Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Read online

  Karl Eugen waited.

  ‘The cost of your services is not at issue here. You will be paid as agreed,’ said Boninsegna.

  A nod.

  ‘What is at issue is whether you can provide the service we require. It is a matter of some delicacy and one that is not without danger to your person.’

  ‘Of that I am aware,’ said Karl Eugen.

  Boninsegna was uncertain whether to be impressed by the young man’s calm acceptance of the dangers involved or irritated by his ill-concealed arrogance. He pursed his lips and continued.

  ‘We have knowledge of one John Hawkwood, who is in the pay of Pisa. Our sources report that he is at present in France, at the head of a force of over three thousand men.’

  ‘You wish me to confirm this?’ asked von Strachwitz.

  ‘There is no need,’ said Boninsegna impatiently. ‘We are fully apprised of his whereabouts and the numbers at his disposal. What we expect of you is this: to attach yourself to his Company and find favour with him, then report back to me concerning his disposition and intentions. How well is he equipped? How is he regarded by his men? How loyal are they? Can Hawkwood himself be bought?’

  Karl Eugen nodded again. ‘I understand. And where is he now?’

  ‘Our last reports say somewhere east of Bordeaux.’

  ‘And his planned route to Pisa?’

  ‘That is not certain. He may take care to avoid Bordeaux itself. It is a city still in English hands and, as the renegade we believe him to be, he will not wish to fall foul of the English garrison there. He will most likely strike inland across country, towards Arles or Nîmes, and from there eastwards along the coast.’

  ‘Is it your intention to oppose him by force?’

  Boninsegna raised a cautionary finger. ‘Our intentions remain to be decided. What is vital is that you do what we ask. And with all speed.’

  ‘There is little time,’ ventured Strachwitz, betraying the first sign of hesitation and uncertainty.

  ‘That is true,’ said Boninsegna. ‘But there is surely time enough for a man of your qualities and resolve.’

  Karl Eugen realised he could do only one of two things: accept the mission or decline it. To do the latter was unthinkable, for his reputation was at stake and, with it, his future. Besides, he had always responded to a challenge.

  ‘It shall be as you command,’ he said.

  Boninsegna extended a hand. ‘I wish you success, Herr von Strachwitz.’

  There was nothing more to be said. Karl Eugen left the palazzo and made his way back across the river to Oltrarno, conscious he was about to play for the highest stakes of all – his own life – yet comforted by the thought that the financial rewards and the possibilities for advancement would be beyond his every expectation.

  Milan

  14 March 1361

  Donnina Visconti was not privy to the negotiations that preceded her betrothal. She knew little of them and cared even less.

  It was to be a matrimonium ad morganaticum between two noble houses, a morganatic marriage between herself, a daughter of Bernabò Visconti, Duke of Milan, and the half-brother of the Duke of Florence, the key provision of which was that their offspring would be precluded from acceding to their father’s hereditary rank or property. In essence, then, a ‘left-handed’ marriage, a marriage of convenience to serve a strategic purpose: namely, forging a tenuous link between Milan and Florence, two great city states with a history of mutual antagonism.

  Had Donnina taken a closer interest in the negotiations, she would have been aware that the conditions attaching to the marriage implied that she was of lesser rank than her husband-to-be. What had never been publicly disclosed – not even to Donnina herself – was that she was illegitimate, the product of a liaison between her father and a willing lady of the court.

  She was undaunted by the prospect of being given in marriage to a man almost three times her age. After the nuptials and a night of doubtless peremptory consummation, she would in all probability return to live in Milan while her new husband would remain in Florence. When all was said and done, this was a marriage of convenience, was it not? And the most convenient aspect being that, once married, she could enjoy certain discreet freedoms which had recently been largely denied her.

  Besides, she loved her father; and his word was law.

  Near Bergerac

  27 March 1361

  Hawkwood’s company had bivouacked for several days outside Angoulême before striking camp and moving south-east. That the forced march from Calais to Angoulême had been without major incident was as Hawkwood had expected. He knew the French must already have some notion of his final destination and he was aware that his progress was being closely monitored. But he knew also that the French had insufficient forces in the region to check his advance and, in practice, no good reason to try to do so. He posed no immediate threat to them or to the countryside through which he passed.

  To Altobardi’s surprise, Hawkwood’s men behaved impeccably. On the captain-general’s orders, there had been no looting apart from a few isolated instances. The perpetrators had been caught and summarily punished. Even more surprising was Hawkwood’s insistence that his men be provisioned against full payment to the towns and villages through which they marched.

  ‘Our quarrel is no longer with the French,’ explained Hawkwood, ‘nor theirs with us. And do not forget, Gennaro, we may well travel this way again.’

  The captain-general had rested his men near Angoulême in preparation for the push south. They were already close to the territories of the Limousin and Périgord ceded in 1259 to Henry III of England under the terms of the Treaty of Paris. They were also deep into lands which had surrendered de facto to Edward III and whose formal cession to England was currently the subject of treaty negotiations in Brétigny, near Chartres. From La Rochelle in the north to Bayonne in the south, virtually the whole of south-western France was English in all but name.

  Hawkwood had considered giving Bordeaux the widest possible berth but had decided otherwise. It seemed unlikely that the garrison in Bordeaux would have reason to venture out against him. Like the French, they understood that his company posed no direct threat to them. Moreover, he was an Englishman after all, an Englishman at the head of a modest but battle-hardened English force. Granted, there was a degree of risk in passing so close to Bordeaux, but that risk was more than offset by the directness of the route he had determined to follow: south through Bergerac towards Agen, then sharply east, along first the Garonne then the Tarn rivers, before striking south-east again towards Arles.

  For the first five days out of Angoulême, it appeared his decision was justified: there was no sign of the Bordeaux garrison. On the morning of the sixth day, however, his outriders returned with reports of a large force on the other side of the hill to the west.

  Hawkwood was in two minds. He could continue on his way and try to outrun this new enemy, at the risk of being harried at every turn. Or he could make a stand and face them. He elected to do the latter.

  He chose his ground well: a narrow draw flanked by steep inclines on both sides, which would afford his bowmen both protection and a clear field of fire. The opposing force would be able to enter the défilé no more than twenty or twenty-five abreast and the soft ground of the valley floor would oblige their cavalry to dismount and advance on foot.

  Altobardi interrogated him as to his intentions. Hawkwood patiently explained: he wished to avoid a confrontation but would not shirk one. His company was a fighting force. This would prove a test of its prowess. It was time for it to be blooded.

  The archers took up position on the steep slopes and the ranks of pikemen massed in the valley below, with the cavalry behind them. The pikemen were under orders to check the enemy advance and inflict as much damage as possible before, at a pre-arranged signal, they suddenly broke ranks and dispersed to the adjoining slopes, creating a gap through which Hawkwood would lead his cavalry in a final, victorious charge.

/>   When the first riders appeared on the crest of the small hill to the west overlooking the valley, they approached only at a leisurely pace. One after another, they dipped slowly from view as they descended the slope. Behind them came large numbers of footsoldiers who followed suit, jostling each other as the valley narrowed.

  Hawkwood could discern no pattern, no clear plan of battle. Still more footsoldiers followed, squeezing into the bottleneck below.

  Hawkwood gave a sign to Llewellyn on the right flank and Griffiths on the left. Both longbowmen signalled back: their men were ready.

  The advancing column halted. Four riders detached themselves and rode forward sedately. Hawkwood frowned. His own battle lines were drawn and he had not expected a pourparler. He urged his mount to the front, gesturing to three of his knights to accompany him. The pikemen parted to let them through, and they made their way slowly towards the four riders, who had reined in no more than fifty paces from the company’s front ranks.

  At a distance of twenty paces, one of the riders drew his sword and held it upright before his face. The other three did likewise.

  ‘You are Sir John Hawkwood of the Free Company of Essex?’ asked the lead horseman.

  ‘I am he,’ answered Hawkwood.

  ‘We have followed you ever since your company left Calais.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘We have learned of your intentions and we wish to stand with you.We grow weary of this stale peace. We are men of action. And we are freemen of England come to swell your ranks.’

  Hawkwood glanced beyond the four men. Close behind them, the ‘enemy’ had come to a standstill. Hawkwood saw the expectancy on their faces. ‘How are you in number?’

  ‘By my count, seventeen hundred, of whom six hundred are skilled Welsh archers.’

  Hawkwood nodded. ‘Be advised I have twice that number on the slopes above, awaiting only my command.’

  The horseman looked slowly up to his right, then to his left. He laughed. ‘Then God forbid, sir, that you should so command.’

  With that, he sheathed his sword, opened his visor, dismounted and walked towards Hawkwood, extending an arm in greeting. ‘I am Sir Wilfred Perry of Winchester. I have the honour to place these men and their arms at your disposal and under your command.’

  Arles

  3 April 1361

  Karl Eugen had often heard travellers sing the praises of the Camargue, but he found little there to his taste, save the distant sight of wild horses or the occasional glimpse of a savage bull grazing defiantly on the salt marshes.

  The city of Arles was another matter entirely. Karl Eugen spent a full day walking the streets of this ancient and beautiful city once regarded as the Piccola Roma of the Western Roman Empire. He revelled in the vestiges of its Gallo-Roman past – the mosaics in the thermal baths of the Emperor Constantine, the imposing columns of the antique theatre, the carvings on the eleventh-century façade of the church of St Trophime, and the magnificently intact first-century BC arènes, a twenty-thousand-seat amphitheatre reputed to have been at one time the largest Roman building in Gaul.

  He walked the streets of Arles in unstinting admiration, but also with a purpose.

  Arles had been an important Mediterranean port for close on fifteen hundred years and it was still an important gateway to the Rhône delta and beyond. And where there was a port, Karl Eugen knew, there would be sailors, vagrants and down-and-outs eager to do anything, however dangerous, in exchange for monetary reward.

  He found what he was looking for on the morning of his second day in Arles. The man was in his late thirties, a beetle-browed, broad-shouldered hulk in soiled clothing, whose breath reeked of cheap wine and garlic. He looked up menacingly as Karl Eugen approached, taking in the elegant attire that looked so out of place on the Arles quayside, then remarking the German’s physique and confident swagger. This, he concluded, was not a man to be trifled with.

  The discussion was brief. A modest sum changed hands and it was agreed they should meet again late that evening at the tomb of Genesius in the Alyscamps, the sprawling sarcophagi-lined cemetery that had once served as a clandestine meeting-place for the early Christians under St Trophime. Karl Eugen smiled at the thought that the Romans had religiously avoided the cemetery, afraid not of the dark but of the vapours of the night to which they superstitiously attributed all manner of disease; he harboured no such fears.

  His new acquaintance would bring three other able-bodied men with him, as instructed. And he would be punctual. They had everything to gain and little to lose.

  Florence

  5 April 1361

  Giancarlo Boninsegna was uneasy. He had no reason to believe Karl Eugen von Strachwitz would fail to worm his way into Hawkwood’s confidence, but he had every reason to believe this was asking a lot of the young German. Too much, perhaps, especially since Boninsegna had received intelligence from other sources which confirmed that the Englishman had made swift and unimpeded progress through France and that somehow – Boninsegna’s informants were unable to establish precisely how – was now at the head of a mercenary force numbering five thousand or perhaps even more. Given his progress to date, it would be only a matter of a few weeks before he reached Pisa.

  Boninsegna confided his fears to the Duke of Florence and urged him to act. ‘My lord, we must move on Pisa before Hawkwood can marshal a coherent defence,’ he said. ‘We must act now. We must take Pisa before Hawkwood and his mercenaries arrive.’

  The duke paced the room, anxious not to be coerced into a decision he would later regret. There were too many imponderables. Did Florence have the military assets to mount a full-scale attack in such a short time? Could he be certain – absolutely certain – that Pisa could be taken quickly? When this Englishman finally arrived, would he be capable of mounting a resolute defence? Or, if he arrived too late to defend Pisa, would he have the resources – and, above all, the will – to counterattack and regain the city?

  ‘There are many issues here,’ said the duke eventually.

  ‘There are indeed,’ agreed Boninsegna, ‘but one issue stands above all others. Can we take Pisa once Hawkwood and his troops have arrived? That is possible, I concede. But is it not more opportune to strike before his arrival? If Hawkwood should discover his paymasters are dead or languishing in our prisons, would he continue to act in their interests?’

  ‘Those are questions,’ said the duke, clearly irritated. ‘My concern is to find answers.’

  ‘Measures are in place to ascertain Hawkwood’s intentions,’ ventured Boninsegna.

  ‘Measures? Measures?’ bellowed the duke. ‘What good are measures?’

  Boninsegna flinched. The duke glared at him.

  It was time to equivocate, thought the consigliere. ‘We cannot be certain—’ he began, but the duke cut him short.

  ‘I do not ask for certainty, I ask for a considered opinion.’

  Boninsegna gulped a deep breath into his lungs. ‘Then my considered opinion is this. We should proceed at once to assemble a force capable of marching on and capturing Pisa. Their defences are weak – why else would they have retained this condottiere?’

  Why else indeed, thought the duke. ‘Very well. It shall be so ordered.’

  ‘And Hawkwood?’ queried Boninsegna.

  ‘Hawkwood is still an unknown factor, I grant you,’ replied the duke. ‘But we can make it clear to him that his longer-term interests lie with Florence. He can be bought – men of his kind can always be bought. He is a mercenary, a man without principle, a man without honour even in his own country.’

  That, thought Giancarlo Boninsegna, remains to be seen.

  Arles

  11 April 1361

  ‘I say again, sire, send me in your place,’ urged Sir Wilfred Perry for the third time in as many minutes.

  And, for the third time in as many minutes, Hawkwood would have none of it.

  The Free Company was encamped on the banks of the Rhône little more than a mile nort
h of Arles. Latrines had been dug, fires had been set, lookouts posted. In all, there were now over five thousand in the camp: Hawkwood’s company, its ranks bolstered by Perry’s volunteers, together with several hundred camp followers – masons, wheelwrights, farriers, whores and assorted hangers-on. There were many mouths to feed and provisions were running low.

  As he had done several times since leaving Calais, Hawkwood had announced his intention to approach the nearest town and negotiate with its burgomaster or municipal council, declaring his peaceful resolve and offering full and prompt settlement in return for victuals and other supplies. He saw no reason to depart from this procedure here in Arles and he was puzzled by the sudden concern expressed by both Perry and Altobardi.

  ‘It shall be as I have ordered,’ he said. ‘I shall travel lightly armed and in the company only of a squire. It is vital that our peaceful purpose be at once made evident to the citizens of Arles, that they understand we mean them no ill.’

  ‘You risk – ’ began Altobardi.

  ‘I risk nothing,’ interrupted Hawkwood. ‘I shall come to no harm. I have near five thousand men under my command but a stone’s throw from their city walls. Should I fail to return by nightfall, the arlésiens will know only too well what to expect at dawn tomorrow. Enough of this. I ride at noon.’

  *

  He was received in Arles by members of the city council. They were nervous and hesitant at first but, as he had predicted, soon reassured by his conciliatory approach. They were quick to appreciate the benefits that would accrue overnight to the town’s tradesmen and merchants.

  In less than two hours, Hawkwood secured undertakings that food for his men would be forthcoming, together with fodder for his animals. He also purchased a large quantity of plain white twill. His purchases were to be delivered by ox-cart to the encampment later that day. Terms of payment were agreed and met, hands shaken, parting pleasantries exchanged. By late afternoon, Hawkwood and his squire emerged once more into the sunlight of Provence.

  ‘The day went well, young Bertrand,’ said Hawkwood, clapping his squire on the shoulder. ‘We shall feast this night.’