses of a song in his head, joining together the best parts of both.
Gwilym felt an excitement run up his spine that only came when the muse was upon him. He was certain of one thing: that the men had been mistaken about Radu being the man in all their stories. Too many of them overlapped and would have placed Radu in two places at once. Also, as violent as Radu was, many of the stories seemed engaged in cruelties that Gwilym believed were beyond even Radu.
The next day was August 25 and King Edward and several of his inner circle of nobles including the Prince of Wales were on a hunt. Crecy belonged to the King. Small wonder he felt entitled to hunt its woods.
The English camps bustled with the sounds of hammers hitting metals, a buzz of chatter in at least six different languages, the sizzle of meat and the bubbling of pottage over fire pits. There was a sense of unhurried joviality about the whole scene. Gwilym worked out a line or two as he walked: Betwixt the distant homes and near to battle, steel clad giants— yet mingling like cattle.
Dafydd ap Gwilym spoke to the English, in their own language, with a care for his words. Their conversations could be congenial, but often were weighted with suspicion and perhaps a little fear. Gwilym’s grin was mocking, his eyes sly. He knew where a Welshman stood with the English.
“Our King’s grandfather conquered that hill and deep forest folk, yet I would fain wonder to their loyalty’” or “I will share my ale with him, but I keep a blade at hand!” The words could cut, but never draw blood.