by Anne Stevens
The army of the condottiero appears in the distance, and comes on at a goodly pace. Will shouts orders, and his tired men take their places on the wall. They are armed with a mixture of bows, muskets and, with little else to hand, piles of stones to use as missiles.
Will Draper knows that a concerted rush by two or three hundred men will be enough to take San Gemini. The stones and arrows might thin down the enemy a little, but ultimately, it is going to be down to hand to hand fighting. At the far end of the parapet, he sees Mush waving, and gesturing to the north west, where a sizeable dust cloud has appeared.
It is the Venetians. Using carts, loaded with men, and horses carrying two, Tom Wyatt has gained several hours, and is almost within striking distance. Even as Will sees them, they are noticed by Malatesta Baglioni, who issues orders for his plan of battle. Will can only watch, as the Perugian force splits into columns, and prepares for battle.
“What are they doing?” Mush asks, as he comes running up to his friend. He has only ever seen skirmishes, where two lines of men hack at one another, until one side breaks. Now, a squadron of Baglioni’s horsemen have turned about, and are cantering away from the field of operations.
“This condottiero knows his business,” Will Draper explains. “He knows he is slightly outnumbered, and seeks to even out the odds. See how he is positioning his spearmen? They will form a line on foot, to face our pike men, and hold them.”
“Why?”
“He seeks to lure our young gallants out from behind the screen of Swiss, and draw them back towards the village. When they come on to him, his horse will fall on their flank, and break them.”
“Tom Wyatt will not let that happen,” Mush says.
“He will not be able to hold them back, if they sense victory,” Draper replies, knowingly. “Once they break, he will sweep around the Swiss flank, and force them into a square. After that, the end will come quickly.”
“What can we do?”
“Hope Tom can keep his young heroes in check,” Will says, “or hope Baglioni’s men make a mistake we can exploit.”
“Will they?” Mush asks, and his friend shrugs.
“Single line abreast,” Richard Cromwell commands, as his well drilled Swiss pike men tumble from their carts. “Pikes forward sloped, and advance at a slow march.” His orders are translated, and pass from man to man. They are amongst the best trained mercenaries in Europe, and will keep the line firm.
“Fall in, behind the pikes,” Tom Wyatt shouts, and his crowd of young Venetian gentlemen spread across the narrow valley mouth, eager to be at the enemy. “Hold back, until I give the … oh, damn!”
A group of thirty or forty of his men spill around the line of pikes, and start to advance on the right flank. Wyatt sees the danger, but cannot bring them back under control. More follow, and soon, two thirds of the Venetian force are advancing on the Perugians, like an undisciplined mob.
Baglioni smiles, and orders his spearmen forward, to stop the Swiss advance. The two lines face one another, and trade insults across five paces of no man’s land. Then he gives the word, and his arquebus men spread out, behind the spearmen, and begin to pick off the Swiss.
Tom Wyatt, seeing he cannot hold his men, runs forward with them, screaming, and waving his sword. They are less than fifty paces away from Baglioni’s seemingly unprotected left, when his horsemen reappear, and storm into Wyatt’s disarrayed force. For a brief moment the young Venetians look as if they might withstand the charge, but once the Perugian foot soldiers join in, they begin to back away, seeking the safety of higher ground.
Mush watches in disbelief, as his comrades start to fall. They step back, defending themselves all the way, but are taking heavy losses. He cannot understand why he is not taking part in the wild mêlée, and turns to Will for orders.
“I want every man willing to fight here, beside me on the wall. Fetch the Perugian ladders we took yesterday.” Mush goes off to carry out his friend’s commands, wondering how they can turn about the onrushing disaster. On the parapet, Will waits, and prays for their luck to change.
The Swiss are standing their ground, despite losing a dozen men to arquebus fire, and Richard is pacing up and down behind them, urging them to stand firm. He does not know how it will end, but he shall not be the first to break.
Tom Wyatt’s men are in full flight now, making for the Roman ruins on the nearby hill, with half of Baglioni’s force pressing home their advantage. It is then that Will Draper’s hopes are realised. The sixty besiegers outside the gate can see that victory is theirs, and want to be in on the kill, if only to ensure their share of the spoils. They give a great shout, and rush after their comrades.
“Ladders down!” Will helps lower the ladders down to the red earth, and leads his men down them. He has about twenty five well armed men, and a dozen of the villagers, armed with bows, and axes. “Into them lads, and let there be no quarter given.”
The small force storm into the unsuspecting arquebusiers, and cut them down from behind, before plunging into the line of Perugian spearmen. The attack is so savage, and from so unexpected a direction that twenty men die before they realise the danger. Richard Cromwell sees, and orders his men to charge. The entire line of spearmen crumbles away,
“To the hill!” Will Draper, his sword red with blood, yells, and sets off after the fleeing Venetians. His men, the villagers, and a swarm of Swiss pike men surge after him, and smash into the Perugian rear. Their horsemen turn, and unable to face the deadly pike thrusts, ride for their lives. Tom Wyatt rallies his young men, and throws them into a swift counter attack.
From total defeat, comes total victory. The Perugians who cannot escape, throw down their arms, and surrender. Will calls for them to be taken captive, but many are cut down, despite being unarmed. At last, the four Englishmen manage to regain control of their men, and have them round up prisoners.
Malatesta Baglioni is astounded by the sudden turnabout in his fortunes, and curses the men who deserted their posts at the walled village. Had they stayed in place, the day was his. Now he must flee. He turns his horse from the disaster, and spurs it into a full gallop.
One of the villagers sees the action, and looses off an arrow at the fleeing Perugian. The shaft catches the horse in the withers, and the beast crashes down, in a flailing mass of legs, and cursing soldier. Baglioni staggers to his feet, but a dozen men are surrounding him, with drawn swords. He nods, and, drawing his own blade, throws it to the ground.
“I beg for quarter,” he says. “I am Malatesta Baglioni, Lord of Perugia, and I am under the protection of His Holiness, Pope Clement!”
“I am Thomas Wyatt, emissary from the court of King Henry of England, Signor, and I have some bad news for you. The Pope has withdrawn his favour, and declared himself against your invasion of Venice.”
“A pity, Englishman, but that will not stop my army from taking Padua and Verona. It must be at the gates of the city, even as we speak.”
“No, sir, it is camped outside Florence, when last we heard, and hardly stirring. I fear your army has fallen asleep, My Lord.”
Malatesta Baglioni shrugs. There is always another way out of disaster, and he will emerge from this present difficulty, and return even stronger.
“Sir, I thank you for this news, now … pray, take me to your leader!”
15 Bad Endings
“How goes it, Richard?” Will Draper asks. In the final rush, he has taken a stab to the side. It is a minor injury, but his friends insist he stays in the quarters provided by the grateful villagers.
“A hard won fight, my friend,” Richard Cromwell replies. “I thought we were lost, until you appeared, like a demented spirit of retribution. Even the priest was looking worried. Donna Pippa took up a short sword, and was ready to kill any man who broke her part of the line.”
“An amazing girl,” Will says. “How did her husband fare?”
“Bartolommeo is unharmed, though we did lose a goodly lot of fine men. Antoni
o Puzzi was killed, just as their line broke, and that Ipolatto fellow, who Tom wished to stay behind, was cut down by one of their horsemen.”
“Tom knew his wife, I believe. We must ensure his widow receives his share of the spoils. What of the rest?”
“I lost twenty of my Swiss. Wyatt’s boys lost the most heavily. About sixty of them dead, and as many more wounded,” Richard replies. “The Doge will have much to mourn. Apart from you, and Mush, only seven of those holding the village still live, and two of them are under Father Ignatius Loyola’s care. He hovers over them, waiting to help their souls into heaven.”
“He is a remarkable man, for a priest,” Will says.
“Indeed. He blessed every one of my Swiss, and took up a pike, when a gap appeared. He fought like a real soldier.”
“Then he too must have his share,” says Will. “What of the Perugians? I think many must have escaped.”
“Those on horseback, yes,” Richard Cromwell explains. “Of those that stood their ground, we killed over two hundred, and took a hundred more prisoner. They will not raise much in ransom, but their purses were as fat as those of their dead friends. Tom Wyatt tells me that the booty comes to a little over six thousand ducats.”
“So much?”
“Mercenaries like to carry their fortunes with them,” Richard replies. “Each man will receive nine gold ducats a piece.”
“Now I must deal with this troublesome condottiero,” Draper tells his friend. “Though I wish he had been gentleman enough to die in battle. I am loath to hang a man, just for being a good soldier.”
“Cozza!” Donna Pippa’s anger seems out of place in such a slight, pretty young thing. “He murders my family, and wishes to rape me. He is the devil!” She puts down a pewter tray filled with fresh fruit, bread, and cheese. “There. I hope he chokes on it. Now, I will bring you wine. Red, or white?”
“White,” Richard Cromwell says. “It is the more refreshing. That girl is a …”
“Witch?” Will concludes. “But such a pretty one. Fetch this Malatesta Baglioni to me.”
Richard steps outside, and returns, a moment later with the condottiero, bound with ropes. He thrusts the man into a chair, and turns to leave.
“The ropes, Richard, please?” Will Draper is sure he can handle the man, who looks nothing like he has imagined. Perhaps, he might make a grab for the fruit knife, and give him an excuse to kill him. The Doge will be unhappy that the man lives. Richard Cromwell mutters, but cuts the man’s bonds.
Pippa returns with a second tray, bearing two goblets, and a flask each of the local red and white wines. She pours a measure of the white, and hands it to Will. Then she goes as if to leave.
“And my guest too,” Will tells her. The girl must look the man in the eyes, and come to terms with her burning hatred. It is time to stop this ridiculous vendetta, once and for all time. Pippa looks set to refuse, or argue, but relents. She picks up one of the flasks, and fills a second cup. Baglioni takes it from her, and grins at her nervousness.
“Ah, the sweet little girl from Perugia,” he says. “When you ran away, I was forced to execute some of the towns people, as a warning. Your replacement also paid, with her life.”
“Pig!” Pippa raises the flask, but Will’s warning look stalls her actions. Instead, she puts it down, and retires from the room.
“What am I going to do with you?” Will muses. Baglioni raises his wine, as if toasting his foe, and drains the goblet.
“You might call your whore back, and have her stoke the fire for me. My feet are cold. Then you might as well release me.”
“How can you think I will do that?” Will has the power of the Doge behind him, but recalls being warned that Venice cannot be an active player.
“Andrea Gritti will disown your actions, and make noises about having you arrested,” Baglioni says. “Then he will put you on a ship, and send you home. Clement will not dare do anything either. I know too much, and can make life very uncomfortable for them both. You must either murder me, at once, or let me go. You are an Englishman, and I do not think you can kill in cold blood.”
“You were about to invade Venice.”
“Was I?” Baglioni smiles. “I sent my army to Florence, on manoeuvres. The duke is a Medici ally, and invited me. Now, I am told, my army is camped near the city, offering violence to no one.”
“The Doge of Venice….”
“Is a practical man,” the condottiero says, finishing the sentence. “The threat to Venice is no more, and he wishes to remain friends with the emperor. No, I regret that you are in a quandary, my friend.”
“You have murdered people.”
“I am a ruler. Does not your king have people killed?” The warlord grins. “I dare say he has killed a hundred fold more than I. As for your whore’s family … they were all spies. Now, will you kill me, or release me? I can be back inside Perugia inside the day, where I’ll lick my wounds, and wait for an easier foe. May I ask the name of the only man ever to best me in a fight?”
“Captain Will Draper, sir, though not at your service,” Will says, hating what he must do. “Very well, get out.”
The condottiero stays in his seat. He stares at the Englishman in disbelief.
“What have you done?”
“Done? I’m setting you free.”
“You bastard!” the condottiero spits, angrily. “I would rather die with a sword in my hand, than this.”
“Are you mad?” Will Draper is nonplussed. The man is sitting very still, slowly clenching, and unclenching his right fist.
“No, not mad,” Pippa says. She comes into the room, picks up the flask of red wine, and pours the dregs onto the stone floor. “A little tired, perhaps, condottiero?”
“Bitch!” he cries. “It was you?”
“Just so. I am the bitch who swore vendetta against you, Malatesta Baglioni.” Pippa crosses to the last unoccupied seat, and sits down to wait. “First, your feet grow cold. Then they become numb, and the sensation slowly creeps up your body. Once I knew which flask Signor Will would drink from, it was easy to put the hemlock in the other.”
“Hemlock?” Will Draper is beginning to understand, but is powerless against so cunning a young woman. “You mean the poison?”
“Yes, I distilled it days ago, for just such an opportunity,” Pippa explains. “Had we lost today, I would have swallowed it, rather than let Baglioni and his dogs have me. It is a slow acting potion, that makes your body go asleep, inch by inch.”
“Is there an antidote?”
“Would I tell you, if there were?” Pippa smiles. “There, my dear Malatesta, you can scarcely move now. Soon, your throat will seize up, and you will choke to death, in silent agony.”
The condottiero tries to stand, but his body barely moves, and he slumps sideways, gurgling.
“Dear Christ!” Will Draper is horrified, and cannot believe how coldly Donna Pippa is behaving.
“Hear the noise?” she asks, innocently. “That is his throat closing, and his last breath is being choked off. His eyes will flicker for a few minutes more, until his mind ceases to work. His last thought will be that I, a mere girl, have caused his destruction.”
“Dear God, what is this?” Father Ignatius Loyola is in the doorway. He takes in the scene, and crosses to the dying man. He tries to open his lips, then feels for a pulse.
“Hemlock,” Pippa explains.
“A slow, cold sort of a death for so hot blooded a man, my son,” Father Ignatius says, closing the man’s eye lids for the last time. Like many priests, he has some medical knowledge, and is quite aware of the deadly effects of hemlock. So, he admits temporal defeat, and begins to administer the last rites to Malatesta Baglioni, the last, great, condottiero.
Richard Cromwell is sad to be leaving Venice behind, for truth to tell, it has been the happiest time of his young life to date, and the food, the wine, and the open, happy go lucky people suit his temperament well. He knows his uncle will be pleased with their su
ccess, and see that they are all well rewarded, but he doubts any amount of gold will make up for the warmth, and friendliness of the Italian people.
“Apart from trying to kill us … twice,” Mush tells his friend.
“It was nothing personal,” Richard responds. “Malatesta Baglioni would have had to fight anyone who came against him. It was his nature.”
“To think, it took a girl to bring him down.” Mush shrugs, and continues packing.
“Our fastest galley will transport you to Marseilles,” Andrea Gritti explains. “From there, post horses are waiting, every thirty miles or so to allow your fast conveyance across France, to Calais.”
“King Francis has no love for the English,” Tom Wyatt demurs. “He might well have us all arrested, and thrown into a dungeon.”
“Nonsense!” the Doge says, heartily. “Cousin Francis is most enamoured of you English, at the moment. He believes that Thomas Cromwell still wishes to give him a one hundred thousand pound bribe, to buy his illegitimate daughter for the Medici dog.”
“You doubt it will ever happen?” Tom Wyatt asks. It is his duty to find out what he can for Cromwell, and he suspects that there are plots within plots, throughout the whole of Italy.
“Alessandro has a perfectly delightful mistress, and he has also been promised to Emperor Charles’ daughter, by Clement. The Pope is in a cleft stick, you see. He must stay friends with the emperor, and abandon his desire to be allied to Paris. The man has out thought himself.”
“Then I pray we are safe home, before Francis realises he has been duped.” Tom Wyatt bows, and leaves the Doge’s presence, for the final time. He doubts he will ever return to Italy, and doubts that he would ever wish to.
Once out in the sunlit piazza of San Marco, the Englishman will make his way to the house of Alana Ipolatto, the newly widowed wife of Giovanni. He has the man’s share of the campaign spoils, amounting to almost a hundred ducats, which will keep Alana and her child until she can remarry in a years time.