Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Read online

D’Artois scooped up two walnuts and weighed them in the palm of his right hand. Slowly, he closed his fist over them. His knuckles whitened briefly as the two walnuts came together and cracked. He opened his fist and let the fragments of shell fall on the table. ‘As you see,’ he said, ‘what is done is done and cannot be undone or repaired.’

  Laughter broke out around the table. Hawkwood joined in. The Black Prince smiled but his eyes were obsidian.

  Watching him, Hawkwood realised that, although he had certainly not made an enemy, he had with equal certainty lost a friend.

  Sible Hedingham, Essex

  22 March 1360

  Lady Margaret Hawkwood sat by the massive stone hearth and gazed out over the insipid Essex countryside. Her husband had sent riders ahead to alert her to his return.

  She had mixed feelings about his imminent arrival. In one way she was glad, glad he was alive and well, glad he had come unscathed through a long and arduous campaign, glad he would be on hand to resolve all manner of outstanding issues on his estate. Yet she could scarcely pretend that the prospect of sharing his bed again and responding to his physical demands was one she relished.

  Lady Margaret Hawkwood was afraid of her husband.

  Sir John was a big man in every sense. He was extremely tall, towering over those around him. Years in the field – he had fought at Crécy when barely eighteen – had filled out an already imposing frame. His thighs and calves were heavily muscled from many months in the saddle, his shoulders immensely powerful, his arms thick from wielding lance and broadsword in practice and in combat. His beard was full and coarse, his hair bushed over his ears and curled tight and dark against the nape of his neck. His hands were those of a woodsman. His eyes glinted slate-grey and dangerous.

  Lady Margaret had long since concluded there was nothing about her husband that was remotely delicate, nothing that hinted at tenderness or sensitivity.

  She had been betrothed to him when only fifteen years old, and they had wed some two years later. Her mother had warned her of the ways of men and told her what to expect, but Margaret had been largely unprepared for her wedding night. She had felt demeaned by the brutality of it all – the sheer size of him, his weight pinning her down, crushing her against the hardness of the horsehair mattress, the pain as he entered her, the urgency of his coupling, the merciful release as he ejaculated, and her humiliation as his seed spilled down the inside of her thighs. Then he had rolled away, his breathing laboured, sweat glistening on his matted chest hair; within seconds, he was asleep, arms and legs spread wide.

  Over time, Margaret came to understand and even accept what was expected of her. When he took her from behind – as he often did – she even felt the first stirrings of response as he plunged deep inside her, his underbelly slapping wetly against her buttocks and his huge fists clutching painfully at her breasts.

  He said nothing while they copulated, merely strained and grunted and occasionally cried out as he climaxed. He said nothing then or afterwards, and in the light of day he made no mention of these frantic and feral couplings.

  What saddened Margaret most was that she had no one to turn to, no one in whom to confide. Not even her own mother, whose disappointment at Margaret’s failure to conceive was unspoken but ill concealed. And certainly not the self-righteous priest who dutifully presided over the daily offices in the modest chapel at Hawkwood Manor.

  Lady Margaret understood where her duty lay. She was required to produce an heir to continue the Hawkwood line. As the months passed and she remained childless, her husband’s impatience grew and his demands intensified. She accommodated him as best she could, waiting only for the day when he would leave again to do what he did best: serve his king and country on the field of combat. Now he was coming back, and the cycle of pain and humiliation would recommence.

  The question uppermost in her mind was how long he would elect to remain.

  *

  Hawkwood’s brows furrowed as he and his small retinue slowly approached the manor house along the broad poplar-lined path. He noted with growing unease that some of the estate’s strip farmland had been left fallow and untended. The Black Death had taken its toll, even out here in the under-populated Essex countryside.

  The plague had started in the East and moved inexorably along the caravan trade routes to the West, striking on the lower Volga, then fanning out into the Caucasus and the Crimea. By 1347 it had reached Constantinople, Alexandria and Cairo, where several thousand fatalities were recorded every day. From the eastern Mediterranean, it had swept across northern Europe, spreading – if accounts were to be believed – up through the Italian peninsula from Messina, in Sicily, when a dozen Genoese merchantmen had docked there. The pest had destroyed the population of Messina itself, then spread to Catania, where the entire population was also said to have died. Early in 1348, the Black Death had reached Marseille. By April that year it was in Paris, by September in England.

  The warring armies of England and France had been so decimated by the plague that they laid down their arms and fled. Hawkwood had seen the fever take hold, seen the dreaded burn blisters appear on face, thighs, arms and neck, and small lumps knot in armpit and groin, swelling rapidly and hardening into goose-egg protrusions. Then came the vomiting of dark blood and the discoloration of the skin as victims lay shivering helplessly in gutters and ditches, crying their agony until they were mercifully released in a matter of hours rather than days. He had surveyed the massive pits of the dead, where mounds of corpses piled noble next to serf and farmyard animal next to cleric. And he had recognised not only the suffering of individuals but the social and economic devastation the Black Death had wrought.

  The plague had receded now, but it was said – and Hawkwood had no reason to doubt it – that one out of every three persons in Europe had died. In some cities, as many as three-quarters of the population had been lost. Florence and Venice had been particularly ravaged, as had Avignon, where half the population perished and the exiled Pope Clement VI had seen fit to consecrate the Rhône river as a burial site for the city’s dead.

  Like many of his contemporaries, Hawkwood could not shake off the belief that the scourge might be a punishment from God, and he prudently thanked his God that he had been spared. As a man of some learning, and above all as a realist, he believed that, while miasmas, earthquakes, comets, cats, dogs, lepers, gypsies and Jews might have been root causes, poor sanitation and overcrowded, rat-infested towns and cities and human contagion must surely have contributed to the spread of the Black Death.

  In 1348 alone, the English and French armies had lost substantially more men to the plague than to the enemy and Hawkwood had vowed then and there to regard proper sanitary conditions and matters of health generally as a prime factor in military strategy.

  The Black Death had not reached Hawkwood Manor but its effects had been felt. In Hawkwood’s absence, many of his serfs had been illegally lured away to neighbouring estates whose working population had been depleted. Others had seized the opportunity to leave for the cities – a paradoxical choice on the face of it, but understandable: fear of the plague was largely mitigated by the prospect not only of living as free men but also of earning a much better living now that wages had been inflated in the wake of a greatly-reduced labour pool.

  Although Hawkwood was angered by the neglect the manor had suffered, he was not unduly troubled by it. His estate was relatively large, running to close on seventy acres of woodland, rich arable land and meadowland to feed the draught animals. Taken together, the acreage was sufficient to provide for the needs of the Hawkwood household and the serfs who lived in the thatched wooden-frame, wattle-and-daub cruck houses that made up the estate village.

  Besides, he was already a comparatively wealthy man. If nothing else, he would have been wealthy by virtue of his military prowess alone. As a seasoned veteran of the wars against France, he had amassed butin – ‘booty’ – and substantial ransom income over close on ten years.


  But there was more – much more.

  The Hawkwood lands had been gifted to his Norman ancestor, one Gilbert l’Epervier, who had come over with William the Conqueror and gone on to distinguish himself in the Norman king’s service. Strictly speaking, the land had been gifted in tenancy to a Baron d’Houart de Honfleur who, in turn, had assigned a portion to Gilbert. The estate deeds had been duly recorded in the Domesday Book of 1087 and the family had enjoyed the sub-tenancy ever since. Sir John’s father, another Gilbert, had anglicised the family name to ‘Hawk’ and added ‘wood’ some forty years previously. He had also founded a flourishing tannery on the outskirts of Colchester, acclaimed for its excellent grade of cuir bouilli – leather treated and hardened in boiling wax – which was in great demand for saddles, light armour, leather garments and even upholstery and wall-hangings.

  As the most recent in a long line of minor nobility and as a knight in his own right, Sir John of Hawkwood felt that continuing to operate the tannery – albeit at arm’s length – was somewhat beneath his knightly dignity and status. That said, he also recognised it as a remunerative and sustained source of income. Besides, annual profits from the tannery were ploughed into an activity that Sir John felt was more commensurate with his chosen profession. Throughout England and in many parts of Europe, he had forged a reputation as a breeder and trainer of destriers, the large-boned and sturdy battle horses that were the ultimate resource of the knight in battle. They were heavy, coarse-ruffed, stubby-haired creatures of an evil disposition, bred for combat: fast but uncommonly manoeuvrable, capable of inflicting serious wounds on opponents by trampling, biting or slashing with their leg blades. A destrier properly trained to the saddle and lance was held – quite literally – to be worth its own weight in gold, equivalent, it was often said, to the aggregate value of one hundred oxen, those most costly of farm animals. The coursers bred and trained by Sir John were adjudged to be among the very finest in all England and beyond.

  Hawkwood and his attendants crossed the fixed bridge over the shallow moat and dismounted. The manor was built in natural stone and was arranged around a central courtyard. He strode through the entrance porch and across the great hall that had originally served as a communal space for eating, sleeping and transacting business. At the far end of the hall was a raised platform – the solar – which had once afforded the lord of the manor and his immediate family a modicum of privacy. Leading off it, there were now additional half-timbered rooms, including private bedchambers and reception areas.

  Lady Margaret came forward to greet her husband. His embrace was perfunctory.

  ‘You appear in good health, Sir John.’

  ‘As do you, Lady Margaret.’

  He shrugged off his loose cape and removed his leather gauntlets. ‘It is as well that I have returned,’ he said.

  Lady Margaret smiled. ‘For that we must all give thanks,’ she replied.

  Windsor Great Park

  9 May 1360

  King Edward of the House of Windsor sat astride his chestnut palfrey and watched intently as the peregrine, released from her jesses and hood, soared skyward. She hovered only momentarily, her wings beating rapidly as she scanned for suitable prey. The king’s heart skipped a beat as he saw her suddenly arc into a precipitous dive, swooping down at uncommon speed to bind to the unsuspecting grey heron, carrying it to earth and sinking her outsize talons into its vital organs.

  Of the innumerable hawks King Edward kept at Windsor, this peregrine was by far his favourite. He had taken her at hack from the nest when she was fully fledged yet still flightless and had trained her on the block, carrying her on the thick leather gauntlet for hours, days and months on end, all the while whispering softly to her and caressing her magnificent plumage with an eider feather, soothing and cajoling her at one and the same time. When she was weaned off the soft leather rufter hood, he had schooled her for the hunt, first feeding her from the padded lure with its tasty morsel of pigeon, then teaching her how to select her own prey and fly aggressively towards it once it was flushed.

  The king loved this graceful creature even more than he did his wife, Philippa, daughter of Count William of Hainault and Holland, to whom he had been betrothed at the age of eleven and who had since grown into a pious if at times insipid wife whose principal redeeming feature in his eyes was her ability to give birth with monotonous regularity.

  In truth, the peregrine came second in the king’s affections only to his first-born son, Edward of Woodstock, popularly known as the ‘Black Prince’ – allegedly on account of the black battle armour he wore in the field but, as many would have it, because of his consistently foul temper.

  Squires retrieved the dead heron. The peregrine obediently flew to his outstretched arm and he gently hooded her and re-affixed her jesses.

  Smiling, he looked across at his son. ‘In all faith, this is indeed the sport of kings.’

  ‘That it is, father, and more besides.’

  Edward took his son’s meaning at once. He had nurtured the lad as he had nurtured the falcon, grooming both for pre-eminence. He glanced down at the bird, admiring her spurs and thinking back to how this valiant son of his had won his spurs – and his now legendary ostrich plumes – at the battle of Crécy a decade before. Edward had been proved right to grant the prince field command of the English forces in 1335 and had now been rewarded with this famous victory at Poitiers. He took undiluted pride in his son and in the latter’s achievements, not the least of which had been the capture of the French king, now quartered in the Savoy Palace in London.

  The negotiations in Bordeaux had been successfully completed. Minor nobles had been ransomed back to France, while others of higher rank had been released after the battle on a solemn pledge to raise monies to indemnify the English crown. Edward knew they would honour those pledges to a man. As for King Jean, an unprecedented ransom of three million gold crowns had already been mooted, together with territorial concessions which would go a long way towards consolidating English footholds in the Aquitaine and elsewhere. The sum was outrageously high, but France must ultimately pay if it were to retain its dignity and honour. Failing that, thought Edward, I will lead a fresh expeditionary force to France and bring that treacherous country to its knees.

  Much of the ransom monies raised in Bordeaux had already been disbursed in order to pay Edward’s conscript army. Besides, with the exception of payments made and pledges given on behalf of those of the highest rank, ransom revenues accrued properly not to the crown but to the individuals who had carried the day. Equipping and sustaining an army in the field – and in a foreign land, to boot – was a costly affair and the English exchequer was greatly depleted. Until such time as the French ransomed their king – indeed, until such time as they could afford to do so – the war would be at a standstill.

  The thought sobered Edward and he confided as much to his son.

  The prince hesitated before replying; but the contretemps between himself and Sir John Hawkwood after Poitiers still rankled. ‘Permit me, sire, to say that our coffers would be less depleted had certain of those who fought with us at Poitiers displayed greater loyalty to England than to their own narrow interests.’

  The king’s dark eyebrows arched. ‘You speak in riddles, my son. If you have aught to say, speak your piece clearly.’

  ‘I speak of Sir John of Hawkwood, a most intrepid knight I warrant, but one whose intemperate nature has done you a disservice. A knight who has now returned to England, his wealth bolstered by our deeds in France.’

  ‘That is his good right. But, pray, in what manner did this disservice come about?’

  ‘By the slaying of one Gauthier de Brienne, a connétable of France, whose capture and ransom would have greatly benefited the exchequer.’

  ‘Think you so ill of a comrade-at-arms that you would blacken his name in this way?’

  ‘I seek neither to blacken his name nor to gainsay his honour. I say only this: that on that day of victory he failed hi
s king and his country.’

  The king made no reply. He gathered in the reins and urged his mount to a walk. The Black Prince followed, suddenly ashamed of what he had said. His resentment had been building ever since that day in Narbonne when Hawkwood had rescued him from the jaws of death and then publicly questioned his temperament and military acumen.

  His father seemed angry at his denunciation of Hawkwood but the Prince did not regret it. He was confident his father would raise the matter again in due course and then he would make his case against Hawkwood even more forcefully. When all was said and done, thought the Black Prince, wars were fought for honour but also for personal advancement.

  Points South

  Fortune and her treacherous wheel that suffers no estate on earth to feel secure

  Milan

  22 May 1360

  It was common knowledge in Milan that the Visconti women were the most beautiful in all Italy. Although the proud citizens of Rome, Florence and Venice might well have taken issue with this, none who had seen Donnina Visconti in the flesh could deny her grace and radiance.

  Today was her twentieth birthday, and celebrations were planned in her honour. Attendants fussed over her, combing out her shoulder-length dark chestnut hair, arranging and re-arranging the folds of her translucent slate-grey silk gown and adjusting the gold cord that encircled her slender waist and emphasised the curve of her hips and the outline of her thighs.

  She waved her maidservants to one side and contemplated herself in the full-length mirror, nodding in satisfaction. The overall effect was as she had hoped: simple, striking, virginal. She smiled as she turned away.

  Virginal? Scarcely. Donnina had ceded her virginity almost two years previously to a handsome and well-muscled stable lad called Ludovico, whose adulation she had nurtured for several weeks before yielding to his – and her own – unfettered lust. He had pinned her against a stable door and reached between her thighs, roughly massaging her pubis, probing her with his stubby fingers and prising her wetness apart. She remembered the sharp pain as he entered her and the disappointment when he ejaculated almost immediately. She also remembered how, as if in compensation, he had continued to caress her until he was ready to enter her again.