Cooking fires were lit and the men set about preparing a rudimentary meal from the meagre rations they had been issued in Florence. Hawkwood moved among the Company, consoling those worst injured. He discovered, rather to his surprise, that most of the men were in good heart. They had been routed at Cascina, certainly, but had accepted their defeat with good grace. After all, they had survived and were on their way home – or, rather, to the comparative creature comforts of Pisa Nuova.
Some would not return. Among them longbowman Huw Griffiths, who had taken a crossbow bolt through the neck. Hawkwood sat beside the towering figure of Llewellyn – who had suffered an ugly wound to his left thigh – and mouthed words of comfort. Griffiths and Llewellyn had been inseparable ever since Calais, and there were tears in Llewellyn’s eyes as he talked of the diminutive Welshman and his skill with the bow.
Hawkwood had words of comfort, too, for those who had lost an arm or a leg. They would be sent home to England, he assured them, and would receive back pay due to them, together with a modest stipend to help ease their way back into civilian life.
The men responded well to his ministrations. Some were clearly convinced he himself had negotiated their freedom. He did not disabuse them of this notion, not least because – up to a point – it was almost true: had it not been for his previous service to the Pisans, they might not have responded so promptly to Florence’s demands.
He still found it difficult to account for the unexpected appearance in Florence of Giovanni Agnello, not to mention the man’s sudden and inexplicable elevation to the rank of Doge. He could only surmise that Gracchi and Altobardi had indeed concocted some scheme to secure his and his men’s release, and that Agnello was part of that scheme.
All would be revealed when they reached Pisa in three or four days’ time.
The defeat at Cascina still rankled but he had accepted it and, above all, his failure to control his men as a condottiere should. What he could not fathom was Boninsegna’s attitude, especially his parting words. The Florentine had, he was obliged to concede, behaved with impeccable courtesy throughout their enforced stay in Florence, and he could not fault the man’s conduct. But what was the reason behind Boninsegna’s remarkable gesture in refusing the ransom monies paid by Pisa and putting them at Hawkwood’s disposal?
Hawkwood asked himself that question over and over again, but could arrive at no plausible motive.
What Hawkwood found hardest to stomach was the ransom process itself. It was a procedure he had endorsed unquestioningly throughout his career – and had been a major factor in his emergence as a wealthy man – but this was the first time he himself had been ransomed. He felt a profound resentment that the negotiations had been completed entirely without his involvement. To have no control over his own value, his own destiny, reduced him to a commodity – a mere chattel which could be bought, sold and bartered at the whim of others. That, he now realised, was part and parcel of his status as a hireling.
He found it demeaning.
*
He stood deep in thought on a knoll a few hundred paces from the encampment. Night had fallen, but the air was balmy, with only a wisp of wind caressing the grass at his feet.
‘It is a night of great beauty,’ came a soft voice from behind him. ‘Does it please you to walk under the stars?’
He whirled round, his hand dropping to his dagger-hilt.
Donnina Visconti stood there, tall and proud, the fullness of her figure silhouetted by the breeze that ruffled her dark silk cape and moulded it to her body. She watched expectantly, waiting for Hawkwood’s reaction.
‘It pleases me,’ he said.
She took his arm and they walked silently some distance further from the encampment. They stopped at the fringe of a small copse.
Donnina looked up at him. ‘You sent me no word,’ she said.
‘Nor you me,’ answered Hawkwood brusquely.
She was still astonishingly beautiful, more beautiful even than he remembered. And how he had remembered: the day they met, the first night they had lain together, the wrench of her departure, his conviction that one day she would be his. Soon, he had thought then, it will be soon. But that had been three long years ago and he had since heard – and done – nothing.
Yet now here she was. She had come seemingly out of nowhere. Somehow – it remained to be seen precisely how – she had heard of his humiliation at Cascina. And she had come to him again.
‘You are well?’ he enquired, at once conscious of the banality of the question.
‘I am well,’ replied Donnina. ‘And what of you, my dearest Condottiere?’
The endearment irritated him. His first thought was to turn on her and demand an explanation for her protracted silence. But he checked, reminding himself she was a married woman now. No longer his.
‘And what of your husband?’
‘To my uncertain knowledge, he is well,’ replied Donnina. ‘I have seen but little of him these three years.’
‘Why is that?’
‘He has many interests,’ she said.
She was tempted to add that those interests did not include her. The marriage was indeed one of convenience – in every sense. Through no fault of hers, it had never been consummated. She had dutifully offered her body on their wedding night and had been brusquely rejected. It seemed her new husband preferred other outlets: young, slim-hipped, fine-boned – and male. She had promised herself she would confide this to Hawkwood one day, should the opportunity ever present itself.
Hawkwood recalled how coarse and ungainly he had always felt in her presence. He cast about for some words capable of alleviating the tension that hung between them.
‘You have been in my thoughts,’ he said eventually.
‘And you have always been in mine,’ said Donnina.
They embraced with a tenderness Hawkwood had not thought himself capable of. He felt her tears against the stubble on his cheek. He held her for a long time, until tenderness gave way to urgency.
She convulsed as he entered her and cried out as he climaxed.
He had found her again, and he vowed that she would always be part of his life, whatever the years ahead held in store for them.
Pisa
20 August 1364
Giovanni Agnello had the bit between his teeth.
The Council of Guilds could do nothing other than formally acknowledge their indebtedness to this upstart merchant who, out of his own pocket, had delivered their condottiere from the clutches of the Florentines and, what was more, had somehow negotiated a year-long extension to the truce with their arch-enemy. Voices which would otherwise have been raised in dissent were stilled, particularly now that Gracchi, Altobardi and two or three others who might have been expected to question Agnello’s motives and aspirations had resigned from office.
Agnello wasted no time. He recapitulated at length and in considerable detail his successes as Pisa’s envoy to Florence, and proclaimed himself Doge for life rather than for the one-year term as originally agreed. The Council knew full well that this ran counter to Pisan tradition, but raised no serious protest: when all was said and done, Pisa was demonstrably in Agnello’s debt.
Moreover, Massimo Mastrodonato, whom many regarded as the conscience of Pisa and the guardian of its resolutely republican heritage, was not present: he was gravely ill and was not expected to last the week.
Hawkwood said little as the Council went on to transact its everyday business. He waited until the meeting was almost over before claiming the floor.
‘This Council and all of Pisa owe much to the intervention of Doge Agnello,’ he said. ‘As for myself and my men, we owe him a debt of gratitude which can be repaid only in part by pledging to continue in the service of Pisa. But there is one portion of that debt we can discharge forthwith and in full. The ransom monies expended by Doge Agnello on our behalf shall be reimbursed to him. I regard this as a matter of personal honour.’
Agnello had not anticipated this. Hi
s jaw dropped, but only for a second. He quickly regained his composure. ‘Condottiere Hawkwood is indeed a man of integrity,’ he said, trying hard to keep a note of condescension from his voice. ‘I am certain that this council will continue to recognise his honourable intentions and will duly propose a schedule of repayment.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ said Hawkwood. ‘I have already given my instructions. Fifty thousand florins shall be conveyed to the Doge’s quarters this very day.’
At a stroke, Hawkwood had diluted Agnello’s new-found authority. The latter might retain the title of Doge, but his standing with the council was damaged beyond repair. He stood exposed as a self-seeking go-between, whereas John Hawkwood had turned defeat at Cascina into victory in Pisa.
Agnello called the meeting to order. ‘I am most grateful to Sir John – ’ he began.
‘It is I who am grateful,’ interrupted Hawkwood. ‘In all conscience, I could not continue in Pisa’s service knowing that the condotta to which I am a party had resulted in the imposition of an intolerable financial burden on a member of this council.’
Applause broke out all round the table.
‘As primus inter pares,’ continued Hawkwood, ‘it appears to me that Doge Agnello has upheld the best republican traditions of Pisa. And, as the first among equals, he has done this city state a great service.’
The applause grew louder.
Bastardo, thought Agnello. Bastardo, bastardo, bastardo! He held up his hands, modestly disclaiming the applause he knew to be directed not at him but at Hawkwood.
The meeting was over.
Hawkwood rose from the table and shook hands with each councillor in turn, including Giovanni Agnello.
Hawkwood at last understood. It is all a game, he thought, and I am rapidly learning that it is played with no rules or, better still perhaps, with rules that are made to be broken. There and then, he resolved to learn to play this game in earnest and to the very best of his ability.
Master of the Game
Never since the world began had so few men made such a noble band
Florence
22 May 1369
History had taught Hawkwood that military men tend to be viewed by society at large as little more than dependable servants of the established order and upholders of the status quo.
Hawkwood had always viewed things differently.
To him, it was society that was reactionary and, as a result, less flexible and less equipped to deal with sudden and unwelcome change. By contrast, the military was a closed society with a fixed hierarchical base and an established set of criteria and procedures. As such, he would argue, it was often far better placed to adapt to changing circumstances and concepts and to develop and hone strategic and tactical responses.
An army might well be a servant of the res publica, but Hawkwood believed that, in order to serve any state to the best of its ability, an army must also be a res perfecta, a body complete in itself, a body which was, in the Platonic sense, self-sufficient, self-contained, self-sustaining and – although he, like most soldiers, might be reluctant to admit as much, even to himself – self-perpetuating.
Hawkwood had long since concluded that his first allegiance must be to his men. In exchange, he demanded only loyalty. Desertion was punishable by death, and theft – as opposed to looting – by instant flogging. There were many who regarded the mercenary’s calling as a malignant growth in the body of society and a corruption of chivalric tradition. Hawkwood had little patience with that view. Chivalry was all too frequently an illusion, as the gruesome excesses of the Crusades had shown. He preferred to think of his White Company as a band of brothers-in-arms who respected the chain of command and followed an unwritten code of decency and integrity that went far beyond codes formulated and promulgated typically by civilians who had rarely, if ever, taken up arms themselves.
Since his humiliating defeat at Cascina five years previously, Hawkwood had done everything in his power to mould the White Company into a compact and self-sustaining unit. There was a clearly-defined command structure. There were fixed and generous rates of pay and bonuses. There was provision for free medical treatment. There was an army bank which held deposits from and approved loans to Company men. His men or their dependants were indemnified in the event of serious injury or loss of life. Payments fell due to those who had faithfully served out their contractual tour of duty. The Company was well-equipped, well-housed, well-fed and well-watered. Training programmes encouraged advancement within the ranks from modest foot-soldier to specialist pikeman or longbowman. Taverns and brothels and rest camps in the hills provided for distraction and sport.
To serve in Hawkwood’s White Company was a privilege.
Much of the credit for this devolved to Sir Wilfred Perry, whose abilities as an administrator were, in Hawkwood’s experience, without equal. But Sir Wilfred’s achievements were in no small measure a reflection of Hawkwood’s own resolute commitment to build the White Company into a body of professionals who thought and fought as a cohesive unit.
He had been fortunate in one significant respect. There had been an unexpected but protracted lull in major hostilities between Italy’s city states. True, there had been short-lived civilian uprisings in Venice and in the Papal States in 1366–1367, and the Company had been seconded to help put these down. The following year, a small detachment had also been deployed to help ward off incursions into Piedmont by a makeshift army of Germans and Magyars. And, in early 1369, an insurrection in The Marches had been quelled – brutally and profitably – by the simple expedient of detaching a large force which met with next to no armed resistance.
The White Company had been involved in a series of other engagements of little consequence. In one, at Arezzo, Hawkwood had even been taken hostage, but was soon ransomed. As his men had come to expect, Hawkwood continued to lead them into battle, but his value to the Company was now largely as a figurehead and strategist rather than as a fighting man. To a degree, he regretted this.
Donnina Visconti had no such regrets..
The two were now inseparable. They lived openly together in Pisa and in Florence where, to his continuing bewilderment, Hawkwood had become a well-known and respected public figure and a close confidant of Giancarlo Boninsegna. Donnina’s status as the nominal spouse of the Duke’s half-brother provided unfettered access to Florentine society, whose mild disapproval of their liaison was eclipsed by the general distaste for her dissolute husband. The latter was approaching his seventies, his incipient dotage accelerated by the ravages of the pox. He was not expected to live much longer.
As ‘Giovanni Acuto’, Hawkwood also continued to be revered by the citizenry of Pisa. Although the Council of Guilds disapproved in principle of his increasingly close personal ties to Florence and Milan, it accepted that he had consistently honoured his condotta and acted in what they conceded to be in Pisa’s longer-term interests. Besides, his manifest acceptance by Florence appeared to work in Pisa’s favour, since he served as a buffer of sorts between the two city states. Indeed, as a member of the Pisan Council of Guilds, he had successfully advocated a compromise which many Pisans judged both eminently sensible and long overdue: he had proposed that, in exchange for a substantial annual commission, Pisa should grant Florence access to its seaports to facilitate Florentine textile shipments abroad.
For the time being, at least, an accommodation of sorts had been reached – and Hawkwood now stood revealed not only as Pisa’s condottiere but as an honest broker acting to the mutual benefit of two erstwhile rivals. The arrangement was greatly to Hawkwood’s liking inasmuch as he was remunerated by both parties.
What he still found difficult to accept, in view of the simmering rivalry between Florence and Milan, was that the Tyrant of Milan had been willing to marry his daughter to the Duke of Florence’s half-brother. The marriage was, for reasons he had since learnt, doomed to be without issue. Moreover, it had lessened tensions between Milan and Florence to no perceptib
le degree. He had once – and only once – broached the subject with Donnina and had been taken aback by her angry response.
‘Your father must be endowed with uncommon foresight,’ he had ventured.
‘In what way?’ said Donnina.
‘Your marriage, he said, hesitating as he caught the unmistakable flash of irritation that crossed her face.
‘A marriage decreed by politics.’
‘Evidently,’ said Hawkwood. ‘But to what practical outcome?’
‘That is for my father to know. It does not concern you. You should be aware that there are elements in Milan who openly challenge my father’s authority, who openly conspire against his rule.’
‘And?’
‘And, for reasons of state best known to himself, my father considered the marriage appropriate and expedient.’
Hawkwood bristled at the suggestion that Donnina’s marital status was no concern of his. Nor did he consider vague ‘reasons of state’ an adequate explanation.
‘Reasons of state?’ he persisted. ‘What reasons of state, pray?’
‘Reasons of which I have no knowledge. I am my father’s daughter, and I obey as he commands. He is a man not unlike yourself, decisive, uncompromising, difficult to understand at times. He has his own way of seeing things, as have you.’
‘And, like myself, he is not always incapable of poor judgment?’
‘That remains to be seen. But no, not always.’
Hawkwood decided to let the matter rest. The issue was sensitive and he did not wish to quarrel. He had not yet been presented to Bernabò Visconti, but he knew him by reputation. One day, he thought, we shall meet and I shall form my own opinion. He is her father, when all is said and done …
Donnina’s anger subsided as quickly as it erupted. ‘I have great faith in your judgment,’ she said, holding out an olive branch which Hawkwood graciously accepted.
Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 15