Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Read online

  The three men came out of nowhere.

  Two wielded cudgels, the third menaced with a dagger. They circled Hawkwood and his squire, their intent only too evident.

  Common thieves, thought Hawkwood. ‘Stand aside’ he roared, drawing his short sword.

  The three men fell back, suddenly unsure of themselves. Perhaps they had not expected to come face to face with a giant such as this. Hawkwood heard a muffled sound behind him and whirled about to confront a fourth adversary. Too late: the man swung a double-headed axe which landed high on Bertrand’s shoulder, crunching through his collar-bone and cleaving his upper torso virtually in half. The young man uttered no sound as he slumped forward onto the cobblestones.

  A cudgel swung at Hawkwood’s head. He stepped back a pace to take stock of the situation. To his left, the axeman had wrenched his weapon free of Bertrand’s body. He turned to face Hawkwood, rotting teeth bared in a contorted grin.

  Hawkwood wore no armour and he knew his sword was no match for an axe. There was little he could do other than wave his sword in short, sweeping arcs in a bid to keep the quartet at bay. The odds were very much against him and his only hope lay in reducing those odds. He backed slowly against the stone wall behind him, swinging his sword this way and that. The four men pressed home their advantage. They moved in, tentatively at first, then with growing confidence.

  Hawkwood waited until they had closed in a half-circle around him, then leapt suddenly to his right and lunged forward. The move was totally unexpected. The man on the far right looked down in astonishment as Hawkwood’s sword pierced his belly and was withdrawn in a single motion. He screamed in pain, dropped his cudgel and clasped his abdomen. Rich dark blood oozed through his fingers as he slid to the ground.

  A shower of sparks flew off the stone wall as the axe slammed into it only a hand’s breadth away from Hawkwood’s head. The axeman quickly regained his balance and came on again. The other two hesitated, but the axeman urged them forwards. The axe scythed through the air once more, mercifully well off target. But Hawkwood sensed the axeman had the distance now. The next clumsy blow might prove fatal. He could not repeat his earlier manoeuvre: the element of surprise was lost. What the trio least expected, however, was that he would single out the axeman, the most dangerous of his assailants, as his next target.

  He gauged the distance between them, preparing to step well inside the next blow and absorb its force before delivering a counter-thrust. The axeman guessed Hawkwood’s intentions. His eyes beaded and he stepped warily back a fraction.

  Without warning, the axe clattered to the ground. The axeman’s eyes glazed as he looked down at the point of a sword that had entered his lower back and protruded from below his breastbone. He stood there, literally transfixed. The sword was sharply withdrawn and he fell to his knees. A thin trickle of blood formed round his mouth and dribbled into his thick beard. Hawkwood did not hesitate. He took a quick pace forward and slashed his sword across the man’s exposed neck. The man’s mouth gaped as if in protest. The stench of cheap wine and garlic was palpable.

  The remaining two thieves turned and ran.

  Hawkwood looked at the tall, fair-haired young man who was nonchalantly wiping his sword-blade on the coarse tunic of the axeman. The man looked across at Hawkwood and grinned, revealing a row of dazzling white teeth.

  ‘Welcome to Arles,’ said Hawkwood’s deliverer. ‘Allow me to present myself – Karl Eugen August Wilhelm von Strachwitz-Wettin. I am most honoured to have been of some small service.’

  Everything had gone more or less according to plan, thought Karl Eugen.

  Not quite everything, of course, but near enough. He had not foreseen the unfortunate death of Hawkwood’s squire but, all things considered, that had added an extra touch of authenticity to the proceedings. The pair who had escaped would count themselves fortunate, for their reward would now be shared two ways rather than four.

  As for despatching the axeman, that had been his plan all along.

  Karl Eugen detested the stench of stale garlic.

  Pisa

  Swear and give your hand never to attack this land

  East of Carrara

  26 May 1361

  They had marched deep into northern Italy and were encamped by the Carrione river in the foothills of the Alpi Apuane. For Hawkwood and the vast majority of his force this was unknown territory, and he found himself relying increasingly on the counsel of young Gennaro Altobardi, at whose insistence Hawkwood had struck inland from the Ligurian coast, giving Genoa and the Genoese a wide berth before turning south towards La Spezia. Pisa was now only some forty miles distant, and Florence lay less than a three-day march to the east.

  They had encountered no resistance up to this point, and Altobardi assured Hawkwood there would be none from Carrara: ‘The Carraresi present no threat except to themselves. They live in constant fear of Milan and Venice. And of each other.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Karl Eugen von Strachwitz. ‘I have heard it said they are a family of cutthroats and murderers.’

  ‘Their reputation is well deserved,’ said Altobardi. ‘Marsigliello Carrarese was murdered by Jacopo di Niccolò, then Jacopo was murdered by Guglielmino, and his successor, Jacopino, was removed by Francesco il Vecchio—’

  ‘Enough,’ broke in Hawkwood, a broad grin on his face. ‘Is there no end to this tale of treachery?’

  Altobardi shrugged. ‘This is Italy, not France or England. Italy is not a nation. It has no national sovereign, no sense of nationhood. We Italians are united only in mutual antagonisms and in the will of each city state to assert and protect its independence.’

  ‘But you all answer to the Pope, do you not?’ asked Perry.

  ‘In some matters, yes, but not in all. Besides, there is one Pope in Rome and another in Avignon.’

  Altobardi was on dangerous ground and he knew it. Openly questioning papal authority – however divided that authority might currently be – was imprudent at best.

  He changed tack. ‘You must understand how the city states are governed,’ he said. ‘Many are ruled by one man or by one family. The signori have absolute authority and they wield that authority to consolidate and extend their power. There are many examples of this: the della Scala family in Verona, the Gonzaga in Mantua, the Visconti in Milan. And, only a few miles from here, the Carraresi. They all stand above the law. No, that is not so: they are the law.’

  ‘And what of Pisa?’ asked Hawkwood.

  ‘Pisa is a republic,’ answered Altobardi, ‘like Venice, Siena, Lucca. Like Florence, even, although I am loth to admit as much. Pisa is ruled by consensus, by an elected merchant guild, not by a despot or a podestà.’ He hesitated, realising he had spoken out of turn and hoping that Hawkwood and the others would not ask the inevitable question.

  ‘Podestà?’ said Hawkwood. ‘Explain, if you will.’

  Altobardi felt the colour rise to his cheeks.

  ‘A podestà, Sir John, is a person – an outsider – retained by a city state to ensure order. A captain of the people, if you will.’

  ‘A condottiere, then?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘In what way “not exactly”?’

  ‘A condottiere leads an army hired by a city state to ensure its protection,’ stammered Altobardi.

  ‘A man such as myself?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John, such as yourself.’

  ‘But I am not a podestà?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why not, pray?’

  ‘A podestà is political.’

  ‘Whereas I and those I lead in the service of Pisa are not?’

  ‘You are appointed for political reasons, certainly, but you are not a member of the body politic.’

  ‘In other words, we serve but we do not lead?’

  ‘In other words, yes.’

  Hawkwood laughed out loud and clapped Altobardi on the shoulder to show no offence had been taken. He turned to Perry. ‘Take good heed of young Gennaro�
��s words, Sir Wilfred. We must never forget we are mere hirelings. We may serve, but we may not lead.’

  ‘There is honour in service, Sir John, if the cause is just.’

  ‘Well spoken, Sir Wilfred. Should the cause prove just, we shall indeed serve honourably.’

  Hawkwood admired Altobardi’s candour and respected him the more for it. He glanced at the young Pisan and then at Karl Eugen. He liked both immensely, yet they were very different. Altobardi: tallish but slender, with a natural elegance in and out of the saddle. His shoulder-length dark hair and smooth olive complexion made him appear almost effeminate, yet there was an air of resolve about him, particularly when he spoke of Pisa and his family.

  Strachwitz towered above Altobardi, his rugged features, close-cropped blond hair and reddish beard contrasting with Altobardi’s delicate features. Von Strachwitz carried himself with an athlete’s grace and was the epitome of strength and virility. His courage, as Hawkwood had every cause to know, was evident. He spoke little, but always to the point.

  Hawkwood was barely more than a decade older than these two young men, but he regarded them with a father’s pride. One day, perhaps, he might have a son of his own.

  ‘Come, let us address the affairs at hand,’ said Hawkwood. ‘We are at most a day’s march from Pisa. It is my wish that we approach that city in the best of order. We shall make permanent camp outside the city walls on the banks of the Arno river and shall immediately build such fortifications as I deem necessary for the defence of the city and for our own comfort and protection.’ He looked enquiringly at Perry.

  ‘The men are readied,’ said Sir Wilfred. ‘Equipped and clothed as ordered.’

  Hawkwood nodded. The white twill purchased in Arles had been fashioned into thigh-length surcoats which identified by rank and function each member of what was henceforth to be known as the ‘White Company’: diagonal strips of coloured cloth had been attached front and back – green for the longbowmen, blue for the pikemen, black for the footsoldiers and crimson for the cavalry. The surcoats served a dual purpose, imparting uniformity and coherence to the company when arrayed in battle order but also enabling friend to be readily distinguished from foe. It was said that, at Crécy and Poitiers, many lives had been lost among the Welsh archers, who had been mistaken for the enemy by their English comrades because, in the heat of battle, they had spoken their own language.

  Hawkwood vowed that would never happen under his command.

  Under the supervision of Llewellyn and Griffiths, the classic longbow had been shortened. A marginal loss of distance and penetration had resulted, but the bow was now easier to handle and afforded a better rate of fire. Saddles had also been redesigned, lowering the conventional backrest which, in Hawkwood’s view, was better suited to providing support in a formal joust than to combat in the open. There was slightly less protection for the rider’s back, but this was offset by considerably improved flexibility in the saddle.

  On the approach to Pisa, lances and swords had been sharpened and re-pointed. Polished pikestaves glinted in the Tuscan sun. Chain mail had been burnished and oiled. The Company was battle-ready.

  It remained only for Hawkwood to ascertain whether any troop movements had been detected from the direction of Florence and to establish that Pisa was prepared to receive him and his men. Gennaro Altobardi was the logical choice to ride ahead to Pisa and inform the city fathers of the Company’s imminent arrival. He would report back to Hawkwood the following day.

  Karl Eugen von Strachwitz immediately volunteered to travel to Florence, where he might assess Florentine intentions. Hawkwood knew the dangers involved in such a mission, but was secretly proud that his German second-in-command had volunteered with such alacrity. Karl Eugen had even insisted on going alone. ‘I know the city well,’ he said, ‘and I have friends there. Have no fear. I shall come to no harm.’

  Sible Hedingham

  28 May 1361

  Margaret Hawkwood had been in labour since daybreak over seventeen hours ago. She understood little about the process of childbirth, but had been repeatedly assured it was natural and spontaneous. To her mind, there was nothing natural or spontaneous about the intense pain she was experiencing.

  Not to mention the indignity of it all.

  Concern showed on the faces of the three women attending her. Each knew instinctively that something was wrong, but their rudimentary knowledge of midwifery was limited to births that progressed without incident. They could see that the initial phase of labour had been completed and that Margaret was fully dilated, but they were at a loss to explain why the baby had not emerged. They urged Margaret to bear down even harder and she did her best to comply.

  The sprig of silver birch wedged between her teeth chafed her mouth and gums. Sweat coursed down her back. The pain was unbearable.

  At last, the baby’s head emerged, followed by one shoulder. The three women exchanged glances.

  Perhaps it was going to be all right after all.

  The oldest of the three was the first to recognise that something was far from all right. Margaret’s face and body were rapidly turning blue. Her breathing was sporadic. She was no longer screaming. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her upper body was strangely still.

  The midwife grasped the infant by the head and shoulders and pulled with all her might. The tiny body came free with a rush of blood and birth fluids.

  The baby was safe.

  Margaret Hawkwood’s eyes flickered open and something akin to a smile crossed her face. With an effort, she raised her head a few inches from the cushions and whispered something the women did not catch. The oldest leant over her, holding her ear close to Margaret’s lips.

  ‘John. Antiochus. Hawkwood,’ muttered Margaret. ‘John. Antiochus. Hawkwood.’

  The women looked at each other in bewilderment.

  Margaret made a final effort. ‘My husband – tell him, tell Sir John. John Antiochus Hawkwood. A child. His son. His first-born son.’

  Margaret fell back against the cushions, closed her eyes and died.

  The youngest of the women wrapped the infant in a linen shawl.

  John Hawkwood’s baby daughter was already fast asleep.

  Pisa

  8 June 1361

  Gennaro Altobardi took immense pride in the city of his birth and in its republican past. He had seldom travelled beyond the city walls and found even the briefest of absences difficult to endure. It was many months since he had left Pisa on his mission to recruit Sir John Hawkwood, and his pulse quickened as he entered the magnificent sweep of the Campo dei Miracoli and was confronted by the familiar sight of the Torre Pendente.

  He had been born and raised within a stone’s throw of the Field of Miracles. As boys, he and his friends had watched in wonder as the final bellchamber storey was added to the octagonal Byzantine cylinder of the Leaning Tower. Like everyone else on that day in 1350, they had held their breath as the seven great bells were winched up high and suspended from their massive supports, adding the final touches to the white marble tower commissioned almost two centuries before as a pendant to the imposing Duomo with its intricate array of marble inlays and arabesques.

  All Pisa had held its breath that day until the tower bells rang out for the very first time. There were those who predicted the tower would one day collapse, signalling an end to Pisa’s glory; others, less superstitious, questioned the wisdom of the city fathers and the competence of the architects: the latter for failing to make due and proper allowance for the unstable soil on which the tower stood, the former for having permitted work on it to continue beyond the third level.

  None of that had mattered on inauguration day. The thousands gathered on the Campo dei Miracoli had known they were bearing witness to a signal event in Pisa’s history.

  Today, however, the Campo was almost deserted. Puzzled, Altobardi reined in and dismounted. The pace of life in Pisa was serene by comparison with the bustle of Rome and Florence, but at this time of day �
�� almost noon – the Campo should be much busier than this. The few citizens who were out and about seemed to be in curious haste, their faces betraying unusual concern.

  Something was seriously wrong.

  Altobardi suddenly knew what it must be. He made his way quickly to Tommaso Gracchi’s modest palazzo, only to be informed that Gracchi was not available, because an extraordinary meeting of the Council of Guilds had been convened that morning.

  *

  The guildsmen looked up in surprise as Altobardi burst unannounced into the Council Chamber. Gracchi sat at the head of the cedarwood table. He rose at once and came round the table to greet Altobardi.

  ‘He is here?’ asked Gracchi.

  ‘He is here,’ replied Altobardi. ‘Less than a day’s march away.’

  The councillors’ relief was palpable.

  ‘And is he how they say he is?’ continued Gracchi.

  ‘He is all that, and more besides,’ replied Gennaro.

  Several members of the council crossed themselves.

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Gennaro.

  ‘We have learnt that the Florentines are readying to march on Pisa,’ said Gracchi.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Within a week at most. They have assembled a force which our sources report in excess of four thousand men. We need Hawkwood here and we need him here now.’

  ‘The captain-general is encamped outside Carrara,’ said Gennaro reassuringly. ‘He will be in Pisa by the end of the week.’

  ‘That, I fear, may be too late.’

  Altobardi looked round the room. His fellow guildsmen looked up at him expectantly. He understood at once what had to be done.

  ‘I shall return this instant and request him to proceed to Pisa without delay.’

  ‘You have our gratitude,’ said Gracchi.

  Florence

  9 June 1361

  ‘Let it be so,’ said Boninsegna.

  Von Strachwitz had made his report and Boninsegna was in no doubt what had to be done next. ‘Let it be so,’ he said again. He waved his hand in dismissal. General Malatesta inclined his head and swept from the room. He had his orders. His men were ready to move on Pisa.