The Minstrel and the Mercenary

by David Scoles

  Sir Boeth had underestimated Prince Edward, but the sword was not his only weapon.

  “A King does not have sons. He has heirs. You are a means of continued rule and ownership. If you fall here he has what? Lionel? John? You do not matter. You have never mattered.”

  Prince Edward responded with a quick thrust at Sir Boeth’s gut that was turned aside by a quick parry. The Prince attempted a kick to Sir Boeth’s right knee and the maneuver caught the knight off guard. Sir Boeth was off balance and sank to one knee. Acting out of instinct the knight grimaced and raised his sword to block the downward thrust that would have ended his life.

  “Your actions are unjust Sir Boeth,” said Prince Edward breathing hard. He retained his calm during the exchange. His face did not betray the inner turmoil he felt at being caught in a trap. His own failure would be his father’s and that the Prince could not abide. “To forget your oath as a knight to always tell the truth condemns your soul in the eyes of God. You have misled your lord and your sovereign.” Sir Boeth grinned in response.

  “Truth? Very well, your Highness.” Sir Boeth heaved and regained his feet. The Prince backed up a step, but did not back down. His sword was held before him at the ready. Out of the corner of his eye Sir Boeth saw Sir Reed fall and Sir Cobham’s idiot son standing like a cow in a field dumbfounded. Sir Boeth spat in disgust and considered his options.

  “Your ‘loyal’ knights sold you out as eagerly as Judas sold Christ to the Romans. When I killed the Bishop of Bayeux, oh, yes, that was I, he was already working out ways to betray the agreements he had made with you. Even that fat fool of a Compte sees your knighthood as a joke and what does that tell you? That you are not your father’s son. You don’t have it in you, boy. You lack the ruthlessness of a King. Riding out to protect the people of this insignificant pile of shit? Your bastard father has murdered, plotted and stolen everything he has!”

  Gwilym attempted to creep up behind Sir Boeth, but froze when he overheard the knight’s emotional words. Gwilym hesitated as he listened to Sir Boeth speak. There was something in his voice that was different.

  “My boys… my sons, all dead, murdered by your father. My youngest, my boy, Thomas…,” Sir Boeth’s voice cracked. Gwilym could hear it now, the mask had slipped and the accent Sir Boeth had been hiding was audible to Gwilym’s seasoned ear.

  “I heard it before,” muttered Gwilym to himself. “In the King’s tent when he spoke. The Scottish accent you were trying to hide, but I dismissed it!” The Prince evidently heard it too and his brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “Who are you? Sir Boeth is from Oxendon and you are Scottish?” Gwilym was in position. He had a clear line of site to Sir Boeth’s unprotected back, but could he steal upon the knight through the vigorous melee going on around him? Several men at arms, English and Bohemians alike, broke through shabby doors or had even ripped through the weak sod and wood walls of homes. Screams of innocents now mingled with foreign war cries. It was Caen all over again.

  A girl with reddish blond hair was dragged screaming from one such home. Gwilym’s eyes narrowed. He remembered the tear streaked, pain etched face of Marguerite after being raped by Red Sword mercenaries. He had been helpless then, too frozen in fear to act as a man should. He was not that man any longer. With a last look at the Prince and Sir Boeth, Gwilym made up his mind.

  “Face me, you vile shit! By Saint Peter’s Bones I’ll send you to Hell!” Gwilym’s legs carried him the distance to the Bohemian who was too focused on strangling the young girl into submission to notice the enraged minstrel until it was too late. The saber swept down and took the Bohemian in the neck. Blood gushed from the wound coating the screaming and choking girl. Gwilym grabbed her by the elbow and dragged her to her feet. There was no time to check on her; others were coming.

  “Run, girl! Run to your family and escape!” Gwilym yelled in French and he hoped she heard. Mewling and crying she ran back into her home, but that safety would not last long. Men saw what Gwilym did and now eyed him dangerously. These were neither English nor Bohemians. These men had the unwashed, lethal look of professional highwaymen, rats who had stolen aboard a ship, reavers who had joined with the army to satiate their hunger for plunder, rape and murder. One of the men, evidently the leader spoke up.

  “Nein nein, that is against the rules, boy. It is first come, first serve, ja?” Eberhard of Schleswig-Holstein eyed Gwilym up and down. This curly haired lad didn’t look like much, but Eberhard had just seen him dispatch a knight. “Dietz! Ortolf!” Eberhard waved two of his men forward. They would surround and take the lad from all sides. Best to be careful. Eberhard smiled. “A good day today, ja? A good day!” A roar sounded from behind Eberhard causing him to whip around in surprise. The last thing he saw was a mace descending towards his head.

  Gwilym yelled in surprise when he witnessed the German’s head explode. The one who gripped the mace and howled like a man possessed wore an impressive breastplate over the brown robes of a priest. An open-faced helm exposed all the world to a blood drenched madman who showed no signs of stopping his attack as he next turned his feral rage upon the rest of Eberhard’s band.

  “Come on, Gwilym,” shouted the Franciscan. “I must take a ransom to see that the bones of Saint Ranieri are given a reliquary of silver and gold! These bastards are worth nothing!”

  “Your generosity is only superseded by your boundless piety,” Gwilym replied with a grin.

  “Aye, now then,” the blood-drenched monk eyed the rest of the terrified mercenaries with a merciless grin. “Shall I hear confession before I bless you all with a second baptism?” He swung his mace and waded into the fray, Gwilym followed behind without hesitation.

  Chapter 13

  Prince Edward had learned a thing or two about swordplay since he had first been squired at the age of five. Having teachers and sparring partners like Sir Thomas Holland, Sir John Chandos and men who had crossed swords with the best France, Scotland, Ireland and other lands had to offer had given him a keen insight into fighting styles and techniques. None of it had prepared him for Sir Boeth’s cunning imposter.

  Sir Boeth, or rather the Scotsman who had pretended to be Sir Boeth, feinted at Prince Edward’s chest then attacked his shoulder. Prince Edward frantically adjusted his guard and just barely parried the thrust. Where would the next attack come from? Sir Boeth prepared for another onslaught. A horn blew to the east in the direction of the main body of the army.

  “Fighting you was not as satisfying as I thought it would be, your Highness.” The imposter’s sword darted in once, twice, thrice— the first two feints, but the third expertly pierced the elbow joint of Prince Edward’s left arm. The Prince staggered back with a cry cradling his wounded arm close to his chest. The imposter closed in for the killing blow and Prince Edward defiantly raised his blade. His eyes showed no trace of fear. The imposter hesitated.

  “Killing you no longer feels as if it would satisfy their spirits either, not that you won’t be dying before this day ends. I simply cannot be bothered with it.” The imposter turned his back and walked away. Prince Edward stared at the retreating back in disbelief.

  “Where do you go, man? Stand and fight! Give name and title! Why are you here?” The imposter, just before he disappeared into the chaos he had orchestrated, shouted back a cryptic answer.

  “To lay ghosts to rest… upon the corpse of your father.”

  Chapter 14

  Gwilym hadn’t completely familiarized himself with the order of each battle cohort King Edward had organized. He did know, however, that the battle had again shifted eastward and onto the plain as Prince Edward, who had extricated himself from his battle with Sir Boeth, once again regained command of his battle.

  “Evacuate this village,” was the Prince’s command as he led his knights— loyal ones this time— forward into the Bohemians. Sir Robert Cobham the Younger had disappeared. Sir Boeth? Gone for now, but Gwilym had heard his threatening final words and marked them well.r />
  Gwilym considered hunting for Earl Warwick and the elder Sir Cobham to inform him of his son’s treachery, but then thought better of it. Best to wait until the fight was done and see if he or Sir Cobham the Younger survived long enough for it to matter. Crecy had suffered as a result as well. Peasants had tried fleeing from their homes, but been cut down by both English and Bohemian alike. Gwilym’s heart sank to see children among the dead. Then his heart turned hard.

  “I swear by Saint Cecilia, Patron Saint of Poets, that you will answer for this, whomever you are,” Gwilym vowed silently upon the head of the imposter. If only Radu were here! Gwilym was certain that the mercenary would have dispatched all of the traitors single-handedly! Alas for the inconsistency of sellswords. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now was not the time!

  The Franciscan had gone on ahead with Madog, Gerwyn and Arthek who had all seemed to relish each other’s desire to inflict more carnage. Gwilym had hung back after thanking the bloody monk for the timely rescue.

  “God loves a fool, Gwilym. Remember that.” Then he had grinned and hefted Baptizer in a salute before running off. Gwilym let out an exhausted sigh. The most important thing he could do now was to do something incredibly foolish. Find Sir Boeth’s imposter and stop him.

  Arrows flew and men died, but they did not fall in such numbers as they did further towards the center where King Edward commanded the main host. The Prince’s battle consisted mostly of spearmen and regular infantry and the Bohemians answered this with their own infantry. They were fearless, because the numerical advantage was theirs. The fierce resistance offered up by the Black Prince had stunned them, but the Bohemians were not without their own champions.

  One knight wore a helm that was unlike any Gwilym had ever seen. It glowed with a golden sheen and was like the face of a cherub upon the stained glass of the church of Saint Cewydd. This cherub did not stir thoughts of piety or a childlike curiosity in the heavenly, however. This face was a mask of cold indifference that could wade through a sea of blood unblinking.

  Gwilym watched the cherub-helmed knight draw forth one of the most feared weapons a knight could ever wield: the ball and chain. It was a great iron ball of black metal studded with spikes at the end of a chain that could not have been less than three feet in length by Gwilym’s estimation. The ball swung in a circle like a miller’s wheel above the knight’s head. More than that, a knight rode upon either side of the cherub-faced warrior holding a thick rope that was attached to either side of the cherub warrior horse’s bridle.

  “By all the Saints, that is Blind King John himself!” exclaimed one well-informed soldier.

  “God in Heaven, does such a man exist who fights without fear?” Gwilym breathed in grudging admiration. Then Gwilym watched in amazement and growing horror as the King of Bohemia whipped the ball and chain back as if he were cracking a whip and with instructions hollered from one of his minder knights swung the weapon forward sending the spiked ball careening like a bolt exploding from a French pot-de-fer cannon.

  The King’s weapon smashed into an Irish infantry man reducing his head to a bloody mess. Blood and brain matter splashed onto the men beside him who gaped in stunned disbelief at what remained of their ally. The Bohemians used that confusion to further slaughter their opposition. With their King leading them the Prince’s host was slowly pushed back.

  Prince Edward witnessed the effect King John had upon his own men and resolved to deal with it personally. He turned to Sir Thomas Holland who bled from a minor cut he had taken on one cheek.

  “Sir Holland, in place of my father I would meet this King in knightly combat. Let my blood mingle with his upon this sacred field and let all men witness that my spurs are no longer gilded and my sword heavy with purpose!”

  Sir Holland, tears in his eyes upon hearing such words, personally formed an honor guard for the Prince. He, Sir Robert Bourchier, Sir Thomas Clifford, Sir Robert Neville, Sir Bartholomew Burghersh, and a young knight of the Prince’s household Sir William Pennel rounded out the knights who surrounded the Prince and fought their way towards King John of Bohemia.

  “The Black Prince approaches surrounded by a host of knights,” Left said to King John. “His eyes are visible and they are fixed upon you, my King,” remarked Right. “He means to engage you himself.” From beneath his angelic helm King John grinned. It was as he wanted it to be.

  The purpose of King John’s life, or so he had been taught from a young age, was to rule a land until his son was ready to succeed him. The truth was King John neither believed in God nor cared a whit for his countrymen. The world was stagnant, cold and forever dark. Only the Nachzehrer understood.

  “I have never lamented that I should never again behold any particular sight.” King John whispered offhandedly. “Yet I wish I could see the fires burning. The corpses staring as sightlessly as my own accursed orbs. The faces of allies and foes alike contorted with rage. The world is born anew only from chaos and it is the warriors who forever and always establish the new order. I shall ever be remembered as being a part of it. My son shall remember me with pride as he ascends to the throne as the Emperor of a new Europe.”

  King John raised his shield in salute to where Left said the Prince was. A warrior did not need sight and a man did not need wishes. He needed only purpose. The rain had stopped, but even through his armor he could sense the beads of water dripping down his steel skin and smell the dampness of the sodden wool of his cloak and taste the sharp acrid bile of spilt blood.

  “Ich dien!” King John shouted. The ball and chain swung above his head.

  Chapter 15

  Edward of Windsor, the third of that name to be King of England, Ireland and now so also King of France gazed with satisfaction upon the ordered ranks of knights and gentry before him. Sunlight glinted on upturned swords and the tips of spears. The heraldic standards held aloft by squires caught the breeze and snapped like whips. The squinting eyes of a Cornish archer as he sighted his first mark, the moss green hoods being drawn over Welsh heads and the omnipresent smells of leather, steel and sweat saturated the King’s senses and he could taste the coming war on his tongue, salty and sweet all at once.

  This was the day he had been waiting for. Across the field, Edward could just discern the standard of the usurper. Philip’s was the House of Valois, that ancient Capetian Dynasty that flew a blue dyed standard with golden fleur de lis. It was a dynasty from which Edward also could claim descent. It would therefore soon be his… and his alone. Edward chuckled.

  “Your Majesty?” The query came from Thomas Hatfield, Bishop of Durham. The man was a lickspittle and a bore, but a rich lickspittle to whom Edward owed huge sums of money. “From what does thine self draw mirth?” Edward winced. Many of the gentry still spoke English with a mixture of French inflection, phlegm drenched consonants and general poor word choice. It was something that Edward, a pure English King, did not care for. He wondered if they did it on purpose.

  “It is merely sighting Frenchy’s battle formation, no doubt drawn up by Philip to protect his sorry hide rather than those of his flank.” Edward turned his icy gaze fully upon Bishop Durham then and said, “I trust this shall go far better for us than Caen?” Durham’s only reply was to bow low in his saddle then race away undoubtedly to give his vassals their final instructions and threats. It was typical, Edward knew. Men in the Bishop’s position could often foist blame for failure onto those beneath them, as had happened at Caen. Edward had earlier made a pronouncement to let Warwick and Northampton know upon whom Edward would lay the blame if he did not carry the day.

  Edward sighed. He knew he was not universally liked. He carried the common man well enough, but the nobility? Ever since Edward had seized the throne back from his ice hearted mother and her lover the black blooded Roger Mortimer he had removed some of the nobles who had sided against him, but spared several others. Time had shown that decision to have worked both for and against him.

  Briefly Edward cast his
mind back to when he was merely seventeen years of age. He, along with his most trusted friend William Montegu, had taken up steel and stormed Nottingham Castle and seized Mortimer. A wave of sadness passed over Edward as he thought of his dear friend, dead now these two years. “I have avenged us both, dear William. Against the French for their vile slander of your wife’s honor and against my mother, the architect of the whole bloody affair.”

  Edward’s mother, The Queen Isabella, was often called the ‘She-Wolf’ of France. She was aptly named. It was to her that England owed its allegiance to the English language, though Edward kept that a secret. His mother did not speak a word of English and so Edward had her confined and surrounded by nothing but English speaking servants and ladies in waiting, an act of spite of course, but Edward was his grandfather’s son through and through. Revenge was to be nurtured and enjoyed. It was just before he had sailed to Calais that he had received a letter from the castellan of Castle Rising in Norfolk where his mother lived that she was losing her wits. He kept the letter under his breastplate near his heart.

  The armies roared and King Edward witnessed the battle begin. He saw longbowmen fire thousands of shafts into the air and witnessed the destruction of the ineffectual Genoans. He saw the cavalry of Sanjelio race off in pursuit of their retreat into the woods and the great cheer that erupted from the ecstatic English.

  Gwilym bore witness to the meeting of the Black Prince and King John the Blind and it conjured images of David meeting Goliath. He saw Prince Edward’s sword strike ineffectually against King John’s shield and he wondered if the Prince’s inexperience would finally prove his undoing. Shouted orders from King John’s two knights kept the Blind King on equal footing with the Prince and was it Gwilym’s imagination or was Prince Edward favoring his left arm?