The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  “Sir, they flee!” The men up and down the lines cheered when several Genoans stood and broke from behind their shields to run back the way they had come. The Irish catcalled and mocked, the Welsh sneered and coldly counted their remaining shafts. The English slapped each other on the backs and cheered the names of King Edward, the Black Prince and…

  “Chandos!” one man cried and soon others took up the call. “Chandos! Chandos!” They were all saying it and it took much for Sir John Chandos to keep the shock and pride from his face at this unexpected honoring. He mastered himself quickly.

  “Cease firing lads! Conserve your shafts for the real enemy! Frenchy will be here soon, but by God and Saint George those Low Country bastards will have a tale to tell them, aye?”

  “My lord,” a squire ran up and bent a knee before the knight.

  “Speak boy, from whence came you?”

  “My Lord, the mercenary Sanjelio requests permission that he and his men pursue the Genoese back to the forest. I am told to inform you that much enmity exists between Sanjelio and the Genoese commander.” Sir Chandos was about to refuse, he did not care a fig for whatever vendetta obsessed the Low Country mercenary. Then he thought better of it. War had to be fought ruthlessly and practically.

  “If he wishes to thin their numbers to our benefit, why not? Let him take a charge.” The squire ran off and Sir Chandos took a swig of wine from the skin offered by one of his squires. “Mercenaries are an expensive lot and the dead cost nothing. I sincerely doubt any of them shall turn the tide of this battle anyway.”

  Chapter 10

  Ottone Doria fled for his life. He had not been the first to start running, but was not the last to leave when the dead began to outnumber the living on his side of the battlefield. Some of his men had managed to restring their bows, but it was far too little too late. Their only hope was to fall back and regroup with the French.

  “Curse those peacocks! If only we might have attacked together. Our bows might have been strung without harassment!” Doria swore. He estimated he might have four thousand men still at best, but it was impossible to take a head count while on the run. The woods south and east of Crecy were not as thick as some others in the French countryside, so Doria was able to spare glances over his shoulder and to each side without fear of running headlong into a tree. The downside was that there was still no cover from the rain and it continued to pour down. The upside was that dampness in the air heightened the scents of the forest.

  The smell of wet horseflesh alerted Doria that he was close to men of cavalry and he heard the wicker and snorts of several horses approaching before he saw them. It wasn’t until it was too late that he realized the horses were coming from the wrong direction.

  “Pavise about, raise your…,” a voice near Doria rang out, the alarmed tone cut short by a cry of pain. Doria saw men in gilded armor and riding well-bred chargers emerging from the misty forest face visors lowered and lances set for charges. One of his men had just met his fate at the end of one of those lances and others were ridden down on either side of him.

  “God Damnit.” Ottone Doria had known defeat before, but not like this. If they did not find the French soon these riders would be the end of them. “Run!” was his final command and he cast aside his cumbersome pavise and tore into the woods like a peasant caught poaching. “I’ll not die here,” he silently vowed. Then a voice he recognized called out to him somewhere in the mist.

  “Do you run again like you did at Pisa, Ottone Doria?”

  “Well, I’ll be fucked. Sanjelio the Runt. Now I definitely cannot die here!” Doria melted into the mist, honor and the well-being of his men no longer a concern next to the preservation of his own life.

  A short time later several of the Genoese found the French. The knights rode at a leisurely cantor. The rain made the road a muddy moat and none wanted their horses breaking a leg in a hole or rut. The foreword vanguard consisted of eight thousand men moving in four long columns. Nearly all were minor lords, landowners, vassalage and a fair share of foreigners as well. England had attracted a lordly amount of enemies.

  There were four men who had nominal command of this vanguard: the Lord of Noyers, The Lord Moine de Bazeilles, Lord Beaujeu and the Lord of Aubigny. As the most experienced of them all, the Lord Aubigny led at the forefront and so it was he who first saw the Genoese running pell mell towards the French host as if the devil himself rode at their backs.

  “What is this?” Aubigny scowled, his forked beard like the sharpened tines of a trident was the only part of his face visible from behind his helmet. “Why do you run, man? Come about!” Aubigny swore. The running Genoese ignored Aubigny and kept running. Other Genoese strugglers did the same.

  “This is what one gets by employing such scoundrels, who fail us when there is any need for them,” Lord Noyers complained.

  “My father always said that these Low Country apes were just one step away from being like those mongrels from the Dark Continent. Not a drop of Merovingian blood amongst the lot of them.”

  “They defy the King’s order to attack. Ride them down!” Aubigny ordered. He set his lance and his men followed suit. Noyers grinned and lowered his visor. It seemed the first lesson of the day was to be an old favorite: know who your betters are and do whatever the fuck they say. It was a lesson Noyers looked forward to soon teaching King Edward and his son. First, though he would happily teach these Genoans.

  Ottone Doria emerged from the mist the moment the Lords Aubigny and Noyers set their lances for the charge. His relief at seeing the French host quickly turned to horror as he saw wave after wave of French knights riding down his men and spearing them like swine. What was happening? Why did their allies turn upon them now? There was no time for thought. Dozens already lay dead and it seemed that not a single man of Genoa would see his city’s terraced gardens bloom, smell the sea air blowing off the Mediterranean or kiss a woman upon the piazza again.

  Doria saw in his mind’s eye a dark haired woman feeding him grapes from the vine as his head lay in her lap. Two young boys played at sword fighting with sticks nearby and above the stars shone as bright as the woman’s eyes. Doria sighed and felt the crossbow he had slung over his shoulder slip to the ground. The knight riding towards him seemed to be moving in slow motion. Doria wondered what that beautiful woman was doing now? Were those boys still playing with sticks or were they practicing with real blades now? It had been so long now. So long.

  “Fuck all. What were those lads’ names again? I think—” Doria never finished the thought. A lance pierced first armor then flesh then heart and thoughts no longer mattered.

  Chapter 11

  The French were a wall of steel moving resolutely forward. They seemed inhuman with faces hidden by expressionless helmets or glaring, grimacing masks of beasts. The cold steel of the knights’ helms had been beaten into the snarling visages of wolves, birds of prey, bears and lions to intimidate the enemy. The knights’ horses moved at an easy gait, but were still capable of making a rumbling sound that made the ground reverberate beneath the boots of the English. All could smell the wet horseflesh mingling with the scent of oiled steel.

  “Look ye there!” cried one man. “That is the heraldry of Sir Louis de Troyes. By God, his armor alone will keep my cups filled in Florence a year!”

  “Witness that preening bastard Sir Guiscard Beaujolais,” shouted another. “His ransom would elevate me to Baron should I gift a portion of it to his Majesty!”

  “He’ll take that portion regardless, you Kentish fool,” another shouted good naturally. It was the boasting amongst rivals and friends that rallied men’s hearts, not pretty speeches from lords they neither knew nor recognized.

  Sir Thomas Holland said nothing as the men about him swore oaths and made bets. The knight’s Christian soul did not allow him to partake of such unchivalrous banter, but he truthfully hoped to take a ransom before the day was over himself. From beneath his helm he smiled a mirthless grin.

>   It was as if the fog were some hazy boundary between dream and reality. Sir Holland was too far forward in the line to witness what was happening at that moment between his Prince and Sir Boeth. He had seen the Low Country horsemen led by Sanjelio ride out some time ago, but they had not yet returned. There was a feeling in the air that set the hairs on the back of Sir Holland’s neck up with caution.

  “Ware the Host!” came the cry from somewhere to his left and Sir Holland looked. His breath caught in his throat. The bulk of the French host led by Philip Valois was an endless stream of glimmering metal and flapping pennants as it emerged from the mist covered forest. They spread out in the traditional cavalry line, knights side by side in front, men at arms and archers behind. Sir Holland felt the loss of his horse keenly.

  Such armor the French had! The rain did nothing to diminish the silvery sheen of the plate armor the High French Lords adorned themselves with. How poor the English chainmail seemed in comparison! That plate would turn lance, arrow and sword. Sir Holland shook his head angrily. No! Even the best armor had weaknesses. Grooves and chinks near the groin, elbows and back of the legs. These men could fall, would fall.

  Sir Holland saw Philip Valois appear from out of the mist. By Christ’s Crown of Thorns, what a sight! The one who dared to call himself the true King of France sat atop a jet black charger that had been fitted with the armored barding and shaffron of a war horse. Its blue and gold colors matched the Valois coat of arms and Philip’s own surcoat and cloak.

  In one mailed fist Philip Valois held a sword that was every bit as impressive as his gilt-laced armor. The sword had a golden pommel topped with a ruby and a blade that was slightly shorter than a standard English longsword. The French king’s sword had a piercing tip, as well as sharpened edges on both sides of the blade.

  “Steady now, lads, let the archers thin the herd before we fleece the rest.” His boys were unsteady. The majority might be illiterate, simple farm folk, but even they could tell the odds were against them. It was six French to every one English and the French had the advantage of horses. However Sir Holland could now see why the King and Sir Chandos had insisted their own horses be penned within the wagon park. Being mounted would have gained them little advantage and an English charge would have been disastrous against such numbers. Best to keep feet planted and let the enemy come to them if they dared.

  King Philip raised his sword and men on both sides of the field ceased whatever it was they were doing to watch. A hush fell over both armies. King Edward’s eyes narrowed. He beheld the decorative crown set into Philip’s helm.

  “Montjoye and Saint Denis!” King Philip cried and a mighty roar arose from the French. King Edward answered in kind.

  “For God and Saint George!” While the English lacked the volume of the French, they made up for it in spirit. Even the mercenaries in the English lines raised their weapons and howled with delight.

  “Now, Edward,” King Philip said as he sheathed his blade. He stared across the field until he located his enemy. When he did he raised his eyes to Heaven. “Now we come to it at last. You would lay claim to something greater than any man: a land blessed by the Saints and the very garden of Europe! For my son and those sons that follow I will destroy you here and now!” Upon the opposite side Edward made his own vow.

  “Damn you, Valois, whether I wear the French crown or you do, the line of Plantagenet shall ever after lay claim to what is theirs by rights! For my son and the sons that follow!”

  “Signal the advance! Send word to Bohemia. He is to begin upon the left flank and Aubigney the right! Take what ransoms you will, but Edward is mine! Kill the rest!”

  “Brother!” The Count of Alencon rode up, his face flushed. “Let me lead the advance and flush those Gaelic mongrels from your path!” Philip grinned to see his brother’s eagerness.

  “The honor of the vanguard is yours, Charles.”

  “Should I cross swords with Edward, I shall be sure to bring you his sword and horse.” Alencon put the spurs to his horse and galloped away, his personal vassals following. Philip watched him go and his smile slipped away to be replaced with a look of concern.

  Philip and Charles were two of eleven children and had not grown up close. Their father had been a man whose greed for power had outweighed all else and as such had done little to build a familial bond with his children or encourage one amongst them. It wasn’t until they had become men and Philip succeeded to the throne of France that the two had at first formed an alliance against mutual enemies and then grown close enough to become true brothers.

  “I want some of my guard to go with them. Parisians. See to it they protect the Count of Alencon.” One of Philip’s young squires ran off to relay the order. Philip watched him go. The lad looked no more than eight years old. Philip smiled sadly. What sort of world was this, that men like the King of England forced him to place small boys in such danger? Was the man not a father himself? It was only further proof that this battle would be merely the prelude to a much greater endeavor.

  “When I am done with England there will not be a farm left unburned or land unspoiled by blood. It shall be as if the Conqueror comes again and whether or not it be Valois who rules that island of Britons, ever after shall they curse Edward the Third for inviting the wrath of Philip Valois!”

  King John of Bohemia rode up beside King Philip and overheard Philip’s proclamation. He grinned from beneath his helm. It was an unnerving head piece to gaze upon, for the eye slits were nonexistent. Instead, one was faced with the grinning golden face of a cherub whose eyes were fitted with semi-precious black stones.

  “The bravery of Alencon shall be sung of after this day,” John said. His voice had a sepulcher like quality from within the helm. Philip grimaced when he faced that unsettling helm and looked away. “I shall take my men and engage the Prince of Wales. With your leave, of course.”

  “God keep you Bohemia and your son, Charles.”

  “My son shall engage with his men upon the flank commanded by the Earl of Northampton. I felt it best his strength be spent there.” Philip shot a surprised glance at his royal counterpart.

  “If you wish it so, then so be it. May both father and son taste victory as God wills it.” King John nodded and allowed his horse to be led away by the ever silent and massive forms of Left and Right who each held a rein that guided their Master’s horse so that he might share in the battle as well he could. One of King Philip’s trusted confidantes leaned in close once King John was out of earshot and confided in his master.

  “I should think wading into the thick of battle in total darkness to be within the demesne of the very mad or the abject fool, your Majesty.”

  “As long as his men break the Prince of Wales and then flank their retreat, he can be either for all I care. Sound a general attack! I want this done before supper!”

  Chapter 12

  Gwilym felt at that moment screaming for aid would have been considered more than appropriate, if not necessarily a behavior becoming of a nobly born Welshman. The men that emerged came either mounted or with bows strung and ready to fire. They were not English longbows Gwilym noticed, but rather a shorter bow curved at the limbs. The arrows were smaller than English arrows as well, but Gwilym knew that at such close proximity they would spit any one of them like a capon for the fire. These must have been the same foreign mercenaries who had hidden in the forest with Hugo the Long.

  “You turncoats!” snarled Gwilym as he focused on the more immediate problems of Sir Walter Reed and Sir Cobham the Younger. “The King will have your titles and lands confiscated for this! Has your purse been weighed down with French ducats? How much is Valois paying you lot?” Gwilym gestured at the cloaked and hooded knights who fought Bohemians and English alike. “You have bartered away your lineages to foreign heathens and dare to entrap your King’s heir?”

  “Welsh snakes,” hissed Sir Reed. “What do you know of lineage or the responsibilities of a knight?” He followed up his c
oarse question by stabbing at Gwilym’s heart with his sword. Gwilym parried, but the power behind the thrust was enough to nick him on his left breast. He fought down his panic. The wound in his leg and hand started to sting again almost immediately. He had almost forgotten he had them until once more he felt the Sir Reed’s blade’s kiss. Enough was enough. Something inside Dafydd ap Gwilym, poet of love and mirthful minstrel, snapped.

  “Damn you! By Saint Jerome’s holy balls I’ll kill you!” The saber came alive in his hands. It wasn’t wielded by Gwilym the Poet. No, that person was gone and had been replaced by something that hacked through Sir Reed’s guard and then slid several inches of steel through his open and very surprised mouth.

  Sir Reed gagged and tried to scream, but until Gwilym coldly slid the saber free all he could do was shudder in his armor then drop to his knees in horror. Gwilym then raised the bloody blade and stared hard at Sir Cobham while Sir Reed vomited blood, bits of his tongue and what might have been rabbit or capon. Sir Reed decided to take a closer look to check and tipped over face first into the mess.

  “Now then, Cobb. Imagine for a moment that honor and chivalry might be more than wearing armor, going to revels and having a father who will one day leave you everything. Consider that it may be a responsibility to the people who respect what you stand for and the Prince who trusted you enough to bring you into his inner circle.” Gwilym was shocked to see tears spill down Sir Cobham’s cheeks. Had his words reached the man?

  “He will disown me when he sees the debts I have accrued, when he sees what a wastrel I am.”

  “You are his son. He will understand.”

  Prince Edward and Sir Boeth were meanwhile locked in a steel embrace. Sir Boeth was a deadly opponent and by his swordplay a clear veteran of many fights. The Prince may not have been as seasoned, but his youth and sheer determination kept him on equal footing with the traitor knight.