by Anne Stevens
“When do you think Wyatt will arrive?” Mush asks.
“After the main body of Malatesta Baglioni,” Will tells his friend. “The condottiero will want to storm our walls, and take the village. Then he can assess the strength coming against him, and make his plans. I doubt that even Richard Cromwell’s Swiss pike men can stand against volley fire from their arquebusiers. Once their formation is broken, Baglioni will open the gates, and rush out with his mounted spearmen.”
“Then we lose?”
“By then, if it comes to pass,” Will says, “we will be already dead, and no longer concerned.”
“We were outnumbered by the Welsh rebels,” Mush says, firmly, “and we won. Before that, you served the king abroad, and cut your way through the enemy Irish.”
“Wild eyed men with axes, and hunting bows,” Will says.
“Hunting bows?” The mayor has been listening, trying to pick out what these Englishmen are saying. His own English is poor, but he catches these two words. In painstaking English, he says: “We have hunting bows in the village, Signor. It is for … how is it to say … hunting the belve?”
“Wild beasts?” Mush considers. “They have hunting bows, Will. Sixty men who can bring a deer down, on the run, at a hundred paces.” Draper smiles, and begins to think that things are beginning to shift their way.
“Perhaps,” he says, “Father Ignatius’ prayers are beginning to work!”
14 Il Condottiero
Despite having fought his way from the toe of Italy, up to Milan, and back to Perugia, and also being a favoured captain in Malatesta Baglioni’s mercenary army, Guido Monticelli is more of a soldier than a tactician. He sits on his horse, out of musket range, and ponders what his master would do.
At length, he decides that Baglioni would storm the walls, with ladders, and battering rams, or blow down the gates with his canon, and put everyone to the sword. Now, he thinks, how do I do this, without a canon, no ladders, and only fifty odd men.
“Marco,” he says to his lieutenant, “I need ladders.”
“We can lash the boughs of trees together,” Marco replies. “I will set some of the men to the task.”
“Good. I also need a canon.”
“Alas,” Marco says, shrugging. “For that we must send to Perugia. It will take three or four days.”
“Then I must have a battering ram,” the captain tells his friend. “How do we do this?”
“A wagon,” the younger man replies. “We can load it with kindling wood, and set it on fire, once we ram it into the gate.”
“My thoughts, exactly, Marco,” his captain tells him. “See to it, at once. I want to be in the village before nightfall.”
“Shall I put a sack of gunpowder in the wagon?” Marco asks, warming to his task. “We don’t have enough to blow the gate open, but it will make a splendid flash, and frighten the defenders. I assume we will use the wagon as a diversion, and storm the walls further around, with the ladders?”
“You read my mind, Marco,” Monticelli says, nodding his approval. “But time is of the essence.”
“There is a wagon coming,” Giovanni Ipolatto calls from his place on the wall. He is flanked by two surly looking villagers with hunting bows at the ready. There are sixty archers dotted around the wall, waiting to defend their village.
Will Draper joins him, and watches as the heavy vehicle is pushed into position. He sees that some enterprising soldier has nailed planks of wood to the cart, so that they stick out at right angles, and provide cover for the pushers. One of the villagers, a big, square jawed peasant, casually draws his bow, and sends an arrow on its way. The shaft hits one of the defensive planks, and buries itself in the wood.
“Pray, save your arrows,” Will says, in his halting Italian. “Wait until you can see them clearly.” The man grunts, and lowers his bow.
“They mean to fire the wagon, and run it into the gate,” Antonio Puzzi says. “How do we stop them?”
“We do not,” Will explains. “It is a ruse. Even if the fire takes hold, it will take an hour for it to burn through the gate. Our foe means us to mass at the gate, and wait for them to batter their way in. Then, he will come around one side or another, and try to climb onto the parapet, using ladders.”
“Where?” Mush shouts up. He has a dozen musketeers with him, and wishes to know where they can do the most good. Will does not know. The main attack could come at any part of the old Roman wall.
“Hold fast, Mush,” he shouts down. “I’ll gather together a few men with bows, and see if we can get them to the right place.”
There is sudden arquebus fire. A few armed men, hiding behind the advancing wagon have chanced firing off a volley. The man who had loosed off an arrow earlier, sees a glimpse of flesh, and aims. The arrow hits one of the attackers in an exposed elbow, and he screams in pain.
The defenders cheer, and a few more arrows wing their way to the wagon, where they embed themselves in wood. The wagon is feet away from the gate, and an arm appears, holding a blazing torch. A villager reacts like the hunter he is, and puts an arrow into the arm. The man staggers back, and two more arrows slam into him. As he falls, another mercenary snatches up the torch, and tosses it into the wagon, just before another arrow takes him in the throat.
The villagers are finding their courage, and a dozen arrows pepper the attackers wagon. The firebrand catches the hay in the cart, and it flares up. The heavy cart thuds into the gate, and the sack of gunpowder ignites, sending a tongue of flame and smoke into the still air.
The men immediately above the gate leap for their lives, and one of the villagers is engulfed in fire. More men run towards the gate, and start to throw stones, and arrows into the conflagration. The dozen men who have pushed the wagon turn, and run for their lives. Several villagers send a steady stream of arrows after them, and three are brought down.
Will Draper knows he cannot wait any longer. The main attack must come from either the scrubland to his right, or the old remains on the nearby hill, and he must choose. He considers for a moment, then waves towards the stretch of wall to his left. It is guarded by six of his own men, and a dozen villagers.
“There, Mush,” he cries, and as he does, forty men rush from the ruins, carrying a half dozen ladders, crude things made from lashed together tree branches, and race for the sparsely defended stretch of wall.
Mush and his men arrive, just as the enemy are throwing up the first ladders. His men gain the parapet, even as the first attackers appear. Some manage to discharge their muskets, and one of the men on the ladders screams and falls back. Then more ladders are there, and men are coming over the wall, yelling in fury, and ready to kill.
Will arrives as the villagers start to back away. He grabs one of them, and orders him to draw his bow. The man does so, and sends his arrow into the chest of a big man who is waving an axe. The others rally, and from a few yards away, begin to loose off arrows. The attack seems to be wavering, when another ladder is up, and Monticelli is first over. He throws himself into the gaggle of villagers, and cuts two of them down. The rest jump for their lives, or run away.
Monticelli realises how poorly defended the walls are, and rushes at Mush’s musketeers. Will Draper steps in front of them, sword in hand, and takes the first rush. The mercenary is over confident, and Will parries his blade, and puts in a quick riposte. The big man knocks Will’s blade aside with the dagger in his left hand, and steps back.
More men are gaining the wall, and Will must act. He feints at his opponent, and encourages him into another lunge. The Englishman evades the lunge, and flicks his sword point across Monticelli’s unguarded face. The tip rips open the man’s cheek. He cries out, and cuts, trying to catch Will across the side, but he is too slow. Will avoids the clumsy stroke, half turns on the narrow parapet, and drives his blade home. It rips through the mercenary’s leather jerkin, and pierces the heart.
As Monticelli topples from the parapet, Mush darts past Will, drives his sword into ano
ther attacker, and throws himself at the ladder. He heaves, and it does not move. Then others are alongside him, and the ladder is dislodged. It topples back, throwing two men to the ground.
Will is already hacking away at another of the attackers, who falls back under the onslaught. From a safe distance, the villagers take heart, and begin to rain arrows at those who have gained the parapet. Three more men are struck with arrows, and others begin to back away, towards the ladders. Then, as if a cloud has burst, the enemy are cascading over the wall, and running away. Several of the musketeers aim, and bring down fleeing men, and the villagers, sensing an unexpected victory return to the walls, and shower the mercenaries with arrows.
It is over, and has taken no more than ten or fifteen minutes. To the defenders on the wall, it seems as though they have been fighting for hours, and they are utterly exhausted. Will goes from man to man, and congratulates them for standing firm. Mush moves from body to body, and collects their purses and silver crosses on fine chains.
“A God fearing bunch of men,” he tells Will, holding up the religious charms. “Perhaps Father Ignatius’ prayers were stronger.”
Giovanni Ipolatto bends over the man he killed, and searches for his hidden purse. Then he compares boots, and decides the dead man’s are grander, and of the right size. Antonio Puzzi, more of a diplomat than a soldier disapproves, but will accept his share later.
“That was a close run thing,” Bartolommeo Rinaldi says, as he joins them. “We drove them off at the portal, and the villagers are putting out the fire. We have saved the gate, Signor.”
“Did you lose any men?”
“No. Though one villager was scorched. And you?”
“Five of our men, and six villagers,” Will tells him. “I count seven of their men dead inside the walls, and another eight or nine as they ran away.”
“We killed four of them at the gate,” the young Venetian says, proudly. “That makes about twenty dead for their part. Is it enough?”
“Perhaps,” Will replies. “They might decide to wait for the rest of their army. If what we hear is right, Baglioni will arrive with about four or five hundred men. If they get here first, we will be dead before noon.”
“But we stood them off,” Bartolommeo says, with a hurt tone in his voice. He is young, and does not want to hear that he might ever lose.
“Sixty men,” Will explains. “Tomorrow, they will come from all sides. We cannot defend the entire wall. As soon as Baglioni takes the outer wall, the villagers will melt away, and pray for salvation. We will have to fight odds of twelve to one.”
“Is that all,” Mush says. “Then they best go carefully!”
Marco Spolletto cannot believe that the attack has failed, or that his friend, and commanding officer is dead. He considers what can be done, with a third of his men already thrown away on an ill omened attack. His men, he thinks. The condottiero will hold him responsible, what ever happens now. Unless the Venetians surrender, he has no chance of dislodging them before Baglioni arrives at first light.
“Hey, Marco,” one of the men asks, “what now?”
“Ride up to the wall, and ask if they want to give up,” he says, sarcastically. To his surprise, the short, barrel-chested man, known to his comrades as La Talpa … the Mole, jumps into the saddle, and gallops off. He stops by the gate, and after a brief conversation with one of the Venetian defenders, rides back.
“Well, what did they say?” Marco asks.
“Fottiti,” the Mole replies, and his comrades roar with laughter. Why not, they think. The Venetians are safe inside, and they must spend a cold night in the open air, waiting for the morning. So, telling the enemy to go and fottiti is an apt response.
“Why don’t we wait until dark, creep up, and slip over the wall. They can’t watch every bit of it.” This comes from Dandino, one of the younger men.
“No, but if we are discovered, they will just beat out our brains as we climb over,” Marco says. “Hands up anyone who wants to try?” Not a hand moves. They are professional fighting men, not lunatics. The consensus of opinion is that they bed down, and wait for help.
“They are unsaddling,” Mush reports to Will Draper. “I think they’ve had enough for now.”
“Thank God,” Will says. “I doubt we’d be able to stand off another charge. Some of the younger men are beginning to understand about mortality.”
“And you?” Mush asks. “You seem more cautious, these days.”
“You must blame your sister for that,” Will replies. Miriam has changed his outlook on life, and he wants nothing more than to live to a ripe old age with her. “Do you not think about Gwen?”
“Not whilst I am killing,” the olive skinned young man explains. “I seem able to put her out of my mind in moments of great danger.”
“Would that I could,” Will says. He imagines what she has been about, this remarkable wife of his, and wonders how her business affairs are progressing. With her earnings, his own small fortune, and what he hopes to gain from his Italian sojourn, they should be able to buy the house they currently lease, along with the land to the right and left.
River frontage is becoming popular with the newly enriched, or ennobled, so that they might keep a barge, or a small skiff. With such a craft it makes crossing from north to south of the great river so much easier, and allows for the better flow of news from the southern ports.
Information, Thomas Cromwell says, is power, and must be gathered in like a rich corn harvest. Miriam Draper cares little for the political life, and wants more land, and another boat, so that she might start to grow her own produce, and open new market stalls throughout Kent, Surrey, and Sussex. Added to the promises of the Venetian Doge, the future seems bright.
All that is left to do is to survive the next day.
“Let any man who falters be abandoned,” Malatesta Baglioni commands. “We must make San Gemini by dawn. If Monticelli has the fortress, he will need relief, and if the fool has failed me, we must take the place before the Venetian army arrives.”
“As you wish, My Lord,” Ando Frascallo replies. “With this moon, we should be able to ride deep into the night.”
There is the sudden, urgent beat of horses hooves, coming from ahead. The riders, uncaring of the growing gloom, are desperate to reach their master with the latest news. Baglioni reigns in, and waits for the three scouts to gallop up to him.
“What news?” Frascallo calls.
“The best, sir!” one of the men replies. “I came on the Venetian army, not three hours ago. They number less than six hundred, and are coming on in carts, like invalids.”
“No horse?” Baglioni asks.
“Yes, but they are riding two to a beast,” the second scout informs his master. “The Frenchman reached San Gemini.”
“Tell me the worst,” the condottiero snaps, and the French mercenary scowls at his companion.
“I arrived just after the Venetians had repelled our men,” he confesses. “San Gemini is in their hands, and our boys have taken a beating.”
“God’s eyes, but I’ll skin Monticelli,” the condottiero curses.
“He is dead,” the Frenchman replies. “Killed on the battlements, I was told.”
“You spoke to our men?”
“Marco is in charge,” the French mercenary explains. “He has enough men to bottle them up inside, but fears the Venetians coming up behind him.”
“How far away are they?” Baglioni knows he must reach the fortified village first, and take it, if he is to defeat the enemy. Once beaten, they will scatter, and the road to Rome will be open. He is yet to hear that Pope Clement has renounced him, and that his army is dying, day by day, outside Florence’s walls.
“A few miles further off than us,” the first scout replies. “If we keep up a steady pace, we will arrive hours before they do.”
“Then we must keep on,” Baglioni decides. “Ando, send twenty men on ahead, at the gallop. Tell them to join up with Marco, and keep the Ve
netians locked inside San Gemini. Have Marco’s men set themselves to firing at the walls, all night. I want the bastards inside to be tired out by dawn!”
Mush is enjoying himself. The Perugians outside the wall have started to fire off their arquebus’ at various intervals, to keep everyone awake, so he is giving them something to aim at. With several of the village boys, he devises a clever ploy to help turn the tables on his foes.
In pairs, Mush has his men spread out along the wall, one with an arrow already knocked in his bow, and the other with a wooden stave with a hat, or helmet on it. The game, though a dangerous one, is keeping them amused, and frustrating the enemy gunners.
One village lad crouches, and moves his raised stave back and forth. The Perugian gunner sees the movement, and discharges his arquebus. The second villager, watches for the flash, and swiftly looses off a couple of arrows at it. After a half dozen exchanges, there is a scream from the dark, and the guns cease to fire.
“Good shooting,” Mush says to the lad, and drops a couple of silver coins into his hand. “These Perugians squeal like pigs, my friend.”
“Bastards,” the youth replies. “They raped my sister, the last time they came to us.”
“Never again,” Mush says, scowling into the dark. “Tomorrow, we will kill them. How many of your people will fight with us?”
“Ten or twelve,” the village boy tells Mush. “The young ones, like us, and a couple of the older men. The Borsini brothers are fine hunters, and hate the condottiero’s men even more than we.”
An hour before dawn, Will Draper is on the parapet, watching the arrival of more enemy horsemen. They number about twenty, and are the vanguard of the condottiero’s army. He wonders how long his own small force can last, without Tom Wyatt and the rest of the Venetians.
He is still there, as dawn breaks. One of the women from the village is making her way along the ramparts with a basket, from which she hands out hunks of hard bread. A second, younger, girl follows, with a wine skin. There is a ragged cheer from the besiegers, as they see a welcome sight.