Árpád Károly knew instinctively he had reached a crossroads. The men under his command were a motley rabble – Magyars mostly, but with a large contingent of Germans and a sprinkling of disaffected Frenchies. Cutthroats and cowards to a man, but nonetheless a force to be reckoned with. They had ranged north and west as far as the outskirts of Avignon, then turned east and south again, seeking out isolated villages and townships in north-eastern Italy, pillaging as they went. Thus far, Károly had succeeded in imposing and maintaining some semblance of discipline, but time was running out. The men remained together only because there was safety in numbers, but shortage of food and scarcity of plunder had sapped morale. It was only a matter of time before they broke ranks and went their separate ways.
Károly was honest enough to accept much of the blame. His judgment had been flawed. He saw that now. He had the numbers – close on two thousand – to attack larger towns, but he had consistently chosen the easier option. It was time to review his strategy.
Time to hunt for bigger game.
Károly needed no reminding that he was a Magyar, the descendant of a warrior race which had terrorised whole regions of Europe and Asia Minor ever since the ninth century. It shamed him that he had been reduced to this, torching defenceless towns and scrambling for scraps of sustenance.
The immediate task was to keep his force intact until his Catalan reinforcements arrived, at which point he could cast around for a more ambitious and more affluent target. Avignon? No, not Avignon: it offered rich pickings, certainly, but the papal defences were well organised and the risks correspondingly high.
To the south-east, however, lay one of the most inviting targets of all: Florence, a city of enormous wealth, defended – if rumours were to be credited – by a craven army which had turned tail and fled at the merest hint of battle; an army which had given up without a fight when confronted by an untried English condottiere called Hawkwood.
Pisa
22 November 1361
Hawkwood bathed, shaved and put on a crisp blouson and breeches. He left his quarters in the Palazzo Gracchi in good time for that morning’s meeting of the Council of Guilds.
He relished the prospect. To date, he had been content to attend council meetings as little more than an observer, responding only to specific questions asked of him. Today would be different. Today, he at last had something of his own to say.
At previous meetings he had sensed growing opposition among certain members to the changes being imposed on Pisa. Now that Pisa Nuova was nearing completion, he hoped the Council would understand that he had acted in his employer’s best interests and would endorse his long-term plans for Pisa’s defence. In this, he knew he could count on the support of Tommaso Gracchi and Gennaro Altobardi, and also, to some degree, on that of Pisa’s senior magistrate, Giacomo Albertosi. Massimo Mastrodonato continued to oppose him at almost every turn, however, and there were others who might best be described as being in two minds.
In the course of discussions with Altobardi, Hawkwood had come to realise that his standing with the Council was precarious on two counts. First, the council was still unnerved by the very notion of a foreign condottiere who might desert them or, worse, turn against them at any moment; and second, by the fact Hawkwood and his White Company were proving a constant drain on the city’s resources.
There were other minor concerns, including the issue of the Company’s day-to-day conduct. There had been incidents – mercifully, none particularly serious – when men had breached Pisa’s hospitality. In the main, these incidents were attributable to alcohol-fuelled excess or to the men’s less than subtle approaches to Pisan women. Hawkwood had resolved that particular problem by declaring Pisa Vecchia off limits to the Company except in specific circumstances and subject to his written orders. He had also ensured that Pisa Nuova included an ample number of whorehouses. To his amusement, those places now offered services provided not only by the Company’s contingent of female camp-followers but also (and increasingly) by young and not-so-young Pisan women who, he could only assume, were not among those the Council deemed to be in need of protection from his men’s uncouth advances.
The most pressing issue of all was that of morale. Almost the entire Company had been conscripted into service as minutii – labourers or semi-skilled workers – to help in the construction of Pisa Nuova. This had provided an outlet and a distraction for a time, but they were professional fighting men whose allegiance to him was conditional upon their being allowed to do what they did best. The initial confrontation with the Florentines had been bloodless – and, more importantly, booty-less – and there appeared to be no immediate prospect of action. The men were restless and spoiling for battle.
There was urgent need of a new enemy.
Hawkwood entered the Council Chamber and acknowledged the guildsmen’s perfunctory greetings. They took their seats and Tommaso Gracchi called the meeting to order. Hawkwood waited patiently, knowing that one or other of those around the table would provide him with the opening he needed.
It came sooner than he had expected.
Massimo Mastrodonato – who else? – formally entered a motion that payments to the Company and its condottiere be reviewed, bearing in mind that those payments were proving an onerous financial burden on the municipal exchequer.
Before the motion could be seconded and passed to a vote, Hawkwood claimed the floor. ‘The annuities that accrue to the Company and to myself are as contractually agreed and set out in the condotta,’ he said, ‘and the condotta is invalidated if its terms are altered or broken.’
‘Continue,’ said Gracchi.
‘It is to my mind in the best interest of both parties that the condotta be honoured both in letter and in spirit,’ Hawkwood went on. ‘Accordingly, I propose not that the terms of the contract be reviewed, but that the condotta itself be seen in a different light and amended accordingly.’
Mastrodonato made to protest but was forestalled by senior magistrate Giacomo Albertosi. ‘There is some merit in that.’
Not to be outdone, Mastrodonato intervened. ‘Am I to understand that you – a hireling and a straniero – have the impertinence to suggest that our laws and customs be amended in your favour?’ he spluttered.
‘As a hireling and foreigner in your midst, I suggest only that the financial burden on my employer could most readily be alleviated should this council review the condotta with an open mind.’
Albertosi leant forward. ‘We are listening.’
‘I apologise for my inadequate command of your language,’ said Hawkwood, ‘and ask that Consigliere Altobardi intervene as necessary as my interpreter.’
Altobardi nodded his agreement.
‘What I propose is this,’ continued Hawkwood. ‘That I and my White Company continue in loyal service to Pisa under the terms and provisions of the original contract. We shall honour those terms until such time as the condotta is deemed by both signatories to be irrevocably at an end. In other words, we shall serve Pisa for a predetermined period to accomplish a predetermined task or tasks in exchange for a predetermined payment.’
He paused to allow them time to take in what he had said.
Albertosi looked puzzled. ‘But, Condottiere Hawkwood, those provisions are already enshrined in the existing contract – the locatio operarum et rei convened between our two parties.’
‘That is so,’ replied Hawkwood. ‘But the terms of the contract do not preclude Pisa from hiring out my services to a third party.’
Mastrodonato could contain himself no longer. ‘It is as I feared all along,’ he expostulated. ‘Our noble condottiere seeks to feather his own nest.’
Hawkwood smiled. ‘On the contrary, what I propose is that Pisa feather its own nest. I and my company are pledged to serve Pisa and we shall honour that pledge – on that you have my most solemn word. But, I ask you, is it not to the advantage of Pisa that our annuities be paid by another?’
Gracchi intervened. ‘Explain, if you
will, how this can be accomplished?’
‘Quite simply,’ replied Hawkwood. ‘By selling our services to a third party for a sum equivalent to or greater than that which Pisa currently disburses on our behalf.’
There was silence around the table.
‘It would be for this council to negotiate an agreement between Pisa and a third party,’ continued Hawkwood, ‘and to specify the number of men put at the third party’s disposal for a specified or extended term …’
‘Ferma o di rispetto,’ whispered Altobardi.
‘Whereby the city state of Pisa would be the employer …’
‘Datore’
‘… and all revenues with respect to my services would accrue to Pisa.’
There was silence.
Hawkwood looked around at the key members of the Council. Predictably, Massimo Mastrodonato was apoplectic, but Gracchi, Albertosi and Altobardi were clearly intrigued by his proposal. He got to his feet.
‘This is a matter of considerable import and one that should be resolved by this council in closed session,’ he said. ‘Gentlemen, I await your response and reassure you of my most honourable intentions.’
He looked at each guildsman in turn, bowed slightly and left the chamber, withdrawing to an anteroom to await their response.
To his surprise, their deliberations lasted less than half an hour. As he re-entered the room he sensed immediately that he enjoyed their respect and, quite possibly, their trust.
‘We have reviewed your proposal,’ said Tommaso Gracchi, ‘and we consider it has much to commend it. In principle, that is. What we are anxious to discover is how you believe it should be implemented in practice.’
‘In practice?’ said Hawkwood.
‘Indeed,’ said Gracchi. ‘To which third party do you propose we hire out your services?’
‘To Florence, of course,’ replied Hawkwood.
Artimino, west of Florence
22 December 1361
Károly’s advance guard crested the rise and stopped in its tracks. Arrayed in tight battle formation on the hill opposite was a small but compact force of pikemen and mounted knights whose light armour glinted in a pallid winter sun.
Károly immediately surmised that the Florentines had guessed his intentions and had interposed this token force between him and the city gates. At a rough estimate, the Florentines numbered scarcely one thousand, of which no more than fifty or so were mounted cavalry.
They must be mad, thought Károly. His own force alone was twice that number and he could now count on the six hundred or so seasoned Gascons and Catalans who had joined him some ten days previously. He shaded his eyes and surveyed the terrain between the two armies. The ground was a touch soft, certainly, but by no means impassable.
Jean de Grailly, more commonly known as Captal de Buch, reined in alongside him. De Buch, whose small cavalry troop had fought on the English side at the battle of Poitiers, had never been one to throw caution to the winds. ‘I warrant these are not the most Florence can muster,’ he said, scanning the woodland to the left for tell-tale signs of ambush. ‘Their main force may lie beyond that rise.’
Károly did not share these misgivings. ‘They stand in our path and block our way to Florence,’ he countered. ‘I say we attack now!’
On the hill opposite, Hawkwood and Karl Eugen von Strachwitz watched their adversaries form battle ranks and advance.
‘It is as you predicted, Sir John. They fully intend to attack.’
Károly’s force reached the low ground and came on confidently and at a measured pace, footsoldiers to the fore, closely followed by Károly’s cavalry, with Captal de Buch’s regiment of horse bringing up the rear.
At a signal from Hawkwood, his pikemen fell back several paces. Encouraged, the attacking footsoldiers broke into a half-run. The pikemen broke ranks and retreated up the hill, spreading out left and right; Hawkwood and his mounted knights did likewise. With a roar, Károly’s men pounded up the incline, confident now that the Florentines were on the run.
From his vantage point high on the hill, Hawkwood adjudged the enemy to be little more than a hundred and fifty paces distant. He raised his broadsword and swept it slowly right to left, then back again. Llewellyn and Griffiths were positioned on the brow of the hill; they saw and relayed Hawkwood’s signal. The longbowmen angled their bows and fired blind from beyond the crest of the hill. Skein after skein of arrows hissed high and fell relentlessly on the attacking footsoldiers, shredding their ranks. Their advance checked, they turned to flee, only to find their retreat impeded by Károly’s cavalry, which had kept close order.
Hawkwood held his sword high above his head. Two units of horse exploded out of their woodland cover, cutting off Károly’s retreat. The longbowmen discarded their bows, drew their stubby swords and raced over and down the hill. The pikemen did likewise, ploughing into Károly’s flanks.
Károly waited in vain for Captal de Buch to join the fray, but the Gascon gave his men no such order. He had observed the simple-mindedness of Károly’s tactics. What is more, he had seen enough to know these were no Florentines. Those arrows had been launched from English longbows, of that he was certain. Their signature was as readily identified as the figure who now charged down the hill at the head of his cavalry.
John Hawkwood.
Árpád Károly was no coward. He urged his destrier forward, trampling his own men and those of the enemy as he drove straight for the adversary who had outthought and outfought him in the field. Hawkwood saw his intention and steadied himself for the inevitable clash of man and horse.
At the last moment, Karl Eugen spurred his mount in front of Hawkwood and across him. His sword-hand described a graceful arc, neatly severing Károly’s head from his body. Hawkwood was conscious only of the spray of crimson blood and the bizarre sight of a headless Károly thundering past him and disappearing over the hill behind.
Captal de Buch had seen enough. He stood his cavalry down and waited for the slaughter to end. He would pay his compliments to Sir John and be on his way.
Hawkwood had already dismounted when Karl Eugen rode up, grinning from ear to ear. Together, they watched the Company gleefully searching for booty. Some would come away empty-handed, but no matter: they had reasserted themselves as a fighting force and regained their pride and self-respect.
At his own insistence, Hawkwood had not been present at the protracted and at times vituperative negotiations conducted between Pisa and Florence in the small town of Vinci in the early days of December 1361. Nor did he know the precise terms of the agreement hammered out between erstwhile arch-enemies Tommaso Gracchi and Giancarlo Boninsegna. What he did know was that he, John Hawkwood – Giovanni Acuto – had carried the day.
For Florence and for Pisa.
Cascina
Where men are as so many cattle: herded, captured, killed in battle
Cascina
20 July 1364
Hawkwood was proud that his White Company was now known and feared throughout the length and breadth of Northern Italy as the Compagnia Bianca. For some three years now, he had led his company on successful forays against all who posed a threat to Pisa, committing his force to sporadic skirmishes and full-fledged engagements and invariably carrying all before him.
The Compagnia Bianca had developed into a compact force of over three thousand fighting men divided into three battle groups which served in rotation, one assigned to the immediate defence of Pisa, the second held in reserve, and the third active in the field. The defensive unit was deployed behind the imposing fortifications of Pisa Nuova; the reserves were held behind the lines in semi-permanent readiness; and the offensive unit was a highly mobile force which moved on horseback but usually fought on foot.
Saddles had been lowered and stirrups shortened to ensure greater comfort and manoeuvrability, and the traditional arco longo had been modified to produce a longbow which was substantially more effective at close quarters. Meanwhile, the Company’s oiled an
d burnished lightweight armour had become its distinctive feature, a unifying element recalling the silver shields – the argyraspides – favoured by Alexander the Great.
Today, however, for the first time in a long and illustrious career, John Hawkwood had tasted the acrid potion of defeat. His White Company had been bested that afternoon on an undulating plain outside Cascina in the Province of Pisa. Worse, it had been bested by a Florentine force under the command of a captain-general named Galeotto Malatesta, reinforced by troops led by Genoa’s Count Grimaldi and a redoubtable squadron of Genoese crossbowmen.
Hawkwood roundly cursed his own folly in assuming that the brittle truce negotiated between Pisa and Florence would hold indefinitely and still Florence’s ambition to subdue Pisa. That ambition had not been removed by Pisa’s installation of Hawkwood and his Company, but merely held in abeyance.
For a time, the Florentines had acquiesced in the arrangement under which Hawkwood and his Company were occasionally retained to serve in their defence, but the truce with Pisa had lasted only until such time as Florence again had enough troops to fend for itself. At that juncture, Hawkwood’s occasional secondment to Florence had become an irrelevance.
He also cursed his own arrogance in assuming that his tactics in the field would enjoy uniform and sustained success. As a rule, the White Company fought defensively and in the open. Once a suitable defensive position had been established – typically on an upslope – his men-at-arms dismounted and sent their horses to the rear. Fifteen-foot stakes were driven into the ground and each of these so-called ‘lances’ secured by two men. Some way behind, the longbowmen took up position, ready to expedite their murderous hail of arrows against an opposing cavalry as it attacked uphill.
Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 13