by David Blixt
Back at the half-demolished gate, Vanni Asdente led his men afoot into the attackers' flank. Under his direction four horses went down on the right side of the Vicentine column. The Vicentines stopped, turned, and began the process of decimating the drunken Flemings. In spite of the howling and spitting Asdente, the sixty Flemings lost their nerve and edged under the stone arch to run across the bridge, only to be cut down as they presented their backs to the mounted soldiers. Asdente disappeared among his own fleeing men.
The main body of galloping Vicentine horsemen continued on under the stone arch and over the bridge to bring destruction to the army that outnumbered them more than fifty times. Ahead of them, the Count followed Ponzoni and the two Carrarese to where the Paduan army disported itself in the gardens and hills beyond the moat.
Paduan soldiers struggled to their feet, reaching for weapons. It was as the Count had hoped — threat was stirring them to action. Satisfied, he pulled up at his reins, halting in the center of the line. He still held his breastplate, the family crest blazoned across it. But his grandfather's helmet was lost on the bridge. No matter. If this worked right, he'd have it back in a very few minutes.
The Vicentine force checked just this side of the bridge, watching the twenty remaining Flemings run for safety. The tall Nogarola champion shifted in his saddle as he waited, his back to the banks of the moat. The Vicentines lined up behind him. The Count watched with grim pleasure as the Vicentine champion took in the numbers he faced. He couldn't possibly ignore the vast horde of men arrayed against him. Even disorganized as the Paduans obviously were, the odds were impossible. The champion would count it a moral victory and order his men back. But the moment he turned, San Bonifacio would lead a charge and destroy this force, then press on to the center of the city and victory.
The champion did not turn back. With the hound prowling about at his horse's legs, he stood in his stirrups and tore the helmet from his head. Light from the western sun set the hair ablaze. Dangerously handsome, the face was clear to all. Even those who had never seen him knew who he was. Cangrande della Scala, the Greyhound, in all his glory.
Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio felt the Pup's damned smile settle on him. The bastard's baiting me! The fool! Doesn't he realize how badly he's outnumbered?
As if in answer, Cangrande gestured upward with his mace. In response, there came a massive cheer from a thousand throats, more voices by far than just the riders with the Pup. The sound was deafening even at this distance. But who was cheering?
Around the Count men stepped back and horses shied. Beside the Count, Ponzino was aghast. "Dear Christ! Look! Look! Oh, has he no honour?!"
The Count glanced up and swallowed his heart. All along the walls of San Pietro, those same walls he had scaled that morning, hundreds of helmets glinted in the light of the setting sun. Enough of these silhouettes bore outlines of bows to show they were archers.
But they did not hold crossbows. They held bows of yew.
Somehow, beyond all possibility, the Scaliger's army had come. Worse, against dictate of emperors, kings, knights, and church, he had armed his soldiers with longbows. A violation of every code of chivalry, it was political suicide. It was also deadly.
Instead of indugling in outrage, the Count was doing the math. Those weapons could drive an arrow three times the distance of any crossbow. It wasn't an army the Greyhound had brought. It was death, in the form of a hail of arrows.
Below the rows of archers, the Scaliger howled a wordless cry that froze the blood. Ponzino actually shivered at the sound, for a moment believing it was the dog that had made the noise, so feral it was. The Count saw Cangrande throw his helmet aside in a show of contempt. Still standing in the stirrups, he lifted his reins in his left hand and kicked his horse into a gallop, the spiked mace in his right hand poised and ready to crush his enemies. Behind him, against all reason, his followers charged, screaming for blood.
In that moment San Bonifacio understood. It was neither courage nor reason nor a grasp of tactics. Not honour, not chivalry. It was a streak of madness that defied reason, thought, life. It was a kind of immortality, perhaps the only kind a man owns. For this heartbeat of time the Greyhound was more than human. He was Mercury, the messenger of the gods. He was the Angel of Death, descended from the heavens to reap a fearful harvest. He was the Greyhound.
Ponzino was horrified. "They can't possibly…"
Already knowing the worst, the Count snarled. "They already have. Run!"
All around them men in every state of readiness — sober, drunk, valiant, cowardly — fell back before Cangrande's mad charge. They'd witnessed their daring leaders run to them for protection. They'd watched the Flemings, darlings of the fierce Asdente, run as if the devil nipped their heels. They'd seen men armed with bows along the walls. Now this giant, this impossibly fearless, murderous man, rode at them like Mars on the field of war.
The Paduans broke. The massive army disintegrated into clusters of terrified men. In their desperate flight they shed booty, weapons, provisions and armour. Into ditches or into the Bacchiglione it all went as the men scrambled back to preserve their lives.
The Count of San Bonifacio didn't hesitate. Tossing his family armour aside, he turned his horse about, kicking hard. Grabbing the reins of the Podestà's horse, he dragged the stunned commander with him. Ponzino ripped every seal of office from his body, wanting no sign to mark him as Cangrande's enemy. For the first time that day, the Paduan commander did not think of his honour. He thought only of his life.
Seven
The charging gait of the warhorse rocked Pietro violently. He'd never ridden a fully barded animal, and the weight of the horse's armour took some getting used to. The sound of its hooves on the stones was odd. Glancing at the closest destrier he saw sharp nail heads protruding from the horseshoes. Shivering, he made sure he was snug in his saddle.
Pietro had no idea where the archers had come from. He only knew they had saved his life. Cangrande had charged, and for some baffling reason Pietro had followed, riding onto the battlefield towards glory, flanked by friends, glowing with pride, and out of his mind with terror. What in Heaven's name am I doing?
Cangrande was in the lead, of course. Ahead, some impetuous Paduans, probably hoping to make names for themselves, reversed their course of flight and set themselves to slay the enemy prince.
Seeing five horsemen riding towards him, Cangrande made a whoop of joy and spurred harder.
"Come on! Ride! Ride!" cried Mari. Pietro tried to speed up, but because he lacked spurs his horse failed to respond. Pietro kicked again but the pointed slippers offered no purchase in the stirrups, and the kicking hurt his heels worse than the horse's armour.
The Paduan in the best position rode a few paces behind the leader. Cangrande would probably survive the first blow only to be spitted on the sharpened point of this one's lance.
The Scaliger edged his horse slightly to his right, bringing him even with the lancer. His helmet gone, his eyes made contact with the grinning face across from him. He smiled back, showing them his perfect teeth. Then he pursed his lips and blew. Seeing this, the Paduans thought their prey was making an obscene face and spurred harder.
Cangrande bent lower, kicking free his stirrup and dropping his right boot to the dirt. Then he hitched that leg up onto the horse's back, knee crooked out and forward, right heel under his own rump. Like a daredevil at a fair, Pietro thought. Or an acrobat.
Cangrande cocked his head as if listening to music. The first sword would be on him in three more strides. Two. One….
Oh my God!
The merlin struck. Called by a whistle from its master, it swooped out of the sky past Cangrande's left shoulder. For a moment the huge golden-headed bird seemed to hang in the air before the startled Paduans. Then it was upon them. The wicked pounces raked the head of the leading horse. The steed was armoured, so the talons did little damage. But the rider forgot his weapon as his arms flew up to protect his face.
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As the merlin attacked, Cangrande moved. With a convulsive pull on the bridle he yanked the horse's head back and right. Well trained, it reared. But Cangrande kept pulling, and the combination of his strength and the heavy armour conspired to bring the horse down. With a burst of air expelled and legs flailing the animal fell on its right side — directly in the path of the attacking horses.
It was too late for the Paduans to stop. Through the screams of both men and mounts Pietro heard the snaps as the horses on the left broke their front legs. They pitched forward, throwing their riders headfirst into the ground. Held in the saddle by his stirrups, one rider's neck was broken as his own horse toppled end over end. The other Paduan was thrown clear, landing in an ignominious heap of broken bones.
Had the Scaliger not waited to the very last moment, the two approaching horses would have leapt the living hurdle with ease. As it was, he left it almost too late. Using the hitched leg under him he barely had time to propel him sideways off the falling beast. He rolled shoulder over shoulder clear of the massacre.
The three remaining attackers rode past, hardly understanding what had happened. Before they could come to grips, the defenders were upon them and they were cut to pieces. Pietro stunned one Paduan with the flat of his blade alongside his helmet, setting him up to be killed by Antony.
Cangrande, meantime, was on foot, facing down an oncoming rider. He gripped his mace with one hand on either end and blocked the downward blow. He twisted and jabbed back with the head of the mace in a move Pietro recognized from one of his old fightbooks. It was called the Murder Stroke, and had Cangrande been holding a sword the man would have been sliced open. Instead, the mace pulped his ribs. Cangrande hauled the man's carcass out of the saddle, mounted, and spurred the battle on.
"Dear Christ," breathed Pietro. "He is the Greyhound."
Behind the charge, under the arch of the Porte San Pietro, a trampled pile of bodies shifted. Some were dead, some dying. All but one bled. In the midst of the carnage Asdente feigned injury, biding his time. When his men had been cut down in their flight he'd used their fallen bodies to protect himself. Now he lay among them, on the city side of the bridge, watching the backs of the defenders as they rode into the fleeing Paduans. He watched, waiting for his chance. His withered, scarred, and twisted face was slack in a picture of death, but his eyes were vivid, his mind hard at work. Impossibly, Cangrande had slipped past the ambush at the north gates. But he won't escape now.
Asdente required a horse. There. An obliging latecomer to the fray approached, oblivious to the bodies of dead Flemings whose condotierre would never be paid. Asdente had lost his sword in the scrum but there was an obliging morning star in a nearby limp hand. Covertly he grasped it. It had a good, long chain attaching the spiked ball to the wooden handle.
Timing was important, and the Toothless Master knew his senses were blunted with drink. He needed a trick. He slowly reached his left hand out and grasped a part of his plunder, a fine linen tablecloth now covered in blood.
The rider was almost under the arch. Asdente leapt up and threw the cloth, which snagged on the man's helmet, momentarily blinding him. In that moment Asdente hit him full in the chest with the heavy spiked ball. The rider hit the ground with a wet smack. Asdente swung the ball again, and again, pulping the man's helmet and the head within. The linen covered the knight's dented face like a shroud, glued by gore.
The Toothless Master grinned. "That's one." Stepping into the dead man's stirrups, Asdente raised the square shield of the fallen rider. It would be his passport — no one would look too closely at a man bearing a Vicentine shield.
He could escape easily now. But escape was not his plan. He galloped over the bridge, his horse leaping over the prone figures of men and beasts that littered it. He carried the dripping morning star low on his right side, ready to bring it down in a deadly arc over his head to smash a skull.
The skull of a Dog.
Numbers no longer mattered. The cavalieri spread themselves out to chase the fleeing Paduans. The Vicentines had what all soldiers on horseback throughout history longed for most — a scattered army on open ground.
Mariotto and Antony rode together, following Antonio Nogarola in pursuit of at least a hundred men running down the road to Quartesolo. Some turned to fight. Most fled. Mariotto considered it ungentlemanly to hack into a man whose back was turned. Instead he used the flat of his sword to club them down. Antony used a stolen mace caked with Flemish blood to crack shoulders and skulls. Most would live, though if their bones would ever knit from those blows Mariotto wouldn't care to say.
Ahead two Paduans were attempting to rally their men-at-arms to stand and fight. Both wore red farsettos under their armour with some sort of family device over their plate mail. They rode their horses in wide circles, attempting to corral the men-at-arms running south and force them to face the oncoming Vicentines. They were having little success, but there was danger in such an action. If one man's reckless courage could cause a panicked flight, two men's bravery could restore order to their army and reverse the fortunes of the day.
Recognizing the danger the men posed, Nogarola led a charge, raking his spurs down the flanks of his steed, raising streaks of blood. "Onward, for victory!" he shouted, only to be silenced as the younger of the two mounted nobles lifted a crossbow from his saddle, took aim, and fired. Nogarola spun right to left in his saddle as the force of the bolt knocked him sideways off his horse.
Nogarola's fall was witnessed by several of his fellow Vicentines. Though some resented Cangrande, they had nothing but respect for the house of Nogarola. When their leader was felled from his horse no less than fourteen men stopped their horses to surround his senseless body on the ground.
Among them was young Montecchio. Because his helmet cut off his peripheral vision, Mariotto did not see Marsilio da Carrara finish loading a second bolt in his crossbow.
On Mariotto's far side, Capecelatro's mail coif allowed him better range of vision. He saw the crossbow out of the corner of his eye, and just as the bolt was released from its catch, he launched himself sideways out of his saddle, crying out, "Mari!" Landing clumsily, he banged his ribs on the side of Montecchio's horse. With his left arm he dragged Mariotto out of his saddle, clear of the path of the bolt just as it ripped through the air overhead.
Falling, they landed badly, rolling over each other, desperately trying to stay clear of the spiked hooves of Montecchio's mount. A buffet of blows and churned earth was their universe for the next several seconds. One hard knock sent both end over end, then they came to a rest, Mari ending half underneath Antony, miraculously unscathed.
"What the devil are you about?" shouted Mariotto, trying to be heard over the noise around them. He struggled to get his helmet off then slapped at Antony, trying to get out from underneath him. "Idiot! We could have been killed!" Capecelatro was silent and Mariotto realized the Capuan was unconscious, knocked senseless in the fall. Mari tried to get purchase under his left shoulder. What do I do? I can't leave him here…
He was still deciding on a course of action when the sun above him went out. He looked up to see what had caused the sudden shadow. A Paduan on horseback, backlit by the sun, raised a spear to run them both through together.
Heaving with every muscle he owned, Mariotto rolled the limp Capuan off to the right, then threw himself left. The spear dug into the earth where they had lain. Cheated of blood, it came easily away again for another blow.
Mariotto scrambled up desperately. Under the gambeson he wore only a cloth shirt, his finest, donned for the wedding this morning. He realized he would die in his best shirt. The thought did not please him. "Come on!" Stepping further away from the unconscious Capuan, he made himself a target to keep Antony safe.
The spear came again, plunging towards Mariotto's breast, and the youth twisted away just in time. He tried to grasp the shaft but pulled back at once. It was barbed. His fingers dripped blood.
As the Paduan drew
back for another thrust, Mariotto's hands searched for a weapon. There was nothing on his person, only little leather straps tucked into his belt -
The other jess! His fingers yanked it free from where it hung just as the faceless Paduan delivered what was meant to be the deathblow. Mariotto twisted sideways again. The barbed tip caught his armour and ripped it wide, making a deep gash across the muscles of his chest. Even as he cried out he looped the ring of the jess over one of the jutting barbs on the length of the spear. With the long end of the leather strap wrapped around his bleeding knuckles, Mariotto yanked the spear out of his enemy's grip.
Weapon gone, the Paduan turned towards the bridge and fled, only to be caught short by a Vicentine on horseback who, to Mariotto's satisfaction, removed the man's head from his shoulders.
Mariotto moved to Antony's side and stood with the spear poised, ready to defend his new friend against all comers.
Asdente rode through the rear echelons of the Veronese and Vicentine defenders. He held his stolen shield high, hoping no one looked too closely at the colour of his surcoat. He cast around, looking this way and that.
Some poor Paduan stumbled across his path. Keeping in his character of an angry Vicentine, the Toothless Master swung his weapon in an upward stroke. The horrible spiked metal ball hit, and a cloud of pink mist hit the air. The fool's chin came right off, landing on the ground behind him. The man flailed, but Vanni was too busy to do him the favor of killing him. He'd just spied what he was looking for, a bobbing head of chestnut hair where the fighting was heaviest. His prey's back was invitingly turned.
Asdente veered his horse and set it at an easy canter, to all appearances off to help his lord, weapon held at the ready.