by David Scoles
“It cannot be easy for such a country, surrounded as it is by such uncertain neighbors. The sultans especially give one pause. Thus even I myself must meet with ambassadors who do not believe that Jesus was the son of God and make allowance for their strange prayers even if we do not find them convenient. Such is the new multicultural world we live in, eh?”
“I would not tolerate their inconvenience,” Tihomir said confidently. This King’s frank honesty was contagious.
“No, I don’t believe you would. You are a relic of a bygone age. Come.” Tihomir’s brow furrowed and his narrowed eyes, but he followed the King who led him and several others to the grand Cathedral doors. They were thrown open and from without came a resounding cheer from the people of Krakow who waited by the thousands outside. It was deafening and even Tihomir winced from the force of such a powerful sound.
“This is what a new age sounds like. My rule,” King Casimir said indicating the people with a sweep of one bejeweled hand. “Each man, woman and child knows their place, yet is determined to work together as a whole. It is not feudalism. It is consistency. Father to son and father to son down the ages. It makes the people content to know at least some things never change.” King Casimir smiled and waved to even greater cheers. He turned and looked at Tihomir again, his smile still present.
“What make your boyars of your rule, I wonder? Your consistency?” He indicated Radu and Mircea standing dutifully behind their father. Radu glared. Mircea stood thoughtfully, hanging on the King’s every word. Tihomir had no words. He seemed to be chewing something distasteful, but refused stubbornly to spit it out.
“My son, Mircea, is my heir,” Tihomir said finally, indicating the younger boy.
“Your second-born? Ah, well I was the third born son, myself. Best to have as many as possible my father always said. Nothing is for certain in this world.” Both King and Prince along with several others including Jaroslav, Radu and Mircea, stepped back as the great doors of Wawel Cathedral swung shut once again.
“Your Majesty, there are other guests to meet. I am sure Prince Tihomir and his men are exhausted and hungry. They will find refreshment laid out for them at the finest public house in Krakow, the Wierzynek.” Jaroslav was insincere, but the thought of food made the boy’s stomachs rumble audibly. King Casimir smiled down at the boys.
“Indeed. Take refreshment and enjoy the hospitality Krakow has to offer. See what a cosmopolitan city such as ours can offer and when you return to Transylvania consider what you have seen and think on it.” Tihomir mumbled something under his breath. The King nodded and turned to go, but he glanced back one last time and offered a final word.
“Consider your fealty to our brother Charles. Budapest is every bit as grand as Krakow. I trust we may meet again.” King Casimir flashed a grin at Jaroslav. “You have two sons and, well, I have two daughters after all.” Tihomir’s eyes widened and Jaroslav blanched.
Tihomir was silent all the way back to their public house where they gathered their things and then made their way to the Wierzynek. The meal they ate was every bit as marvelous as promised. Tihomir’s men, of course, did not eat with them. In Krakow, men at arms ate in a room separate from that where more distinguished guests dined.
This was a new experience for Tihomir, but the sense of elevation he felt pleased him. He sat at a table with his two sons waited upon by a buxom blond haired wench. In between bites and oggling the girl’s bosom he would mutter the same phrase over and over again. “I have two sons… and he has two daughters….” Radu’s face was troubled. Mircea ignored them both and tore into a thick sausage as big as his arm.
Punishment for the Hoia-Baciu was forgotten. The next few days were a whirlwind as Tihomir, now removed from his armor and dressed as a Polish nobleman in hose, doublet and cloak, strolled the plazas of Krakow. Radu didn’t recognize his father without his armor. To the boy, his father looked more vulnerable. Paunchy, sallow and old as well. The city was crowded and the smells were overwhelming. Radu hated the city and he hated how his father would not stop exhorting Mircea about King Casimir’s daughters.
“If Casimir has no sons, the line will pass to his daughter’s sons! The line of Tihomir will become Kings of Poland!” Through it all Mircea said little. In fact he seemed bored by it. That only made Radu angrier. Finally, he could take it no more.
“He lied to us!” It was the night before they were to depart Krakow. Radu pulled Mircea aside while they were escorted back to the public house by two surly Cumans. Their father, deep in his cups and with his arm around a crooked-toothed Polish wench had dismissed his sons to bed. Radu hadn’t taken it kindly. He no longer considered himself a boy and demanded he be allowed to drink with his father and the men. Emboldened by this new side of his father that to Radu seemed less intimidating, he had for the first time in his life returned his father’s stare. He imagined it would be a week before the swelling in his lip went away.
“What do you mean?” Mircea answered calmly.
“Everything he said to us about earning titles through strength. All that nonsense about struggling to hold onto what he had taken— things that none had yielded to him.” Radu shook his head and punched the solid wooden wall of their room. Mircea winced. Radu eyed his brother icily.
“I thought to perhaps prove myself to him. I went into the forest to practice with the fokos, but also to consider how I might persuade him to let me train as a knight. I have been reading the Bible.” Radu paused and broke his eye contact with Mircea. His father had made no secret of the fact he found the sacred book so much hogwash and drivel.
“To what purpose?” Mircea asked curiously.
“It doesn’t matter,” Radu snarled. “For that man does nothing for anyone but himself. I see now that ‘honoring thy father’ will gain me as much as it gained my mother when she tried to honor him as a husband.”
“Our father was not married to your mother,” Mircea reminded him. “He is married to mine. It is why I am the heir.” Radu chewed upon his lower lip, but then nodded his head in agreement.
“We are truly two different sons, are we not? That we are linked by such a man may prove unfortunate for us both one day, I think.”
Radu said nothing more to Mircea that day or the next when the Cumans left the city of Krakow to return to Poenari Castle. Mircea was forced to endure more grand strategizing from Tihomir who was utterly convinced that Mircea would one day marry Casimir’s eldest daughter and become a royal consort. Radu kept to the rear of the group out of sight and out of mind. When a heavy rain forced the Cumans to make camp early near the Hoia-Baciu forest, Radu slipped away into the darkness alone. The next day, however, he did not emerge from the forest. Tihomir sent no search party. The Cumans mounted their horses and rode away. Mircea was the only one who looked back.
Chapter 5
The evening of August 25 was cloudy enough to obscure moon and stars. Torches lit the camp of King Philip of France like ten thousand fireflies. The King dined with a choice few, including his brother, the Count of Alencon. Philip’s brother was a boisterous addition to the dinner table and a meal before a war had the pug-nosed Count loudly offering toasts to his brother’s health in between loud boasts about the ransoms he would take on the morrow.
“Tomorrow shall see Crecy watered with the blood of these peasants and inbred farmers,” the Count began. His opinions of the English were as low as grass, especially as he had suffered recent loss of property as a result of their invasion. Before he had merely viewed them as many French nobility had: a means of wool, import taxes and personal enrichment. He drank deeply from an expensive glass goblet, which held wine from the Cistercian abbey of Olieux. The ruby liquid made his cheeks flush just as red. “We shall also see ourselves enriched in arms, armor and coin. I myself have a mind to touch lances with Sir Richard Talbot himself!” There was a roar of approval from the assembled lords, all save the King. He knew his brother well and his boasts were not spoken with wine’s tongue, but with s
incerity.
“A toast to the stalwart Count of Alencon,” said King James of Majorca, who belched and raised his goblet in salute to the French lord.
King James of Majorca was only offered a seat at King Philip’s table out of respect for his station. He was in exile and fielded few men. The Spaniard was also not well-liked. The man ate all that was put before him, which to Philip’s mind was unseemly behavior for a King. He himself would take a slice of pork here, a lamprey with butter there, and wash it down with wine poured from his own cask. He rarely finished what was on his plate. Philip nevertheless was certain that the exiled King would seek to distinguish himself tomorrow. After all, he hoped to win Philip’s favor to retake his own throne in Majorca.
Across from Majorca, King John of Bohemia’s son Charles of Luxembourg, who had taken the title King of the Romans, scowled down his impressive nose at Sir Miles, the Lord of Noyers. The knight had just finished telling a bawdy tale of two Low Country sisters whose wickedness had taken them first to a bordello then into repentance at a shrine to Saint Agnes, Patron Saint of Chastity. While there they had, according to Sir Miles, fallen back into their wicked ways after one received a vision from the blessed Saint that it was a greater sin to remain chaste after showing such talent. The pious Charles was not amused. Philip privately thought Charles a bore, but could not deny his worth. Old Bohemia himself had as yet not joined them.
“Where is Bohemia?” Philip whispered to a servant, also a trusted spy, who stood behind his travel throne.
“He sends word he shall join you anon and begs you forgive his tardiness,” the servant leaned low and whispered into the King’s ear. “In truth, he meets with some of his own men and discusses matters I could not discern for neither servants nor bondsmen would or could speak of what is discussed within Bohemian’s camp. All that can be said is what is already known to your Majesty: that he employs many mercenaries and keeps little rein upon them in your kingdom.”
King Philip gave a barely perceptible nod of his head and the servant/spy recognized his dismissal. Philip sank down into his throne a little. Victory had already been declared! The English had already turned away from Paris then foiled all attempts to find safe passage across the Somme. Had Edward thought he could be intimidated by poor legal arguments over the succession?
The betrayal of so many of his own lords was not unexpected. Their country bumpkin ways were as foreign to the cosmopolitan Parisians as the English’s were. What hadn’t been expected had been that fool, Compte d’Eu, surrendering Caen so easily. There would be a reckoning between himself and Raoul soon enough he promised himself. His cowardice had allowed the English to push as far into the interior as they had. Philip had hoped to squeeze Edward between his own overwhelming army and the river, but somehow they had learned about Blanchetaque and then that cretin du Fay had failed him. Philip’s greatest curse seemed to be the ineptness of his own lords. So he himself, no longer a young man by any means, was forced to take the field personally as King John had urged. He was still ill at ease with the decision.
An ache had been building behind Philip’s eyes that neither leeching nor prayer could deflect. It was an on-again, off-again pain that began the day he’d first laid eyes upon King Edward of England. It had been upon the day Edward was to kneel before Philip and pay him homage as the sovereign of all French lands he held. He had been defiant even then, yet Philip and his lords had recognized a destiny for greatness kindled in the young monarch that to this day set Philip’s teeth on edge.
Philip had always been so secure, so assured of his own place as Europe’s greatest monarch. He had never once envied nor given much care to Edward, even during the Scottish campaigns. That was until Philip heard of the exploits of the Black Prince and, try as he might, Philip could not measure them against those of his own son Jean.
Jean. His heir. Now there was a problem for another day. It seemed the world prepared to turn itself over to the younger generation and test whether fathers had properly raised their sons. The night grew long and Philip wanted to retire soon, but before he did he wanted words with Bohemia. Finally the blind man made his appearance.
A man might have been forgiven for believing King John was not blind at all. He was flanked as always by two huge men that he referred to as his ‘Left’ and ‘Right.’ He carried no walking stick, nor did he stumble as he moved confidently into the grand pavilion. Old he may have been, but King John of Bohemia had the physique of a powerful man still in his prime. His arms alone looked capable of crushing the life from any foe. Charles watched his father enter and stood when he had. Philip smirked and was about to chide the man, but then had a thought that perhaps King John could tell?
King John took his seat next to King Philip silently helped by his ‘Left.’ Both Left and Right then stood back and took position behind their liege. John reached forward and a servant quickly filled the empty goblet there with wine. Philip watched it all wordlessly.
“Father, I…,” Charles started to say.
“No more running for Edward, eh, Philip?” King John asked after he had finished his wine. Charles fumed and remained silent.
“It would not matter to me if he ran all the way back to England for I should pursue him even there. My country has been ravaged! The accounts, when balanced, shall show thousands of livre lost, I have no doubt. By God, I shall have him! Pas de quartier vas être donné. No quarter shall be given.” Philip slammed his fist down onto the table. Instantly, much of the chatter in the room died down. A smile flickered across King John’s face.
“A King feels his losses more acutely than others, eh?” King John asked.
Philip eyed the other king, wondering if he was being mocked. That was the thing about blind men: you couldn’t look into their eyes and discern their thoughts. “I feel that losses in war are expected, yet these personal losses to mine own purse are a punishment by God himself. Mark me, there is a conspiracy here. Our lands are burned, our Churches are robbed and people are killed. What of it, I say? Lands are sown anew, Churches can again be filled with silver and gold from the coffers of the faithful and the people will return and multiply as they do. God restores to those who sow and those who pray, but does God then restore to us, his anointed King, our losses? What of my suffering? I tell you this, we have suffered a grievous wound to ourselves even greater than those who died at Caen. Consider the state of our realm. A pretender has attempted to usurp what is ours by rights Sallic. In so doing he calls into question the very laws of Heaven; besmirches the descendants of Charlemagne! Shall God judge Edward harshly?” Philip glared directly at Bishop Senzeille who cleared his throat to speak.
“God shall surely punish England for its hubris. France is ascendant.”
“So then I do God’s work by exacting said punishment?” Philip pressed. “God shall reward his loyal servant by granting me victory? We who rule may find satisfaction for our great losses?”
“Most assuredly, Your Majesty,” the Bishop answered wiping the sweat from his brow with one trembling hand. King Philip continued to glare at the Bishop until King John spoke up.
“‘O Death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?’ The sting of death is sin’s result, and the strength of sin oft decides the battle. Do you recognize that passage, Bishop?” King John asked.
“Well, I had not thought to bring my Bible with me to the table, Your Majesty,” the Bishop stammered.
“First Corinthians, passage 15 verses 55 through 57.” It was Charles who responded. “It means many truths will soon be known.” Charles stared hard into his father’s sightless face. “The righteous need not fear the pain of death, but the sinners….” He left the thought hanging.
“Well said, Bohemia. I drink to your son’s astuteness as well. The word of God, as always, holds all answers. We who are righteous need not fear sin’s blades or arrows. On the morrow it is we who shall bring God’s justice down upon the heads of the English sinners and their rabble of mercenaries.”
King Philip raised his cup in a salute.
“‘The Son can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing. For whatever the Father does, that the Son does likewise.’ The Book of John, passage 5 verse 19.” Charles dipped his hands into a silver bowl of water to cleanse them of capon grease. “Your Majesty knows of the atrocities committed to land and Church and the theft of chattels. Could it be that you have not also heard of the savagery, rape and despoiling of villages done by mercenaries that bare no colors and carry no standard?”
King Philip frowned. “Prithee say on, but we hold it firmly these men, when found, will carry in their purses golden nobles freshly minted from England. Can you offer any more?”
“I could not say.” King Charles shot a quick glance at his father, whose face was still unmoved. “I would only suggest there might be others who seek to quietly profit whilst great powers move against one another. The Devil is ever conspiring and never expected until it is too late.”
The Bishop crossed himself and there was a murmur of agreement from the assembled knights. The Duke of Alencon suddenly felt more sober than he had since he left Paris. King Philip was still convinced his enemy was Edward and Edward alone, but what Charles said held the ring of truth. Then King John reached out a hand and laid it atop Philip’s.
“My son is indeed astute, Philip. When he is Holy Roman Emperor, there shall be a unity in Europe not seen since Charlemagne. France, Bohemia, Poland, the Low Countries and even Germany.”
“Do not forget Majorca, King John!” interjected King James.
“Forgive me, James, I did not realize you were there. A happenstance of being blind I’m afraid. I heard only someone sucking marrow from capon bones in that direction.” There was a general round of laughter that even King James quickly joined in. “Naturally, Majorca as well. By my troth, you are a cautionary tale after all.”