The cathedral doors were ajar but guarded by a contingent of Bretons who exchanged glances as Hawkwood approached, recognising him and the determined cast of his face. Reluctantly, they parted ranks. Hawkwood entered.
The cathedral was full of young women, some in their twenties, others barely more than children. They cowered and whimpered as Hawkwood strode among them, taking stock of the situation. There were hundreds of them – a thousand, even – and Hawkwood knew they had been spared for the most obvious reason of all. The matrons and grandmothers who littered the streets and squares of Cesena had been savagely raped and killed in the first surges of rampant male lust, but these young women were chosen vessels, young flesh which would be savoured at leisure and at length once the massacre was at a close.
He left the cathedral and walked the streets, identifying members of his Company and calling them to order. Most obeyed at once, although some resented his intrusion and the fact that their captain-general was spoiling their sport. He formed an ad hoc detachment into some semblance of order and returned to the cathedral.
The Breton guards tensed as they approached, uncertain of Hawkwood’s intentions, but they made no effort to intervene when he and his men entered the cathedral and rounded up the young women and children. There were mutterings as the women were marched out. The Bretons inched forward, furious that the English were making off with their prisoners. Hands clasped sword hilts and angry accusations filled the air. Undaunted, Hawkwood and his men escorted the trembling women out of the cathedral, through the blood-soaked streets and towards the city gates. He ordered the gates to be opened, and the women fled through them and dispersed into the countryside beyond.
Hawkwood had no way of knowing if they would survive or how, but he felt he could have done no less. He had assuaged his conscience to some small degree. That said, his guilt could never be fully expiated. Cardinal Robert of Geneva would go down in history as the ‘Butcher of Cesena’, but Condottiere John Hawkwood would take his guilt with him to the grave.
By late morning on the third day, the infamous massacre of Cesena was effectively over. Even Cardinal Robert had grasped that enough was enough. Ox-carts were commandeered to transport thousands of cadavers to huge pits hastily dug out of the slopes beyond the city walls. No prayers were said over the corpses unceremoniously tipped there.
At around noon that day, a detail of Bretons came across yet another dead woman. Rigor mortis had set in and they had difficulty straightening her limbs so that her corpse could be piled neatly into the laden ox-cart.
Underneath the body they found a small child.
Silvana Vitelleschi was two years, seven months, three weeks and six days old. Her face was tear-stained, her hair matted with blood.
But she had survived.
‘What about this one?’ asked one of the Bretons.
‘Put her with the others,’ came the reply. The speaker grasped Silvana by the ankles and, with a practised movement, swung her limp body on top of the pile of corpses.
Had he been there, John Hawkwood would certainly have intervened. But he had long since departed. He and the White Company were by now several leagues distant, en route for Florence.
*
Some years before, Giancarlo Boninsegna had assured Hawkwood he would always be free to return to Florence as and when he wished. ‘The gates of Florence are always open,’ Bonsinsegna had added, ‘to men of honour and integrity’.
All things considered, Hawkwood wondered if those gates would still be open. Or if his integrity and honour had been fatally comprised by events at Cesena.
Advise and Consult
Our appetites and fears – in war and peace or in
hate or love – are guided by a Providence above
Florence
11 February 1377
The gates of Florence were indeed wide open to Hawkwood and his Company.
Reports of the massacre at Cesena had travelled fast, reaching eager ears in Florence and Milan. The two allies were jubilant, and Hawkwood’s defection from papal service was widely welcomed by both. Taken together, these two events would, it was felt, be a potent weapon in the war against the Papal States. Hatred and contempt for the French puttana was certain to intensify in the wake of Cesena. There was a genuine prospect that Italy as a whole might make common cause to reject the Whore of Babylon and its representative on Earth, Pope Gregory.
On his arrival in Florence, Hawkwood had been astonished to discover that the events in Cesena had improved rather than undermined his standing. He was equally astonished to learn that the death toll in Cesena had been grossly inflated. It was now accepted almost without question that over fifteen thousand had perished, at least three times what Hawkwood estimated the number to have been. Rumour also had it that Hawkwood and his Company had actually rallied to the Cesenesi’s defence and opposed the slaughter perpetrated by Robert of Geneva’s bloodthirsty Bretons.
When Hawkwood took issue with such falsehoods, Giancarlo Boninsegna wondered, not for the first time, at Hawkwood’s naivety. He was quick to dispel the condottiere’s misgivings.
‘These rumours serve us well, Sir John.’
‘Yet they have no substance.’
‘And what, pray, is substance? The cardinal has played into our hands by his ill-considered actions. Others now rally to our cause and we shall soon rid ourselves of the papal upstart from Avignon who dares – dares – inflict his malodorous papacy on Rome. That is substance, Sir John. And you have played your part in it.’
I have indeed played a part, thought Hawkwood, and an ignominious part it was. His shoulders slumped, and he shook his head slowly. ‘I grow weary of all this.’
‘As well you might.’
Boninsegna sensed this could prove a turning point in Hawkwood’s relationship with Florence. He chose his next words with great care.
‘The moment has come, Sir John. You must at last throw in your hand with Florence and its allies. I offer you this: supreme command of all Florentine forces in exchange for a stipend and a lifetime annuity. You know well that Florence can be most generous to those who espouse her cause and serve her in good faith.’
‘There is much you do not know,’ answered Hawkwood.
‘Then tell me, my friend. There have been few secrets between us in the past.’
Hawkwood paused. He had thought long and hard on the march back to Florence. It seemed to him that his life had lost purpose and direction, was little more than a carousel of shifting allegiances. He did not deny that his world was of his own making, but it was a world for which he felt increasing distaste. Cesena had proved the last straw.
It was time.
‘I intend to disband my Company,’ said Hawkwood. ‘The men will return to England, if it so pleases them. My work here will be at an end.’
Boninsegna studied Hawkwood’s face, noting the lines that creased the brow, the streaks of grey that flecked the temples, the eyes that no longer glinted at the prospect of long days in the field but were dulled by months and years apart from those he loved. He is not the man he once was, thought Boninsegna. He has indeed grown weary of it all.
‘Your intention is rash and difficult to accept,’ replied Boninsegna. ‘There is much to consider. You are respected even by those who have cause to oppose you. But …’ It was his turn to pause.
‘But?’ prompted Hawkwood.
‘But you will stand diminished in all eyes in the absence of your Company.’
Hawkwood bristled. ‘Those are harsh words, sir.’
‘Harsh but true. Without the Company at his command, Sir John Hawkwood is no longer an asset. More importantly, he is no longer a threat.’
Hawkwood sighed. It was true. By far the major part of his revenue had been in the form of payments received for non-belligerence. Without his Company, he could not enforce such payments from the likes of Siena, Pisa or Lucca. Or even, for that matter, from Florence and Milan.
‘Then my value is as nought?’
<
br /> ‘Your value is as you choose to make it. I say again: the armies of Florence are there for you to command. Shape them as you will. On that you have my most solemn word.’
The prospect of exchanging his twilight status as a condottiere for the substantially more respectable position of commanding general of the armies of Florence was one which Hawkwood could not dismiss lightly. Not only would he have at his disposal a large military force, he would also be in a position to call on the ostensibly limitless resources of Italy’s richest city state. He owed loyalty to his men, but these were not the men who had been at his side in the early days. Karl Eugen was dead, Gennaro Altobardi had disappeared without trace, Sir Wilfred Perry had returned to England. Only Llewellyn remained. Hawkwood owed loyalty to his White Company, certainly, but their loyalty to him was – like his own – bought and paid for.
‘I owe loyalty to my Company,’ said Hawkwood less than convincingly.
‘And that loyalty shall be honoured in full,’ replied Boninsegna smoothly. ‘Your men shall be returned home at Florence’s cost. Let it never be said that those who served with Sir John Hawkwood went empty-handed from the field.’
‘The offer is more than generous, Signor Boninsegna. I shall think on it. In all honesty, my finances are at present somewhat depleted.’
Boninsegna burst out laughing. ‘On the contrary, your finances are in excellent order, Sir John. I have watched over them myself, and I am proud to say I have invested well on your behalf. You are not the richest man in Florence – far from it – but the spectre of bankruptcy will never hover over your head. You need trouble yourself no more in that regard.’
Hawkwood could think of no appropriate reply. This put an entirely different complexion on the matter. There was, however, something else he had repeatedly turned over in his mind.
‘I myself have considered returning to England,’ he said.
‘I understand that a man may yearn for his native soil,’ answered Boninsegna. ‘But your roots are here now, Giovanni Acuto. You are as much an Italian as any of us. Your destiny is here. I urge you, do not reject it.’
Hawkwood’s memories of England had dimmed with the passage of time. What was there for him now? His thoughts turned to Donnina and the four-year-old son he had not yet seen let alone hold in his arms. Boninsegna was right. His destiny was here.
He hesitated no longer. ‘I place myself and my sword at the service of Florence.’
‘Your decision is most wise, Sir John. And long overdue.’
Florence
14 March 1377
Hawkwood despatched Llewellyn and a detail of forty men to Milan to escort Donnina and his son to Florence. He was less than happy with the arrangement, but decided it might be premature to venture into the presence of her father. He was not certain how he would be received, or if Bernabò would ever forgive his erstwhile defection to the papal banner. Besides, now that he had elected to remain in Florence’s service, he considered Donnina’s rightful place to be with him there, rather than in Milan.
He had provisionally quartered in Boninsegna’s palazzo, but was anxious to find a home for himself and his family. After so many years of a nomadic existence in the field he found the prospect of settling in one place most appealing. I must be getting old, he chided himself. He had already viewed a number of houses, but decided to await Donnina’s arrival. It was only fair that she should have a voice in their choice of home.
Hawkwood was impatient for Donnina to arrive. As the days went by, however, doubts crept into his mind. Had she chosen to remain in Milan after all? Was she slighted by his not having fetched her in person? Had the years apart caused a breach in their relationship? He prayed this was not so, but he could be certain all was well once – if – she arrived.
To his immense relief, word had come this morning that Donnina’s party would arrive later that same day. Hawkwood could not contain his excitement. The hours dragged by and still there was no sign. Then, late in the afternoon, her carriage at last drew into the courtyard. Hawkwood raced down the palazzo steps. The sight of Donnina descending from her carriage reminded him sharply of his first glimpse of her those many years ago when she had appeared at his camp near Florence. Her face might have softened into maturity, but she still had the vibrant grace that had originally drawn him to her.
He opened his arms and she came into them without a word. They stood locked together for a full minute before he drew back and held her at arm’s length.
Donnina returned his gaze, taking in the greying temples and the lines that etched his cheeks. He has aged, she thought.
She had never loved him more.
Hawkwood was so captivated by the moment that all other thoughts went from his mind. With a hint of a smile on her face, Donnina disentangled herself from his embrace, turned and beckoned to Llewellyn. The Welsh giant shuffled forward, bent almost double to clasp the hand of a tousle-haired little boy dressed in the black breeches and white tunic that Hawkwood himself favoured.
‘May I present Master John Hawkwood. Your son,’ said Donnina with undiluted pride.
Hawkwood had prepared himself for this moment, steeled himself for his first encounter with his own flesh and blood. Would the child be afraid of him? Would he be shy? Would he be a son a condottiere could be proud of?
The boy strode confidently forward and thrust out a tiny hand in greeting. ‘Welcome home, father.’
Hawkwood stooped, picked up young John in his arms and swung him high above his head. He could feel the firmness of the child’s body locked securely within his grasp. The youngster giggled his delight as Hawkwood twirled him first one way and then another, tossing him high in the air, then catching him and holding him tightly against his chest. When he set the child down again and turned to Donnina, his eyes were moist.
‘I have a son,’ he said.
She nodded indulgently. ‘Yes, my dearest husband. You have a son.’
He pumped Llewellyn’s hand, thanking him over and over again for having escorted and guarded Donnina’s party. The hard-bitten Welshman was embarrassed, not least at the sight of his captain-general moved to tears. ‘He’s a fine lad,’ he said gruffly. ‘He’ll grow up to be like his father.’
‘No,’ said Hawkwood. ‘God forbid. I pray only that he grows to be everything his father should have been.’
As Llewellyn set off back to his quarters, Donnina said, ‘There is someone else you should meet. May I present the English envoy to the court of Milan, Sir William Coggeshall?’
A tall, elegantly attired man in his late thirties or early forties came forward from where he had been waiting patiently until the family’s greetings were over.
‘Forgive me, Sir William,’ said Hawkwood. ‘I fear I have done you a discourtesy.’
Sir William smiled. ‘There can be no discourtesy in the presence of such happiness.’ He beckoned to the young woman who had been waiting with him. She was tall, slender, poised. An English rose if ever I saw one, thought Hawkwood.
‘May I present my wife, Sir John? I believe it is time you made her acquaintance.’
She stepped forward and extended a hand in greeting.
‘Permit me,’ said Sir William, ‘to introduce you to Lady Antiocha Coggeshall.’
Antiocha? Antiocha? The blood drained from Hawkwood’s face, and his hands shook as he took Antiocha’s in his. In the course of a single afternoon, he had been presented with both a son and a daughter.
*
That evening with his family was one of the happiest that Hawkwood could remember. He held his son on his lap until the youngster, weary from the long and arduous journey to Florence, nodded off, contentedly sucking his thumb. It was with some difficulty that Donnina persuaded a doting Hawkwood to release the child so that she could put him to bed.
He listened intently as Antiocha spoke of her childhood in Essex, her comfortable but strict upbringing at the hands of her maternal grandmother, and her betrothal and marriage – when barely seventeen
– to Sir William, a neighbouring landowner and a man over twice her age. Like any father worth his salt, Hawkwood secretly believed no man could ever be good enough for his daughter, but he pushed the thought away: he had not been there to advise on the choice of husband.
Besides, he had taken to her husband without hesitation. His new son-in-law was reserved to the point of diffidence – a trait implicit perhaps in his chosen profession as a diplomat – but his general manner was one of respect tempered by unassuming self-confidence.
What is more, Coggeshall’s affection for Antiocha was plain for all to see.
Hawkwood was relieved to learn that his own interests in England were at present in the capable hands of none other than Sir William himself, who promptly reassured him that those affairs were in good order, although he would welcome instructions as to their future conduct and any dispositions to be made.
Hawkwood was more than eager to hear about England. Coggeshall readily obliged. King Edward was in the poorest of health and was not expected to live many months, let alone years. The Black Prince had died the previous year, of a pernicious stomach ailment, and the heir to the throne of England was his son, Richard of Bordeaux, a young lad of ten. Until Richard came of age, affairs of state would be in the hands of the nobles who had counselled King Edward during the final years of his reign. The primus inter pares was unquestionably John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, a man whose motives and self-serving character were, as even the diplomatic Sir William guardedly conceded, ‘questionable’. The prospect of Edward’s imminent demise had engendered widespread unrest, notably among England’s peasant population.
‘And how fares the war against France?’ asked Hawkwood, anxious to know the truth or otherwise of such infrequent rumours as had come to his ears.
‘The king is at present in no condition to prosecute the war,’ came the bland response.
The answer did not satisfy Hawkwood. ‘In no condition?’ he persisted.
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