Condottiere: A Knight's Tale

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Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 12

by Edward John Crockett


  ‘I fear I have wronged you,’ said Hawkwood.

  ‘No more than I have wronged you, Captain-General.’

  ‘Then let that be an end to it.’

  Hawkwood pulled Karl Eugen close, and the two men stood locked in each other’s embrace. After a few moments Hawkwood disengaged himself. ‘There is much work to be done,’ he said. ‘I need – I need a son by my side.’

  Karl Eugen felt the salt sting of tears. ‘I left your side once, Sir John. I give you my solemn oath I shall never do so again.’

  ‘Your hand will suffice,’ said Hawkwood, turning abruptly away.

  Pisa

  17 July 1360

  Donnina Visconti rose at dawn. Her legs ached and her mons Veneris felt bruised and tender. The sensation was not unpleasant.

  She had slipped from Hawkwood’s bed as the first rays of sun flooded the bedchamber, while he lay there still, sleeping off the exertions of the night. By Christus, she thought, he is a fine man. Her eyes caressed his powerful frame, taking in the corded muscle and tracing the countless scars that etched his arms and shoulders.

  He is mine now, she thought.

  She found it well-nigh incredible that they had met a scant two weeks previously and had been lovers for no more than a week. She had been attracted to him from the first. He had almost everything she wanted in a man, not least the sexual aura that inevitably comes with power. When Hawkwood moved among his White Company, she admired his easy manner as he greeted many by their first names, offering words of advice and encouragement. The men responded to him with equal ease – coarse, cynical, battle-hardened veterans and fresh-faced, unseasoned youths alike, each and every one devoted to his captain-general. She had seen the pride he took in those nearest to him – Perry, Altobardi, the colossus Llewellyn, the diminutive Griffiths – and had seen tears in his eyes when he spoke of his reconciliation with Karl Eugen von Strachwitz. She had been touched by his grief on hearing of his wife’s death.

  There was more.

  To Donnina’s initial astonishment, Hawkwood had gradually revealed his considerable erudition. True, he was sadly unversed in the fine arts, but he spoke excellent French and was fluent in Latin and Greek and – although she had not conceded as much to him – spoke more than acceptable Italian. His knowledge of history was as broad as his taste in literature was eclectic, and his way with horses was nothing short of extraordinary. He had his faults, of course – not least a distinct lack of finesse in the bedchamber – but those were rough edges she could smooth and soften over time.

  That she was on the point of leaving for Florence to wed a man of whom she had little knowledge and for whom she could understandably muster no affection did not trouble her unduly. That was the way of the world. It was a political union, nothing more.

  Hawkwood bitterly resented her impending departure and she had delighted in his repeated attempts to dissuade her. It was her father’s wish, however, and that wish must be respected, irrespective of her own misgivings and her distinct lack of enthusiasm for the match.

  Donnina and Hawkwood had said their farewells the previous night and she was anxious to leave before he woke. There was little more to be said and Hawkwood’s sense of decorum and propriety would in any event preclude more than a few perfunctory parting words in public. That, she reasoned, would only cause both of them more unwanted discomfiture and grief.

  Servants drew her bath and she luxuriated in its warmth, feeling the ache in her legs gradually ebb. She dressed and went downstairs to where her carriage and escort were waiting. She got in and settled herself for what would be a tiresome journey.

  On the seat opposite lay a small blue velvet bag fastened with a gold silk cord. She opened it to find a cylindrical ivory ornament virtually identical to the one she had admired on the night she and Hawkwood had first met. She turned it over in her hands, inspecting the exquisite carving and the Arabic inscription. There could be no doubt: this was no copy, it was Hawkwood’s ‘small box’, his puxidion, the precious talismano given to him by the Black Prince. Given – how had he phrased it? – as a charm to ward off evil and ensure good fortune and good health.

  There was a piece of parchment in the velvet bag. She carefully unfolded it.

  ‘Per sempre.’

  Always.

  Donnina Visconti was not given to tears, but she found herself sobbing uncontrollably. She craned her head out of the carriage window and looked back at the Palazzo Gracchi and the window of Hawkwood’s bedchamber. She could not be certain, but she thought she saw him standing there.

  The carriage turned a corner and the Palazzo Gracchi disappeared from view.

  *

  Hawkwood stood at the window and watched the carriage leave. There was a lump in his throat.

  She is mine, he reassured himself.

  Not now perhaps. But one day soon.

  Pisa Nuova

  Where stood the sovereign mansion of King Mars

  Pisa

  18 November 1361

  Hawkwood watched and admired as a second Pisa took shape.

  To the south, where the River Arno already formed a natural barrier against any invading force, little had been done other than heighten the parapet walls by the simple expedient of affixing covered wooden galleries and hoardings – brattices – to create allures, wall-walkways which afforded lookouts and sentries a secure yet commanding view of the wetlands beyond the Arno. To the north of the city, however, the outer defensive walls had been heavily reinforced and gradually integrated into a chain of fortified towers extending fully sixteen hundred paces from Pisa’s erstwhile limits before looping westwards towards the sea.

  Sir Wilfred Perry was in his element. Building a walled city almost from scratch was no mean undertaking, but he had direct experience of the logistics involved. Besides, he had admired, and learnt from, the many fortifications masterminded by Maître Jacques de Saint-George, the Savoyard mason and architect whose fortress design at St-George d’Esperanche had been the model for a succession of fortified towns and castles commissioned by Edward I to secure the inland and coastal defences in Wales. It was Master James, as he had become known at the English court, who had extended the Norman castle of Beaumaris built on drained marshland at the north-eastern end of the Menai Strait on the Isle of Anglesey. And the same Master James had elaborated the concentric walls-within-walls concept that had revolutionised castle-building towards the end of the previous century.

  Hawkwood was careful to mask his disappointment during the early weeks of the project, when Sir Wilfred’s own ‘castle’ was little more than an earthwork mound surrounded by a wide ditch. But that disappointment soon gave way to unqualified approval as encircling walls emerged and inner wards – baileys – took shape. The fossatori excavated the land beyond the enceinte outer wall to create deep and imposing moats; and cementarii added barbicans and other advance fortifications, then interpolated bastions, towers and turrets.

  Hawkwood marvelled at the skill of the stonecutters and layers as they fashioned notched crenels and saw-tooth merlons, narrow meurtrière arrow loops, drum towers, bartizans, and embrasures and machicolations which would prove invaluable in repelling besiegers.

  What impressed Hawkwood most was how quickly all this was accomplished. Sir Wilfred modestly shrugged off any suggestion that he had worked a miracle, pointing out that he had access to a very large pool of unskilled and semi-skilled labour in the guise of the White Company, together with a complement of skilled artisans from Pisa itself. The new Pisa – Pisa Nuova – would be readied more or less on time, he insisted.

  It was not a thing of great beauty: much still remained to be done in terms of providing gatehouses, drawbridges, cross-walls, arcades and screens and, not least, outfitting the all-important magna turris, the so-called donjon or tower keep. Projecting corbel stone brackets and putlog holes had to be cut to take beams, loopholes had to be added to provide light and air, ashlar facings of smooth, square-hewn stone had to be cemented in
to place to revet and reinforce the walls, and ornamental finials had to be applied to decorate roofs, pediments, gables and towers. Then – and only then – would the new fortifications seem a natural extension of Pisa’s existing defences rather than a squat and ugly adjunct to a beautiful city.

  At present, the contrast between the raw, ungainly new fortifications and the pristine filigree architecture of Pisa was both striking and disturbing. Hawkwood was fully aware of this – and aware also of the fact that certain members of the Council of Guilds were even more conscious of the disparity between Pisa Vecchia and his Pisa Nuova. They respected Hawkwood’s judgment and Sir Wilfred’s experience and skill, but they were in two minds as regards what was happening to their beloved city.

  Soon after his arrival, Hawkwood had been voted into membership of the Council of Guilds in his capacity as the ‘saviour’ of the city. On the face of it, the gesture was both appropriate and well-deserved, but he appreciated it for what it really was: a means by which his intentions could be monitored and his actions subjected to strict supervision. All well and good, he had concluded, since membership also afforded him an opportunity to keep a finger on the pulse of the Council and gauge its collective response to his actions.

  In this, he was mindful of Gennaro Altobardi’s admonition on hearing of Hawkwood’s plans for the city’s continued defence: We in Pisa already have the marble, Sir John, but it seems we now also have need of brick.

  At the time, Hawkwood had found the remark merely amusing. It appeared, however, that the prospect of a permanent encampment as an extension of the city walls did not sit well with the Council.

  Hawkwood solicited Gennaro Altobardi’s advice.

  Altobardi was hesitant at first and altogether far too deferential. The young Italian listened patiently as Hawkwood waxed lyrical on the role mercenary armies had played throughout history.

  ‘Had it not been for mercenaries,’ Hawkwood insisted, ‘there would have been no spread of Hellenistic civilisation after the death of Alexander the Great. And what of the so-called ‘Roman’ legions? Need I remind you that they were drawn in the main from mercenaries recruited from within the conquered territories and paid to serve under the Eagle?’

  Altobardi nodded.

  ‘And would Carthage have ever dared challenge Rome in the absence of a powerful mercenary force?’

  Altobardi shrugged. Hawkwood was warming to his subject now, he thought.

  ‘There were Turkish hirelings in the service of the T’ang dynasty in China – that was in the eighth century. And then there were the Rajputs, the warriors who held sway in central and northern India in the ninth and tenth centuries – ’

  ‘I know little of them,’ said Altobardi.

  Undeterred, Hawkwood droned on about Flemish mercenaries who had served England’s King Stephen in the twelfth century in his protracted battle against the Plantagenets. And about Henry II, the Plantagenet king: where would he have been, asked Hawkwood, without mercenaries to put down successive challenges to his throne?

  Altobardi was left in no doubt that Hawkwood was both knowledgeable about and manifestly proud of his chosen profession. But Altobardi cared little about Turks and warrior kings and Plantagenets. For him, the salient fact was that mercenaries were rarely citizens of the states on whose behalf they fought. They were hirelings, paid specialists in the art of warfare. Such hirelings had been in Italy since the beginning of the century – and had not always been welcome. On this point, Hawkwood found Altobardi anything but deferential.

  ‘The city states have long since considered war a vital element in the development of commerce and in ensuring prosperity,’ put in Altobardi, tiring of Hawkwood’s history lesson. ‘They are prepared to conduct war and finance war, but they themselves have lost the taste for waging it. They prefer to hire others to serve on their behalf. They see war as a continuation of commerce, but they scorn brute force and consider it a mark of the uncivilised.’

  If Hawkwood took offence at the implications of Altobardi’s remark he showed little sign. What interested him was the use of foreign mercenaries. ‘Is it considered unworthy, then, to take up arms on behalf of one’s own country?’

  ‘Unworthy, no,’ replied Altobardi, ‘but unnecessary, given the circumstances.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Which are that Italy’s city states – Venice, Milan, Florence, the Papal States, Pisa and others – generally have the financial resources to purchase an army rather than serve in one. In Florence, for example, bearing arms is required of every citizen whose annual income exceeds a specified level, but any man is free to nominate and pay someone to serve in his stead.’

  ‘Then, pray, why not retain Italians?’

  ‘There is grave danger in that.’

  ‘Danger? In what way, danger?’

  ‘Allegiances are fragile and fluid. They can be swayed by political considerations and personal sentiment. Loyalties are never permanent.’

  It was Hawkwood’s turn to nod. ‘But this must also hold true of foreign mercenaries?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Altobardi, suddenly unwilling to meet Hawkwood’s gaze. ‘There have been troubling moments.’

  ‘Continue.’

  ‘In Florence, not so very long ago – in 1342 – Gauthier, Count of Brienne was retained to restore civil order. He held the city to ransom and bled it dry.’

  Hawkwood could scarcely believe his ears. ‘Gauthier de Brienne was once in the pay of Florence?’

  It was Altobardi’s turn to be surprised. ‘You had no knowledge of this?’

  ‘None,’ replied Hawkwood. ‘You made no mention of this.’

  ‘But it was learning of his death at your hands that persuaded Pisa to recruit you.’

  Hawkwood suppressed a smile at the irony of the situation. Had the Council of Guilds known of his despairing efforts to keep Brienne alive after Poitiers, they might have been less willing to hire him.

  ‘There have been other difficult moments,’ continued Altobardi. ‘Germans spread terror in central Italy in 1334, and they stripped the region bare. In 1339, other German mercenaries – Söldner, they called themselves – carried the banner of St George and fought for Lodrizio Visconti.’ The words were tumbling out now. ‘We have seen it again and again. In 1342, another German, Werner von Urslingen, declared himself an enemy of God, piety and pity. Then there was Montreal d’Albarno—’

  ‘An Italian, at last?’

  ‘No, a bastardo from Provence at the head of a rabble of drunken Frenchmen, Magyars and Germans. But he was captured and beheaded – in Rome, as I recall. And then—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Hawkwood.

  Altobardi paused, his face flushed. ‘There is more,’ he said. ‘Much more.’

  ‘Of that I am now certain,’ replied Hawkwood with a grim smile.

  He had heard enough to realise that, in terms of role and status, a condottiere was someone to be respected and feared rather than admired and liked. If Altobardi – whose loyalty to Hawkwood had thus far proved unswerving – felt this way, what of the other Council members? How long would it be before they turned on the ‘saviour’ of Pisa?

  The thought troubled him more than he cared to admit.

  Alarms and Excursions

  Crawling for ransack ’midst the piles of slain and

  stripping accoutrements for gain

  Borgo San Donnino, west of Parma

  22 November 1361

  ‘Burn it!’

  Árpád Károly was in the foulest of foul moods. His men had swept into Borgo San Donnino at dawn, surging through the narrow streets of the township and scything down men, women and children alike. They had dismounted in the piazza and stormed into the cathedral church, confident there was booty to be had. But the pickings had been lean, just as they had been some days earlier in Fontanellato. And elsewhere before that.

  Somehow, the townspeople had got wind of their imminent arrival. Many had fled, but not before they had carefully hidden
what meagre possessions they could not take with them. Except for a couple of tattered wall-hangings, the building was stripped of ornament. The modest houses were empty save for a few sticks of furniture.

  His men were angry and Károly could scarcely blame them. They had taken their anger out on what was left of the populace of San Donnino, torturing the men and raping any female they could lay their hands on, irrespective of age. They had foraged for food and uncovered next to none. The livestock had been spirited away and there was only the occasional scrawny chicken to be had. Quarrels broke out over a woollen blanket, a discarded pair of boots or a rough peasant smock. One man proved more fortunate than most and laid hands on a tiny silver crucifix, another stumbled on a modest cache of low-denomination coins. But looting was short-lived: there was nothing of real value to be had. The men vented their spleen on the survivors, killing some outright and playfully roasting alive others less fortunate.

  Károly watched his men pile bales of straw against the high altar. A torch was lit and, in seconds, the church was ablaze, the dry wood of the choirstalls fuelling the flames that tongued up the off-white walls and fanned across the wooden beams. A priest lay face down on the flagstone floor, his head split open and leaking blood which rapidly congealed and darkened in the heat.

  Károly turned away. He crossed the square and entered the two-storey building he had chosen as his temporary command post. In one corner of the downstairs room a woman lay motionless, her legs splayed and bruised, her eyes staring uncomprehendingly at the ceiling. Next to her was a young girl, no more than ten or eleven years old. She was curled into a tight ball; she whimpered incessantly.

  Károly crossed the room and kicked the woman twice, then once again for good measure. She continued to stare at the ceiling. He drew a dagger and ran it across her throat, stepping back sharply as the blood spurted. She tried to cry out but emitted only a low gurgling.

  Her body convulsed, then lay still.

  He turned to the girl. He had taken her twice already. The mother had been accommodating – no doubt in the vain hope he would spare her daughter – but the girl was more to his taste. The dagger flashed again in his hand, but he checked himself. Perhaps he should let the girl live? Her dark eyes and olive complexion reminded him of his young sister. Besides, he told himself, he was not entirely without feeling.

 

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