Condottiere: A Knight's Tale

by Edward John Crockett

  ‘Not only does his health preclude it,’ replied Sir William after a short pause, ‘but so, too, does the state of England’s finances.’

  It was with good reason that Hawkwood enjoyed a reputation for plain-speaking. ‘And that, Sir William, is your mission here in Italy?’

  An unruffled Coggeshall held Hawkwood’s gaze. ‘That is part of my mission here, yes.’

  ‘To raise fresh funds for the continuance of King Edward’s war?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And that mission has proved difficult. It would appear that the conflict between the papacy and the anti-papal league has depleted Italian resources also.’

  Hawkwood pressed the point home. ‘You have failed to raise monies in Milan?’

  ‘Until now, yes. The negotiations continue.’

  ‘And here in Florence?’

  ‘I am conducting negotiations here, too.’

  Satisfied, Hawkwood settled back in his chair.

  Donnina adroitly turned the conversation to other matters. From the casual manner in which they conversed, Hawkwood was certain that she and Antiocha had become close friends during his daughter’s stay in Milan. Donnina had taken the young Englishwoman under her wing, it seemed, doubtless because she had soon discovered who Antiocha was.

  It was not until after Hawkwood and Donnina had retired to their bedchamber and made love – twice – that he raised the thorny subject of Bernabò Visconti.

  Donnina’s brow furrowed. ‘My father is advanced in years. He no longer has the energy or ambition of his younger days.’

  ‘And what of his brother?’

  ‘They have never been close, as you well know. But Galeazzo is also old and frail. It is his son, Gian Galeazzo, who is the greatest threat to my father.’

  Hawkwood was silent for a moment. Gian Galeazzo? The Gian Galeazzo who had been a guest at their wedding? The gutless Gian Galeazzo who had so arrogantly rejected his military counsel in Bologna in 1372, prompting his defection to the Pope? The Gian Galeazzo whom he had twice since bested in the field?

  ‘Gian Galeazzo is of little consequence,’ said Hawkwood.

  ‘Gian Galeazzo is of great consequence,’ retorted Donnina. ‘You do wrong to underestimate him and his ambition.’

  Hawkwood merely grunted. Worn out by the emotional and physical demands of the day, he was already asleep in Donnina’s arms. Cautiously, so as not to wake him, she leant across him to extinguish the flickering candle. She found it impossible to describe how happy she was to have him back at her side.

  Pavia,

  16 April 1377

  Gian Galeazzo Visconti had long-term plans. He had a clear vision of a single and united Visconti dynasty in Milan as the vehicle for the creation of a still greater political unity, that of northern Italy as a whole. Under his leadership, of course. That went without saying. These lofty ambitions were precocious to say the least, given that he was only twenty-six years old, but Gian Galeazzo felt in his bones that he was destined to achieve great things.

  Sadly, there were some obstacles in his path, not the least of which was the continued lordship of his uncle, Bernabò Visconti, over Milan’s territories to the east. Bernabò and his brother had spent a lifetime bickering over Milan’s destiny, yet they had cooperated in the administration of the city’s affairs and contrived to keep their respective grievances in check and avoid open hostilities.

  The most immediate stumbling block, however, was Gian Galeazzo’s own father, or, to be more precise, his father’s irritating refusal to die. Granted, he was old now and largely incapacitated by gout and other ailments, but he still held sway over the western territories of Milan from his stronghold in Pavia. At one point, Gian Galeazzo had considered poisoning his father, but had dismissed the notion as unworthy. He hoped only that Galeazzo would die. Soon.

  And then, vowed Gian Galeazzo, I shall wrest dominion of the eastern territories from Bernabò and his legion of bastard children. I shall transform Milan into the unified city state it once was under the stewardship of my great-uncle Giovanni. And then – then – I shall subdue Florence.

  For the time being, however, he prudently kept these ambitions to himself.

  The Signoria, Florence

  7 May 1377

  Voluminous dossiers bound with ribbons lay at each of the sixteen places set round the waxed oak conference table in the council hall of the Signoria. The serving members of the Banking Guild of the City State of Florence took their seats in almost total silence, conscious that the decision at hand was of major import to the city’s future financial well-being.

  Hawkwood sat towards the lower end of the table, flanked by the most senior representatives of the Florentine banks, who served in rotation under the current presidency of Giancarlo Boninsegna. Hawkwood had attended several such meetings, but had contributed next to nothing to the discussions. The plain truth was that, without exception, he had found himself out of his depth and, as a result, seriously bored by it all.

  Today was different. Hawkwood listened attentively as Boninsegna went through the formalities of welcoming the participants by name and calling the meeting to order. There was, he said, only one item on that day’s agenda. He tapped the dossier before him.

  ‘You have been invited to render an opinion on documents submitted by the English Crown, which now solicits a further investment underwritten by the banks of Florence in furtherance of a protracted state of war between the kingdoms of England and France. You have had ample opportunity to study the arguments in detail, and I now call upon you to vote in favour or against.’

  There was a nodding of heads.

  ‘My role here today is limited to ensuring that the ballot is conducted under the conditions enshrined in our articles. I shall not participate in the ballot, nor shall I seek in any way to influence its outcome. As president, however, I am required by statute to remind you that the petition relates to a very large sum – twenty-five million florins, to be at the unfettered disposal of the client petitioner over a period of five years – and that collateral is offered uniquely in the form of certain lands and territories which England currently holds in France. The value of those territories is conditional upon an outcome of the war in England’s favour. In the event of default, you must therefore take account of their real value to Florence. Finally, I recall for the collective benefit of this assembly the lesson of history: England has in the past been granted large loans and has not made full restitution, much to the detriment of some of the banks represented here today. On the other hand, the terms appended to the proposed loan are onerous and, in the event of non-default, the annual interests accruing to the member institutions of this Guild are so substantial as to be without precedent.’

  Heads nodded again.

  Hawkwood was in a quandary. Boninsegna had set out the case succinctly. There was no suggestion in his instructions to the Guild that the English Crown might deliberately renege on the loan, but there was every possibility that the king would find it impossible to repay, as had notoriously been the case in the past.

  Meanwhile, on a purely personal level, Hawkwood realised this was finally his chance to exact retribution, however indirectly, and repay Edward for the injustice he had done to Hawkwood almost two decades previously.

  The voting procedure was simple. The Guild members present would be balloted on behalf of the full membership, who would then be duty-bound to honour the decision and participate in the loan agreement on a pre-established pro rata basis.

  Boninsegna rang a small silver bell, and a senior clerk entered the room. He carried a purple velvet pouch. Each participant had been issued with a white ball and a black ball. A white ball connoted approval of the motion before the assembly, a black ball opposed it. The Guildsmen would be called forward in order of seniority and invited to deposit in full anonymity one ball each into the pouch. Boninsegna would then reveal its contents. A unanimous vote was required: a single black ball would defe
at the motion.

  When his name was called, Hawkwood stood up and walked the length of the table. He placed a ball in the pouch. Boninsegna smiled and thanked him. Hawkwood resumed his seat.

  Boninsegna announced that the vote was in. He took up the pouch and removed the balls one by one, calling out – somewhat superfluously, Hawkwood thought – the colour of each ball as it was displayed. ‘White. White. White.’

  Three whites. Then another.

  Hawkwood’s mouth was dry. He glanced around at the other participants. They sat impassively, but there was no denying the tension round the table.

  ‘White. White.’

  Then: ‘Black.’

  Hawkwood’s heart skipped a beat. The vote was divided. The motion had been denied.

  Procedure required, however, that the remaining balls be exposed. Another white, followed by two more. Then a second black, followed by the remaining four whites.

  ‘I declare this vote duly cast and counted,’ declared Boninsegna. ‘Accordingly, the motion before the Council is defeated, ’

  Hawkwood rose to leave, but his neighbour to the left laid a restraining hand on his arm. An important item of business had yet to be concluded.

  The English delegation was called into the council chamber. In addition to Sir William de Coggeshall, Hawkwood recognised one or two others who had given testimony before the Guild at an earlier meeting, among them a singularly outgoing and personable young man called Geoffroy Chaucer.

  ‘It is with the deepest regret,’ said Boninsegna, ‘that I must convey to you the decision of this assembly not to proceed with the loan as requested.’

  Sir William bowed. ‘In the name of King Edward and England, I regret this also,’ he said. ‘Permit me to ask the outcome of the ballot.’

  Hawkwood regarded this, on the face of it, as a not unreasonable request. He was suddenly aware that Sir William was looking directly at him. He felt the colour rise to his cheeks, but did not look away.

  ‘The voting procedure takes place under conditions of the strictest secrecy, Sir William. The results are not disclosed beyond the walls of this room,’ said Boninsegna, following Coggeshall’s gaze. ‘In a matter of such import, however, I shall admit an exceptional departure from procedure and inform you that the motion was defeated by two dissenting votes out of fifteen.’

  Coggeshall gave a wry smile, thanked Boninsegna and ushered the English delegation from the chamber.

  Hawkwood was greatly relieved that his son-in-law would never have cause to ask him whether he had voted in England’s favour or against.

  A Farewell to Arms

  Who grieves now that he may no more resume the fight?

  Via Emilia

  4 May 1385

  Sleep would not come.

  John Hawkwood, Supreme Commander of the Armies of the City State of Florence, squatted on his haunches under a stand of cork oaks and pondered the futility of it all.

  Bolts of lightning punctured the night sky and peals of thunder resonated in the distance, making the tethered horses whinny in alarm. The rain drove into Hawkwood’s face and he pulled the sodden blanket more tightly around his shoulders. His men lay scattered in small groups under the trees. Some slept, but most tossed and turned and, every now and then, one would curse loudly.

  Hawkwood’s boots were caked with mud. Streaks of grime ran down his cheeks and into his greying beard. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. His bones ached and old wounds shot stabs of pain through his body.

  Over the years, he had often had occasion to reflect on his life and his chosen profession. Never more so than now, drenched to the skin on a hillside no more than a day’s march from the comfort of his own home in Florence. What was the point to all this? Supreme Commander? Call me what you will, I am still little more than a hireling. In the pay of Florence, certainly, but at the beck and call of all and sundry.

  Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, throwing into sharp silhouette the figures of his men huddled under the trees. They are my consolation, he thought. A third of the White Company had returned to England, their passage paid by Florence and their money belts bulging with florins. Others – a couple of hundred or so – had left for France, where rich and easy pickings were reported. For Hawkwood and for those who remained with him, life carried on much as before.

  Hawkwood had been in the field almost continuously since 1378. In the main, he had harried Cardinal Robert’s Bretons the length and breadth of northern Italy and as far south as the gates of Rome. A skirmish here, a pitched battle there; some victories token, some engagements indecisive, some defeats unavoidable. There had been casualties, of course, but his Company had always suffered substantially fewer losses than it had inflicted.

  This ‘war’ was pointless, thought Hawkwood. He had predicted as much ever since Pope Gregory’s arrival in Rome in January 1377 to witness at first hand the annihilation of his sworn enemies to the north. The war had raged on, and the services of Hawkwood and his Company had rarely been in such demand. But, for years now, both sides had been exhausted, both physically and financially. The legendary bottomless coffers of Florence, already severely hit by embargos and confiscations visited by Gregory XI on the anti-papal league, were perilously close to empty. The citizens of Florence laboured under the burden of escalating taxes; revolt was in the air. In Rome, too, conditions had deteriorated to the point where rioting was the rule rather than the exception. Milan and Florence routinely sent infiltrators there to stir up hatred against the Pope. Rome returned the compliment by sending its agents to Milan and Florence to incite rebellion.

  Pointless.

  Admittedly, the warring factions came together from time to time to explore the terms of a durable peace. Hawkwood had himself been involved in some of these negotiations and had always known they were doomed to end inconclusively. Mutual antipathy was too deeply entrenched. The well-intentioned but increasingly hysterical interventions of Caterina Benincasa, who had repeatedly implored both sides to cease hostilities, had done little to help. She was dead now and, to Hawkwood’s mind, that was no great loss: he had always thought her an interfering busybody at best, and, at worst, an attention-seeking spy and informant who meddled in affairs not of her concern. Yes, Caterina was dead – she had died in 1380, Hawkwood seemed to recall – and so, too, were King Edward of England and Pope Gregory XI. Since the latter’s death in late 1377, the western arm of the Christian Church was a house divided. The cry had at once gone up for ‘an Italian Pope, if not a Roman’. In 1378, Bartolomeo Prignano, the former Archbishop of Bari, had been rushed into office as Pope Urban VI. Someone, somewhere had gravely miscalculated. Urban’s erratic behaviour and sporadic outbursts of abuse and even physical violence had soon made him run foul of his French cardinals. They had responded by convening secretly to elect their own Pope, none other than Cardinal Robert of Geneva, the ‘Butcher of Cesena’, a man reviled throughout Italy.

  It was an absurd situation. At times, Hawkwood had found it hard to tell which Pope it was that he was fighting, as one or the other of these two Vicars of Christ, one in Avignon, one in Rome, and each with his own Curia, repeatedly denounced his counterpart as an apostate and ‘odious despoiler of Christianity’. At one point in 1382, ‘anti-papal’ Florence had even despatched its own condottiere and commanding general, a bewildered John Hawkwood, to the service of Pope Urban.

  Futile, he decided.

  Futile. Futile.

  ‘Supreme Commander of the Armies of the City State of Florence?’ he muttered to himself as he pulled the rain-soaked blanket up round his ears and made one final effort to catch at least a few hours’ sleep.

  Supreme Commander, my arse!

  Varese

  5 May 1385

  Bernabò Visconti ruled over his allotted portion of Milan with a fist of iron. He had never been a popular ruler, and his subjects deeply resented the swingeing taxes to which he subjected them. Open revolt was out of the question, however: Bernabò’s subj
ects trembled at the prospect of the swift and merciless retribution that would inevitably follow. At the same time, they looked with unconcealed envy at those of their fellow Lombards who prospered under the seemingly benevolent rule of Bernabò’s nephew, Gian Galeazzo. The latter’s own carefully nurtured public persona was that of a pious and contemplative savant who treated his vassals with respect and leniency.

  The uneasy truce that had existed between Bernabò and his brother Galeazzo did not sit at all well with Gian Galeazzo, who rightly saw in his uncle the principal obstacle in his own path to supreme lordship over the territories of Lombardy. Bernabò was in his seventies now, but had lost little of the arrogant ruthlessness that had sustained him over the years. That arrogance would, in Gian Galeazzo’s estimation, prove to be Bernabò’s Achilles’ heel.

  On the pretext of settling ongoing differences with his uncle, Gian Galeazzo had proposed that he and Bernabò should meet at a neutral venue near Varese to agree upon the future governance of Milan. Gian Galeazzo was relieved to discover that Bernabò, predictably arrogant and dismissive as ever, had appeared that noon with only a modest retinue.

  Gian Galeazzo was already there in force.

  A bemused Bernabò Visconti was taken prisoner, then marched under armed guard to one of Gian Galeazzo’s strongholds near Pavia. Gian Galeazzo’s plan was to incarcerate Bernabò indefinitely at Trezzo Castle, together with Donnina de’ Porri, his erstwhile mistress, whom he had since married. Bernabò’s possessions would be declared forfeit and his children disinherited. There was every indication that the citizens of Milan would rejoice at Bernabò’s downfall and unhesitatingly acclaim Gian Galeazzo as the saviour of Lombardy.

  Gian Galeazzo was sure his plan had worked. He had accomplished at a stroke what papal armies had for years failed to achieve: the irrevocable eclipse of Bernabò Visconti.

  Florence

  5 May 1385

  Hawkwood’s first action on his return from the field was to pay his respects to his employer.