Condottiere: A Knight's Tale

by Edward John Crockett

  Hawkwood was deaf to the screams of the crowd as he turned for the second lap. He was closer now, much closer. He closed on and passed Leocorno and Oca on the inside – both riders were clearly surprised by his sudden appearance – and slowly drew level with Drago. Drago’s rider swerved against him and lashed out with his ox-tendon whip, catching Hawkwood across the forehead, splitting the skin. Mingled blood and sweat ran down into his eyes and he took a hand from the reins to wipe it away. Drago’s rider aimed a second blow, but he had left it too late. Hawkwood was through. The whip caught Ambasciatore on the flank, raising an ugly welt.

  Hawkwood wasted no time in retaliation. He was momentarily in the clear as Ambasciatore surged forward. Hawkwood leant low over the horse’s neck, shouting encouragement in its ear. Ambasciatore responded, passing Bruco with ease and closing rapidly on Pantera and Chiocciola. Pantera’s rider had used the whip on Chiocciola’s rider and the latter had reacted by cannoning into Pantera. Pantera’s hind quarters slammed into the padded barriera with such force that its rider was catapulted from its back. Chiocciola spun away after the impact, leaving a gap between itself and the barrier.

  Hawkwood took Chiocciola on the outside.

  Ahead, the lead had changed hands: Lupa and Civetta were battling it out up front and Tartuca had slipped back level with Istrice, no more than a couple of lengths in front of Ambasciatore.

  They turned for the last time. Lupa, Civetta, Tartuca, Istrice, Ambasciatore.

  Istrice was flagging. Its rider flailed mercilessly with the crop but the horse had clearly had enough. Ambasciatore went through on the inside but had to check hard as Tartuca suddenly loomed directly ahead. Hawkwood’s reaction was instinctive – and dangerous. He yanked Ambasciatore down inside Tartuca. He felt a moment of sheer panic as his mount scrambled to retain purchase on the churned-up turf that had left the cobblestones underneath partly exposed. Ambasciatore slithered sideways but somehow kept his footing.

  The leading duo of Lupa and Civetta were running neck and neck, their riders confident now that one or the other would take the prize. They seemed unaware that Hawkwood and Ambasciatore were narrowing the gap. In a desperate attempt to shake off Lupa once and for all, Civetta’s rider swung wide, forcing Lupa towards the barrier. Lupa broke stride. Civetta was ahead – and Hawkwood was a close second.

  Ambasciatore seemed to sense what was expected of him. Horse and man were as one. Civetta’s rider risked a look over his shoulder, and found Hawkwood bearing down on him. The crowd were on their feet as the two horses neared the final turn. Civetta took it tight, clinging to the inside. Hawkwood saw his opportunity. Ambasciatore had kept his feet once and would perhaps do so again.

  Civetta’s rider was sure Hawkwood would swing wide and try to take him on the final run-in. Gregorio Camporesi’s face twisted into a manic grin as he held his line. Then Ambasciatore appeared.

  On the inside.

  The two horses collided and Ambasciatore reeled under the impact. Civetta fared worse. His feet slipped from under him and he fell, trapping his rider under the full weight of his body. Hawkwood glanced briefly over his shoulder as man and horse crashed to the ground. Camporesi screamed in agony as the bones in his leg and upper thigh snapped. The sound was lost in the general uproar.

  The finish was only yards away now. Hawkwood knew the only danger might come from a riderless horse. In the Palio, it is the horse, not the rider, that carries the day.

  His fears proved groundless. The Sienese watched in incredulous silence as Hawkwood crossed the finishing line, shaking a fist in the air. Less in triumph than in rage and grief.

  Bruschelli and the other festival deputies had assembled at the cathedral to present the Palio banner to the victorious contrada. Hawkwood dismounted. He laid his head briefly against Ambasciatore’s muzzle. The chestnut stallion whinnied in delight.

  The deputies waited for Hawkwood to come forward to receive the prize. When he made no move, they seemed uncertain what to do next. There was an awkward pause. Then, after a brief whispered consultation, Bruschelli solemnly extended both arms. One of the deputies took the pallium and laid it carefully over them. Distress that the precious banner was about to leave Siena showing plainly in his face, Bruschelli walked slowly towards Hawkwood.

  The crowd were silent as Hawkwood accepted the pallium in both hands. He said nothing, merely bowed his head and stood motionless for what seemed a long time. Then he turned abruptly and, in one swift movement, draped the banner across Ambasciatore’s broad back.

  In the Palio, it was the horse, not the rider …

  A few tentative cheers rang out as the significance of his gesture gradually dawned on the crowd. The cheering intensified and built to a crescendo as Hawkwood turned his back on Bruschelli and the others and walked away.

  *

  Karl Eugen August Wilhelm von Strachwitz-Wettin was laid to rest the following day in a grave which Hawkwood insisted on digging with his own hands.

  A white marble slab marked the spot. It bore a simple inscription: Karl Eugen – A Father’s Son.

  It was a measure of Hawkwood’s grief that the best efforts of Donnina and Sir Wilfred to console him proved unavailing. Inured though he was to violent death in the field, Hawkwood could not conceal his intense shame at what had happened in Siena. His suffering, as they both knew only too well, was compounded by a deep feeling of guilt. Karl Eugen’s death was the result of his arrogance. Competing in the Palio had been an act of shallow bravura, and Karl Eugen had paid for it with his life.

  As so often, guilt spawned anger, directed not only at himself but at the world at large. Hawkwood vowed he would one day avenge Karl Eugen’s senseless death. How he would do so remained to be seen. But there would be ample opportunity for vengeance in the months and years ahead.

  Change of Heart

  There’s nought despicable in this, that one might call it cowardice

  South of San Gimignano

  14 November 1369

  Gennaro Altobardi flinched and ducked instinctively as a stray quarrel hissed overhead and embedded itself in the ground twenty paces behind him. He glanced to his right, to where Hawkwood was conferring with several of his officers. To a man, they seemed unconcerned.

  The day was cloudless and chill. Three leagues to the north, Altobardi could make out the outlines of the ramparts and the distinctive towers of San Gimignano, the once-prosperous town that straddled the traditional pilgrim route from northern Europe to Rome. The bells on the Torre Grossa and the Torre della Podestà had chimed incessantly since daybreak. The good citizens of San Gimignano were only too aware of the menace to the south.

  Hawkwood had at most eight hundred men under his command, and to Altobardi the odds seemed very much against them. Advance scouts had reconnoitred the papal force and reported that it numbered in excess of two thousand, mainly Frenchmen, it was thought – judging by the distinctive stirrup crossbows – but with a sprinkling of Italians and a small detachment of heavily armoured Germans. The force had by all accounts met only token resistance during its measured advance north from Viterbo through Bagno Vignoni, San Quirico d’Orcia and Buonconvento.

  The papal army had marched by day and rested by night. Hawkwood’s Company had marched by day and by night. The Pope’s men were well-provisioned and rested, Hawkwood’s weary from their forced march, but nonetheless in good cheer. They sat patiently on the hilltop. Some drank wine, others munched coarse bread, some attended to their weapons, others still snatched an hour’s sleep, oblivious to the occasional crossbow bolt unleashed in their direction. Most quarrels fell woefully short, and they knew from experience that the enemy fire was speculative, a sporadic gesture of intimidation rather than a genuine threat.

  Hawkwood shaded his eyes and pointed north towards San Gimignano, nodding in evident satisfaction. A long column was snaking towards them. As it came nearer, Altobardi saw that among the marchers were children, some no more than eight or ten years old. It was only then th
at he divined Hawkwood’s intentions.

  It was a stratagem Hawkwood had favoured on several occasions. A lightly-armed civilian contingent would be assembled. Its role was to precede the Company into battle, striding purposefully towards the enemy lines, then halting at a safe distance and, at a pre-arranged signal, breaking ranks and fleeing back up the slope to safety. The enemy would immediately anticipate a rout and charge after them, at which point Hawkwood’s main foot force would ostensibly retreat, luring the enemy up the incline and into the jaws of the Company’s defensive position. The longbows then came into their own, firing over the crest of the hill into the advancing enemy and thinning their ranks until Hawkwood’s cavalry could charge downhill directly into their midst and mop up the remnants.

  Altobardi looked on as three hundred or so men and children dutifully formed into ranks. The men looked nervous but seemed generally to understand and accept what was expected of them. The youngsters were visibly excited by the prospect of playing a part in an exciting game. As in the past, none of the civilians, young or old, raised a voice in protest or gave any indication that they resented having been pressed into service as decoys.

  The civilians set off down the slope. A four hundred-strong detachment of footsoldiers took station directly behind them. Below, the papal force was already arrayed in battle formation, waiting patiently for the Company to come within crossbow range.

  The tactic had worked for Hawkwood in the past.

  This time it did not.

  From his vantage point on the hill above, Altobardi watched in horror as the civilians drew perilously close to the enemy lines. Hawkwood at last raised his hand and rotated it. Llewellyn dipped a cloth-tipped arrow into a charcoal brazier, took careful aim and sent the burning shaft high over the heads of the Company. It landed squarely between the advancing civilians and the enemy front line. It was the signal to break ranks.

  But the civilians hesitated a moment too long. Enemy crossbows were primed and lethal bolts sped through the air like a flock of starlings, scything into the first ranks, shattering breastbones and piercing young limbs. Too late, the civilians broke ranks and turned to flee. A second volley caught them as they turned. A youngster of no more than twelve took not one but three bolts between his shoulder-blades. The impact pitched him forwards a full six paces. One of the older men stooped to gather up a wounded child and hoist him on his shoulder. A quarrel caught him in the back of the neck and exited through his throat. The child slipped from his grasp and was pinioned beneath his would-be rescuer’s body as both fell to the ground.

  The commander of the papal force had done his homework. Knowing that his men were eager to charge, he rapped out an order to hold the line. His men obeyed. Hawkwood’s footsoldiers continued to advance, determined to draw the enemy out as planned and to provoke them into a disorderly charge. The enemy would have none of it. Crossbows sent another volley into the Company ranks. Several men were killed instantly, others seriously wounded.

  On the hill, Hawkwood saw at once that his advance force had been compromised. His longbowmen were now too far away to fire on the enemy: the risk of hitting their own comrades was too great. He had no option. He ordered his cavalry to follow him down the hill.

  Altobardi’s throat constricted as he urged his mount down the slope. Within seconds, or so it seemed, they had drawn level with their own footsoldiers, scattering them left and right, even trampling some underfoot. We are killing our own men, he thought as his horse slammed into a soldier and sent him reeling. He was dimly aware of children screaming in confusion and terror, then he was out in the open again, bearing down on the enemy line. Ahead, he glimpsed Hawkwood plunging into and through the enemy ranks, slashing left and right. Altobardi drove through the gap that Hawkwood had created. He felt a stab of pain as something – a pikestaff? – jabbed into his right side. His horse squealed in protest as a glancing blow opened a gash on its flank.

  And then he was through. Behind the enemy’s front line.

  He hauled on the reins, wheeling his horse to re-engage. On both sides of him he sensed other riders do likewise. He came in fast, swinging his sword in a low, sweeping arc, catching a pikeman full in the face, splintering nose and jawbone. The force of the blow jarred his elbow and numbed his sword-arm. Hands were scrabbling for the reins in a bid to bring his horse down. He kicked out, forcing the attackers away. The noise of battle was all around him and he was surprised to discover he was yelling at the top of his voice. He suddenly found himself shoulder to shoulder with Hawkwood. Only for an instant, but long enough to take in the captain-general’s manic expression and see the blood coursing down his cheek. Then Hawkwood was gone again, hacking his way through the ranks ahead of him.

  To Altobardi’s astonishment, the Company had not been counter-attacked from the rear or flank. Close-quarter fighting meant that the papal crossbowmen could no longer prove effective. Perhaps they believed their job was done. Perhaps, perhaps not. At all events, they showed little inclination to join the fray. There was no sign of the German detachment, and Altobardi could only conclude that its captain had, for whatever reason, decided not to engage.

  One moment Altobardi was in the thick of the fighting, the next he was out of it, surrounded by footsoldiers in white tunics. The Company had breached the enemy lines and hand-to-hand combat had broken out all around him. He dismounted to fight on foot, but stumbled and collapsed to his knees as searing pain surged through him. He clasped his hand to his side and was surprised to find that his wound was bleeding profusely; he had given no thought to it until now.

  A gigantic figure appeared behind him and he felt massive hands slide under his armpits and round his chest. Llewellyn gently eased him to his feet and supported him. The first shock of pain had subsided, replaced by a strange lassitude. He was aware of water being poured between his lips.

  As he lapsed into unconsciousness, he had the impression that Hawkwood was standing over him.

  Smiling.

  Or perhaps he had only imagined it.

  *

  A tallow candle flickered and spluttered as Altobardi slowly opened his eyes. The pain in his side was a dull throb now. He had a pressing need to pass water. He looked around to get his bearings, uncertain whether he had been taken prisoner. As his eyes began to focus, he saw he was lying on a makeshift litter in Hawkwood’s command tent. He put his hand to his side and discovered he had been bandaged with strips of fresh linen. He tried to sit up, but the effort was too much for him. He tried to call out, but no sound passed his lips. He tried again and forced out a muffled sound somewhere between a cough and a moan.

  The tent flap was immediately thrown open, and Hawkwood entered. He stood for a moment looking down at Altobardi, a slow grin spreading across his face.

  ‘Well, now, at last! We had begun to think the hero of the hour had gone to meet his Maker.’

  Altobardi tried to reply but the words would not form. He gestured with one hand. Hawkwood understood at once and brought him a leather water-pouch. He squatted beside Altobardi, poured a few drops into the Italian’s mouth, then gently dabbed away the water that trickled down his chin.

  Altobardi swallowed, then gestured for more. After a few mouthfuls, he managed to croak the question uppermost in his mind. ‘Did we carry the day?’

  ‘That we did, young Gennaro, and no small thanks to you and those like you. The Company acquitted itself well this day.’

  ‘Where were the Germans?’

  Hawkwood roared with laughter. ‘It seems they had not been paid. A Söldner fights for soldi – for pay. Or it may be they had no stomach for battle when they clapped eyes on you.’

  Altobardi’s eyelids drooped and he fought to stay awake. He had one more question on his mind. ‘The children? What of the children?’

  ‘Some were lost, I fear. Not many. There is always a price to pay for victory in the field.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Eleven dead, And twice as many wounded.’
>
  Dio mio, thought Altobardi.

  ‘And the Company?’

  ‘Our losses were acceptable.’

  ‘How many?’ insisted Altobardi.

  ‘Forty-one dead; a number of others gravely wounded.’

  Altobardi sighed. He closed his eyes. Hawkwood stood up.

  ‘You must sleep now.’

  Altobardi made no reply. Satisfied, Hawkwood extinguished the candle and left.

  Altobardi waited a moment or two, then cautiously eased himself to his feet. He pushed back the tent flap and looked outside. Camp fires had been lit and the confused chatter of conversation was punctuated by laughter as the Company recapitulated the events of the day. Altobardi relieved himself and inched painfully back to bed.

  His mind was racing. For some time now, he had wrestled with his conscience. He was a Pisan first and foremost, the eldest son of a respected patrician family. Yet, increasingly, he despaired of the role that circumstances had foisted on him as interpreter, negotiator and apologist for Hawkwood and the White Company. By the simple fact of association, Hawkwood’s values and priorities had come to be identified with his own. That was untenable. Much as he liked Hawkwood personally and admired his skill as a leader, the blind loyalty the captain-general inspired was something Altobardi could not share. Hawkwood spoke time and again of ‘honour,’ but what honour was there in a day such as today, when innocent children had been marched to their deaths?

  Hawkwood’s words haunted him. Some were lost, I fear. Not many. There is always a price to pay for victory in the field.

  To make matters worse, Altobardi had seemingly emerged as a hero of the hour. A hero? By whose standards? He was a Pisan and an Italian, yet today he had fought neither for Pisa nor for Italy. Worse, he had fought against the army of the Holy Father.

  May God forgive me, he thought, and may He grant me strength to find honour in true service to a true cause, where life is not meaninglessly squandered in the quest for personal gain and in the pay of the highest bidder. May He also give me the strength to do what is right, not what is expedient.