Condottiere: A Knight's Tale

by Edward John Crockett

  Between the ‘lances’ and the longbows, other men-at-arms – the ‘blades’ – would wait in readiness, venturing forward only as and when the armour-piercing shafts of the longbowmen had successfully blunted the first attacking wave and brought down substantial numbers of men and horses. The ‘blades’ then worked swiftly and without mercy, driving their short swords into the interstices in the fallen knights’ armour, gouging eyes and slitting throats before retreating to security behind the wall of ‘lances’ until a fresh wave of enemy footsoldiers finally laboured up the incline – only to be met by yet another deadly shoal of arrows.

  Hawkwood usually held in reserve a small contingent of cavalry, ready to swoop in and mop up the remnants of the opposition force when the moment was opportune.

  Over the years, these tactics had served Hawkwood well.

  Until today in Cascina.

  *

  Hawkwood arrived that morning from his encampment near the Abbey of San Savina, some five miles distant, but waited until early afternoon, when the enemy would be staring into the glare of a summer sun and subjected to a dust-storm blowing from the west across the Pisan plain.

  The White Company abandoned its customary tactics and moved aggressively on the Florentines and Genoese entrenched in Cascina. Hawkwood was largely unconcerned that his force was substantially outnumbered, but he moved cautiously, ordering three probing attacks in a bid to entice the Florentines and Genoese out from behind their defences and lure them into attacking his typical – and, as he soon realised, predictable – defensive/offensive battle formation.

  This time, the tactic did not work. The Florentines and Genoese held station, refusing to be enticed into open-field confrontation. Frustrated, the White Company moved forward again, its eagerness for battle fuelled by the expectation of rich booty and the juicy prospect of ransom monies to be had from the capture of what they assumed to be the cream of young Florentine and Genoese nobility. To Hawkwood’s alarm, they had taken the enemy’s reluctance to venture out as an indication that the Florentines and Genoese had no stomach for a pitched battle.

  The Company’s impetuous and ill-advised frontal assault breached the enemy defences with suspicious ease, and it seemed for a moment that it would once again rout a significantly superior force.

  But Grimaldi’s crossbowmen, secreted in safe positions at the windows of houses on the outskirts of the town, were primed to unleash a withering crossfire. The Company’s ranks quickly thinned as a number were killed outright and many others wounded, some seriously. Their repeated attempts to withdraw were frustrated by a large force of Florentine cavalry which swept left and right to outflank them and pen them in a pincer movement that left no option other than to fight to the death or to surrender.

  Hawkwood, Karl Eugen von Strachwitz and a handful of cavalry had no choice other than to charge into Cascina in a bid to support their over-eager footsoldiers. They were soon surrounded. For a time, they held their own against the Florentines who came at them from all sides, but Hawkwood knew only too well that the longer the battle was joined the greater would be the number of his Company slaughtered.

  He reluctantly yielded and lowered his sword, signalling that the battle was over. All around him, his men laid down their arms. Some lay dead, others were dying, others still waited in vain for treatment. They were disarmed, and their armour and precious longbows confiscated.

  A number of the wounded, some all but naked, were allowed to return in ignominy to Pisa. Hawkwood and his officers, among them Karl Eugen, were marched in triumph to Florence, together with several hundred of the dejected White Company, who now faced the dismal prospect of years of captivity and forced labour.

  Meanwhile, a large detachment of Florentines had marched on Pisa, where they paraded in front of the city walls, bared their backsides in a gesture of contempt, and hurled abuse at the defenders before returning, honour satisfied, to Florence.

  Hawkwood had long dreamt of entering Florence, albeit as a general at the head of a victorious army rather than as a captive soldier of fortune. He had never seen the inner city, and he was wholly unprepared for its unabashed splendour. He could readily understand why it was known as Florentia, the Flourishing City. Given their present circumstances, however, he found he could not share Karl Eugen’s enthusiasm for its Etruscan ramparts, magnificent palaces and castelli, Roman baths, amphitheatres, bustling markets and imposing banking houses. Nor did he share Karl Eugen’s undisguised admiration for the partially completed Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, for Giotto’s campanile or for the church of Santa Margerhita de’ Cerchi, where the exiled and discredited poet Dante Alighieri was believed to have caught a first fleeting glimpse of his muse, Beatrice Portinari.

  Understandably, Hawkwood had too many other things on his mind.

  They were conveyed through the city streets to the Piazza dei Priori, whose slender square tower – the Palazzo dei Priori – had succeeded the Bargello palace fortress as the seat of Florentine government. Jeers and insults rang out as Hawkwood and the others descended from the ox-drawn carts, but the city fathers greeted them politely enough as they were ushered into the main council chamber. Chivalric custom decreed that they be formally regarded as ‘guests’ rather than prisoners. They were accorded every courtesy and afforded every honour due to their rank and reputation.

  But prisoners they undoubtedly were.

  Arrogance, cupidity and lack of discipline had been their undoing. Hawkwood saw that now. He could not be certain what effect the shameful defeat at Cascina might have on his Company and, not least, on his own standing. Although Pisa could by no stretch of the imagination be regarded as easy prey for Florence and its allies, the disastrous events of the day would in all likelihood undermine Hawkwood’s credibility as Pisa’s condottiere. In that respect, Galeotto Malatesta’s decision to take them prisoner rather than kill them came as no surprise: their capture dealt a body blow to Pisa and boosted Florentine morale.

  It remained only to be seen what the Florentine city fathers had in store for them.

  *

  Giancarlo Boninsegna bowed ever so slightly. Hawkwood returned the salutation but said nothing. Boninsegna glanced briefly at Karl Eugen and smiled a thin-lipped smile of satisfaction.

  ‘It is an honour to meet one’s adversaries and servants face to face,’ said Boninsegna.

  ‘As it is always an honour to meet those one has faced in the field,’ replied Hawkwood.

  The sarcasm was not lost on Boninsegna, but he elected to ignore it. He went on, ‘I offer you the hospitality of Florence, and my own. Your loyal service to Pisa is admired by many. I am privileged to count myself among them.’

  Hawkwood did not reply and Boninsegna changed tack. ‘There are those in Florence who deem you an enemy. I, for one, do not.’

  ‘I do not take your meaning.’

  ‘I have long considered you a potential ally,’ said Boninsegna. ‘And, indeed, you have already served Florence well many times in the past.’

  ‘With the greatest respect, I still do not take your meaning,’ answered Hawkwood. ‘I am Pisa’s man and am pledged to serve as such.’

  ‘And I – with equally great respect – submit you are at this moment poorly placed to serve your masters and that they, in their turn, are poorly placed to serve you.’

  ‘That may be,’ countered Hawkwood, ‘but my Company is at the disposal of Pisa and shall serve in my stead.’

  ‘Come, now,’ said Boninsegna smoothly. He gestured Hawkwood to take a seat. ‘We are men of reason and experience, you and I. You must accept that your Company is as nothing without you at its head.’

  Hawkwood made no reply. He suspected this to be true and was unwilling to protest to the contrary.

  ‘You and I, Sir John, have much to discuss. I suggest that – as men of reason and experience – we can doubtless resolve our differences.’

  Perhaps, thought Hawkwood.

  But how?

  Pisa

>   7 August 1364

  The Pisans watched in fear and despair as, all day long, the tattered remnants of the White Company limped into the city, their bare feet shredded by the stony ground, their wounds already festering and suppurating, their hangdog expressions eloquent testimony to their shame and humiliation.

  Sir Wilfred and his men hurried out to meet them, hoisting the survivors onto their shoulders or fashioning litters for those who could walk no further. He had no need to ask what had happened: the details would emerge over time. For the present, wounds must be bound and amputations carried out.

  It was evident that the Company had suffered a major defeat. So much had been made clear when the jubilant Florentines had descended on Pisa some days previously and paraded backwards and forwards a stone’s throw from the city walls, hurling scorn and invective at the defenders. The Company’s offensive force had been wiped out, and its commander had surrendered in the field and been taken as captive to Florence. Sir Wilfred was now the nominal head of the Company. It was a position he did not relish. He could only assume that the Florentines would move on Pisa any day now and that his first priority as Sir John’s deputy must be to attend to the city’s defences.

  Nowhere was the panic more acute than in the Council of Guilds, where Hawkwood’s defeat and capture had spawned impotence and outrage in almost equal parts. Tommaso Gracchi was unstinting in his efforts to reassure his fellow guildsmen that Hawkwood’s release could be negotiated, subject to an appropriate ransom. But others, spurred on by Giacomo Albertosi, protested that Hawkwood had failed in his duties as condottiere and that his fate should be left to the Florentines’ discretion. At the same time, they proposed no solution to Pisa’s immediate predicament. Gennaro Altobardi, although he feared for the lives of Hawkwood and his fellow prisoners, argued that Pisa must await developments from the Florentine side before deciding on a course of action.

  While the debate flowed back and forth, it dawned on one councillor that the situation could be turned to his personal advantage. Giovanni Agnello had long since aspired to the title of Doge but that aspiration had consistently been frustrated inasmuch as he was almost universally detested. His position on the Council had been secured on the back of his enormous wealth – which many alleged to be in direct proportion to his duplicity – and to his unquestioned talents as a negotiator.

  The would-be Doge of Pisa recognised that his moment had come. To the utter astonishment of Gracchi and Altobardi, he informed the council that the Virgin Mary had appeared to him in a dream and instructed him to assume full responsibility for securing Hawkwood’s release by paying, from his own pocket, the ransom that Florence would undoubtedly exact. In exchange for so doing, Agnello petitioned the Council for a ‘modest’ reward, namely that he be accorded the title of Doge for a period of one year.

  Incredibly, the Council of Guilds voted a resolution in his favour and on those terms.

  Enraged, Gracchi immediately resigned his post as president. Altobardi and two others also relinquished their seats in protest at what they regarded as a patent absurdity and a blatant bid for power. On behalf of the Council, Giovanni Agnello graciously accepted their resignations, inwardly delighted his principal detractors had been so easily removed.

  It was decided that Agnello should proceed to Florence under a flag of truce in order to discuss the terms and conditions of Hawkwood’s repatriation and reinstatement as captain-general of the White Company, in which capacity he would – naturally – report in future directly and solely to the new and self-styled Doge.

  Altobardi’s request to accompany Agnello as a member of the negotiating party was politely but firmly rejected, as was Sir Wilfred Perry’s proposal that the council assume collective responsibility for securing – and underwriting – Hawkwood’s release.

  Agnello and a small escort left for Florence the following morning.

  Florence

  14 August 1364

  Hawkwood and Karl Eugen were quartered together in the very chambers from which Karl Eugen had made good his escape four years previously. On entering, Karl Eugen noted with a wry smile that the draperies and their silk cords had been removed. The bars at the window had been repaired and reinforced, and the iron lamps, one of whose brackets he had used to prise those bars apart, had been replaced by tallow candles set in wooden bowls.

  They were continually under armed supervision and, in any case, could not count on a distraction from without. As if to drive that point home, Boninsegna had instructed the chamber doors to be left unbolted: Hawkwood and Karl Eugen were confined to the palazzo but otherwise free to come and go as they pleased, he said. After all, they were his guests.

  Neither could see any means by which they could conceivably escape Boninsegna’s ‘hospitality’. But saving their own skins was not their principal concern. Of far greater importance was the welfare of their men captured at Cascina.

  ‘I demand news of my men and their well-being,’ Hawkwood said to Boninsegna.

  ‘Demand? Demand, Captain-General Hawkwood? I think not. You are ill-placed to issue demands. But you may request news of them and I shall be happy to inform you accordingly.’

  ‘Very well. I request knowledge of my men and of their well-being,’ Hawkwood repeated.

  ‘They are fed and watered as befits their station. We hold them by night in the Bargello fortress. By day, they labour at our discretion.’

  ‘They are soldiers, not farm labourers and slaves.’

  ‘I beg to differ. They were soldiers. They are now prisoners.’

  ‘As I am myself, and my officers.’

  ‘Need I remind you, Sir John, of the rules of engagement in times of war? You fought and were defeated, and in defeat there is no choice but to accept the terms the victor imposes.’

  Hawkwood held Boninsegna’s gaze for a moment then turned away, shaking his head in resignation. ‘Do your worst,’ he replied.

  ‘On the contrary, I shall do my best. Even as we speak, the terms of your release are the subject of intense negotiation. I say no more at present, other than to observe that your Pisan masters appear to hold you in continued high regard. As, I hasten to assure you, I do myself.’

  With that, Boninsegna turned on his heel and left.

  ‘Can he be taken at his word?’ Karl Eugen asked.

  ‘Who can be taken at his word in this land of self-seekers and double-dealers?’

  The young man made no reply. Not long since, Karl Eugen von Strachwitz had been among the most self-seeking and double-dealing of all.

  *

  Two days later the doors of the chamber were thrown open once again.

  Boninsegna entered, followed by two armed guards and an elegantly attired figure that Hawkwood at first failed to recognise.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Boninsegna, ‘may I present His Excellency Giovanni Agnello, Doge of Pisa? I believe you are already acquainted?’

  Agnello removed his plumed capello and bent low in a sweeping bow.

  Hawkwood could scarcely believe his eyes. What manner of duplicity was this? The Doge of Pisa? This smug tub-of-lard who routinely smirked and simpered at the far end of the table at the Council of Guilds?

  ‘Signor Agnello,’ he said uncertainly, ‘I confess I am surprised to meet you again under such circumstances.’

  ‘I present my compliments, Condottiere. I bring you greetings from the Council of the City State Pisa which I am now honoured to represent. It gladdens my heart that you are in good health – and you, also, Herr von Strachwitz.’

  Hawkwood’s mind was racing. This must be some ruse or other. He wondered if Gennaro Altobardi had come up with some scheme to ensure their release.

  ‘It will gratify you to know, Sir John, that you, your officers and your men-at-arms are to be released forthwith,’ said Boninsegna. ‘Doge Agnello has personally indemnified the city state of Florence in order to secure your repatriation to Pisa.’

  Hawkwood chose his words carefully. ‘The Doge does us grea
t honour. My men and I are indeed grateful.’

  Agnello gave a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘Pisa will always look after its own,’ he said.

  Hawkwood could only nod. He was utterly bemused by this turn of events.

  ‘Orders have been issued that your English comrades-in-arms are to be released unharmed,’ added Boninsegna. ‘You are to depart at first light tomorrow. We wish you God’s speed.’

  Agnello bowed again and minced out of the room, followed by the armed guards.

  Boninsegna remained. ‘Doge Agnello has met our ransom demand from his own purse, Captain-General,’ he said. ‘In full. He has secured your release on payment of thirty thousand gold florins and that of your men for a further twenty thousand. Accordingly, you are free to go – as free to go, I would add, as you are free to return to Florence whenever you may wish.’

  He paused, then fixed his eyes on Hawkwood and spoke slowly and distinctly. ‘Those fifty thousand florins will be given back into your safekeeping as you depart tomorrow. You may employ those monies as you deem appropriate. Florence has no need of such a trifling sum. Florence has need of you.’

  Hawkwood was uncertain whether he had been complimented or insulted. What he did know with some certainty was that Giancarlo Boninsegna was issuing both a warning and an invitation. He resolved to be cautious.

  ‘We thank you for your gracious hospitality,’ he said.

  ‘It has been our pleasure,’ replied Boninsegna. ‘As I have said more than once, the gates of Florence are always open to men of honour and integrity.’

  The remnants of the White Company left Florence the following day.

  Vinci

  17 August 1364

  Vinci lay no more than a day’s forced march from the gates of Florence, but it was close on nightfall on the second day before Hawkwood and his men at last reached the fortified township and made camp on the field below the castle. He and his officers had horses put at their disposal by Boninsegna, but had quickly dismounted and proceeded on foot in order that some of the Company’s more seriously wounded could ride. The pace had been correspondingly slow and they were relieved to break their journey.