The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  “A great honor,” Gwilym offered.

  “Do not patronize, Master Gwilym. It does not become you.” Both men then refreshed their cups and drank deep. God in Heaven, was Pierrefitte made with cherub’s tears and grapes from Eden itself, Gwilym wondered?

  “Remain close to him, if only to dissuade him from any folly or dangerous course of action,” Sir Chandos finally said. “You have a persuasive power about you and your words may reach him in those most dire of moments. If there is one thing I have learned about battle, Gwilym, it is that victory and defeat turn on such moments.” Gwilym felt his heart swell with pride. It had finally dawned on him what an important task he was being entrusted with. Not only that, but what a poem it would be as from a witness to the Battle of Crecy while at the side of the Black Prince!

  “Take that capable mercenary friend with you as well.”

  “Ah, I see. Yes, I will ask him.” Gwilym felt his heart deflate just a little. Sir Chandos grinned.

  “Sir Chandos, why me, I pray you? It is a question I have oft asked of myself of late. The King grants me leave to seek danger unasked for, but as I am a loyal servant, I do so. Are there truly none more capable that a simple poet?”

  Sir Chandos thought for a moment about his answer. He decided upon the most sincere. “Loyalty may be for sale in this world, but honor never is. It can be found in the lowest of the low and be absent in even the highest. Not all of us have the luxury of speaking that fact aloud. Perhaps one with the proper skill might someday bring to light all that happened here and he might even get some to believe him. Or he might count his blessings, pocket his coin and tell another tale that most would rather hear. A chanson de geste, if you will.”

  “Chivalry is rarely the whole story, is it sir?” Gwilym sighed. He found the bottom of his cup and Sir Chandos joined him by finding his own.

  “Sometimes it doesn’t figure into the story at all. At least not where you expect to find it.”

  Chapter 3

  When Gwilym finally found Radu, the mercenary had just finished adjusting the packs on his horse. Gwilym noticed an empty sack hanging from the saddle and he idly wondered whose head would next be bloodily bouncing along inside it. Radu’s face seemed more tense than usual. Was it that they were fast approaching the end of Summer and the season of war would soon come to an end? Or perhaps Radu still felt some trepidation about the approaching battle.

  “Do we prepare for battle or do we balance ourselves upon the scales of life?” Gwilym asked. Radu turned and looked at Gwilym. Was it his imagination or had Radu just winced at the sight of him. “If we should meet God tomorrow, I would like to think the Lord shall balance me against the weight of the songs and poems I have sung. That he shall find my soul as light as the beauty I have tried to bring into the world.” Gwilym smiled and forced himself to feel hopeful. “Shall God weigh Radu the Black against the good he has done?” For a long breath Radu said nothing, just stared off into space lost in his own thoughts. Then he answered.

  “I must go. There shall be no battle for Crecy for me upon the morrow.” Gwilym blinked not sure he had heard Radu correctly.

  “I do not understand. The quarry we seek rides with King John of Bohemia and shall undoubtedly make himself known upon the battlefield thence. Your quest shall reach its climax and then shall conspirators be thwarted!” Radu turned about and cinched a strap on his saddle and did not respond. He seemed determined to keep his innermost thoughts to himself, but this time Gwilym would not be brushed aside.

  “Do you turn coward and run away?”

  “There are thirty thousand men coming for a mere twelve thousand,” Radu snarled. The barb had rankled him. Gwilym drew back a step, but held his ground. He returned Radu’s glare defiantly. “The English will lose, but I shall not fall with them, minstrel. I shall await battle’s end and pick up the Nachzehrer’s trail once more when all is done. I will not fall into this trap he has baited me with.”

  Radu mounted his horse with one leap and gathered up his reins. Gwilym looked up at him and shook his head, still disbelieving what he was hearing. What had they traveled and bled together for? Where had that single minded determination gone?

  “You have not answered my question,” Gwilym said, fighting to stay calm. Radu looked down at him. His horse pawed the ground eager to be off, but the mercenary hesitated.

  “Come with me. You are no soldier and have you not said that as a Welshman you have no real love for this conflict over an English King seeking a French crown? We move North towards Calais then circle East towards Paris. After the battle we will catch the Nachzehrer unawares after he is full of gloat regarding his victory.” Gwilym shook his head.

  “His victory? The man is mortal lest he be Methuselah, so is he? Perhaps he will find his death at some other’s hand tomorrow. Will it be your victory then? Is this man really worth so much death that you would miss the chance to end it for good? Do you forget Saint Josse? How many more innocent families slaughtered must there be?”

  Gwilym’s voice rose higher. He could not control himself. Anger and frustration boiled over. He was a different man now and whether he wanted to admit to it or not, Radu was greatly responsible for the change in Dafydd ap Gwilym. Gone was the fearful, self-absorbed boy who had set sail months ago seeking adventure and chivalrous distraction. The Gwilym that stood defiantly before Radu the Black had gained scars and bore them proudly.

  “I thought you were about more than the coins you trade in for people’s heads. Tell me, do you stare into the eyes of those severed acquaintances and think, ‘I should have waited until you burned down at least five more villages. I could have negotiated a greater fee!’” Gwilym shouted. Radu stared down at him and through him. His jaw worked as he grit his teeth. “How much, God damnit? How much is one man worth?”

  Radu turned back to his horse and removed several sheafs of vellum before he finished cinching his satchel. Radu tossed the scrolls at the minstrel’s feet. “I spent the night writing down what I could remember. I felt I owed you that much. Make of it what you will.”

  Gwilym watched red-faced as Radu the Black guided his horse about. “Will the head and story of the Nachzehrer be worth all the people you sacrifice tomorrow?” Gwilym demanded. “Answer me!”

  “Not a penny.”

  Radu rode away, but Gwilym didn’t watch him go. Picking up the vellum scrolls Radu had tossed at his feet, he unrolled the first and began to read. If Radu’s simple script held any answers as to why he was leaving, it was up to Gwilym to find them.

  Chapter 4

  Tihomir was furious over the delay. He had hoped to reach the gates of Krakow within a week’s time, but sent the Cumans into the forest to track his missing son. They hesitated, of course, knowing well the forest’s fell reputation. But unlike the dark tales of the Hoia-Baciu, Tihomir’s wrath was no myth and his punishments were all too real.

  It was impossible to tell whether Tihomir was truly concerned for his son’s welfare. To him, the role of a father was someone who commanded obedience. One wonders if after enough time passed, the Cumans would just have left the wayward boy to his unknown fate. But he was found.

  Radu wandered out of the forest by himself about midday. His face was pale and he had a bloody nose. His face and arms were bloody as well, but there was no sign of him being in pain. His fine clothes were torn and dirty. He got even bloodier when Tihomir slapped him.

  “Where the Hell have you been?” Tihomir demanded mere inches from the boy’s face. “You dare flaunt my generosity in allowing you to ride alongside men of honor?” Words were wasted. The lad seemed lost in a daze. Exhaustion had stolen his voice. Tihomir had no time to spare on punishments, but he swore to all there and anyone within shouting distance that one would come. None wanted to spend another night at the border of the Hoia-Baciu. The sun was still high, so all mounted and set off again.

  Radu and Mircea spoke not a word to one another about the incident. Any camaraderie they may have shared was
lost in the gloom that hung over the boys as a result of their father’s anger. Even leaving the dark forest behind did little to lift the pall. As a result neither made a whisper for the remainder of journey through the countryside into Moldavia and onward into Poland and the capital city of Krakow.

  Entering Krakow was like walking into another world. The boys’ entire lives had been Poenari Citadel and its surrounding environs, which were stark to say the least. To walk the streets of a great city for the first time in their lives was like nothing they could have imagined. The party led by Tihomir crossed beneath St. Florian’s Gate and over the bridge while the Vistula River raced below. The guilds, the tradesmen, the knights and the people— Radu and Mircea saw them all and marveled. For the first time, both saw how big the world was and how much they had to learn.

  Radu noticed many of the townsfolk of Krakow eyed them with either mistrust or disinterest. He concluded the Cumans must have seemed like country bumpkins to the more cosmopolitan Poles. Many sets of curious eyes were directed at them as the group made its way towards Wawel Cathedral, the location of King Casimir’s coronation.

  If the city of Krakow itself astounded, then the grand cathedral of Krakow was a wonder beyond the imagination. Where Poenari Castle was a perching raven Wawel Cathedral was a plump pheasant seated comfortable aside the Vistula basking in the sun’s rays. The great church was adorned with the heraldry of Polish Kings beside the stained glass of angels, the Saints and Casimir’s preferred color of red. Everywhere it was an aura of celebration and hope. Dignitaries and ambassadors from other lands thronged the streets. There were even dark skinned men dressed in colorful robes from the lands of Islam.

  The Cumans were equally astounded and none more so than Tihomir who marveled at the great displays of wealth he saw everywhere. Why did he not possess such riches? These men were not his betters! Polish nobles flaunted gemstones sewn into their cloaks and doublets. Noblewomen wore ermine, silks and furs. Tihomir felt quite plain dressed in the armor of a soldier. Radu gawked at it. Mircea looked about, but seemed neither impressed nor moved by the sights.

  “Does it not boggle the mind, brother?” Mircea remarked to Radu. “So many people and they seem quite pleased about their new King even though the old one ruled such a long time. Are they not afraid of change?” Radu smirked at his brother’s words and amusement danced in his dark eyes.

  “Just wait, brother. Our father will never bow to an untested boy. Remember his words? ‘A title must be fought for every single day.’ The only thing Casimir did was to be born to another King.”

  “What happened to you in the forest?” Mircea asked quietly. The question had been eating at him and he finally summoned the courage to ask.

  “I practiced the fokos and I decided what my destiny will one day be,” Radu replied. “One even greater than father’s.” He spoke no more about it and the boys focused on their meeting with King Casimir.

  The line to meet King Casimir was long and Tihomir was none too pleased that they had arrived late. They were forced to wait in a line filled with the merchant class and minor nobility from obscure lands none of them had ever heard of. One such man attempted to strike up a conversation with Tihomir, introducing himself as a saffron merchant from a place called Messina. Tihomir glared down at him menacingly and the merchant quickly made himself disappear into the large crowd of well-wishers.

  “I am Tihomir, Voivode of Transylvania,” he declared to a clerk who was taking down the names of those who awaited the King’s pleasure.” Expecting his title to impress the thin little man Tihomir crossed his arms and prepared to hear the little man’s apologies for making them wait outside with the rabble. The clerk was not impressed and merely continued down the line taking names. Tihomir grabbed the clerk with a snarl. A Polish guard intervened, grabbing my father’s arm.

  Tihomir would have drawn his fokos and killed the man had not Safaris, one of his men, intervened quickly. The guard sensed that and several more men were stationed near the group from then on. The other people around them murmured and whispered amongst themselves about the ‘barbarian outlanders’ while Tihomir seethed in anger.

  Time passed and the Cumans grew restless. They had left their horses at a public house and had come directly to the castle without resting. They were tired and hungry and tempers were beginning to fray even more. Tihomir directed most of his ire at his young sons. Radu again had to endure more threats about punishment for making his father late.

  By the time Tihomir’s party stood before King Casimir the proud Cuman warrior had nearly reached his limit. It had grown late and many people still lingered in the palace. The scent of so many people together was a smell the boys were not used to. The stink reminded the boys of a horse’s stall that had not been mucked in a week. The smell, however, did not distract any of them from the great wealth that adorned the inner Cathedral.

  Tihomir was especially impressed, his anger temporarily forgotten as he gazed about the Gothic architecture in wonder. When they had first entered, they had passed beneath the ancient bones of the dragon, Smok Waweleski killed long ago by a King of old. It was a small mercy that he did not notice several of the Polish nobles snickered at him behind his back. His weapons would have certainly cleared their sheathes had he done so. Radu, however, took note of those nobles’ faces and promised he would teach them a lesson later on if the opportunity presented itself.

  Wawel Cathedral added another level of meaning to the word ‘title’ that had previously been lost upon the rustic Cumans. Wealth blessed by God. Great wealth not only in horseflesh or coins or serfs, but in tapestries and jeweled plate. Clothing woven from silks imported from the far east upon the Silk Road and delicacies such as olive oil, pepper and God’s blessed fruit. Mircea had never before eaten a cherry until he plucked one from a passing plate. To him, a Cerasus cherry that had been preserved in honey was among the sweetest of Eden’s bounty.

  King Casimir was in his twenties, but appeared younger. He had not inherited his father’s lack of size, but was still thin and slight. Surrounding him were grim faced men who eyed the approaching Cumans with undisguised hostility. Had the confrontation with the guard and merchant reached their ears? Or was the armored form of a foreign prince regarded as disrespectful? What did Cumans know of etiquette?

  “Approach and declare yourself, Tihomir.” This was said by a man who stood to the King’s right and held an open ledger in his hands. He was the oldest, most gray haired and grimmest looking bastard Radu and Mircea had ever laid eyes upon. Tihomir did as he was bid. The only person in that party besides Tihomir who wasn’t nervous was Radu who walked confidently behind his father. Mircea quick walked forward to catch up to them and took a position to his father’s right and slightly behind him. Mircea was nervous, but felt no fear. The King looked weak to him. Certainly there was nothing he could do to his mighty father!

  “I am Tihomir, Voivoide of Transylvania and the lands of Wallachia. I come to congratulate King Casimir on his ascension to the….”

  “Transylvania is a very small country that is subject to King Charles of Hungary, is it not?” The old man interrupted. Tihomir was not used to being interrupted and for a moment was at a loss for words. The old man took that as a cue to continue. “You may have seized your seat through rite of conquest, but by all accounts have paid nothing in tithe to the Hungarian King. Is it your intention to forge an agreement with King Casimir and instead subject yourself as a vassal of Poland?”

  Radu decided he would like to kill this old man. He would use his fokos to split him down the middle like a haunch of pork.

  “The boyars are cowards and the people are sheep.” Tihomir finally said when he had recovered himself. “They respect strength and follow men of vision.”

  “Yet not men with enough vision to pay tithe to their King,” the old man stated flatly. “We are tied to Hungary through the marriage of King Casimir’s sister Elizabeth to King Charles. You would try to instigate a conflict with Hu
ngary by refusing to pay what is owed then hide behind Poland?”

  “I hide behind no one, old man,” Tihomir growled dangerously.

  “My name is Jaroslav and I am the Archbishop of Gneizno.” Jaroslav’s gaze was like ice.

  “Enough, Jaroslav,” King Casimir finally spoke up. He regarded Tihomir calmly. “From whom were you born?” The question caught Tihomir off guard yet again.

  “My father was a Cuman warrior from the Balkans. I am a descendant of Genghis Khan.” Jaroslav snorted.

  “A lie.”

  The King silenced the Archbishop with a glance. Tihomir was not so cowed.

  “Call me a liar again and the King will need a new Archbishop!” There were gasps around the room and the King’s personal guard shuffled in their armor nervously. Those handful of Cumans Tihomir had brought with him glanced about and did not flinch though they were outnumbered ten to one.

  “We would hope that true and noble Christian knights, like yourself Tihomir, would n’er need their truthfulness questioned even by a King.” King Casimir stood and all in the room bowed. Even Tihomir lowered himself a little. “Forgive Jaroslav. He speaks out of a desire for the stability of lineages. Are we not the ones born to rule as God wills it?” Casimir then stood before Tihomir and the differences were palpable. A tall, broad warrior next to a slight, well dressed nobleman.

  Neither Radu nor Mircea could make heads or tails of it. To them, these Poles seemed petty and weak, especially Jaroslav, who was like an overripe plum. How did such men gain power and keep it?

  “Transylvania seems a grim place by how it has been described, but I have no doubt it holds beauty as well.” King Casimir said as he descended his short dais and stood toe to toe before Tihomir. The Cumans made note that King Casimir did not flinch or blink as he matched Tihomir’s gaze. They respected it. Radu, however, saw it as arrogance and felt that they were being looked down upon. He swore to himself he would remember it.