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Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 5
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Llewellyn and Griffiths stood side by side. To the right of each, a leather quiver of arrows was fixed upright. Hawkwood gave the signal and the crowd – those who knew how to count – began to chant the seconds.
Llewellyn stooped, snatched a shaft from the quiver, positioned it, drew, took aim and fired. The arrow had scarcely left his bow when he stooped again and repeated the process. Again and again.
‘Fifty-eight – Fifty-nine – Sixty!’
The target was a pheasant’s fantail of coloured feathers. The judges walked forward and solemnly removed each, tallying as they went. Llewellyn had loosed eleven arrows in the sixty seconds. One had missed to the right. His count was ten. Griffiths had fired thirteen arrows. Two had missed left and a third had flown clean over the target. His tally was also ten.
Hawkwood approached the two men, signalling that the contest was over. It seemed to him that both had performed equally well. To his surprise, he saw that Llewellyn was holding Griffiths’s arm high above his head. Hawkwood’s eyes narrowed. Llewellyn is right, he thought, the test was one of speed and rate of fire. Griffiths might have missed the target three times, but he had fired more arrows. The big question was how he had accomplished it.
Llewellyn clearly had the same question on his mind. He took the bow from Griffiths’s hand and weighed it in his own. ‘In faith, my friend, this is as well-waxed and well-balanced a bowstave as I have ever encountered. Yet I fear it is too short for me.’
Too short? Perhaps, thought Hawkwood. Or perhaps not. The longbow’s effectiveness relied almost as much on rate of fire as on accuracy and distance. It was something he would bear in mind.
The day ended with a feast which continued well into the night. Hawkwood moved among the crowd, clasping an arm here, clapping a shoulder there. He had rarely been happier.
Two days later, Captain-General John Hawkwood departed Calais at the head of the Free Company of Essex. In his wake were thirty-seven hundred men-at-arms.
Sible Hedingham
30 January 1361
Margaret Hawkwood had risen at daybreak on the morning of her husband’s departure, and had stood shivering in the half-light of dawn as he and his small complement of retainers readied themselves. The destriers, palfreys and packhorses had been marshalled into line and she had watched as Hawkwood moved among them, checking a girth here, cinching a strap there.
He is in his element, she had thought, and who can blame him? At last, he has regained some purpose. A renewed dignity.
To her surprise, Lady Margaret had mixed feelings about his departure. A great blow had been dealt to his pride, and he had become even more withdrawn than usual. He had said little, but she knew how unjustly he had been treated by the king and how he brooded over that injustice. She had suffered with him.
He had left now, and she had no way of knowing when – or if – he would return. She was strangely saddened by the thought. He had spent an unusually long time at home and she had come to see him in a different light. Coarse, gruff, short-tempered as ever, yet curiously diligent in his ways. An honest man, a man of his word, a man who treated his people fairly, who helped where help was needed and who was mindful of his responsibilities.
She was still afraid of him, but she respected him more than she could express. Her husband was a man of honour, that much she now knew. He had left for a place she had never heard of and about which she cared little.
And she would miss him.
Margaret felt bile rise in her throat. She hurried indoors, her hand clasped over her mouth. It had been like this for many weeks now, every morning. Her breasts were heavy and her waist had thickened.
She was with child.
She had not spoken of this to Sir John.
He had too many other things on his mind.
Florence, Palazzo della Signoria
6 March 1361
An inscription on an atrium wall in Pompeii is attributed by some to Gaius Plinius Secundus, the Roman military commander, historian and savant who perished in the lava flow which engulfed that ancient city in 79 AD. The inscription holds that ‘a secret shared is a trust betrayed’.
Most would be tempted to agree, and the true cynic might add that a secret remains a secret provided it is transmitted to only one person at any one time.
Like other Italian city states, Florence had, throughout its turbulent history, witnessed the temporary ascendancy of one political group after another as alliances were formed and broken, as tenuous allegiances shifted and as the knife-edge balance of power between rulers and ruled swung first one way then another. With the possible exception of papal Rome, however, none of the city states of the Italian peninsula had sustained a more comprehensive or more effective network of scouts and informants than Florence.
Within three days of Pisa’s decision to despatch Gennaro Altobardi to England to solicit Hawkwood’s services, the details of his ‘secret’ mission were known to Florence and were the subject of heated debate by the city elders. By what means the information had been ferreted out was no longer of consequence: at issue was how to respond.
The consensus was that Florence must respond and must respond quickly.
The need to take Pisa was paramount and should be addressed without delay, especially now that Pisa had called upon this English condottiere called Hawkwood. Florence and its allies in Montepulciano, Bologna and Orvieto were in agreement: nothing would give greater satisfaction than to bring Pisa to its knees and, with it, Pisa’s Ghibelline allies in Siena, Pistoia and Arezzo.
‘Pisa and its allies must be brought to a fall, of that I am persuaded,’ said the council’s president, Giancarlo Boninsegna. ‘But I counsel prudence. We know little of this Hawkwood other than that he sells himself for booty and blood money. We do not know the man and are in no position to assess the threat he poses. But time is on our side. Hawkwood may reject Pisa’s offer out of hand, or he may accept it but fail to raise an army. Even should he be successful, he will have to traverse half of Europe before he can come to Pisa’s aid. We must be ready, but there is time.’
The elders were silent.
Only one raised his voice in muted protest. ‘I am by nature a prudent man,’ ventured Pietrangelo Bellisario, ‘but there is a fine line between prudenza and inaction.’
‘The point is well taken,’ replied Boninsegna, ‘and I concur. Let me say only that I counsel prudenza but not passività, prudence as opposed to passivity. We must determine more of this Hawkwood and his intentions. We must deploy informants to assess his numbers, ascertain his strengths and probe his weaknesses.’
‘Hawkwood is a mercenary,’ snorted Bellisario. ‘He fights for money, not principle. We have money. Why not simply buy him off? Better still, why not purchase his services ourselves?’
‘If that is an option, then it is one we shall exercise if and when the opportunity presents itself,’ replied Boninsegna. ‘For the moment, however, I propose we watch and wait.’
Watch and wait.
The Council of Elders reluctantly bowed to Boninsegna’s decision. As he had known they would.
As they always did.
Angoulême
8 March 1361
The two men circled, each eyeing the dagger in the other’s hand.
One was tall, fair-haired and loose-limbed, the other short and thickset. The tall one had stripped off his surcoat and wound it tightly around his left forearm. The thickset one was the older of the two by several years. His nose had been broken more than once and his pock-marked features were made even uglier by the jagged scar that ran down the left side of his face. The younger man was the more mobile, repeatedly stepping in close, feinting with his dagger, then arching back away from his adversary’s shorter reach. The older man came steadily and flatfootedly forward, imperceptibly closing the gap between himself and his opponent.
The onlookers did not know why the two men were squared off. No matter: the prospect of a fight was one they relished, the more so since this had a
ll the makings of a fight to the death. They shouted encouragement as the younger man lunged forward, aiming at the other’s head. There was a clash of steel as the other warded off the blow and jabbed his own weapon wildly at his adversary’s midriff.
The crowd jeered derisively as he missed, losing his balance and stumbling to his knees. The younger man saw his opening and stepped in smartly. For once, his height put him at a disadvantage. As he stooped to strike, the thickset man rose on one knee and thrust his dagger sharply upwards, drawing blood from high on the other’s thigh, only inches from his private parts. The wounded man backed away in expectation of the inevitable follow-up, but his adversary simply got to his feet and stood there, glowering at him and panting from his own exertions.
He is mine now, thought the blond man. He drew a deep breath and moved swiftly in for the kill.
The older man stood his ground. He punched his dagger forward and up, dropping back on one knee as he did so. The young man’s dagger scythed past his ear and he felt the jolt as his own weapon angled upwards and buried itself deep into his adversary’s ribcage. It was a fatal blow and the thickset man knew as much. He released his dagger and rolled to one side, glancing up to see his opponent drop his weapon and clutch his chest with both hands. There was a look of surprise on his face as he pitched forward and lay still.
The victor walked over to the body, extracted his dagger, wiped it on his tunic and returned it to his belt.
The crowd was silent. Much as they had delighted in the confrontation, they were stunned at how quickly it had been brought to this deadly conclusion. Some turned away, while others hastened forward as if to satisfy themselves that one of the combatants was well and truly dead. The thickset man retrieved his helmet and walked slowly away.
When the incident was reported to Hawkwood, he knew he must take action. Immediately. Fights had broken out several times on the march from the coast, but he had elected to look the other way: when all was said and done, these were fighting men. This latest episode was different, however. One of his men had been killed – by a comrade-at-arms.
The thickset man was brought before him, and Hawkwood demanded an explanation. It transpired that the quarrel had been triggered by a simple remark. The dead man had been Welsh, the survivor was English. The Welshman had made a disparaging comment about the English and their virility and the Englishman had reacted accordingly.
The killer showed no remorse. He had been called out, he explained, and had defended his honour.
‘Honour?’ exclaimed Hawkwood. ‘What honour is there in this, that you slaughter a comrade?’
The man looked at the ground, shuffling his feet. He muttered something that Hawkwood did not catch.
‘You oblige me to repeat myself,’ said Hawkwood. ‘I ask again: what honour is there in this?’
The man said nothing.
Hawkwood looked around at those who had closed within earshot. They waited expectantly. He raised his voice. ‘This is an army, a free company of men. You are here to fight when I say fight, and not before. You are hired to fight against an enemy, any enemy, not among yourselves. I will not brook such behaviour within our ranks. I have vowed to enter Pisa at the head of an army, not at the head of an undisciplined rabble.’
The man looked up hopefully. His eyes gave him away. Was this all? A reprimand? Words of censure? Was that to be his punishment?
‘You have taken the life of one of my men,’ continued Hawkwood. ‘Your own life is forfeit. That is all.’
He turned away with a gesture of disgust. ‘Hang him.’
John Hawkwood was not a man of letters but he was an avid student of history and of the art of war. He had marvelled at the courage of the Spartans at Thermopylae. He had devoured chronicles of Alexander the Great’s Persian campaigns. He had read the Histories of Rome by Polybius and Titus Livius, studied the tactics of Scipio Africanus, and read and re-read Caesar’s De bello gallico. He particularly admired Hannibal’s victory at Lake Trasimene and Caesar’s victory over the Nervii. And he had many times replayed in his mind the victory of Emperor Otto I over the rampaging Magyars at the battle of the River Lech in 955.
He had concluded that strategy and tactics could be readily assimilated – after all, they were no more than the tools of the trade. What Alexander, Hannibal, Caesar and Otto had demonstrated was less easily achieved but every bit as vital: the military imperatives of unity, cohesion, discipline and singleness of purpose.
A few moments ago he had said, ‘I have vowed to enter Pisa at the head of an army, not at the head of an undisciplined rabble.’ His mind was made up. He, too, would forge unity, build cohesion, enforce discipline and develop singleness of purpose.
And he would do so without delay.
Karl Eugen
You are my trusted friend, as none can doubt
Florence
10 March 1361
Karl Eugen August Wilhelm von Strachwitz-Wettin came from a distinguished line.
Karl Eugen was the third son and the black sheep of a Polish-German family who had come to prominence in the early twelfth century and whose lands now extended across large tracts of the margraviate of Meissen. The principle of primogeniture provided that Karl Eugen’s eldest brother, Harald Günther, would succeed to the Strachwitz-Wettin estates. The second son, Werner Sigismund, had taken holy orders and was a devout man of the cloth.
Karl Eugen August Wilhelm had long since decided that his destiny lay elsewhere.
Of all her children, Karl Eugen’s mother had favoured her third son, a beautiful child and now an exceptionally handsome young man. That she had doted on him from infancy was, in his father’s considered view, the principal reason why the young man had strayed so frequently from the straight and narrow. His mother had looked the other way when, as a twelve-year-old, Karl Eugen had cheerfully lopped the heads off a dozen or so chickens ‘to see how much blood was in them’. She had also looked the other way when, as a fifteen-year-old, he had impregnated not one but two of the family servants. And, yet again when, at twenty, the apple of her eye had torched one of the peasant cottages on the Wettin estates because a tenant’s daughter had rejected his advances. She attributed these and other episodes to youthful high spirits, and soon forgave and forgot. Her Liebling could do no wrong;
Karl Eugen’s father was less tolerant. He had thrashed his son repeatedly from a very early age. After Karl Eugen’s reprehensible debut as a firebrand, he had ordered him horse-whipped, but had thought better of it when his strapping son squared off against him, challenging him to do his worst.
The lad was now twenty-four, and had put the petty deeds of his youth behind him. Karl Eugen had bigger fish to fry.
It was a glorious spring day and he had time on his hands. He had started out early from the Oltrarno, the poorer district of Florence on the opposite bank of the Arno river, and was heading for a palazzo near the Ponte Vecchio where he was to meet Giancarlo Boninsegna. Karl Eugen meandered through the streets, pausing to admire once more the cathedral, the ancient baptistery and Giotto’s magnificent campanile with its great bell, intended to be rung a stormo when danger threatened. He sauntered down the bustling Borgo degli Albizi, one of the oldest thoroughfares in Florence. He spent a few moments in the Orsanmichele church, conceived originally as a grain market but now graced with Andrea Orcagna’s stunning altarpiece. He strolled past the heavily fortified façade of the Bargello town hall, the beautiful church of Santa Croce with its incomparable Baroncelli Chapel frescoes by Giotto and Taddeo Gaddi, and the Dominican church of Santa Maria Novella, its cemetery wall lined with avelli grave niches.
Karl Eugen had spent time in Rome and Venice and had concluded that, though both were remarkable, neither rivalled Florence, the flower of Tuscany. Conscious of its destiny and proud of its heritage, it embodied the spirit of the age, both culturally and politically. It had a glorious past and was on the brink of an even more glorious future. It was a city after his own heart, a city of art and comm
erce, of opportunity and intrigue, a city he would be proud to serve.
As he approached the Ponte Vecchio, Karl Eugen heard the clamour and breathed in the familiar stench from the butchers’ stalls, tanners’ vats and blacksmiths’ forges that lined the bridge and cantilevered out over the Arno on sporti brackets fashioned from stout timber.
The Palazzo Boninsegna stood on the west side of a piazza no more than fifty paces from the bridge. It was an imposing brick and marble structure topped by fishtail battlements. As he waited to be admitted, Karl Eugen reflected that Giancarlo Boninsegna must be a very wealthy man indeed, bearing in mind he did not belong to the Florentine aristocracy but was merely a consigliere to Bernabò Visconti.
Karl Eugen was heartened by this fact. As he had come to know, there were fortunes to be made as an adviser.
Boninsegna received his visitor in the cortile, the cool inner courtyard typical of Italian palazzos. He was courteous but came quickly to the point.
‘Your services come highly recommended.’ Boninsegna elected not to specify from which quarter the recommendation had come.
Karl Eugen said nothing.
‘Well recommended and, as I understand, at no small cost,’ continued Boninsegna.
‘As most services of any true value,’ replied Karl August.
Boninsegna looked the young man over. Handsome, certainly, in the Teutonic mould: tall, with a full head of blond hair and an air of self-confidence that belied – or attested to – his youth. Boninsegna had some difficulty in reconciling the image with what little he knew of him. Could this conceivably be the same Strachwitz who had served so effectively as an informer on behalf of the doges of Venice? Who had negotiated a truce with the German and Hungarian mercenaries who had threatened to sack Milan only eighteen months previously?