by Frank Payton
“Yours was a secretive sort of summons, Jack,” said Albrecht, nodding to John Brise, Will Preston and Jack Onsloe, who were sitting with me over the wine.
“Indeed. A secret meeting for a secret matter. Our guards on that door we spoke about caught a fish in their net. You guessed aright in this affair.”
“Who is he?” Albrecht leaned forward eagerly.
“We don’t know. The men could not understand his speech. I have sent for him to be brought to us, and Marco may be able to get something out of him, if he is Italian.”
We had not long to wait. The curtains at the entrance to the pavilion were thrust aside, and Will Turton entered. He was followed by Marco and Ralph, and then by a small, slim young man, dressed in plain black, who was urged along by two guards carrying drawn swords. He looked pale and frightened, as indeed he should have.
“Here’s your fish, Sir John,” said Will, sliding into a place at the table, and reaching for the wine, “And much good may he do you. I can’t understand a word he says. Speaks a tongue I’ve never heard. He doesn’t even understand Latin, although he looks as if he might have been well educated.”
Will always set great store by education and the ability to speak Latin, having been both monk and priest in his time, before falling afoul of his superiors in the Church. He still retained a somewhat priestly look, with tonsured hair and a deceptively mild, round face, with a long delicate nose. As the Company’s Quartermaster, Clerk of Accounts, and Treasurer, he was ideal, being of an acquisitive and orderly nature. His fighting abilities were not to be overlooked either.
We all turned our attention to the captive where he stood between the guards.
“Speak to him, Marco,” I said.
Marco asked his name, who and what he was, whom he served, and so on. At this level I understood all, having been tutored by Marco. The spate of questions continued, but it had no effect on the prisoner. He stood, ox-dumb, with a slight smile on his lips. At length Marco turned to me.
“He is clearly not Italian, Sir John. My words have no effect.” He grinned. “I have insulted his mothers to the fifth generation, but it means nothing to him.”
I looked at Albrecht, raising my eyebrows. “Try German.” He did, but again, nothing. “What other languages do we have amongst our ranks?”
Albrecht stared into his wine cup. Raising himself he muttered aside to his lieutenant, von Auerbach, who drained his cup, stood up and beckoned to Wolf. They left the pavilion together.
“I have sent Hannes to find as many speakers of different tongues as he can in a short time,” said Albrecht. “Maybe we will be lucky. If we are to get this man to talk to us, we must first know his speech.”
“I’ll get him to say something,” Jack’s harsh voice broke in. He stood up and, drawing a dagger from his belt, went along the table towards the captive.
“Hold his hands flat on the table,” he ordered. The guards hurriedly sheathed their swords, grasped the man’s hands and held them as Jack had directed. He placed the point of the blade on the back of the right hand. He pressed slightly. A tiny drop of blood appeared. The young man looked frightened. Jack lifted the dagger in his fist and raised it a foot or more. Swiftly it flashed down. The captive jerked back, trying in vain to free his hands. A babble of words in some strange tongue escaped his lips. The point of the blade buried itself an inch deep in the wood of the table between the outstretched fingers. Jack wrenched it out, and sauntered back to his seat, sheathing the dagger as he walked.
“It always works,” he said, picking up his wine cup.
Albrecht gazed at the prisoner. “Ungarisch,” he breathed. “I don’t understand it, but I recognise the tone. I should have known, Jack. I’ll wager he was on his way to Conrad Landau. He has a following of Hungarians in his band. Savage swine they are, too. I hear they like to roast their prisoners over a slow fire. Ach, du lieber Gott!”
He had spoken in a low voice to me alone. Now he raised his voice. “Magyar?”
The youth nodded energetically, and spoke again in his tongue. Albrecht held up his hand to stem the flow. He turned to me.
“They call themselves the Magyar people and live far to the northeast of here. It is as I said. They’re mercenaries as we are. I’ve met a few of them before.”
*****
Waiting, we talked on, in the usual way of soldiers, sipping our wine, mulling over past exploits, future plans, ambitions, women, and the like.
Looking back to that time, when Italy was a new adventure for us all, I realise now how badly prepared we all were. Not in the way of military preparedness, of course; we’d all had far too much experience of war not to know our trade. No, we were not ready for the shifting nature of Italian city-states, which came together in alliances against each other, and just as easily broke apart and fought each other. The Church under the Popes tried to exert its age-old power. The cities just as energetically pulled away, and ran their own affairs with elected councils and rulers—which afforded more scope for alliance and re-alliance, coup and counter coup. We fell into the same habit, and so divided our forces.
If only we had held together, the combined power of all the Free Companies, we could have conquered the whole of Northern Italy, and as free rulers would have become kings or dukes.
But it was not to be. I had to learn to survive by wiles and stratagems, by gathering secret information to further my own ends. By good fortune I have been successful, but affairs could have been much better. But I must return to my tale.
*****
Von Auerbach and Wolf returned within a short time with a group of Almain men-at-arms, all of whom, it seemed, had ranged widely over many areas of the Empire. Only one man had any skill with the Magyar tongue, and the rest were dismissed. The one chosen by Albrecht came close and leaned over the table to hear his instructions. Albrecht spoke rapidly and gestured towards the prisoner, who was by now beginning tremble with fear and had to be held upright. The Almain went up to him and spoke in that strange tongue we had heard before. There was question and answer, which Albrecht put into English for our benefit in his careful way.
“His name is Janos, and he was the bearer of a message to the Count of Savoy. Caught up in our siege, he was supposed to escape Lanzo by the secret door, steal a horse from us, and make his way to Count Landau. There he was to tell of our attack and the perilous state in which Savoy now finds himself. Savoy’s hope is, of course, that Landau will move to raise the siege. We would then be caught between two foes.” He frowned at the thought.
“So,” I said. “What do you think is our best course of action?”
“At the moment, I don’t know. On the one hand we could send him back to Savoy, who will then know without doubt that his cause is lost; or we can let him pass on to Landau with a warning that he attacks us at his peril. But I would rather leave the matter over to the morning.”
I could only agree with him. In any event it was too late for anything to be done that night. I dismissed all my officers except John Brise, and Marco, who remained in attendance. Janos the Magyar was taken back to wherever it was that Will Turton was holding him. Albrecht sent away all his men-at-arms except von Auerbach and Wolf.
“Well, what is on your mind, Jack?” said Albrecht, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers.
“One of Andrew Belmonte’s men, Niklaas Kortrijk, was killed during last night’s assault on the walls.”
“Jack,” Albrecht broke in, “So were a good many of our men.”
“Apart from the initial cavalry charge, which was unforeseen, none outside the walls, my friend. This man lost his head to one of your people, who I think were under Conrad Harzmann, and thus under the command of Werner von Felsingen.”
“Well?” He raised an eyebrow.
I leaned my elbows on the table, and held his eyes with mine. “Are you aware that Werner and Conrad visited my camp the evening after we had been ambushed by the Italians? They knew about the skirmish. How? I asked mys
elf.”
Albrecht’s brow furrowed, and he looked troubled. “And so?”
“I set one of my people to find out how the news had travelled. After some days he told me that this Kortrijk had a friend, a comrade from the past, amongst Werner’s men. That is how the news leaked out.” I sat back. “In addition, one of our foreriders was killed before the skirmish.”
“I did not learn of the attack upon you until you told me yourself,” said Albrecht.
“There is more to be said. Marco, tell Master Sterz what you told me soon after you joined my Company.”
“As you know,” said Marco, “I was one of the crossbowmen at the ambush. I was wounded and captured. Sir John saved me from death at the hands of your lieutenant, von Felsingen.”
Albrecht nodded, clearly puzzled as to the direction of this account.
Marco continued. “When we marched to lay the ambush for Sir John’s men, we were in camp one night and were visited by a group of men, mostly Italian, with a few of your countrymen. Later, when I was being questioned by Sir John, I realised that I had seen Master von Felsingen’s companion before. I mean Master Harzmann. He was with the party I have just described to you.”
“Marco also described to me an Italian in that group who could only have been Lamberti,” I told him, “Lamberti, who posed as an emissary of Monferrato, and together with Sciatta was later killed by us. You know that story.”
I picked up my wine cup and drained it. Albrecht sat, stunned by what he had just heard. He stood up slowly. “I will think on all this until our next meeting. Now I see the reason for your concern. And so, good night to all.”
Upon that note we all parted, and I retired to my bed. It was long before I slept that night, and then but fitfully. I was well aware that Albrecht shared my concern. I was to find later that the seeds of our eventual undoing had been sown.
Chapter 5
Negotiations
Early evening in autumn, a red sun sinking, shadows lengthening, after a day which had held the feeling of summer, I was returning to Lanzo from hunting in the nearby countryside and forest. We rode easily in the warmth, pleasantly tired. I had left camp at sunrise with Will Preston, Giles Ashurst, Ralph and Marco, plus an assorted band of men-at-arms and archers. We had combed the hills and valleys for our prey. I had even taken bow in hand, after years without practice, and downed a prime stag just before its leap for freedom. Shouts of approval greeted this feat, turning to laughter as I tossed the bow back to Giles and grumbled “An old dog can sometimes perform old tricks.”
Two weeks had passed since the taking of Lanzo and the capture of Janos, the Magyar. After lengthy consideration, Albrecht had agreed with me that our captive should be sent to Milan with a defiant message for Bernabo Visconti. The burden of this was that we would brook no interference in proceeding with the siege of the inner stronghold. Of course, we might consider alternative suggestions for a solution. Up to the day of the hunt no reply had been forthcoming.
There was little doubt that the position of Savoy and his garrison was serious. With the river dammed as it was, little water was to be had, even if, as we suspected, there were some wells which might go some way towards relieving the situation.
There was also the question of food for the men and fodder for the horses, many of which had been taken into the stronghold. All in all, not an enviable position.
As we jogged on towards camp, we became aware of an armed party riding in roughly the same direction, having emerged from the country to our left. Smaller in numbers than ourselves, the group appeared to be comprised of a knight and a retinue of guards. That they had seen us was evident from the turned heads and arms waved in our direction. The riders did not halt their progress, but kept a converging course with our own route. We halted, and loosened swords in their scabbards. The archers strung their bows and shuffled arrows into a handier position.
I turned to Giles. “Tie a white cloth to a bow stave, go on forward, and find out who they are and where they are headed. Marco—go with him. Your Italian may be needed.”
They rode off, knee to knee, a white scarf fluttering from Giles’ bow. I noticed he hadn’t unstrung the weapon, and that he carried two arrows in the same hand. I smiled to myself. Whoever they were, the riders would need to be quick if they wished to catch him unawares.
We waited. A pair of horsemen detached itself from the group, which had also halted—by the look of them, a squire or page and a man-at-arms. They rode to meet Giles and Marco.
We waited as the two pairs of riders stopped and faced each other. The distance made it impossible to hear anything, and I fretted impatiently upon our men’s return. Eventually they rejoined us.
“Who are they?” I demanded.
Marco looked at me, opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and glanced at Giles, who shook his head, grinning. “No, no. Go on, lad—you tell him. I understood hardly a word spoken.”
“Well then, Sir John,” said Marco, “the knight is Sir William de Grandison, of the Order of the Annunciata. He is sent by the Pope to mediate between the Count of Savoy, yourself, and Master Sterz.”
“I see. And who does he intend to visit first?” I asked.
“He did not say, but he is the bearer of a letter to the Count. I do not know the contents, of course.”
“Hmm. Go, tell him to bring his party alongside us. Not too near though, and to continue with his journey.”
As Marco rode back to do my bidding, all pretence of a carefree ride now left us. We were all back on the alert. Sir William rode some twenty yards to my left. He was in full armour and carried a sword. His helmet was borne by a page who rode behind him with an older man, also fully accoutred, whom I took to be his squire.
In this fashion we rode on towards Lanzo and our encampment, which we reached just as the first stars began to show. I led the way past the sentries and up to my pavilion. Dismounting, I indicated that de Grandison should follow suit. Both parties dismounted, and our reluctant guests stood about uncertainly. I turned to Will Preston.
“You and Marco, put these men under guard,” I said, indicating the rest of the entourage, and to de Grandison, “You, Sir, kindly follow me if you will. Ralph! Some wine!”
De Grandison followed me into the pavilion and gazed about him at the rich display, which was now customary. He was a burly sort of man, black bearded, with shrewd brown eyes. His armour was of the finest quality, and the sword at his side was not just for display.
“You live well, John Hawkwood. A far cry from the tannery at Hedingham.” He had a heavy French accent, and laughed at my puzzled stare that he should know my origins. “Oh, yes, I know all about you, and how you have risen in the world. Of course you do not remember me. Why should you? I was a mere prisoner of you English at Poitiers. It was there you received your knight’s spurs from the Prince Edward, I believe.”
I showed him to a seat, and sank gratefully into my own high chair. Ralph appeared with a jug of wine and two silver cups. He poured the wine, set the jug on the table, bowed, and left. After a day in the saddle, I was ready both for the wine and a seat which didn’t move about continuously. I raised my cup.
“Your health, Sir William. I expect you were ransomed. Is that the way of it? Yes, I received my spurs from Prince Edward, a knight of great renown and much honour.”
“Yes, I was ransomed eventually by our Father, the Pope, in Avignon. In return, I was assigned to the Order of the Annunciata, and now travel on diplomatic missions for the Holy Father.”
“My page tells me that you carry a letter to Savoy. Are you personally aware of its contents?” I asked, pouring more wine.
“I am aware of the essence only. The Holy Father wishes me to mediate between the parties in this dispute, now that it is clear that you and your Almain friends have the upper hand. He wishes Savoy to retire to his own territory. The Holy Father will then try to placate the Duke of Milan. As you are no doubt aware, efforts are being made to send armies to the Holy Land
to recapture Jerusalem from the Saracens. It is not good that Christian rulers should war amongst themselves when there is a greater work to be attempted. Would you not join such an enterprise?”
I waved his suggestion aside. “There is no profit in such an undertaking. All previous attempts to save Jerusalem have eventually ended in failure. Leave Jerusalem to the Saracens, say I. Rome is enough. In any event, I could not persuade my men to that end. They are not fools, no more than I am.”
De Grandison sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and drank his wine. “I am in your hands, Sir John. What would you have me do?”
“You shall stay here this night, and dine with me. I think you will find better fare here at my board than you will be offered by Savoy. In addition, I will bring in my comrade in arms, Albrecht Sterz of the Rhineland, with some of his principal officers. He will be eager to meet you when he hears of your presence. Of that I am sure.”
“We are not your prisoners then?” he enquired, eyebrows lifting.
“Most certainly not. If you wish for a bare table, and a stinking, crowded castle keep at the end of a long day’s ride, you may go in peace, and we will meet again on some other day. But you will find discussions with us of greater use in your task as mediator. In the morning I will take you about the camp so that you can gain some idea of the problems faced by the defenders of Lanzo. When Savoy has heard your report he might decide that settlement would be best.”
De Grandison gave a wry smile. “And at what cost? Savoy has his honour to consider.”
“Harken, my friend,” I said. “I too have my honour to consider. But I do not fight for no profit. War can be costly in men and equipment. My men must be paid, whether I fight or no. Possibly you can see my dilemma?”
“Yes, I can,” he replied with another smile. “I can see also that the reports about you have not been wrong. I will accept your invitation gladly. May I have my squire and page with me, and my two senior men-at-arms?”