by David Scoles
I have conquered those fears however. I have proven loyal to his Majesty. Is it not a Welshman’s poetry he seeks even over French or the English he adopts to honor his subjects? Aye, Welsh verse is the meat and mead of passion whereas French is all conspiracy and lust. English? Well, at least you can rhyme with it.
The sun was up and it proved to be another sweltering day. Gwilym thanked God today was not the battle for the seventh time. He had seen neither hide nor hair of Radu since yesterday so he had made a point of avoiding trouble and indulging in extra rest and idleness. His wounds were cleaned and dressed, and his clothes mended and cleaned by men under William Zouche, keeper of the King’s Wardrobe. Seeing the man’s face purple when the King had told him to ‘see to our loyal minstrel’s needs’ had been more than worth earning the wardrobe keeper’s ire.
There was a great clamor ahead, just past the tents of the Milanese. Gwilym first heard and then saw a mock battle taking place on a hillock just ahead. Great black chargers wheeled about in a tight formation as the men of Milan again and again practiced their charging, lances held tight and strong. The horses tore up the earth, and dirt flew into the air. The lances shone brightly in the sun like slivers of pure fire. The diminutive Welshman gasped in awe at the sight. He had never seen such precision of movement and offered a prayer of thanks that His Majesty had paid well for such men. However, when the charge ceased and the sounds of hooves hitting dirt quieted he could hear jeers and mockery from a group of men who stood watching nearby.
By the gilding of their armor and the sharp inflections of the halting English they spoke, but mostly by the huge broadswords each had slung over their shoulders Gwilym identified these as mercenaries of Germany. Although, the cutthroats of the Red Sword’s company had been dismissed and then turn-coated, as Gwilym knew, to the service of the Nachzehrer, many other German companies had remained with the English.
“Did you see that one, Kreutzer? The lance dipped so low as to nearly pierce the ground! Do you attack the dirt sirrah?” A powerfully built blond haired man twirled one of his long mustaches as he called out to one of the Milanese riders.
This will be trouble, but perhaps it will make for an amusing song. Gwilym stood apart from the rest of them, but was close enough to hear when one of the Milanese riders rode up to glare down at the rowdy Germans.
“You dare offer insult to the greatest cavalry west of the Rhine you backwater German dog?” The rider sat straight in his saddle, but his lance was held low and pointed menacingly at the blond haired speaker. But it was another of the group who spoke up next.
“I think that one over there believes Frenchmen stand taller than a horse, his lance actually lifted!” This brought another round of laughter from the Germans. Gwilym slunk around to get a better look at the rider’s face, which he could see grow red and not from the heat.
With one arm, the rider turned his lance down and rammed it into the ground and, with a clatter of several different metal parts, dismounted his horse with well-practiced skill. Gwilym noticed several others had drifted closer, the eagerness on their faces illustrated what the boredom of a hot day with nothing to do except the menial labors of war preparation will do to men of war.
The rest of the Milanese men rode up, but were eerily silent as they gazed at the confrontation. It is because they have not been given orders, Gwilym realized. Aye, these are men who follow a code. They ride and tip their lances only when their master tells them so. Which means this man must be….
Gwilym wondered if anyone would try to stop the inevitable. The dismounted Milanese was shorter than even Gwilym had expected. The finely wrought armor, the curled toes of his sabatons and the long feathered plume of some great southern bird trailing out of his helmet gave away this warrior’s identity. This could only be Sanjelio the Sicilian.
‘The boy, he smiled and still smiling, he died.’ Little rhyme to that, but it may suffice. There was already a song about Sanjelio they sang in low houses from Rome to London, but it wasn’t one that was sung in polite company and certainly not within earshot of Sanjelio. It was said some unknowing bard had struck up the tune in a taproom in Pavia thinking to honor the mercenary captain when he and his men entered the establishment. What he got was Sanjelio’s sword parting his head from his shoulders.
Gwilym involuntarily hummed some of it to himself. What do they say of Sicily? Sanjelio’s on a horse for the Milanese. He cuts a figure atop the saddle, but when needs dismount they bring the ladder….
Sanjelio eye’s smoldered like burning coal. His mailed hand was upon his sword and there was nothing humorous about what his stance and gaze conveyed. The Germans eyed the rest of the Milanese, but not with any fear. German forged broadswords had been known to slice cleanly through the legs of charging horses. True knights would never strike another man’s horse, such was unmanly and unchivalrous. Nor would true knights ride down men who had not drawn their weapons. Yet these men were no true knights. Gwilym no longer held any illusions about the gulf between the real and the fantasy of chivalry.
A horn blew from the east and the sound echoed throughout the main camp. The king had returned from his hunt and the young minstrel heaved a sigh of relief. By the looks Sanjelio and the German gave one another, Gwilym doubted this was the last of it between them. Gwilym wondered if the outcome of the argument might not be decided discreetly after the battle or if it would happen in full view upon the battlefield.
Gwilym quickly made his way back towards the King’s great pavilion. As always, it was set directly at the center of encircling rows of outer tents belonging to liegemen, lords, personal cooks, armorsmiths, fletchers, houndmasters, musicians, wagoners, priests and all of the retinues and hangers-on one could expect with any royal presence. The crowds were thick and Gwilym had to dodge more than one hurrying messenger or squire set upon preparing their masters for war.
The closer one came to the center, the closer one was to the favor of the King. King Edward was generous with his rewards and surrounded himself with those who stood to gain the most from his reign. His lords encouraged Edward’s claim to France as they could expect to be richly rewarded with lands and titles in France should he succeed. Gwilym had also been vocal in his own support. A week before Caen, he had impressed the king with a song recounting the history of the French claim. Tracing lineage was a favorite subject of any noble family.
Gwilym entered the tent which already had filled to near capacity. He found himself directly opposite Sir Louis Tufton who addressed the King. King Edward still wore the raiment and dust of the hunt. He seemed full of vigor and eager for news.
“Philip awaits the arrival of the Genoan crossbows. I have scouts watching the roads both West and South. Their numbers will swell to near 30,000 men. It falls thence to you, your Majesty, to order your army as you see fit to meet them.” The King nodded and looked at each of his High Lords and Knights. Some wore looks of uncertainty, others appeared to have supped upon too much greasy capon and bellytimber and suffered from indigestion. It fell to Edward to reassure them.
“Many years ago Roger Mortimer conspired with my mother to keep me from my throne. There are men in this tent who saw to it he did not succeed.” King Edward placed a hand upon Northampton’s shoulder. “You, William, and you as well, Stafford. When I languished as a prisoner in Nottingham loyal men girded themselves and fought against the odds to aid their true King.” Both William Bohun and Sir Robert Stafford held themselves higher and inclined their heads at the King’s words.
“We are more than an army,” the King continued, and he paced about the pavilion and took men’s hands into his with warm familiarity. “We are men of lineage, prosperity, character and Christian piety. God shows favor to the bold and the brave. It is why he favors England.” There was a round of applause and men nodded their heads in agreement. “Although, we were forced to turn aside from Paris as the cowardly Valois had not the stones to engage us in a manly battle.” Many of the men growled in anger, but K
ing Edward held up a hand for silence. “Philip bided his time and called forth the blind King of Bohemia and a host of Low Country crossbowmen thinking they would turn the tide in his favor. Our strategic withdrawal and subsequent regrouping upon our lands here shall prove to Philip’s host, though it be larger than ours, that it is faith and veteran arms that shall win the day!” There was a slow start to the applause this time, but glares from Lord Warwick and Northampton raised cheers again.
“Yet let us not forget that we are not just Englishmen.” King Edward stood before Gwilym and he placed a hand upon the minstrel’s shoulder. Gwilym thought he might faint, but held it together. “We are also Welsh, Cornish, Irish, Saxon and Norman. We are together a people that is England. Too long has Frenchy lorded over us and the rest of Europe. We are ascendant and the crown of this country is ours, Sallic Law be damned!”
The noble attitude when it came to rights and titles was one of strict adherence to laws and customs. Gwilym although a noble himself felt he had more in common with those outside the pavilion who prepared for the fight ahead. Would they survive and get to go home? Gwilym glanced over at Sir John Chandos, but the man’s face was an unreadable mask. Lord Warwick’s face momentarily betrayed a grimace.
“Now then, my lords,” the King said after a long pause to allow his words to sink in. “The army shall be ordered so: Warwick, Oxford, Harcourt, Sir Cobham, Sir Holland, Lord Stafford, Nevill, Clifford and Sir Chandos shall take their men and form lines on our right with the town behind them. I want archers forward with a Welsh spear to their left and knelt in a fixed position against cavalry charge.” The King paused again and fixed Warwick with his gaze. “The Prince of Wales has command and the rest of you shall advise him.”
If Lord Warwick’s face had gotten any paler Gwilym would have sworn he had just suffered a heart-stop. Others were equally surprised by the announcement, but the Prince himself looked solemn faced and ready to accept the great responsibility that had been laid upon him. Gwilym tried to fight down the doubts in his own mind as well as the suspicions that had been growing within him about Prince Edward. Perhaps the King’s great trust was proof positive that those doubts were unfounded?
“Your Majesty, I have had a new surcoat sewn bearing the lions of Plantagenet and the fleur de lis so that Philip Valois might know me upon the battlefield. When he sees them he shall know in his heart that the rightful rulers of this land bring the sword of God’s righteousness upon the heads of all usurpers!” King Edward nodded at the Prince’s words. His eyes glowed with pride.
“Wear this surcoat proudly. I command all the Bishops to bless it with the Holy Water we have brought from Saint Brigid’s Well. Let your sword be anointed with oils from the ampullae of Thomas Becket. Neither death nor dishonor shall touch you upon the morrow.”
Sir John Chandos felt many of his own misgivings fade at the sight of his dear friend the Prince of Wales so full of confidence again. This was the sight that the lords of England needed to see: the current and future King united in pursuit of victory. Sir Talbot for once did not wear a sardonic smile, but instead thumped his mailed fist upon his armored chest to salute his Prince and King.
“Northampton you have the second army. Arundel, Lord Ros, Lucy, Tufton, Lascelles, Willoughby and Basset shall accompany with their archers and men at arms. Wadicourt shall be at your backs on the left side. I shall personally take command of the third army behind you, yet in front of the cart park that I shall have in a ring here.” The King indicated upon the map a square he had drawn to indicate where the park should be.
“Within shall be the horses kept safe along with baggage. Only one entry in or out. All men must be afoot, for the French Calvary numbers shall render our own cavalry charges moot. Instead, we shall draw them forward and utilize our longbowmen to great effect.” That statement did not go over well.
“Your Majesty, do we not dishonor ourselves not to meet the Usurper lance to lance?” This was from Sir Boeth. Gwilym blinked. It was the first time he had ever heard the skeletal knight speak. The hairless scowler had always been the silent servant at the shoulder of Lord Northampton. There was something in the man’s voice that tickled something in the minstrel’s brain, but try as he might he could not bring it to bear.
Sir Boeth also looked surprised that he had blurted out the question. With his gaunt visage, he looked like a hollow skeleton gaping. He glanced about the room and saw all eyes upon him, most glaring in disapproval that so low a vassal knight should speak without permission in the presence of his King. Lord Northampton seemed especially put out. Sir Boeth bent his knee and bowed his head.
“Rise and bear no shame, Sir Boeth, for ’tis a fair question to raise,” King Edward said soothingly. “It is in these moments that we think of those who came before us. Our ancestors who raised their own banners and threw themselves into the melee or took up a lance look down upon us now. I feel the eyes of my forebears, Henry II and especially the Conqueror upon whose grave I most recently prayed.” King Edward glanced at his son and for a moment a cloud passed across his features, but it lasted the briefest moment.
King Edward raised Sir Boeth to his feet and clapped him upon his shoulders and looked straight into the eyes of the older knight. “I am here for myself, yes, but I am also here for those who follow me. They are every bit my family as my wife and children are. Family is everything Sir Boeth. Therefore it is our duty to do everything we can to return to them. We do not unman ourselves. We will fight with honor and vigor so that we might all return to the place we belong.” Sir Boeth nodded gravely.
“Family is everything, your Majesty.” Sir Boeth whispered.
“We shall withdraw ourselves now,” King Edward said, again addressing everyone. “Share our table this evening and join together in prayers on the morrow.” All bowed as the King withdrew to one of the rear corners of his pavilion followed by two pages. The rest of the men, Gwilym amongst them, filed out one by one. He picked up snatches of conversation, though it was mostly muted. Gwilym also saw the Earl of Northampton giving Sir Boeth an earful. The older knight merely stood still as a statue and bore it all. Gwilym couldn’t help but overhear some of it.
“A… accepted your service based on recommendation by your nephew… should have expected a walking corpse to… frequent absences… acquit yourself accordingly!” Any hope of listening further halted when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned about, thinking he may have to make excuses why he could not compose yet another poem about noble lineages. The words died on his lips when he recognized Sir John Chandos.
“A moment, Master Minstrel.” Sir Chandos indicated that Gwilym should follow him. They walked a ways until they reached Sir Chandos’ own pavilion. Sir Chandos entered first and Gwilym cautiously followed. Recent events had made Gwilym wary and so unconsciously his hand crept down towards his saber. Sir Chandos raised an eyebrow and Gwilym flushed red.
“Forgive me. These are trying times we live in.”
“No need, Dafydd. I expect that all of us are a little on edge with Valois’ 30,000 men coming to join us for dinner on the morrow,” Sir Chandos responded with a wry grin.
“Is it really so many?” Gwilym asked unable to mask the tremor in his voice. Sir Chandos frowned.
“Aye. Scores of Genoese crossbows and a cavalry fit to shake the earth when it charges. It shall be a test of nerve, steel and longbows.” Then the young knight smiled and clapped Gwilym on the shoulder. “I had advised the King on the army’s disposition and he took to heart nearly all my suggestions. It is a great honor. I trust in the King’s plan, so take solace in that, good Welshman.”
“Did you also advise that Prince Edward command one arm of the army?” Gwilym dared to ask. Sir Chandos sighed and took a bottle of wine from the single table within the spartan tent. He removed the wax with his misericord and filled two pewter cup and handed one to Gwilym.
“In truth, I did not. I do not have the right to suggest leaders. You overestimate me! I serve
at the King’s pleasure, but am devoted to the Prince.”
“By the grapes of Saint Vincent of Saragossa, Patron Saint of Wine, what delight is this?” Gwilym blurted out after taking a pull from the cup Sir Chandos had offered him. It was as if angels had briefly danced upon his tongue before he swallowed. Sir Chandos snorted.
“It is Pierrefitte. A gift from the Prince on the day of his knighting.”
“It seems a lifetime ago. That you should wait so long to not partake of such richness.” Gwilym paused and looked up from his cup. “Why share this with me, sir? We do not often speak and I had not considered us friends?” Sir Chandos set down his cup and leaned forward on his stool.
“I would ask a favor of you, Dafydd ap Gwilym, and it is not something that I ask lightly.”
“I would be of service, sir,” Gwilym replied reluctantly.
“I would ask you to be near the Prince upon the morrow. I know it unseemly for a knight to ask this of a minstrel. Although, he will be surrounded by men of quality and ability, I would know that a true servant of the crown rides with him. There will be many a knight on both sides looking to take a ransom tomorrow.”
It was a known fact that a knight might beggar himself upon a campaign. Keeping a horse, the upkeep of arms and armor. The chance to take a man of quality and hold him for a ransom could literally turn financial ruin into years of comfort. The only two men upon the battlefield tomorrow who did not entertain such thoughts were probably King Edward and the Prince and there was no certainty in that either.
“I would do my utmost to protect him should he need me, Sir John, and shall attach myself to his command, but I would not expect much to come of it. Forgive me, but will you not accompany the Prince on the morrow as one of his sworn swords?”
“Nay, the King at the last moment asked that I remain with the central body under his command. I am to take charge of his archers.” Sir Chandos bit off that last sentence and Gwilym sympathized. The knight undoubtedly dreamed of close combat. Such is the lot of capable men however that they are too valuable to sacrifice in the vanguard. That would be left to the Irish gallowglass and the Welsh spearmen, no doubt.