Hawkwood felt deeply ashamed. He had treated her like a common whore, a cheap vessel of no consequence. He grappled for words to explain, to break the ominous silence between them.
Donnina raised herself on one elbow and gazed at him. A smile played about her lips. She slowly lowered her head to his chest and lay there, absolutely still at first until he felt her hand explore his buttocks and the inside of his thigh. Very gradually, she moved closer to him, her breasts pressing into him, her long legs straining against his. He offered no movement as she straddled him, reaching down and pulling him back into her. She rocked this way and that, leaning forwards to brush her mouth against his, then arching back to anchor her hands against the tops of his thighs. It was she who was thrusting now, drawing him into her, subtly shifting her weight to release him, then plunging down again, driving him deep inside.
Hawkwood felt an exquisite pain start somewhere in the small of his back and gradually infuse his entire frame. He reached up to clutch her buttocks and strove to match his rhythm to hers. The pain intensified until it became almost unbearable. His back arched from the mattress as he climaxed. He was only vaguely aware that she, too, was shuddering and crying out.
They remained locked together until he felt himself go limp and contract. Donnina released him and he fell back against the pillows, his throat dry and constricted. It was only then that she had fully undressed him, stripping off his blouson and breeches. He had felt no guilt, no shame. She lay back down beside him, her fingers tousling his chest hairs and her breath cool on his shoulder. He turned to speak, but she held a finger to his lips.
A smiling John Hawkwood slept.
*
He watched while the sun inched up the bed, moving gradually up her narrow back until it fell across her face and brought out the burnished highlights in her hair. Donnina stirred, opened one eye, then closed it again. She murmured something, more to herself than to him it seemed, then edged even closer. He could only marvel at her casual sensuality as he recalled each and every detail of the previous night.
Hawkwood was uncertain what to do next. He had never been in a situation like this. It was first nature to him to take the initiative in everything, to make the first move. He felt a twinge of guilt at the thought of his wife, but put her from his mind.
Donnina’s mouth was on his belly now, her tongue darting this way and that. Her hand cupped him, massaging with a gentle firmness. He felt himself come gradually erect. He longed to see her face, but could see only her mane of chestnut hair draped over his belly and his upper thighs. He gasped as she took him in her mouth. It was pure sensation now, a sensation unlike any he had ever experienced. Her mouth worked on him unrelentingly. She moaned softly, her body bucking and rearing in concert with his.
When it was over, she held him for a time, then gently released him. She turned her head and her eyes met his. She slowly uncoiled from between his legs and lay alongside him, her head once again on his chest. Hawkwood silently stroked her hair.
‘You and I have much to learn from each other, my condotttiere,’ said Donnina.
‘That we have,’ he said, ‘but I warrant it is I who have most to learn from you.’
‘Then we shall learn together, you and I.’
‘But first, Sir John, we shall break fast together. Come, stir yourself. You have whetted my appetite.’
And you mine, thought Hawkwood, reaching for his breeches.
Pisa
14 July 1361
Acuto.
Now that he understood the epithet’s connotations, Hawkwood had come to accept it with good grace.
Acuto: subtle, sharp, shrewd, decisive, quick-witted. Resourceful, too, and cunning. All these were qualities attributed to the Odysseus of legend. Yet there were other connotations: devious, unscrupulous, destructive, capable of trickery and deceit. Those, too, were qualities frequently assigned to Homer’s hero.
Hawkwood could not deny there were certain similarities between himself and Odysseus. Hawkwood, too, was among the dispossessed, a wanderer in foreign lands at whose snares and perils he could still only guess. His own future was as uncertain and fraught with danger as that of Odysseus and his companions caught between the dual menace of the twelve-footed, six-headed siren Scylla (Florence?) and the treacherous whirlpool that was Charybdis (Pisa?).
Questions flooded his mind. Would Pisa prove a Land of Lotos Eaters, inducing lethargy among those under his command? Who were the cannibal Laistrygones and when and how would they strike? For how long would the company respond to his orders before they yielded to temptation and bit the hand that fed them, much as Odysseus’ companions had turned on the Cattle of the Sun? Not least, what was to become of Margaret Hawkwood – his Penelope – and his own lands?
Of one thing, however, Hawkwood was already certain: the reincarnation of the enchantress Calypso in the guise of Donnina Visconti.
Acuto?
Only time would tell.
For the present, there were other, more practical matters to attend to.
*
‘A bagatelle, Sir John, a trifling matter, no more.’
Sir Wilfred Perry sat in the command pavilion facing Hawkwood and Altobardi. At issue was the construction of fortifications to reinforce Pisa’s outer defences and the building of permanent quarters to house the White Company. In this, Hawkwood was heavily reliant on the older man’s knowledge and experience.
‘A bagatelle, you say, Sir Wilfred?’ he replied. ‘Would that it were!’
‘You are a fine general, and I am the first to bow to your excellence in the field. I ask only that you take me at my word, that you acknowledge my skills in this regard. I have presided before now over the building of such fortifications, at both Bordeaux and Calais.’
Hawkwood knew this to be true. He had only a passing knowledge of Bordeaux, but he had seen a second Calais – a town in its own right – spring up virtually overnight to accommodate the English armies garrisoned there.
To him, the task was daunting; to Sir Wilfred, it seemed, it could be accomplished swiftly and effectively.
‘My needs are plain, Sir Wilfred, and I have set them out as best I can. I need earthworks and stone ramparts to the east of the city. I need suitable living quarters for the company. I need kitchens and stabling blocks, storehouses and granaries, latrines, lookout towers. I need direct and unfettered access to the city walls …’
Perry held up a hand, cutting him off in full flow. ‘I know your requirements, sir, and they shall be met. You have my word on that.’
‘I shall hold you to it. And tell me, pray, when will all this be in readiness?’
‘Before the year is out – on that, too, you have my word.’
Hawkwood frowned. Less than six months to build new defences and an entire new town? It was scarcely credible, yet Sir Wilfred’s confidence was reassuring. ‘So be it,’ he said.
He turned to Altobardi, who was clearly taken aback by, if not incredulous at, the nonchalance with which Sir Wilfred had acceded to Hawkwood’s demands.
‘What say you, Gennaro? Can Sir Wilfred achieve in Pisa more than Caesar Augustus achieved in Rome?’
‘I do not understand you, Sir John.’
‘Come, come, Gennaro. You do not know your Suetonius?’
Altobardi still looked puzzled.
‘Caesar Augustus professed to have found Rome brick and left it marble. Is that not true of what we plan for Pisa?’
‘We in Pisa already have the marble, Sir John,’ replied Altobardi with a show of spirit, ‘but it seems we now also have need of brick.’
Hawkwood and Sir Wilfred roared with laughter at the riposte, but Altobardi could muster no more than a grim smile. Altobardi believed Hawkwood’s intentions to be honourable but, in his anxiety to safeguard his beloved Pisa, he had not thought ahead to the prospect of a permanent encampment only a stone’s throw from the city walls.
Altobardi knew in his bones that it was only a matter of time before the Coun
cil of Guilds came to share his misgivings.
Pisa
16 July 1361
Karl Eugen’s reappearance could scarcely have been more untimely. News had come that day from England, and the news was anything but good.
Hawkwood sat at his desk in the Palazzo Gracchi and took stock. For all that his treatment at King Edward’s hands had been harsh and, to his mind, unjustified, he was still an Englishman at heart and, as such, was dismayed to learn that the king’s most recent incursion into France – ostensibly to compel acceptance of a Treaty of London signed more than a year previously – had been signally unsuccessful. Edward had been outraged at France’s repudiation of that treaty’s provisions with regard to the surrender of French territories and at the continuing reluctance of the French citizenry to ransom King Jean, who was still comfortably ensconced in the Savoy Palace in London.
Edward had sailed to Calais and marched on Burgundy, where he had been repelled by the French. He had then retreated north and east and had been constrained to set his signature to a precarious Peace of Brittany, the terms of which appeared to Hawkwood to be less favourable to England than to France. The document provided that Edward renounce his claims to the French throne in exchange for sovereignty over the whole of Aquitaine – a territorial gain, as Hawkwood readily conceded, but one which did not translate into sorely needed revenue. Moreover, Hawkwood believed that the gain would be of only short duration.
That the English exchequer remained depleted was beyond question. Newly-arrived recruits to the company spoke of an England whose economy was in disarray, of great cities like London, York and Bristol decimated by the Black Death and its aftermath. The England they had long taken for granted was now no more, they reported. Bakers’ ovens were cold. Physicians had deserted their vocation or died at their posts. The stench of death and putrefaction was everywhere. Cemeteries and mass grave pits were filled to overflowing. Priests were conspicuous by their absence, many of them having fled the cities and townships to escape the tide of pestilence, many others having already succumbed to it, infected in the course of their futile ministrations on the plague-infested streets or in the close confines of monasteries they had erroneously believed safe.
Peasants who had left the land to find fortune in the cities were dismayed to find they too had miscalculated. The Statute of Labourers, enacted in 1351, was still in force but only sporadically enforced, with the result that prices soared while wages were largely pegged at pre-Plague levels. Those who had the wherewithal took to their heels and sought refuge in the ‘clean’ air of the countryside, only to find pastures and farms deserted, with livestock wandering aimlessly in search of fodder or lying dead in the fields, their bellies bloated and maggot-ridden. Orphaned children drifted disconsolately from one village to the next; brigands and highwaymen roamed the countryside in search of modest pickings.
It was fervently believed that the Black Death had abated somewhat, but sporadic outbreaks of pestilence continued to ravage both cities and countryside. Feudal society was collapsing and, with it, the old order. Serf rebelled against master as the plague took its merciless toll of rich and poor alike.
Hawkwood Manor had also suffered, he was informed. In his absence, ploughing and harvesting had been neglected. Trespass was now the rule rather than the exception as serfs foraged far and wide for food to sustain their families. The social hierarchy was crumbling and self-interest was the rule. In this respect, however, Hawkwood Manor had weathered the storm better than most. The reeve had absconded but had been replaced by Sir John’s father-in-law, who had assumed responsibility for managing the estate. Revenues had remained stable – no mean feat in the circumstances – and the tannery continued to generate a modest profit. Not least, Hawkwood’s stud had been zealously guarded, and remained by and large intact.
The worst news of all was that Margaret had died in childbirth. Hawkwood took some comfort from the fact that his baby daughter – Antiocha – was safely in the care of his mother-in-law.
He was in a quandary, asking himself repeatedly whether or not he should return to England. To do so would mean breaking his contract with Pisa, however, and he concluded he could not in all conscience go back on his word.
Little wonder, then, that John Hawkwood was in a vile humour, a humour compounded by the knowledge that Donnina had announced her intention to honour her father’s wishes and travel to Florence the next day to meet her future husband. Hawkwood’s guilt at their adulterous relationship had intensified on the news of Margaret’s death. Although not a deeply religious man, he was a Christian and he had knowingly transgressed against the Seventh Commandment. For a moment, he even considered the possibility that his wife’s death might be a punishment for his adultery, but he dismissed the thought: after all, he had transgressed in many other ways, too, infringing Commandments as a matter of course by virtue of his chosen profession.
He greeted the peremptory rap on the door with a gruff ‘Enter!’
When he saw who stood on the threshold, a broad smile etched his features.
‘Karl Eugen! By all that’s holy!’
Hawkwood embraced the young man, then held him at arm’s length, looking him over. He noted that Karl Eugen’s face was pale and that his eyes had lost their habitual sparkle.
‘Out with it, man! What became of you?’
‘There is much to be said, Sir John.’
‘That is so, I warrant. Where have you been these many days?’
‘I have been in Florence. And, for some days now, in Pisa.’
Hawkwood’s eyes narrowed. There was something amiss. ‘For some days now? Then why – ?’
Karl Eugen had prepared himself for this encounter, rehearsing what he must say and how he must say it. But his mind suddenly went blank. He hesitated for a moment and then it all came spilling out.
*
As Sir Wilfred Perry entered the corridor leading to Hawkwood’s quarters, he heard a roar akin to that of a beast in agony. Fearing the worst, he broke into a run, unsheathed his sword, and burst into the room. He was unprepared for the scene that confronted him. Blood coursed down Karl Eugen’s face as Hawkwood rained blows upon him. The German reeled from the onslaught but kept his feet and made no move to retaliate.
An uncomprehending Sir Wilfred thrust himself between the two, forcing them apart. Hawkwood’s face was contorted with rage and spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth. Hawkwood reached for the squat dagger in his belt, but Perry clamped a restraining hand over his.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ shouted Sir Wilfred.
‘Meaning?’ bellowed Hawkwood. ‘You ask what meaning? If you wish meaning, ask it of the traitorous dog that stands before you!’
Karl Eugen still had not moved. There were cuts on his face where Hawkwood had struck him. He had taken the blows and he expected worse would follow. But, for once, he had done an honourable thing: he had told the unblemished truth.
Suddenly, the anger drained from Hawkwood. His hand withdrew from his dagger-hilt and his shoulders sagged. He shook his head violently as if to clear it, then sat down heavily in his chair. He muttered something that Sir Wilfred failed to catch.
‘Sir John?’
Hawkwood shook his head. He did not look up, but his voice was steadier now. ‘Remove this vermin from my presence. The stench of treachery is too great for me to bear.’
Sir Wilfred looked at Karl Eugen. The German was in pain and it showed.
‘It is for the best that you leave,’ said Sir Wilfred.
Karl Eugen nodded but remained where he was.
After a moment or so, Hawkwood spoke again, softly this time. ‘Leave! Leave now, I say!’
‘At your orders, Captain-General.’ Karl Eugen saluted, turned on his heel and left the chamber.
Sir Wilfred gazed in bewilderment at Hawkwood, who was slumped in his chair, his head in his hands, his grief palpable. What had transpired between the two men? Sir Wilfred elected not to ask. All in good time,
he thought.
Eventually, Hawkwood looked up. ‘He was like a son to me.’
Perry nodded. He waited. There would be more.
‘Like a son, I tell you,’ repeated Hawkwood. He cleared his throat. ‘And he betrayed me as no son should betray a father.’
‘I do not understand, Sir John.’
‘Then understand you shall. It is a tale of such deceit and double-dealing as no man of honour may countenance or condone.’
Hawkwood spoke for close on half an hour. Of Karl Eugen’s recruitment by the Florentines, his feigned rescue of Hawkwood in Arles, his subsequent dealings with Boninsegna, his imprisonment in Florence and his escape. And of Karl Eugen’s reluctance to confront Hawkwood and confess all.
‘But confront you he did,’ Sir Wilfred pointed out, ‘and he confessed all, freely and openly. To my mind, that speaks to his honesty – and to his courage.’
‘Honesty, you say? Courage? Would that were true! He wormed his way into my confidence and into my affection. Then he betrayed me.’
‘You are wrong, Sir John. He told the Florentines nothing their spies had not already reported.’
‘He betrayed me. For money.’
Perry raised an eyebrow. ‘He did no more than you yourself have done. He accepted a condotta – a contract – in good faith, as you yourself have concluded here in Pisa. He had no knowledge of you when he entered the service of Florence. He is a condottiere, as you are. He broke faith, certainly, but if with anyone then with the Florentines. You are wrong in this matter, Sir John. You do him an injustice.’
*
Karl Eugen vowed he would not leave Pisa until Hawkwood formally released him from all further obligation. The penalty for betrayal was death: if that was to be his fate, he would accept it.
He was in the stables, grooming his horse, when Hawkwood sought him out. ‘It is your intention to leave the Company?’ asked Hawkwood.
‘I await your command, sir.’
‘I wish you to remain. There is much to discuss.’
He held out his hand. Karl Eugen stared incredulously for a moment, then clasped it.
Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 11