by David Scoles
“How so, my lord?” King James’ face froze, his goblet halfway to his lips.
“Why, one must have the strength to keep what is theirs or someone stronger comes and takes it away!” King John chortled.
King James stood and cast aside his goblet violently. “By the eyes of Saint Margaret of Cortona! That which is stolen is never taken by strength, but by deceit and base cowardice!” Flames were in King James’ eyes. Charles stood and faced him down.
“Enough, sirrah!” Charles growled warningly.
“My honor as a knight and an anointed King is called into question by a cripple? I should do nothing?” King James shouted. Charles’ hands went instinctively for the sword at his side, forgetting none wore swords within King Philip’s pavilion.
“That is enough, James. Remember that as my guest your honor is mine as are your shames.” King Philip remained seated, but his voice was iron hard. King James exhaled loudly, but retook his seat without argument.
“I pray your forgiveness, honored host and Majesty. I pray yours as well King John, my comment was ill conceived and poorly uttered.”
“Moments such as these must be quickly passed like a loaf of stale manchet. My own words were poorly spoken as well.” King John smiled. “Upon the morrow, allow this old cripple to show you a thing or two never seen before as dawn fades upon Crecy.”
“We shall all drink to that and all from my own cask,” Philip said and raised his goblet to be filled. There was a chorus of huzzahs and the uncomfortable moment quickly passed. King Charles sipped his Sancerre quietly as several different conversations again filled the pavilion. King James and King John conversed upon the subject of lance heads while King Philip and his brother spoke softly to one another.
Charles was not a storyteller or even a well-spoken man. The Bible held all the words he had ever needed or ever would need. The subtle plea to his father had gone unnoticed. Or perhaps not.
History was a topic for monks and the future was for philosophers to muse upon. Kings were needed for the here and now. Charles would trust his father. “Ich dien,” “I serve,” had ever been his father’s motto. It applied even more so to his country than it did to his family. Charles finished his Sancerre and watched his father silently listen to Majorca drone on. What might that Spanish King think upon the morrow when he saw that old “cripple” mount a horse, a shield upon his arm and a morning star held in his hand being led into battle by his Left and Right?
Charles swallowed a lump and held aloft his goblet to have it refilled. What was it about fathers that so filled their son’s hearts with dread when they wanted to finally speak their feelings to them? He gave up trying. This night had felt like his final chance, but words he had wanted to say for years would remain unspoken— words of thanks, of praise, of resentment, and angry demands like, ‘I would have you listen to me,’ or ‘Let there be no secrets between equals.’ Equals. Was there ever a father who had looked upon his son as such?
Charles returned to his pavilion alone and dismissed his servants. The English would be destroyed; there was no question of that now. King Edward and his son would be humbled and ransomed. Sinners would be punished and he would return home to await his ascension to the seat of Holy Roman Emperor. All would be well and his dreams filled with victory. As he laid his head down to sleep, however, Charles’ dreams were filled with the sound of thousands of wasps flying through the air about him. Upon a hill he envisioned a man who was not a man with antlers of a stag and eyes that glowed with the fires of hell bearing down upon him. In his dream, he called to his father for help, but his father stared back at him with his sightless eyes unmoving and uncaring.
Chapter 6
Flashes of light skittered and leapt amongst the heavens as August the 26th dawned upon Crecy. A summer storm was approaching from the north. It would be cold rains that would herald an early autumn. Was it the same back in Wales, Gwilym wondered? His father would be riding their lands, his brother Gam at his side as they observed their surfs at their planting. Minding the beans, peas, and especially the wheat would be occupying everyone’s time soon enough. Gwilym closed his eyes, breathing deep the memory of home and tears sprang from the corners of his eyes. Would he live to see his land again?
The battle was coming. The battle. Inbound scouts reported Philip drove his men hard for Crecy and would be there soon. Apparently, destroying the English on King Edward’s own land appealed to him and Philip showed as much eagerness for the fight as he did for the purported harem of young courtesans he privately indulged in.
Whatever was to happen, Gwilym hoped that it would happen soon. Idle men already drew their swords and that was dangerous. Men of Warwickshire were bunched together with some of the Irish and Welsh spearmen. Master bowman stalked up and down the line exhorting the men not to undershoot and to keep their eyes to their bowstrings. All were sweating in their mail and leathers and not from heat. They were angry and growing angrier by the minute. The English, Welsh, Irish and their mercenaries were about to come face to face with an enemy they could fight unfettered. No more running, no negotiation and certainly no surrender. They were a powder keg ringed by a brushfire of enemies.
“I should have liked to have been there,” a Cornishman murmured to his fellows somewhere within the lines.
“Been where?” another man asked.
“When the King knelt in the wee hours and prayed to God for victory and then again this morning at mass.” The Cornishman had been up late fletching arrows and checking his bowstrings. Gwilym recognized him, but could not place where he had seen the man before. Another passing face in the crowd, but now Gwilym marked him well, for his words resounded in his soul and Gwilym would remember them always hereafter.
“My father always said that there are three worlds: the one you know, the one you want and the one that is. God lives in one, we live in another and a King lives alone in the last.”
“Which one is which?” asked one curious young lad. There was a chorus of chuckles that ended quickly when a sergeant walked by.
For Gwilym, the statement summed up everything. The common man had his simple kit of handed down weapons and armaments. Fallen tree limbs were fashioned into polished bows and boot soles were worn thin by mile upon mile of road. Who was he? Farmer, Blacksmith, Potter, Weaver. That was the world these men knew. What united them all was the belief that there was something better out there beyond this chaotic life. A place where loved ones who had gone before them waited in eternal paradise with Jesus Christ seated at the right hand of God. This was the world they wanted. What of the King?
All the nobles, clergy and men of property vying and squabbling with each other over titles and boundaries. Above them all upon their thrones: Edward of England, Philip of France, John of Bohemia. So many had been brought together because of those men. Those mere three. Those privileged few who ruled over the rest.
I perhaps understand you a little better now, Nachzehrer, Gwilym thought as he walked a ways away from the rest of them and looked out over the vast, empty fields of Crecy. You hate the world as it really is with its injustice and untouchable rulers. The world you want is a land of darkness forever torn by wars. Does it give your life some semblance of meaning to spread such chaos? I gather the world you know then must be a very very small place.
The Nachzehrer. The feeling in Gwilym’s guts told him that the man would make an appearance upon the battlefield. It would pull him like a lodestone, but Radu would not be there to meet him. The coins in his pockets weighed more than the lives at stake, Gwilym thought bitterly. Radu would not put his own life at risk thereby allowing the murderer to run rampant with whatever plans he held for Crecy. The results would be blood and carnage, but Radu would step over however many corpses he needed to achieve his own goal. How was he any different from the Nachzehrer then? What had Radu meant when he had told him the Nachzehrer was not worth a single penny?
A light rain began to fall. The dry ground soaked it up eagerly. Gwily
m could smell the sage and grass more distinctly in the damp air. The men in Northampton’s cohort had fallen silent, stoically baring with the rain. The Earl himself was ramrod straight with yet another new standard bearer beside him. The other lad had taken ill. Gwilym grimaced when he saw Sir Reginald Cobham the Elder and the Younger both fully armored and bearing weapons beside him. Was it his imagination or was the Younger glaring at him?
Gwilym drew the hood of his cloak over his head, but then a moment of inspiration struck him and he removed his lute from his back and deftly unwrapped it from the rug it traveled within. Some of the men saw him do so and they turned to regard him. He strung a few chords and adjusted the pegs. He struck up a tune he had heard being sung by milkmaids in Ceredigion when he was a child. He had learned it in a day for it reminded him of home.
Are you going to Scarborough Fair
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
She once was a true love of mine…
Gwilym was mildly surprised when others took up the song with him. It was a better known tune than he had thought. So there they all were, hundreds of men, some friends, some former enemies. Nobles, common man and even clergy, Irish, Welsh, Cornish, English all sang together in the rain waiting for the war to come and remembering the places they wished to return to.
Chapter 7
It was many hours before the French were sighted. At a formidable distance, further even than the strongest man could shoot an arrow, a knight and host of men rode into sight.
“That is the Lord Moine!” One English knight shouted while pointing towards the distant banner.
“That up-jumped bastard? I know him. By God, may he ride at the vanguard to meet me blade to blade!” This was from Sir Richard Talbot who had long grown tired of waiting. The French knight did not indulge him. Instead, the Lord Moine turned his horse about and with his company of knights rode away back the way they had come.
“Damnit!” cried Sir Talbot. “Death teases worse than an alehouse whore!”
A scouting party only. Sir Talbot gestured to one of his squires. He would take his midday meal seated upon a stool, propriety be damned!
“All of you sit!” Sir Talbot ordered his men. They seemed surprised by the order, but slowly did as they were bid. “Frenchy will find us fresh and ready. Eat and drink, but no wine or ale! The water the lads have is clean!” Boys were ordered to walk the lines with a ladle and bucket, bidding each man to sip. Sir Talbot even allowed men to take to the woods in small groups to relieve themselves.
The King’s order that the army remain afoot meant that Sir Talbot and the rest of the armored nobility had several stone of armor weighing them down with each step. It was therefore best to remain where one was until it was absolutely necessary to move.
Dafydd ap Gwilym felt the weight of responsibility grow heavier with each passing hour. Situated with Prince Edward’s entourage to the east of Crecy village, he took his promise to Sir John Chandos to heart and kept an eye on the Prince.
Gwilym had the hood of his cloak drawn over his head. The light drizzle had still not ceased. They passed midday and ate little save manchet, a flat bread made from wheat. His had been fried in pig fat which gave it a more appetizing flavor, but it still did little to curb his hunger. Smells from Crecy were carrying to the army on the wind. The mixed scents of fish spitted and turned over fires, bread baked in ovens and millet cakes hot upon stones mingled in the air and made Gwilym’s stomach growl in protest.
Though they were alike in age, Gwilym felt that the Prince, in those moments before the battle, seemed years older and more experienced than the most seasoned knight. It was not just the impressive black lacquered armor he wore, the bejeweled longsword he carried, or the many banners that surrounded him. It was his calm repose. His peaceful demeanor caused even the older and more worldly men to look upon him with awe.
Gwilym’s suspicions of the Prince had not diminished. He was convinced this was why Sir Chandos had asked him to remain at the Prince’s side. Was Prince Edward truly the son England needed him to be?
When the French scouts turned about to report on the array of the English army English scouts had ridden out to spy upon theirs. The report validated all of Gwilym’s fears. They were completely outmanned, and not merely by numbers. The quality of the army riding down upon them also had to be taken into account. The arms, the armor, the horses and the training of the men using them had to be acknowledged as well.
There were no finer knights in all of Europe than French chevaliers. Not the Germans, nor the Polish nor even those hard bitten Scandinavian Ritari knights could hope to match them. Each French knight would have a coat of plate rather than the typical chainmail the English knight wore. French knights also boasted lances from the exceptional forges of the Missaglias family of Milan. The armorers of Paris, Lyon and Tours worked exclusively with iron mined from the Ruhr in Germany. No expense was spared in making the Lords of France the best armed warriors in the land. If Gwilym was honest with himself, each French knight was probably worth two English knights. Or so said the fearful voices in his head, which grew louder with each passing hour.
The King placed his faith in the longbow. There were three lines each of archers, mostly Welsh and Cornish, to either side of a central group of secondary spear made up of Irish gallowglass and English regular infantry. The lack of cavalry was conspicuous. Every horse, save those ridden by the mercenary company of Sanjelio (who would not be without their horses) had been penned within a square wagon park south and west of the Crecy windmill. That impressive building had been designated a fall back point for King Edward and as a secondary command post should things take a turn for the worse.
To the Prince’s left stood Lord Warwick and to his right, Sir Thomas Holland. Behind them were several other knights including the taciturn Sir Robert Bouchier and Sir Richard Cobham the Elder who complained ceaselessly about his lack of a horse. Sir William Montegu had brought a wineskin fit to bursting and was emptying it faster than a cow’s bladder into his open mouth. The nobility were several meters removed from the regular soldiers, preferring to deliver their orders through messengers who were typically fleet footed squires.
The group of knights under the Prince passed the time talking of lighter things: Lands they governed, chapels they had built, taxes and rents they collected or hoped to collect. Money was ever the favored topic of those who controlled most of it. Gwilym listened with half an ear. His own purse was filled with the bounty of Hugo the Long, but such sums as these few men controlled could purchase entire countries. Gwilym wondered if any of them could even imagine the extreme poverty that was the reality of the vast majority of those peasants who occupied their lands. Could he?
“The point is made, gentlemen,” Warwick said. “His Majesty has firmly established his claim to the French throne through the actions of our army. Taking Paris would have bolstered that claim, yes, but humbling Philip Valois was ever the true objective of this campaign. Calais. Aye, Calais! Taking that place shall be the greater victory! Pfah! Let Valois have Paris for now! When we move our wool through Calais without tariff the coffers of Paris will run dry, mark me.”
“Aye, I agree.” This from Sir Cobham the Elder. “Easy enough to send a messenger under the white flag to Philip and negotiate a temporary truce. We might fall back to Sluyes where our ships lay at anchor still. Easy enough to return in the Spring with renewed focus upon Calais.”
“My lords, the King has laid his plan and there will be no negotiation.” Sir Thomas Holland glared angrily at the two older men. “I feel no corner at my back and I remind you we have not lost a battle. God rewards those who show faith and the King’s prayers were as meaningful as I have ever heard them spoken this morning. By my blade, but I was nearly moved to tears when he spoke of how if he should fall here, his heirs would carry on victoriously.” Sir Holland bowed to Prince Edward who nodded, but still seemed preoccupied. Earl Warwick noticed.
“Your Highness, what vexes thee?” The Prince did not immediately respond. Instead he drew his sword and studied its sharp double-edged blade.
“When my father handed me this blade at Sluyes after my knighting his words were thus: ‘This blade can exist for two reasons only. The first is to forge a civilization and the second is to destroy it.’ My Lords, I feel ever so much older than my years at this moment. Your fellowship and your love is what bolsters my confidence, yet I am left to wonder what is civilization?”
“It is the reason we are here, Your Highness!” cried Warwick. “Why, it is the rules by which men of lineage rule over this land and always shall. Your father’s claim, your claim, to the crown of France is supported by these very rules. That which is the property of the father is the property of the son. Not the daughter. These French and their half-hearted claims made through women undermine the very essence of civilization.”
“It is the people as well, Your Highness,” spoke up Sir Holland. “We encase ourselves within these metal skins and protect those who sow the land because it is our calling, nay, our duty. ‘Like a muddied spring or a polluted fountain is a righteous man who gives way before the wicked,’ so speaketh the Lord. We must ever be men of virtue.” Everyone crossed themselves and the Prince nodded thoughtfully.
“Sir Holland, Sir Bouchier I would have the people of Crecy far removed from this conflict. Let it be that they are no repeats of Caen. Sir Montegu?” The knight in question paused in his drinking.
“Retrieve three horses from the wagon pen for these men.” Prince Edward’s personal squire, John Whitsun, hastened to obey.
“Your Majesty, you want us to evacuate the town?” Sir Bouchier was confused, as was Sir Montegu, who by now was drunk enough for confusion to be almost excusable.