by Frank Payton
We skirted the town of Mortara, riding out into the countryside, and at the end of the first day camped near a village named San Giorgio. This seemed fitting, as the Saint was our patron. There was a little rippling stream for water, and pasture for the horses. After the evening meal I sat by a small fire with my immediate companions to talk, tell tales, and drink the good red wine.
At the last, as darkness fell around us, the camp quieted and fell silent, save for the low calls of the patrolling guards, and the rustling and fluttering of the small birds and animals of the night. I lay wrapped in a cloak against the damp night air and gazed up at the glittering stars.
Before long I was hard asleep, and only awoke when the sun was up and the camp astir.
Huw brought me a morsel of bread with hard, yellow cheese and an apple for my usual breakfast.
“Did you sleep well, Sir John?”
“Well enough, boy. Though it’s long since I slept on bare earth with only a cloak for padding. Have you tended my horse?”
“Yes, as soon as I was awake. He is cropping grass with Master Onsloe’s and Master Bandini’s mounts. I’ve made sure he has clean water to drink.”
He seemed eager to please, and I knew he put himself to his work with a will. Like most of the Welsh in our number he was usually silent when alone with us English, but with his fellows chattered away in their own tongue like churchyard jackdaws. Huw was dark, well-built, and seemingly very strong. I had noted him going forward with his companions at Lanzo, and he did not lack courage.
“Well, Sir John, how is it with you this morning?” came Jack Onsloe’s harsh voice. His shadow fell across me as I sat on a low camp stool. “All the foreriders have been to me, and report no armed bands ahead of us. There is a small town about three miles ahead. They don’t know its name.”
“I do,” said Marco, as he joined us. “Good day to you, Sir John, and to you also, Master Onsloe. The town is called Lomello, and since today is a Tuesday, it will be market day. You will be able to see peaceable Italians going about their business. Perhaps you have such markets in England?”
“So we do, though I cannot clearly remember when I last attended one. Can you, Jack?”
He grunted in the back of his throat, a usual sort of comment for him. “Markets? No I can’t. That it usually rained all day I can recall. I wasn’t a freeman like you, but was ordered about all the time by the lord’s reeve. Meddling bastard!” He spat on the ground. “I did for him though… Broke his neck before I left England. I’ve no wish to see Shrewsbury market place again. Italy will do for me—at least for a while. We should go.” He finished abruptly and strode off, calling to his senior men to get their men mounted and ready to set off on the day’s march.
Marco looked at me with some concern clouding his usually cheerful face.
“He is a very melancholy man, Sir John—from some suffering in his past, perhaps?”
“Aye, I fear so, lad. Some day I will tell you his story. It is not good to hear. But now, as Jack has said, we should go. Huw! Fetch Boy here for me, if you please.”
Thus we set out on the second day of our journey to Genoa. Marco was right. Lomello buzzed like a hive of bees. Country people flocked to the market place; the roads and lanes were full of men, women, horses, and donkey carts. In the market, produce and wares were spread on wooden stalls, or on bright cloths that covered the cobbled streets. Hens, ducks, and geese clucked, quacked, and honked in endless chorus. There were butchers, whose stalls, piled high with meat and game, dripped blood onto the stones. Fish sellers there were, with tanks containing live splashing carp, and other fish which had been brought from the catchers at the seacoast. Bakers’ shops, open to the street, sent forth rich smells of new bread, and there were all manner of cakes and sweetmeats, such as I had last seen in the streets of London, long ago.
I turned to Jack and Giles. “Pass the word to the men. If they want anything from the market they are to buy—not take. This is peaceful country here, for the present. I don’t want any wine-guzzling either, at this time of day. We must be watchful.”
The men broke ranks; some dismounted and began to fill their saddlebags with all manner of foods—and wine. One of Giles’ archers approached us, bearing a handful of long white strands which he held out to Marco.
“What be these, Master Bandini? How can you eat them? They’re too goddamned hard to chew!”
Marco threw back his head and laughed. “This is pasta, Tom. It is made from good white flour and eggs, then dried in the sun. But it must be softened in boiling water before you can eat it. We have it with all kinds of vegetables, meat and fish. It is very good.”
“I have never heard of this before,” I said, equally taken with this oddity.
“Pasta was brought to Italy many years ago by the Venetian, Marco Polo,” Marco replied. “He had travelled East, to far Cathay, and spent many years with the yellow people. This is the sort of food they eat. This I was told.”
“We shall have to try this dish sometime, Marco. It will perhaps help us to become accustomed to the Italian ways. Now we should press on. Get the men moving again, Jack. They’ve had time to buy their wants.” I gathered up Boy’s reins and urged him on, and so we began our march again.
Many of the townspeople applauded us as we rode past, and I wondered if we might pass that way again in a different guise, and with different intent. At that time, the people saw us as a profitable diversion on market day; remembering such souls in England, I knew that our visit would be a subject for discussion and speculation for some time to come.
We proceeded on our journey south for two more days without incident. Mostly we followed roads which appeared to be relics from Roman times and were not always in a good state of repair. There were many wayfarers in both directions, and I gave orders for our lines to be opened up to make room for other people. I also agreed with Jack that we should skirt towns along the way to avoid confrontations. At night we camped in open countryside.
Only two more incidents arose during our journey. The first of these was on the third day. Marco had ridden to the front of the column with one of the foreriders, and after a lengthy space of time, he returned in some haste, but alone. He took up his place alongside me.
“Sir John, there is a band of armed men to our front about two miles away. They are fighting with a smaller but better-armed group who appear to be defending something in their midst which is not clear to me. Do you wish to see for yourself?”
The sudden excitement of impending action surged over me, and the old familiar rushing of blood in my veins. My scalp prickled, and I ran my fingers through my hair as if to calm the sensation.
“Yes, let us see what is happening. Jack! Twenty of your men, an you please, and Giles, ten of your archers. Huw, my helmet!”
As I spoke I drew on my armoured gauntlets, and then saw to it that my sword would run free from the scabbard. The whole company was stirring, but I ordered that they should keep to a steady jogging pace as they followed. Our smaller group formed up quickly, and we moved off at a rocking canter, gradually increasing to a gallop. The speed of our going made other travellers move hurriedly off the road, and many gazed after us, open mouthed. We soon came in sight of the skirmish which Marco had reported. I drew my sword and waved the men on.
The road ahead of us was a small battlefield. In the middle stood a litter with closed curtains. About it was a group of horsemen who fought furiously with a rabble of ragged figures, brigands they seemed. As we approached, one of the defenders of the litter was dragged from his mount and fell into the midst of a hacking, smiting group of attackers. Two of his fellows threw themselves off their horses, and plunged into the fray on foot, in a desperate attempt to save their comrade.
“Come on!” I yelled. “Follow me, White Company!”
We fanned out and hit the attackers from three sides. As we were on horseback and they were not, the issue was not long in debate. Few of the band wore armour of any sort, and most of t
heir number were soon slain.
Some of the remainder threw down their weapons, but three, including the man who appeared to be their leader, ran off into the fields.
I called Giles to deploy his archers. This was a challenge they could not resist. They quickly dismounted and took up their shooting stand, flexing the long yellow bows before they each nocked arrow to string and drew to the ear. The ten arrows flew down the green meadow.
The fugitives had been forced by the presence of a small stream to run away in a diagonal direction and were some sixty yards away. They paused at some obstacle, unseen to us, and were almost immediately overtaken as the arrows converged on them. Two fell writhing in agony. Their leader, however, seemed to have escaped harm, for he turned back towards us waving his sword and crying out some defiance. He should have run on. Giles’ second arrow took him in the chest, and he sank to his knees before falling sideways.
Giles turned to me and grinned, then faced his men. “Retrieve your arrows. Cut them out, if needs be—and Hal, bring mine as well. You know their marks.”
“That were a fine shot, Master Giles,” Hal replied.
“Was it then? I had aimed a foot lower! Be off with you. Sir John hasn’t all day to listen to your prattling.” Hal nodded and set off.
I removed my helmet and handed it to Huw. I dismounted, and in doing so turned and found myself confronted by a tall man, richly attired, who still held a bloodied sword—indeed leaned upon it for support. He had been wounded in the left arm; blood streamed down over his hand and dripped upon the ground. Beside and behind him stood a group of armed men; two others lay wounded on the ground. One other lay beside them, quite still, dead. I remember thinking that he was very young, perhaps not twenty years old, to die thus. About him was an aura of nobility. With his rich garments darkened by his own blood and besmirched with dust, he reminded me of nothing so much as a bright flower, cast down and trampled upon. The older man saw the direction of my glance.
“A tragedy, Signore. His mother’s youngest son, dead in such a manner, and at the hands of brigands. This will not be well received in Genoa.”
“Who was he?” I asked.
He looked at me with interest. Brown eyes glittered from a dark face, bearded by black streaked with grey. “But who are you? Whose are all these riders?”
I held out my hand which he grasped uncertainly, suddenly aware of the force at my back. “I am hight John Hawkwood, a knight of England. These men are of the White Company, which is now in the service of Monferrato. I journey to Genoa to seek an audience of the Doge. These men are my bodyguard.”
“You are well served by such men as these,” he replied. “And it is just possible that I may be able to assist you in return for your timely arrival, and for being our saviour from these rogues. I am Ludovico di Lucanti, and would be pleased to smooth your path to the Doge. I must not enquire of your business with him. That might be too forward on my part at the present time.”
He turned as a woman’s high clear voice rang out from the litter. At his signal the body of the dead youth was quickly concealed under a cloak as a woman approached.
“Ludovico! Am I to be ignored? Have you no thought for your poor sister, who has been terrified out of her wits, to say nothing of Taddea? Stay in the litter you said. Keep out of sight, you said. I heard a clamour of fighting, and the clang of swords, then nothing. What is happening? Who is this knight, and all these men? Are they our captors, or our saviours?”
I stepped forward. “Saviours, my lady. I am John Hawkwood, and these are my companions. Perhaps we may escort you and your brother on the road to Genoa, whither, it seems, we are all bound?”
“This harridan is my younger sister, Proserpina,” said Ludovico, laughing, and placing his arm about her shoulders. “She was born making such a pother as this, and has never ceased.”
The young woman was aged about twenty. She was tall, nearly as tall as myself, and, unlike most Italian women of my experience, had hair the colour of dark honey where it had escaped her headdress. Her eyes were grey, regarding me boldly and with much interest. Her gown and mantle were of fine rich stuffs, of silk and white linen. At that moment, as our eyes met, I knew that never before had I seen a woman of such beauty. As I held her eyes, her cheeks crimsoned, and her gaze faltered. She quickly composed herself.
“So! An Inglesi saviour. Are all your soldiers Inglesi?”
“Not all, my lady, but mostly. We fight best alongside our own kind. That is our trade.”
She nodded. “And all the world knows you are good at that trade. Ludovico, we should press on. I am anxious to return home to Savignone. I think we shall not have further trouble on the road, if we are under the Signore Haccud’s protection.”
She turned away to re-enter the litter, exclaiming “Oh God!” as Hal returned and handed Giles two bloodied arrows.
“Clean them, you fool!” rasped Giles, his usually pleasant face twisted with anger.
The curtains of the litter swished to. The bearers took up the carrying poles, and prepared to move off.
The spell was broken.
*****
Di Lucanti and his companions recovered their horses, and the whole entourage, including the litter occupied by the Lady Proserpina and the as yet unseen Taddea, was taken into the safety of our column.
The body of the young man slain in the fight was borne by one of the spare horses. There was little we could do in the circumstances to preserve any vestige of his dignity. The wound in di Lucanti’s arm was dressed as well as was possible with what clean cloths we had to hand.
The three surviving brigands were roped each one to another behind a spare mount, and judging by their sorry appearance, they clearly expected to be executed on arrival in Genoa.
Upon our departure I asked di Lucanti to ride with me, and we attempted conversation by the use of his small knowledge of English and my equally poor Italian. Any problems were eased with the help of Marco, who rode close behind.
“We have heard of your success at Lanzo,” di Lucanti began. “All Italy stands in awe of the English Company. Permit me to ask how Genoa would be able to assist you. You will no doubt already have been told by your squire that I am the Count Savignone, and close in the councils of the Doge.”
“Quite right. Marco has proved to be a valuable addition to our Company, and is most useful to me on all matters Italian. The answer to your question is that I seek to employ some of your crossbowmen. We have very few, only a mere handful amongst our Almain friends.”
Di Lucanti smiled. “Do you expect Genoa’s crossbows to win your battles, Sir John? Some of the older men still harbour bad feelings over the great battle at Crecy, when they suffered so grievously under your long English arrows.”
I shrugged. “Your men were ridden down by impatient French knights who have little love for arrows of any length.”
“True,” he admitted, “but I do not know if the Doge will accede to your request. However, in recognition of your service to my sister and myself, I am in honour bound to plead your case, and that I shall do.”
“You might inform the Doge,” I said, and this was pure invention upon my part, “that King Edward of England is anxious to further encourage the wool trade with Italy, and this can only be to the mutual advantage of both Doge and King.”
I say this was an invention, but not entirely. I had remembered the gist of it from conversations with the merchant Datini, at the time the Great Company invested Avignon and threatened the Pope. I have found that information such as this often proves useful. Di Lucanti looked thoughtful. “I see. Well, we are a great trading people, we Genoese, and when I make your case to the Doge I shall take care to mention what you have told me.”
We talked on this and similar subjects of mutual interest as we rode on, until it fell to me to raise the matter of our overnight camp, and the necessity of finding a suitable place.
“That will be no problem,” said di Lucanti. “I have an estate within reach of
here. Indeed, I ought now to send a messenger ahead to announce our coming. May I expect you and your lieutenants to dine with us this evening? Your men will be well looked after by my steward. I shall attend to that.”
“Naturally, I accept. You are most kind.”
He turned and called to one of his colourfully-clad retainers, who rode up alongside for instructions. A rapid exchange of Italian, and the young man departed with a clattering of hooves and much hand-waving to his companions. In later years, I became accustomed to the flamboyant ways of the Italians, but in the early days they came as something of a surprise to me.
Di Lucanti laughed at my evident disapproval. “Niccolo is very young, Sir John, and every day is a joyous adventure to him. He gave a good enough account of himself earlier. I shall inform his step-father that I am pleased with him.”
“Is he then a kinsman?”
“No, no. Not of the blood. But his mother married a cousin of ours after the death of her first husband, when Niccolo was but a child. I took him into my service to see what he could make of himself.”
*****
We reached the Savignone estate before nightfall. The house, a long double-storied building, painted white and tiled in red, like many another we had passed along the way, was approached by a paved road. We rode as far as a large ornate gateway, and there dismounted.
The Count was greeted with many deep bows by a small knot of estate servants, led by a man who could only be described as round from every aspect. He was nearly as broad as he was high, and possessed a round, genial face which perspired freely. In a modest brown robe which extended to his ankles, held in at his ample stomach by a straining leather belt, he was the very opposite of the gaily dressed group which now demanded his attention.