Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Read online

  Boninsegna turned back to Karl Eugen. ‘You have acquitted yourself well,’ he said.

  Karl Eugen nodded. ‘I have done what I said I would do. No more, no less.’

  Boninsegna paced the room. The information provided by this arrogant young tedesco was invaluable. The Company was at most a day’s march from Pisa, but Hawkwood now intended to delay his entry for several days. This was excellent news. Pisa had no defences to speak of, no real military resources with which to oppose Florence in the field. If all went to plan, Hawkwood would arrive in Pisa only to find the city had fallen and his would-be paymasters captured and executed.

  Karl Eugen von Strachwitz had provided exhaustive details of Hawkwood’s force and its present composition and deployment. He had said little, however, about its leader.

  ‘Tell me about this Hawkwood,’ said Boninsegna.

  Karl Eugen hesitated. He had expected the question but was uncertain how to respond. Eventually he said, ‘He is a man of great physical strength, a handsome man, I venture to say, although not of unduly refined taste and habits. A soldier first and foremost, I would say. Fair yet uncompromising. A disciplinarian, but not without wit. In all, a good man. And an honest one.’

  ‘And what of his men?’

  ‘They come from every corner of England and Wales. There are some Germans among them and a sprinkling of magyars and catalans. They are a diverse crew but no rabble. They respond to Hawkwood. They respect and like him. They serve with him for booty and fortune, but they serve with him gladly.’

  Boninsegna rubbed his aquiline nose between thumb and forefinger. To his mind, von Strachwitz was exhibiting all the characteristics of a loyal follower rather than those of a paid informer. ‘And what of you?’

  ‘Myself?’

  ‘Yes. Would you yourself follow him?’

  Karl Eugen hesitated again. He sensed what this scheming Florentine had in mind and knew he must choose his next words with care.

  ‘Hawkwood is a man who can be trusted.’

  ‘Yet, unlike yourself, Herr von Strachwitz, a man who cannot be bought?’

  This was the opening Karl Eugen had hoped for. ‘I beg to differ. Hawkwood has been bought. As you well know. He has been bought by Pisa.’

  ‘You avoid my question.’

  ‘On the contrary, I have answered it.’

  ‘But not entirely. I repeat: would you follow him?’

  ‘Yes. If the circumstances permitted.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘I cannot, for I have already betrayed him. To you.’

  Boninsegna held the young man’s gaze for a moment, then turned away. ‘That is true. And Hawkwood will not thank you for it.’

  No, thought Karl Eugen, he will not. In that moment, he realised what he had done and how guilty he felt on account of it. Hawkwood had been deceived into accepting him at face value and had responded with unstinting generosity and the hand of friendship. He resolved that on his return to Carrara he would confess to Hawkwood what had transpired between himself and Boninsegna. Honesty – a precept Karl Eugen had found inconvenient all his adult life – was the best and only policy.

  He would confess, and Hawkwood would understand and, perhaps, forgive.

  Boninsegna’s eyes bored once again into his. ‘You are aware, are you not, Herr von Strachwitz, that we have assembled a force to strike at Pisa?’

  Karl Eugen nodded. He had observed the preparations that had been made and had been present when Malatesta was briefed. Now he understood why he had been thus privileged.

  ‘Then you must also be aware that I cannot permit you to reveal this to Hawkwood?’

  Scheisse, thought Karl Eugen. ‘Do you imply I would betray your confidence?’ he asked.

  Boninsegna laughed. ‘You are a man of numerous talents, Herr von Strachwitz, but I do not count unadulterated loyalty among them. You may not forgive my lack of faith in you, but I fear it is more than justified. I have already given instructions. You are to remain here in Florence until Pisa falls. You shall be our guest and will be accorded all the privileges that implies. Who knows? When Pisa is taken, it may well be that Florence can avail itself of your services once again. Until then, you will remain here. As a guest of the city of Florence.’

  Bastard, thought Karl Eugen. But he knew it was pointless to protest. ‘I am grateful for your hospitality,’ he replied, confident he would seize the first opportunity to escape.

  ‘I regret to say that, should you elect to abuse that hospitality, the consequences for your person will be, shall we say, severe?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I am certain you do,’ answered Boninsegna with an unctuous smile. He stamped his foot twice on the wooden floor and the door immediately opened to admit four armed guards.

  ‘Escort Herr von Strachwitz to his quarters,’ instructed Bonisegna, ‘and make certain he is well provided for.’

  The guards formed up round Karl Eugen and he was firmly but politely marched from the room.

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ said Boninsegna as the door closed behind him.

  Auf Wiedersehen, my arse, thought Karl Eugen von Strachwitz. I swear by all that’s holy, you’ll soon see the back of me.

  Carrara

  9 June 1361

  Gennaro Altobardi and his three companions had ridden through the night. They arrived at Hawkwood’s camp shortly after dawn. Hawkwood’s pleasure at seeing Altobardi again was plain, but he frowned as he took in the Italian’s lathered horse and drawn face.

  ‘Pisa is under attack, Sir John,’ croaked Altobardi.

  Hawkwood poured fresh spring water into a wooden goblet and handed it to the Italian. ‘Drink this and compose yourself,’ he said curtly.

  Altobardi drank the water down in a single gulp.

  ‘Now tell me what has happened,’ ordered Hawkwood.

  ‘The Florentines have readied an attack on Pisa. They are only days – perhaps even hours – from the gates of the city,’ stammered Altobardi.

  ‘Days?’ queried Hawkwood. ‘Or hours? Which is it, man, hours or days?’

  Altobardi slumped onto a bench, drew a deep breath and replied more calmly. ‘They are poised to leave Florence. My informants say they will be within striking distance of Pisa at most four days from now.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said Hawkwood. ‘And in what numbers?’

  ‘An estimated four thousand, perhaps even more. At all events, large enough to sack Pisa and murder all those in it.’

  Hawkwood turned to Perry. ‘Ready the Company, Sir Wilfred. We march within the hour.’

  Thank God, thought Altobardi. He smiled weakly at Hawkwood. ‘God willing, we shall arrive in time, Sir John. Pisa is but a day’s march away.’

  ‘That is true, Gennaro, but we shall not march to Pisa. ‘We shall march on Florence.’

  Pisa

  12 June 1361

  The city gates had been closed since noon the previous day and Pisa’s poorly equipped contingent of city guards had been thinly deployed along the wooden battlements in the vain hope of repelling an attacking force.

  Beacons had been lit and the Torre Pendente’s bells pealed erratically, signalling the approach of danger. The forward lookouts strained their eyes against the morning sun as rank after rank of the hated Florentines approached inexorably. The tally varied from one lookout to the next, but there was a degree of consensus: upwards of eight hundred cavalry on the horizon, with as many as two thousand hundred footsoldiers, four hundred pikemen and at least as many crossbowmen. The best Pisa could hope for was to hold out until Hawkwood arrived.

  With this in mind, Gracchi had urged every able-bodied man in the city to take to the walls to bolster the defences. The Pisans had grasped the seriousness of the situation and had responded in considerable numbers. True, many were armed only with pitchforks and like implements, but their presence on the walls might – Gracchi hoped – give the Florentines pause.

  Where is this fucker Hawkwood? thought Gracchi. Wh
ere is the English bastardo? For that matter, where is Gennaro Altobardi? Those cowardly whoresons should be here by now. Had Gennaro failed to reach Hawkwood? Or had Hawkwood sold them out? Had this so-called condottiere failed him and failed Pisa?

  ‘There is still time,’ Gracchi reassured the guildsmen clustered beside him on the north wall, anxiously scanning the flat countryside for Hawkwood’s arrival.

  ‘Time, you say?’ shouted Massimo Mastrodonato, the eighty-year-old who had been so vociferous in his opposition to Hawkwood’s appointment. ‘How mean you, sir? There is no time. The Florentine pigs are here and we have been left powerless to defend ourselves. Where is your accursed condottiere now, I ask you? Tell me that, if you will!’

  Gracchi rounded on him – it was almost as if the old fart was enjoying this, he thought. ‘There is time, I tell you,’ said Gracchi. ‘There are the customary formalities to be observed. The Florentines will make camp today and send an advance party to parlay. They will invite us to surrender under threat of attack tomorrow. We shall ask for time to consider our position. We may be able to draw things out until Hawkwood and his force arrive.’

  Mastrodonato snorted his derision. ‘Then we can wait until hell freezes over,’ he said. ‘We are lost. Pisa is lost.’

  Gracchi turned away in disgust but, deep down, he understood the old man’s pessimism. Altobardi had assured them Hawkwood and his men were only one day’s march away. That solemn assurance had been given on 8 June, four full days ago.

  Hawkwood had failed them.

  Florentia

  He must dwell in prison, locked away

  Florence

  13 June 1361

  Giancarlo Boninsegna was a creature of habit. He rose each day exactly one hour after dawn and sipped a glass of boiling water laced with the juice of two fresh limes, a potion his personal physician had assured him was a simple yet highly effective laxative. By mid-morning he had already spent a full three hours at his desk, sifting credit applications, approving, rejecting, annotating and initialising contracts, appending conditions, stipulating rates of interest, drawing up repayment schedules and specifying late-payment penalties.

  By the time the late-morning sun started to filter through the ogival window behind him, Boninsegna was ready for a prima collazione – a late breakfast, as it were. He ate sparingly: green olives macerated in balsamic vinegar, a chunk of coarse rye bread, a plump tomato and a portion of wafer-thin air-cured ham, the whole washed down with a goblet of full-bodied red wine. He then slept for two full hours before settling down to receive visits from colleagues and clients or attending to his many civic duties.

  Boninsegna brooked no departure from this daily schedule, no disruption to a rhythm which he had developed over the years and which he found both comfortable and comforting. Today was no exception. He worked steadily and methodically, unconcerned by the fact that a few days previously he had committed Florence to waging war on Pisa. The wheels had been set in motion, ducal authorisation had been secured and delegated as appropriate, and the matter would soon be settled without further direct involvement on his part.

  *

  Salvatore Balducci had been in Boninsegna’s service for over twenty years. He knew and respected his master’s routine and had never had cause to deviate from it. As a result, Boninsegna was genuinely startled when Balducci entered the chamber in a rush and without knocking.

  Boninsegna glared at him. Balducci was too early. Worse, he had come empty-handed. There was no tray with olives, wine and bread.

  ‘They are here – here at the city gates,’ stuttered Balducci. ‘At the gates. Thousands of them.’

  Boninsegna stood up and came out from behind his desk. ‘Compose yourself, Salvatore, and explain. Who is here? Who is at the gates?’

  ‘An army. A whole army. An army all in white.’

  Boninsegna could make no sense of this. He pushed past Balducci and left the chamber. Balducci followed, gesticulating wildly. ‘They are at the north-east wall,’ he said.

  Boninsegna bounded down the marble staircase and wrenched open the brass-studded door that opened on the piazza.

  Florence was in uproar, its citizens scurrying this way and that. Bells pealed, dogs yapped, and wide-eyed mothers herded frightened children. Market vendors had taken to their heels, leaving their precious stalls unattended. A vegetable cart had overturned, sending melons, aubergines and pumpkins careering across the cobbles. The horse, thrown down by the weight of the cart and pinioned by its rigid wooden shafts, lay on its back, legs threshing the air, eyes glinting white with fear.

  The noonday sun reflected from the helmets and breastplates of a handful of guards rushing wildly to and fro on the north-east wall. Boninsegna ran to the base of the wall and scrambled up the stone steps to the wooden boardwalk. He found the battlements virtually deserted. Discarded weapons littered the area. A sergeant-at-arms screamed shrill commands which went unheeded by the sprinkling of guards remaining on the wall.

  Boninsegna grasped the edge of the parapet and peered out over it. His throat constricted as he took in the sight below. Deployed on the north bank of the Arno was an army several thousand strong, stretching almost as far as the eye could see. An army all in white, just as Balducci had said.

  Hawkwood.

  It was only with great difficulty that Boninsegna was able to regain his composure and take stock of the situation. To the left, close by the river bank, he made out white surcoats embellished with diagonal strips of black cloth. Footsoldiers. In the centre, the surcoats boasted green stripes. Longbowmen. On the right were deployed pikemen, the white of their surcoats broken by a deep blue band. In the centre, behind the longbowmen, he saw mounted cavalry, several hundred at least, in white and crimson. And on a rise behind the cavalry Boninsegna saw what he feared most: siege engines.

  Two siege towers on massive wooden wheels had appeared some five hundred paces from the city wall. Between them stood a bélier, a battering-ram fashioned from a stout tree trunk tipped with iron, suspended from chains and protected by a wooden housing sheathed in animal skins. To the right were two small trebuchets, catapult-like devices capable of launching large rocks and infected animal carcasses at and over the walls of the city. In the distance, behind the cavalry and safely out of crossbow range, Boninsegna saw the A-frame, counterweight and sling of a further trebuchet, at least three times as large as the other two.

  Boninsegna was a man of politics, unversed in military matters. He was astounded at the appearance overnight of these huge and complex weapons. How could they have been constructed so quickly? Hawkwood must have transported them in sections, then ordered them reassembled under cover of darkness.

  He croaked an order to Balducci. ‘Convene the Council! Get them here! Now!’

  Balducci nodded and disappeared down the stone steps two at a time.

  The ranks of the longbowmen parted, and a small group of mounted men advanced slowly towards the walls. The lead horseman sat tall in the saddle. He wore no helmet and next to no armour; as he rode nearer, Boninsegna could make out his coarse beard and thick black hair. Immediately behind and to the right of him came four riders trailing between them a large square of white cloth. The four fanned out, releasing their respective corners of the cloth and laying it flat on the ground a hundred paces or so from the city wall. They reined their mounts to the left and took up position flanking the lead horseman. The group halted within hailing distance of the north-east wall. Two figures rode forward several paces.

  ‘I speak for Captain-General Sir John Hawkwood and his Company,’ called Gennaro Altobardi, ‘who present their compliments to the city of Florence and to its worthy citizens.’

  Several members of the council – at last – came rushing up the steps to join Boninsegna on the boardwalk. He waited until they had taken up positions left and right of him, before replying.

  ‘The city fathers of Florence welcome Captain-General Hawkwood and his Company, and seek to know his intentions.’


  ‘Those intentions are honourable,’ said Altobardi. ‘The captain-general wishes to serve due notice on Florence and its citizens that this fair city is to be razed to the ground.’

  ‘By what authority?’ asked Boninsegna.

  ‘By the authority vested in the captain-general by the city state and Council of Guilds of Pisa, whose cause he is sworn to uphold.’

  ‘The city state of Florence will not yield to threats from a foreign condottiere.’

  ‘Nor will the city state of Pisa yield to the aggression of Florence,’ came the reply.

  A stalemate had been reached and Boninsegna knew it. Florence was virtually defenceless, certainly when faced with an armed force in such numbers. He must stall for time to negotiate.

  ‘Does it please the captain-general to discuss terms?’ he called.

  The bearded figure next to Altobardi raised his sword high above his head and rotated the blade in the sunlight. Instantly there was movement in the ranks behind him as the longbowmen primed their weapons. The sword dipped and a hail of arrows darkened the sky. Boninsegna flinched as the barbed shafts reached their apogee and arched earthwards, thudding unerringly into the square of white cloth.

  ‘Those are our terms,’ shouted Altobardi.

  Boninsegna turned to his companions. They looked at him in dismay, but offered no comment.

  ‘Then hear this,’ shouted Boninsegna. ‘The armies of Florence are at the gates of Pisa and await only orders to sack that city. I and only I can countermand those orders. Is it thus you would best serve the interests of your paymasters?’

  The sword was raised and rotated a second time. Again, the longbowmen stooped as one man, notching fresh arrows onto their bowstrings. Again the sword fell, and again the sky darkened. This time, however, the trajectory was different. The arrows rained in on the battlements. One councillor took an arrow clean through the chest; the impact sent him staggering backwards off the boardwalk; he plunged headfirst down into the cobbled piazza. Another took an arrow through the throat. He fell without a sound.