Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Read online

  ‘Sir John is no longer,’ Hawkwood growled. ‘No longer – by the express order of His Most Gracious Majesty King Edward III of England and of France.’

  ‘I – I do not understand,’ she stammered.

  ‘What is there to understand, woman? What, I ask you? Only that I have been stripped of my rank and title by a king no man has served more loyally.’

  Margaret offered no reply. She understood little of life beyond the walls of Hawkwood Manor and knew almost nothing about her husband, save that he was a soldier knight held in high esteem throughout the land.

  Hawkwood started to pace the room again. It was unthinkable that one well-intentioned cautionary remark to the Black Prince those many months ago could have sparked a situation such as this. Unthinkable and unjust. Worse, there was little to be done about it. The Black Prince was behind this, of that he was certain. It seemed inconceivable that the prince should have been so petulant, but Hawkwood had incurred the king’s displeasure and against that there was no appeal. True, he might bring his case before the Court of Nobles and Barons, but they would scarcely take issue with the king over such a trivial matter. The Court had been granted extensive powers under the provisions of the Magna Carta, but those powers were intended to be exercised only in extremis.

  Hawkwood had to concede that the king had acted shrewdly. The financial penalty was well-judged. Although extortionate, it was one which – as the king knew only too well – Hawkwood could afford. Besides, money was not the principal concern: Hawkwood had been stripped of his honour and his name had been blackened.

  The conduct of the knight of the realm Sir John de Hawkwood is deemed unbecoming and dishonourable to his rank and title ...

  He crushed the parchment into a ball and hurled it across the room. As God is my witness, he vowed, King Edward shall have his twenty thousand crowns and his eight destriers trained to the lance. But I, John Hawkwood, shall deliver them to him in person. Edward shall have his blood money, but I shall have the satisfaction of looking him in the eye and witnessing his discomfiture at the grave injustice he has done me at the behest of a son I once called friend.

  Windsor Castle

  3 October 1360

  It was several years since Hawkwood had last visited Windsor and he was astonished at the changes.

  Few traces remained of the earthwork and timber palisade structure hastily thrown up almost two centuries before by William, Duke of Normandy. The Curfew, Garter and Salisbury towers built to the west of the Lower Ward by Henry III had long been a familiar sight, but it was common knowledge that Edward had added magnificently appointed royal apartments, an inner gate with twin cylindrical towers, and a royal chapel dedicated to the Virgin, St George of Cappadocia and St Edward the Confessor. The rampart fortifications which ran along the south and east sides of the Upper Ward had been extended and heightened, and Hawkwood had heard that William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, had been commissioned to build yet another great tower.

  The sprawling edifice that loomed over the steep hill running down to the Thames was now a profusion of gargoyles, pinnacles, buttresses and crenellations. Roofs were clad in precious lead, immaculate courtyard gardens had been laid out, swathes of parkland had been cleared and stained glass glistened from every window.

  This guardian of the western approaches was beyond question the jewel in the crown of castles and forts that ringed London, a day’s march away. A jewel, certainly, but one not without imperfections. As a soldier, Hawkwood doubted Windsor’s strategic value. By its very nature, the castle was static and could easily be outflanked and bypassed by a hostile invading force. As a defensive position, it had great merit but, in essence, Windsor Castle appeared to exist purely to defend Windsor Castle.

  Hawkwood had been in Windsor for several days now. He had delivered eight warhorses from the cream of his current stock to the royal stables and had deposited twenty thousand gold crowns with the Keeper of the Royal Purse. Not unreasonably, Hawkwood felt, he had also sought an audience with the King. This had been refused on the grounds that His Royal Majesty was for the present preoccupied by ‘affairs of the realm’. Hawkwood had been as insistent as the King’s Chancellor had been adamant: no audience could or would be granted for the time being. He would have to wait. He would have to be patient.

  Patience, as Hawkwood would have been the first to admit, was not one of his virtues. He had spent the long days riding in the Great Park and the even longer evenings in the taverns of Windsor town, where he was instantly recognised. His reputation preceded him, but few who crossed his path seemed willing to exchange more than the ritual courtesies.

  It seemed his fall from royal grace had been noted.

  He was an outsider.

  At last, the audience he felt was his due was granted. To his dismay, he was ushered into the presence not of the king but of one of his sons, the Duke of Gloucester. The duke, a pale-complexioned youth with a withered left hand, was clearly unnerved by the occasion.

  ‘My father bids you welcome to Windsor and regrets that pressing business in France prevents him from receiving you himself.’

  Hawkwood nodded.

  The Duke cleared his throat and continued, ‘I am commanded by my father to acknowledge your contribution to the Exchequer and to express his wish that you live out your days in peace on your estates.’

  Hawkwood nodded again.

  ‘The king also commends your long service to the Crown of England. This has not been forgotten.’

  Another nod. Gloucester seemed at a loss for words. There was an awkward silence. Then: ‘Is it your wish that I convey your respects to the king?’

  ‘It is my wish that you inform your most noble father I had hoped to see him in person.’

  ‘Alas, that will not be possible.’

  ‘Then it is my wish that England may continue to prosper under his reign.’

  ‘It shall be so.’

  Hawkwood bowed almost imperceptibly, turned and walked from the chamber. The audience was over and, with it, all that had been most precious to him. As he rode out of the gates of Windsor, Hawkwood felt the salt sting of tears. Angrily, he swept a hand across his face. The day was chill, he told himself, and the wind had blown a speck of dust into his eyes.

  He regained his lodgings in the town and ordered his squires to ready themselves for departure.

  That evening, as he sat in a modest tavern in Windsor Town and drank his fill, he noticed a handsome young man sitting alone in the far corner of the taproom, studying him intently. After a time, the young man rose and came across to his table. ‘By your leave, Sir John, I would speak with you.’

  ‘Then speak, I pray you.’

  ‘My name is Gennaro Altobardi. I am the envoy of the Council of Guilds of the City State of Pisa. I went first to Hawkwood Manor to seek you out but I was informed you had left for Windsor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I am entrusted by the Council of Guilds to approach you on its behalf.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To retain your services. Pisa has great need of your courage and experience.’

  Hawkwood sat back down on the wooden bench and gestured to Altobardi to do likewise. ‘I am flattered there are still those who hold my modest skills in some regard,’ he said. ‘Pray continue. I shall listen.’

  Altobardi explained his mission.

  He and Hawkwood talked long into the night.

  Free Company

  Banners on display and all the host beside

  Calais

  4 January 1362

  John Hawkwood and Gennaro Altobardi stood on the afterdeck as the flotilla of seven vessels prepared to anchor off Calais. The crossing had been short and uneventful, but Hawkwood was no seafarer and longed only to feel terra firma under his feet once again.

  Hawkwood could make out the six round towers, the massive keep and the wide moats constructed more than a century previously by Philippe Hurepel, Count of Burgundy, to protect Calais from Engl
ish and Flemish marauders. He remembered these fortifications: they were what had enabled Calais to hold out for the better part of a year against Edward III when he besieged the town in 1346 and 1347 following his victory over France’s King Philippe VI at Crécy.

  Hawkwood had spent tedious months at the siege of Calais once the English armies had struck out north from Crécy-en-Artois, looting, pillaging and living off the land, desperate to secure and hold a port – any port – from which to re-embark for England. They had believed the once-modest fishing village of Calais to be easy pickings, much more vulnerable than its close neighbour Boulogne. But the citizens of Calais had mounted a resolute defence until that memorable day in early August 1347 when the town at last capitulated.

  King Edward had vowed to put its entire population to the sword. Hawkwood would never forget the bravery shown by those six prominent citizens of Calais who had come barefoot and with nooses round their necks to present the king with the keys of the town, offering to give up their own lives in exchange for clemency shown to their fellow citizens. Had it not been for the timely and compassionate intervention of Edward’s wife, Queen Philippa, they would have died on the scaffold; instead, they were taken as prisoners to England and held for ransom. Hawkwood and many of his fellow knights had roundly applauded the bravery of those six men, and to this day he could still name them: Eustache de Saint-Pierre, Jean d’Aire, Pierre de Wissant, Jacques de Wissant, Jean de Fiennes and Andriens d’Ardée.

  He had recounted this episode in tiresome detail (and more than once) to Altobardi, who seemed suitably impressed – although careful not to voice the suspicion that, in similar circumstances, the city state of Pisa might be hard pressed to find six citizens to do likewise.

  To all intents and purposes, Calais was now an English town. On King Edward’s orders, the majority of the French population had been banished from within the city walls, to be replaced by wool merchants, shippers of wine, chandlers, tavern-owners and brothel-keepers who were now as much at home in Calais as they had once been in Dover, Plymouth or Southampton.

  Hawkwood’s party came ashore early that afternoon. Supervising the vessels as they loaded in Dover, Hawkwood had proudly surveyed the command he had assembled over the previous months since he had been approached by Altobardi. Twenty mounted knights, forty squires and sergeants-at-arms, a hundred and fifty pikemen, a full company of foot and four hundred Welsh and English longbowmen, all battle-hardened veterans, all fully equipped and provisioned.

  On disembarking in Calais, however, he had second thoughts: in all, his command numbered scarcely a thousand. To be sure, they were a fine body of men, but it was a paltry force compared to the reported military might of Florence. Worse, he had yet to traverse more than twelve hundred miles of potentially hostile terrain before even reaching Pisa.

  There was no knowing what the following days and weeks would bring.

  ‘It is of no consequence, Captain-General,’ Altobardi hastened to reassure him. ‘Calais teems with seasoned campaigners who seek their fortune bearing arms. They will rally to our standard at the prospect of booty.’

  Hawkwood remained unconvinced.

  *

  The men billeted a full mile beyond the town walls, on a plain of intermittent marshland close to fresh water. Immediately to the south of the encampment a second ‘Calais’ had sprung up, a self-sufficient timbered township which housed the large English garrison left by Edward III to protect the port, together with several thousand freemen who had remained in France, persuaded the truce would soon be lifted and that they would once more be retained to bear arms in pursuance of the English king’s designs on the French crown.

  The arrival of Hawkwood’s command was a major event and there was much rumour and speculation as to its meaning. Was this the advance party of a larger army? Had King Edward – now reported to be back in France and besieging the city of Reims far to the east – called for reinforcements? Was the war about to start again? Could this be the same Sir John Hawkwood who had recently fallen into royal disfavour?

  Hawkwood knew there was no time like the present. As soon as his men had been quartered, he assembled a small party of knights and equerries and despatched them to the neighbouring camp. Their instructions were unequivocal: they were to announce the arrival of John Hawkwood, Captain-General of the Free Company of Essex, and to proclaim a tournament to which all were welcome who professed skill in the use of the lance and longbow. There were great prizes to be won by any who could best the champions of Essex.

  They came in their thousands.

  Hawkwood was sorely tempted to enter the lists himself, but thought better of it: if he were defeated, his standing would be eroded and his plan might fail. Instead, he selected eight knights to represent the Essex Company. They acquitted themselves beyond all expectations. Two were unseated in the early rounds of the joust, but the other six prevailed, routing their opponents with comparative ease. He had chosen his champions well.

  The joust, for all its colour and excitement, was not the only attraction of the day. Wrestling and fist-fighting competitions were staged and, to Hawkwood’s immense satisfaction, his men carried the day in each. Elsewhere, massive blocks of stone were lifted and carried fifty paces in a contest declared an honourable draw. Men from both camps vied for the distinction of lifting the stoutest tree trunk, leaping the farthest or highest, and outrunning their opponents over shorter and longer distances. Generous prizes were awarded for various feats: hurling stones, felling trees, saddling a horse, twirling a battle standard, even spitting the farthest.

  Hawkwood savoured the competition and revelled in the comradeship that only those who have borne arms together can fully appreciate. This was the life he had relished since early adulthood, this belonging, the exultation of being a first among equals.

  Beyond any doubt, the main contest of the day was the archery. Sixteen men from each camp were admitted, and thousands of wagers were taken on who would prevail. The Essex Company had their champion and favourite in Sergeant-at-Arms Geraint Llewellyn, a giant from the Vale of Glamorgan, whose prowess with the longbow was legendary. It was said that he had skewered upwards of thirty French knights at Crécy, sending volley after volley through their plate armour with such force that they were knocked off their feet to become easy prey for the footsoldiers.

  English commanders in the field grudgingly conceded that Bordeaux and Toledo steels were the finest in Europe, and some even asserted that prime longbow yew staves could be had in Spain. Not so Geraint Llewellyn: he was a staunch advocate of English yew. He went into combat with several spare bowstaves, with three cords held in reserve for each. A tall man, he drew an exceptionally long bow – nearly seven feet. Over time, his already powerful shoulders had broadened even further. His massive forearms testified to the strength required to wield a 160-pound drawstring. The first three fingers of his draw hand had thickened out of all proportion to those of his left.

  The thirty-two archers were arrayed in a single rank. They set aside their steel helmets and removed their surcoats. Many wore earrings; others had broad leather or chain-link bands around their necks. Some were bearded, others clean-shaven; some were leather-skinned veterans, others fresh-faced youths. And all had demonstrated their skill in competition and on the field of battle.

  The contest was to unfold in four phases. First, a test of distance, then one of accuracy, followed by depth of penetration and speed of fire. The winner would be judged on the aggregate of his ranking in each of the four phases. A minimum of eight competitors would be eliminated after each of the first three rounds.

  Hawkwood raised his right hand and let it drop by his side. Thirty-two longbows drew taut, then elevated to a sharp angle. Almost simultaneously, thirty-two swine-backed feathered shafts hissed skywards, curving gracefully together for what seemed an eternity before the first of them tilted and plunged towards the earth.

  The distances were meticulously paced out. The first arrows had landed j
ust beyond two hundred and thirty paces; many more were grouped close to the three hundred mark. Several had travelled almost three hundred and fifty, but one had far outdistanced all the others, plummeting into the ground over four hundred paces away.

  There was a roar of approval from the watching throng. The black, green and purple feathers on the shaft were unmistakable: Llewellyn of Glamorgan.

  Twenty-four straw targets were set out at a distance of two hundred yards and a square of white cloth was positioned in the middle of each. Twenty-four arrows sought their mark. Of these, nineteen found the straw, but only fourteen punctured the white square, Llewellyn’s among them. The fourteen then took up position one hundred paces from an ox carcass suspended from a hook attached to a cross-pole. Each man stepped up in turn and fired a single arrow. One shaft after another slammed foursquare into the carcass, penetrating the thick hide and crunching through bone and flesh. Only two arrows failed to find their mark, and eleven protruded from the gently swaying carcass when Llewellyn stepped up and took aim. His shaft whistled through the air, struck a fraction above the breastbone and, as the crowd gasped in astonishment, protruded a full eight inches from the other side.

  Hawkwood leapt to his feet, roaring his approval. ‘By Christ, sir, that’s as fair a shaft as I form one have ever seen!’

  Llewellyn walked forward to the shattered carcass, retrieved his arrow, wiped it on his breeches and, grinning from ear to ear, executed a series of preposterously low curtsies. The crowd laughed their approval and cheered wildly. Hawkwood applauded with the best of them.

  Llewellyn was the clear winner thus far. Another Welshman, Huw Griffiths, shorter than Llewellyn but every bit as broad-shouldered, was adjudged to have come second. He and Llewellyn were to be put to the final test. Distance, accuracy and penetration were key attributes of the experienced longbowman, but rate of fire was a crucial element in the field.

  A single straw target was set at a distance of one hundred and fifty paces. Each bowman was required to draw and fire as many shafts as he could in one minute. Only those that lodged in the straw would count; any that failed to find the mark were to be declared null and void.