De Beaufort would assume the vestments of office and extend his hand to be kissed by the cardinals who approached in order of seniority to kneel before him. The Dean of Cardinals would place upon Gregory’s finger – for the first and only time – the cherished Ring of the Fisherman.
The multitude would then gather outside in the Palace Square in awed anticipation of his appearance at the balcony window, straining their ears to hear the traditional announcement intoned by the Cardinal Deacon, ‘Annuntio vobis gaudium magnum. Habemus Papam! – I announce to you a great joy. We have a Pope!’ At which the crowd would break into a sustained cheer before falling silent again and sinking to their knees as he, Pope Gregory XI, moved out on the balcony and raised his hand in blessing: Urbi et Orbi – to the City and to the World.
He would not celebrate his first papal mass until several days later. As the papal procession moved slowly towards the high altar, it would pause not once, but three times. At each halt, a piece of corded tow would be lit, to the accompaniment of the words ‘Pater Sancte, sic transit gloria mundi’, a reminder to every pope that he is but mortal and that the glory of this world is transient. At the close of the mass, the crowds would gather once more, this time to witness the triple tiara being solemnly placed on the head of the Supreme Pontiff and Father of the Church before he was whisked away to the Papal Palace in his portable throne, the Sedia Gestatoria.
It would be a magnificent and moving spectacle.
Would that it were in Rome …
Siena
19 January 1371
When news of Gregory XI’s coronation reached Siena, one young woman sobbed uncontrollably for three whole days, unable to contain her abject dismay at the prospect of yet another absentee Pope skulking in the Babylonian exile that was Avignon.
There were many in Siena who believed Caterina di Icopo Benincasa to be insane. Others were more charitable and inclined to excuse or, if possible, ignore her excesses and ‘eccentricities’. Some deplored her obsessive and very public preoccupation with matters they considered best left to the clergy and the state, others viewed as blasphemous her assertion that she was the virgin bride of Christ. Even those closest to her were often at a loss to explain the more bizarre facets of her behaviour. Many had initially doubted her sincerity, whereas others saw in her a woman genuinely and uniquely devoted to God and to a life of renunciation and piety.
Over the years, Caterina’s behaviour had perplexed her parents Giacomo and Lapa. As a young child, she had been as bright and happy as any of her twenty-four elder siblings. They rued the day when it had all changed, when six-year-old Caterina described to them a vision of Christ, arrayed in priestly garments, hovering above the Church of St Dominic. At the age of seven, she took a vow of virginity and devoted herself exclusively to a life of prayer, solitude, penance and self-flagellation. Typically, when her mother insisted she give some thought to her appearance and the prospect of marriage, she promptly shaved off her hair, considered by many to have been her crowning glory.
In 1363, Caterina realised her ambition to don the black and white habit of the mantellate, a non-monastic order of Dominican tertiaries, devout women who pledged service to the sick and the poor. Even then she went her own way: despite having committed herself to a life of service to the community at large, she persisted in living the life of a recluse. She never left her rudimentarily furnished room. She spoke to no one other than her confessor. She lived on a diet of herbs and water (which she more often than not voluntarily regurgitated). And she made do with only a couple of hours’ sleep each night.
Caterina’s extreme asceticism induced frequent mystical and hallucinatory experiences, some of a distinctly erotic nature, which she pronounced terrifying and uplifting in almost equal measure.
It was three more years, almost to the day, before Caterina at last ventured out of doors to devote herself to a life of ministration punctuated by extraordinary gestures, including licking the open sores and suppurating pustules of the infirm. Her growing reputation for piety and sanctity – not to mention this blatant disregard for her own well-being – reaped its reward in the form of followers and disciples from every walk of Sienese life, the so-called bella brigata of Fontebranda, the name of the district where she lived.
Her frequent ‘ecstasies’ and ‘eccentricities’ continued to inspire criticism and suspicion, however, and the Fontebranda mystics, as they themselves were content to be known, were widely disparaged as caterinati, with Caterina herself frequently derided as the ‘Queen of Fontebranda’.
The ‘Queen’ dictated an extensive correspondence, addressed in the first instance to family and friends but, increasingly – and after an allegedly near-death experience, following which she claimed to have received instructions from on high to ‘go abroad into the world’ – to men of influence both sacred and secular.
For Caterina, Gregory XI’s continuing presence in Avignon was yet another running sore she yearned to lick clean. She resolved that, one day soon, she would write to the new Pope and implore him to do what he knew to be right: to return the pontificate to Rome and to be ‘not a timorous child, but manly’.
And, also one day soon, she hoped to meet again a certain John Hawkwood, whom she had last seen in the Piazza del Campo in Siena, cradling in his arms the body of a dying friend.
Family Ties
Ride as I may, my whole endeavour shall be for thee
Milan
2 September 1371
‘Word of your exploits has reached my ears more than once,’ said Bernabò Visconti. ‘Permit me to salute you as a man of valour and as an esteemed guest of Milan.’
He extended his hand and Hawkwood clasped it.
‘It is I who salute you, Duke Bernabò,’ replied Hawkwood, according Visconti a rank to which he was not strictly speaking entitled but which the man had long since arrogated.
The two men took stock of each other. Hawkwood saw a man of medium height, broad-shouldered and with a firm, determined jawline. The hand that had grasped his, however, was soft. A schemer, thought Hawkwood, rather than a man given to physical action. Visconti’s features were those of some Roman consul or emperor such as Hawkwood had often seen on marble portrait busts, the eyes curiously lifeless, the lips thin and bloodless, a beard sparse but beautifully trimmed.
What Bernabò Visconti saw before him was a potentially valuable pawn in the game of political chess at which he was a past master. This is a straightforward man of simple tastes, thought Visconti, a man said to have little or no political ambition and therefore one who poses no long-term threat. Physically, Hawkwood was as he had imagined: tall, clear-eyed, well-muscled and with an animal-like grace tempered in the fires of combat. This, then, was the celebrated John Hawkwood who had conquered the heart of his favourite daughter – of whose taste in men he had seldom approved and, more often than not, despaired.
Donnina looked on as the two men she loved most in the world continued to size each other up. She congratulated herself on her timing: her sodomising pig of a husband had conveniently died – somewhat surprisingly, in his own bed rather in that of one of the male prostitutes with whom he had latterly consorted – and she had conscientiously worn widow’s weeds on the few occasions during the last three months when she had shown herself in public. The niceties had now been observed, however, and the mandatory mourning period was over. Best of all, Hawkwood had recently fought alongside the forces of Milan at the siege of Viterbo, when the upstart Pope Urban V had been shamed into submission and forced to withdraw to the sewer that was Rome.
No time could have been more propitious for the two men in her life to meet. It was perhaps too much to expect that they would become bosom friends, but one never could be certain.
The three of them sat alone in the vast dining hall. They had feasted on wild boar which, as Visconti diffidently remarked, he had hunted and killed himself. Hawkwood complimented Visconti on the excellence of his table; Visconti complimented Hawkwood on the ex
cellence of his White Company.
Sweetmeats were served, and Visconti studiously peeled a fig as he contemplated his next move. The relationship between Donnina and this Englishman was no secret to him. He could scarcely disapprove: that would be crass hypocrisy, bearing in mind the countless children he had sired by a string of mistresses. It might be to his advantage to formalise this liaison: he would lose a daughter (again), but he would gain a condottiere.
Donnina had not broached the subject of marriage, but she was certain it would be only a matter of time before Hawkwood did so. Time was of the essence. She was carrying Hawkwood’s child.
Visconti set down his goblet and looked at each of them in turn. He nodded briefly, as if to confirm he had arrived at a decision and was satisfied with it.
‘Am I to understand, Sir John, that you seek my daughter’s hand in marriage?’
Hawkwood was taken aback at the suddenness of the question. He had intended to propose marriage to Donnina ever since her husband’s long-awaited demise, but had not as yet disclosed as much to either Donnina or her father, assuming that, like any suitor, he would be permitted to make the first move. Moreover, he had expected that Bernabò would respond with a modicum of tact. Visconti, it seemed, could be every bit as forthright as Hawkwood himself.
‘That was indeed my intention,’ he said with a distinct edge to his voice. ‘But I had hoped to secure a daughter’s consent in principle before requesting that of her father.’
Visconti swept some imaginary crumbs from the table. ‘Then I propose that you ask her forthwith.’
Hawkwood looked across the table at Donnina. She was smiling.
‘It would be an honour to accept Sir John’s proposal,’ she said calmly, although the colour had risen to her cheeks. ‘I do so with all my heart.’
‘Then you both have my blessing,’ said Visconti. ‘There remains only the matter of a dowry.’
Hawkwood made to interrupt, but Visconti raised a hand to claim the floor. ‘I intend to settle eighty thousand florins on Donnina – more than on any other of my female offspring.’
Donnina had difficulty suppressing her amusement. No children had been born to her and her late and unlamented husband, and she was in consequence sole inheritor of his substantial estate. In addition, her husband-to-be was a man of considerable means, she knew, and his finances were in the most capable of hands. But she was delighted by her father’s gesture and by his willingness to settle on her such a generous sum. By contrast, Hawkwood was shocked by the formality of it all. He was tempted – but only for a moment – to brush the offer aside.
He thought better of it.
‘The privilege of marrying the Lady Donnina would suffice.’
‘Well then, Sir John, we have reached an understanding, have we not?’
‘We have.’
Visconti rose abruptly. ‘Come, Sir John. Allow me to show you something of my modest home.’
He led his guest from chamber to chamber, each more ornate than the one before. Hawkwood expressed his admiration for the furnishings and, to Visconti’s surprise, identified many of the paintings and sculptures that adorned the palazzo.
‘Your knowledge of our artists is admirable, Sir John.’
‘For that, as for so much more, I am indebted to your daughter.’
Visconti paused by a sturdy oak door. He opened it to reveal stone steps that curved downwards into the bowels of the building. A blast of fetid air met them as they slowly descended. Visconti clamped a silk handkerchief to his mouth. ‘I trust it is not too soon after dinner to introduce you to one of my pastimes?’
The steps gave on to a flagstone corridor. A brawny guard sprang to his feet as they approached. Visconti said nothing, merely gestured that a further door be opened.
What was left of a human being was suspended by rusting chains against the far wall. One eye had been gouged out. The nose had been neatly excised, as had been one ear, the tongue and several fingers of both hands. The skin of one arm had been peeled away to reveal a bloody pulp of sinew, muscle and bone. A crudely cauterised scab was all that remained of the genitalia.
The figure was still breathing.
‘I hasten to say I claim no credit for this,’ said Visconti. ‘It is my brother Galeazzo’s doing. Fascinating, is it not?’
‘Fascinating,’ replied Hawkwood.
‘The punishment – and I stress “punishment” – continues for forty days and forty nights. That, I should explain, is the intention, although some – shall we say, candidati – do not endure for that length of time. To help them withstand the pain, Galeazzo grants them respite every other day. There is no need for haste. Un poco, un po, as we say here in Milan. A little bit every other day. To afford them time to lick their wounds, as it were.’
Hawkwood felt utter revulsion at the spectacle, but steeled himself to give no sign. ‘Forty days, you say?’
‘Yes, forty. The period of the quaresima – the Lenten days, as you say in your language, do you not? The period that celebrates the fasting and penitence endured in the wilderness by Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
‘I was unaware that, here in Italy, Lent falls in June,’ said Hawkwood.
The sarcasm was not lost on Visconti. ‘Here in Italy – or, should I say, here in Milan? – we celebrate and punish as we please.’
‘And this punishment?’ asked Hawkwood.
‘The man is un criminale. He took from me what is rightfully mine. He hunted my boar on my land.’
‘I understand.’
‘Yes,’ said Bernabò Visconti. ‘I am sure you understand fully.’
Milan
3 December 1371
A radiant Donnina Visconti (her pregnancy discreetly disguised) was robed in virginal pale blue. On her head was a circlet of ivy interlaced with precious orange-blossom and decorated with white ribbons which trailed down her back, setting off her loose-flowing rich chestnut hair. In her left hand, she held a small posy of herbs – rosemary, thyme, basil and wild garlic – variously believed to confer health, good fortune and fertility. Around her neck was a simple necklace of red and white jasper, connoting love and gentleness. Hawkood knelt on her right, formally clad in close-fitting black breeches and a tightly laced scarlet doublet over a white silk blouson.
They had exchanged vows outside the cathedral of Santa Maria Maggiore and in full view of the huge crowd before entering the basilica and genuflecting before the altar while the archbishop recited a short prayer and pronounced blessings on their union.
Bernabò Visconti had taken pains to ensure that the marriage of his beautiful daughter to her English condottiere would be celebrated by the whole city. Minstrels, jugglers, bear-tamers and fire-eaters displayed their respective talents in the Piazza del Duomo which had been festooned with banners and carpeted with amaryllis petals. A number of petty thieves and non-political prisoners had been released. Forty-eight oxen had been spit-roasted. And the citizens of Milan had been exhorted to eat their fill, drink copious draughts of cheap but wholesome wine, and dance the night away.
The wedding feast proper was attended by close on three hundred guests, all dressed in their finest. They sat at trestle tables, feasting on whole suckling pig, silvered calves’ heads, roast mutton in cherry sauce, knuckles of veal and, as a special treat, cinghiali, wild boar culled – with Bernabò’s permission – from Visconti woodlands in Lombardy. Others gorged themselves on game birds – capons, pheasants, pigeons, partridges, peacocks and quail – which nestled on beds of sage or stewed cabbage spiced with cloves. Almond and pine-nut-flavoured sugared pastries, cinnamon quinces and a salviata mixture of eggs, milk, sage and flour were washed down with mulled wine. Wooden bowls of rosemary-scented water were provided to cleanse hands and palate.
Hawkwood ate sparingly. From time to time, his huge fist closed over Donnina’s hand. She would smile and return the pressure. He could not recall ever having been so happy. He had waited long and patiently for this day and he was determined nothing s
hould taint its memory.
He glanced around at the guests, recognising only a few faces here and there. He was pleased to note how readily Sir Wilfred Perry (who, any day now, planned to retire to his estates in England) and several of his other senior officers had mingled with their Milanese hosts. He was puzzled, not to say even a trifle irritated, that Gennaro Altobardi had not seen fit to return to Milan to attend the celebrations. Gennaro, he could only assume, must have been detained on Pisa’s business. His only deep regret was that Karl Eugen had not lived to see this day.
As was the custom, guest after guest came up to the table of honour to pay respects to the bride and groom and to shower them with gifts. Some brought money, others valuable items of jewellery or silver and gold ornaments. At one point, Visconti casually disclosed that he had made over to Hawkwood and Donnina the deeds of the castle of Pessano, together with what he vaguely described as a ‘certain number of other small properties’.
Hawkwood had the utmost difficulty keeping track of his wife’s siblings. Rumour had it that Visconti had sired as many as thirty children (some claimed many more), a goodly number by his ‘real’ wife, Regina, but many by a succession of mistresses, one of whom – Donnina de’ Porro, by all accounts Bernabò’s favourite – was the mother of Hawkwood’s own Donnina. As the various Francescas, Biancas, Elisabettas, Ginevras, Enricas and Violantes were paraded before them, Hawkwood gradually discerned a pattern. Most, legitimate or otherwise, appeared to have been expeditiously married off – as Donnina had originally been – in the interests of expanding Visconti’s growing network of strategic alliances.
Hawkwood was particularly interested to meet Galeazzo Visconti, Bernabò’s elder brother by a couple of years. He had been told that three Visconti brothers had ‘inherited’ Milan from their father Matteo and that the eldest, also a Matteo, had died in his thirty-sixth year in 1355. At that juncture, the two surviving brothers had prudently divided up their inheritance, with Bernabò controlling the area east of Milan and Galeazzo taking the lands to the west. Though it seemed there was no love lost between them, they both recognised that the well-being of the city state of Milan as a whole was best served by observing a cautious truce.
Condottiere: A Knight's Tale Page 20