‘I, on the other hand, am in no man’s pay,’ retorted Donnina. ‘Unlike yourself, Captain-General, I am no hireling.’
‘But, also unlike myself, you have yet to demonstrate your bona fides, to prove you are no spy.’
Donnina was on shaky ground. At her own insistence, she had travelled to Florence to be presented at the ducal court and, not least, to meet the duke’s half-brother, to whom she was betrothed. To disclose as much was tantamount to admitting to a tenuous but undeniable link between herself and Florence. Doing that might lend credence to the allegations made against her by Hawkwood’s men.
‘I was seized on the approach to Florence,’ she protested. ‘I have no knowledge of that city and owe no allegiance to it.’
Hawkwood was already persuaded that this beautiful firebrand was no spy. Even if she were, he judged her to pose no real threat now that the initial confrontation with Florence was over.
Besides, she was breathtakingly beautiful.
‘You and your escort shall accompany us to Pisa. You will be detained there only until such time as I am convinced of your intentions. I shall then return you safely to Milan.’
‘That is intolerable!’
‘Perhaps,’ answered Hawkwood. ‘But it is also prudent. And I am a prudent man.’
He dismissed the sergeant-at-arms and his pikemen, ordering them to release the escort but keep them under close watch. He turned again to Donnina.
‘My lady, quarters will be readied for you until we leave tomorrow. We are in the field and I regret are ill placed to accommodate you as befits your rank. You shall dine with us.’
‘I do not dine with hirelings,’ said a petulant Donnina.
‘As you wish.’
‘And I have no appetite.’
‘Then perhaps you will do us the honour of gracing our table with your presence and your discourse?’
Donnina hesitated, weighing the alternatives. Accept? Or spend the rest of the day and all night alone in a draughty field tent? She decided to accept. Perhaps she could charm this condottiere into releasing her, or at least into sparing her the tedium of travelling to Pisa. He was not such an unreasonable man, after all. He had treated her with courtesy and he was not without wit. Besides, he was exceptionally handsome.
‘I shall dine at your table,’ she said. ‘But on one condition and on one condition only.’
‘And that is?’
‘That you do not attempt to speak Italian.’
Hawkwood laughed. ‘I accept.’
She had expected the meal to be a frugal affair, but was proved quite wrong. They dined on succulent saffron-flavoured guinea fowl accompanied by polenta concia valdostana – thick maize-flour cakes grilled over an open fire – and complemented by richly-spiced polpette of veal and bresaola, thin-slices of dried beef macerated in olive oil and lemon. The wine was of excellent quality – not Italian, she concluded, but a French clairette she thought she recognised as one of her father’s favourites.
Donnina was seated directly across from Hawkwood, with Gennaro Altobardi to her left and Sir Wilfred Perry to her right. Sir Wilfred was both an elegant raconteur and an attentive listener. Altobardi said little but scarcely took his eyes from her. Hawkwood also said little at first but, gradually, was persuaded to talk of England, of the war against France, and of his first impressions of Italy.
To her surprise, Donnina realised she was enjoying herself.
From time to time, her glance fell on a cylindrical ivory ornament that rested on the table near Hawkwood’s elbow. It was small – no more than six or seven inches high – but carved exquisitely with articulated leafage and a script she could not decipher. Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her.
‘What is that?’ she asked.
‘A box,’ Hawkwood replied unhelpfully.
‘A box, you say?’
He hesitated. ‘Yes, a box. A small box. A puxidion – a diminutive of the Greek puxis.’
‘You speak Greek, Sir John?’ asked Donnina, leaving him in no doubt that she was teasing him.
‘Some,’ he answered gruffly. ‘I venture to say almost as well as I speak Italian.’
‘And what is the purpose of your box?’
‘It has no purpose other than to serve as a telesmon – a talismano, I believe you say in Italian.’
Donnina was unrelenting. ‘And the inscription on your talismano?’
‘The box is of Moorish origin. The Arabic inscription merely states it was crafted in Cuenca in our tenth century.’
‘And how came you by it?’
‘It was given me by King Edward’s eldest son – the Black Prince, as he is sometimes known – after the siege of Narbonne in 1355. I was wounded there—’
‘Saving the prince’s life,’ put in Sir Wilfred.
‘I was wounded there,’ continued Hawkwood, ignoring the interruption. ‘The prince gifted me the box as a charm to ward off evil and ensure good fortune and good health.’
‘And has the charm worked?’
‘Well enough, I wager.’
From Hawkwood’s tone of voice, Donnina sensed she might have raised a sensitive issue, perhaps even given offence. ‘I meant no offence, Sir John. I was merely curious.’
‘None is taken. And curiosity is no vice.’
‘Then tell me if you will, for I am indeed curious on one point: what fresh treasures do you hope to find here in Italy?’
Hawkwood met and held her eyes. ‘There is much to admire and there will be much to treasure. There is, I warrant, great beauty before my eyes at this very moment.’
There was an awkward pause.
Donnina felt the colour rise to her cheeks. She looked away, then back at him again. He was still gazing at her, unsmiling.
Sir Wilfred cleared his throat. ‘Let us drink a toast to beauty,’ he said.
Hawkwood raised his goblet. ‘To beauty.’ He drank the wine down in a single gulp, set the goblet back on the table and stood up abruptly. ‘I have things to do before the morrow,’ he said.
Then, turning to Altobardi, ‘Escort the Lady Donnina to her quarters, and guard her well. I could never forgive myself should any harm come to her.’
Bella Figura
He bore himself well in peace and war
Pisa
9 July 1361
‘Remember, Caesar, thou art but mortal.’
Sir Wilfred’s admonition made Hawkwood smile. He countered with a line from Plutarch: ‘Rather first here than second in Rome!’
Sir Wilfred had a point. In ancient Rome, the Senate used to place a slave in the chariot of a victorious general to accompany him and his legions on their triumphant parade through the city streets to the Capitol. The slave’s sole duty was to whisper repeatedly that injunction, reminding the hero of the day that he was a man, not a demi-god.
Hawkwood had little need to be reminded of his own mortality. He had witnessed the brutalities of war and the ravages of peace, the triumphs of Crécy and Poitiers and the horrors of the Black Death, the indignities of promises broken and the pain of loyalties abjured. If any man were conscious of his own mortality, it was he, John Hawkwood, condottiere.
As the token force rode into Pisa, however, he felt an irrepressible surge of pride. Pride in his company. Pride in what his men had achieved and the manner in which they had achieved it. The pride felt by any commander who has successfully led from the front. And with that surge of pride came an awareness of power – and of all that power implies.
They entered by the Santa Maria portal. It seemed as if all Pisa had crowded into Campo dei Miracoli to catch a glimpse of their deliverers and to welcome them. Banners and bunting decorated every inch of the colonnaded Duomo, the imposing Campanile and the Battistero. Fathers held children aloft on their shoulders, and women dressed in their finest waved coloured silk shawls and threw garland after garland. The clamour was deafening as Pisa gave vent to its admiration and relief. A ritual chant went up:
‘Acuto! Acuto! Acuto
! Acuto!’
Hawkwood, Sir Wilfred Perry and Gennaro Altobardi had set out riding three abreast, but Perry and Altobardi imperceptibly reined back their mounts, with the result that Hawkwood was out front alone at the head of the procession. Behind him came a detail of mounted cavalry and small detachments of footsoldiers, pikemen and archers. The bulk of the company had been billeted for some three weeks outside the city walls but, paradoxically, their absence seemed to make the small escort force appear even more impressive.
As they approached the cathedral, Hawkwood saw that a large table draped in scarlet and gold had been set up on the steps leading to the main entrance. At the table sat the city fathers – his employers.
Tommaso Gracchi could contain himself no longer. While his fellow guildsmen stood and applauded, he dashed forward, his face flushed with pleasure. Almost before Hawkwood had time to dismount, Gracchi was upon him, pinning Hawkwood’s arms to his sides in a warm embrace, pounding him on the shoulder and then, to Hawkwood’s astonishment, attempting to kiss him on both cheeks. This last manoeuvre was initially unsuccessful on account of Gracchi’s diminutive stature and Hawkwood’s height, but the Pisan was not to be denied. Grasping Hawkwood’s head in both hands, he yanked it down and planted a kiss on his brow.
‘Thank you, Sir John!’ he said. ‘Grazie! Mille grazie – mille, mille grazie!’
This effusive greeting left Hawkwood initially at a loss for words. All he could do was nod and gently disengage himself. He stepped back, bowed and said calmly, ‘John Hawkwood, sir, at your service and at the service of the City State of Pisa.’
The bystanders roared their approval and the chant started up again: ‘Acuto! Acuto! Acuto! Acuto!’
Hawkwood turned to face the throng. With a swift movement, he drew his sword and held it up, the hilt against his face in a gesture of salute. He brought it down in a graceful arc, held the pose for a brief moment, then re-sheathed his sword.
The crowd again bellowed approval.
Hawkwood clasped the hand of each member of the Council of Guilds in turn. Altobardi was at his side to whisper their names and explain their function, but Hawkwood had little notion of who was who. It was of little consequence. To a man, they greeted him warmly and without reserve.
Gracchi gestured in vain for the crowd to be silent.
Hawkwood turned to face them. He raised his arms high above his head. The noise immediately subsided.
‘Citizens of Pisa,’ said Gracchi, with a nod of acknowledgement to Hawkwood, ‘it is our great honour and privilege to express our immense debt of gratitude to Sir John Hawkwood, who has delivered our fair city from the grasp of an evil neighbour. We thank him for the courage he and his men have shown and we – ’
The rest was drowned out by a chorus of ‘Acuto! Acuto! ’
Gracchi smiled indulgently. He waited patiently for the better part of a minute, then shrugged, turned away and sat down. He had intended a lengthy speech but he knew it was destined to go unheard.
*
At the ceremonial banquet that evening, Hawkwood sat at the table of honour with Donnina Visconti beside him.
Altobardi had counselled against her presence, discreetly pointing out that she was the daughter of none other than Bernabò Visconti, known throughout Italy as the tyrant of Milan.
Hawkwood would have none of it. ‘She is my guest and as such shall be made welcome,’ he had snapped. ‘I find pleasure in her company and take little heed of her father’s name or reputation.’
The guests rose time and again to toast Hawkwood’s health, as one guildsman after another heaped praise on him and his company. One of the last to speak was the octogenarian Massimo Mastrodonato. Unlike the previous speakers, he not only lavished praise on Hawkwood but was at pains to introduce a note of caution.
‘Salus populi suprema lex,’ he intoned. ‘Yes, I grant that the safety and well-being of the people is indeed the supreme law. But mark my words well: an immediate danger has been averted but there is danger still. Danger from without and danger from within.’
Hawkwood set down his goblet and smiled wryly at Donnina.He had expected this from one quarter or another. He listened attentively as Mastrodonato continued. ‘The danger from without remains real, but is for the present in abeyance. As to the danger from within, I recall the words of Tacitus.’
Mastrodonato paused briefly for effect. To Donnina’s astonishment, Hawkwood spoke under his breath, matching Mastrodonato word for word: ‘Atque ubi colitudinum faciunt pacem appellant. They create a desolation and call it a peace.’
T he old man had had his say. He sat down abruptly. The guests looked at each in bewilderment. What point was he trying to make? Was he challenging Hawkwood? Criticising him?
Hawkwood himself was in no doubt. The celebrated line from Tacitus had been spoken by Calgacus, a leader of the ancient Britons who had dared question the pax romana imposed by Roman military might on his land and people. He made to respond, but Donnina laid a hand on his arm.
‘This is not the moment,’ she whispered. ‘The time may come soon enough.’
The celebrations lasted until late. It was close on midnight when the first guests started to take their leave, and later still before Hawkwood and Donnina could depart. Protocol required them that they be among the last to leave.
They were quartered in the Palazzo Gracchi on the far side of the Piazza dei Cavalieri close to another Pisan landmark, the Palazzo dell’Orologio, a wing of which served as the city jail. For Hawkwood’s edification, Gennaro Altobardi had earlier recounted a grim episode in the Orologio’s history. Some sixty years previously, a burgomaster of Pisa, Count Ugolino, had been charged with treason, convicted and, together with the entire male issue of the Ugolino family, walled up inside the prison and left to rot.
‘It would be well then to give the place a wide berth,’ Hawkwood had observed.
‘That it would,’ said Altobardi.
A carriage awaited them, but Hawkwood dismissed it. ‘It is a night of great beauty,’ he said. ‘Does it please you to walk under the stars?’
Donnina linked her arm through his. He could feel the warmth of her body and the pressure of her firm breast against his forearm. She looked up at him and smiled. ‘It pleases me.’
As Christ is my witness, thought Gennaro Altobardi, they make a handsome couple. His eyes followed them until they disappeared into the balmy Tuscan night.
*
Karl Eugen stood in the shadows as Hawkwood and the stunningly beautiful creature on his arm strolled towards the Piazza dei Cavalieri. He was tempted to follow but, on second thoughts, decided there was little to be gained.
He had been in the Field of Miracles that afternoon, his distinctive white-blond hair concealed under a makeshift turban. He had shared in the crowd’s intense excitement, had even cheered along with them. But in his heart he had scant cause to rejoice. He was an outcast now, a traitor in all but name.
The young man had asked himself repeatedly how Hawkwood might have reacted to his sudden disappearance. He would have been concerned – that much was certain – and perhaps would have thought Karl Eugen had been taken and held by the Florentines. With certainty, Hawkwood would not have suspected his duplicity. There was no way Hawkwood could know that, from the outset, Karl Eugen had been an informant in the pay of Florence, nor, for that matter, that he had effectively reneged on his commitment to Boninsegna, telling the Florentine next to nothing. When all was said and done, thought Karl Eugen, his report to Bonisegna had been superficial, a compound of half-truths and unhelpful generalities.
Clearly, what Hawkwood would also not know was that, had the company not presented itself so opportunely and unexpectedly at the gates of Florence, Karl Eugen would have been unable to make good his escape and save his own hide.
Bile rose to his throat. What manner of man was he? The duplicitous Karl Eugen von Strachwitz: outsider, outcast, traitor, a man without conscience or honour. And John Hawkwood? A friend deceived,
a friend betrayed. Karl Eugen had been self-seeking and self-serving all his life. He understood that now and despised himself for it.
It was time to set the record straight, at whatever cost to himself.
Pisa
10 July 1360
An insipid morning sun filtered through the draperies and traced its path across the bedchamber, illuminating garments that lay scattered where they had fallen and silk sheets that were rumpled and stained, redolent of the previous night’s exertions.
Hawkwood was astonished to discover that Donnina was still completely naked – and even more astonished to discover that he himself was also. He had never seen a woman’s body totally exposed and he cautiously ran his eyes over her.
She lay face down, one arm cradling her head, the other resting casually on his midriff. Her ample breasts were flattened against the firm mattress and her generous buttocks formed a graceful semi-circle. Chestnut hair fanned out across the pillow. Olive skin glinted in the pale light.
He was suddenly conscious of his own battle-scarred body, the dense, dark hair of his chest and the thick undergrowth at his belly. He felt coarse and somehow inadequate next to this immaculate creature.
Yet he could only smile at the unexpected naturalness of it all.
Shortly after midnight they had been welcomed to the Palazzo Gracchi by a deferential servant who had shown them to their respective chambers above the piano nobile. Hawkwood had hesitated at her door and was on the point of wishing her a formal goodnight when she put a finger to her lips and beckoned him to follow her. She secured the door, turned to him and opened her arms. Hawkwood embraced her, breathing in the musky perfume of her hair and shoulders. They kissed. Her lips parted, moist and soft on his.
He drew her quickly to the bed. She fell back across it as Hawkwood fumbled at his breeches. He entered her at once, pinning her shoulders to the bed and thrusting urgently into yielding flesh. It was over in a matter of seconds. She said nothing as he rolled off her and lay on his back, his breathing uneven and laboured.
Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 10