Hawkwood's Sword

by Frank Payton

  The Abbot replaced his wine cup on the table with a shaky hand. He must, I reflected, have been a very handsome man in his youth. His face was now a time-assailed ruin: the bones visible under near transparent skin; the nose, once high and of noble aspect, a pitted relic; the eyes dull and lacklustre. He turned to me.

  “Yes, you are right, my son. As you have heard, we have usually been left in peace, but on this last occasion we were attacked by raiders such as I have never seen before. They were small men, dark haired, having wide, flat faces with slanted eyes, clad in a fashion strange to us, with long padded coats and high boots. Their swords were curved, their bows of an unusual twisted shape. No one could make them understand that we are men of religion. Their speech was a gabble of unknowable words. They were merciless, killing for no reason, and taking away anything of value they could put their hand upon. Brother Lucian tried to prevent them taking the Crucifix and altar vessels, but he was transfixed by three arrows, and his head hewn off at a stroke. Only the Devil could have created such men. That God should have allowed us to be savaged thus must mean that we must have transgressed his laws in some way.”

  “I am sure that cannot be so,” I told him. “We have had word of these men ere now. My Almain comrades name them as Cumans, wild horsemen from the wide plains of the east, beyond Constantinople. For myself, I have no other knowledge of them, but I expect to engage with them before long. They will find that we deal in harder knocks than peaceful monks.”

  “Let us hope so, Sir John. Let us hope so, and that God will help you and your men prevail against them,” was the Abbot’s reply.

  “As a fellow countryman of Brother Edmund, I am curious as to how he comes to be so far from his own land and village. Are there not sinners enough in England for you, that he must wander so?”

  The good brother laughed. “I have been on a pilgrimage to the birthplace of our founder, the Blessed Saint Francis, at Assisi, and paused here on my homeward journey. Thus am I caught up in this bloody conflict. I would seek a way out, possibly with your help, Sir John. I would be willing to render what service I am able.” He sounded hopeful.

  “Perhaps you could be of service to me, Brother Edmund, and in return I will set you on your way again. Do you know Sible Hedingham?”

  “Aye, though I have been there but once. It is not so far from Halstead that I cannot go there again. For what purpose, if I might ask?”

  “You may, and it is this. My elder brother, another John, has a tannery there, and I wish to know how he fares in health, and of his affairs. I would learn anything about my family which you might learn.”

  “But, Sir John, if I survive on the road to England and find your people, and learn their state, how shall I tell you of them?”

  I smiled at his puzzlement. “It is quite simple. You shall have a horse to carry you, Brother Edmund, money in your scrip, and a small store of food. When you return to Halstead and find word of my family, you will write down the account of their affairs, and take the letter to a wool merchant in London, whose name I shall give to you. He will send it to a mutual friend in Avignon. He in turn will send the missive to one of his agents here in Lombardy, or Tuscany, who will bring it to me.”

  “I will do this for you, Sir John, to repay you for your help to these poor brothers, and to me.” His eyes shone at my offer.

  “It will be of great comfort to me to hear news of home. But for now, these men are as my brothers, and I must attend to them. I shall leave you all here to your own affairs, whilst I attend to mine.”

  With that I left with John Brise to make our rounds of this camp within a monastery. I found it not a little amusing that so many men of war should rest within a house of peace. The hour was late and mostly quiet. We had had a long ride and a fast one, but a few men still sat around the glowing, dying campfires. Only the silent guards moved about on their duties.

  “Who comes?” came a hoarse whisper.

  “Sir John and myself,” growled John. “Is that you, Wat Ferrers? Is aught passing?”

  “Aye ‘tis me, John.” No, nought save owls and small beasts. There’s been some noise from the Almains, but they’re quiet now.”

  “What sort of noise, roistering or fighting?” I asked him.

  “Could have been a brawl of sorts. I know I heard the clang of swords.” He seemed uninterested, and I didn’t press him on the subject. Wat was a surly sort, and never said much, but was a good soldier all the same.

  “Well, good night, Wat. Keep a good watch.” I slapped his shoulder. He grunted some sort of reply, and faded noiselessly into the night.

  We continued our rounds until I was satisfied with our positions. As we approached my quarters again, Marco appeared from the darkness.

  “Sir John? Good. Have you heard the sound of horses? I think from the direction of the Almain camp.”

  “No, but Wat Ferrers has told of hearing a clang of swords. What do you think has happened?”

  “I’m not sure, but one of the archers came over to report horses in the night, going away to the east.”

  “What in Hell is going on, Jack?” said John.

  “I don’t know, and I don’t like the sound of it, but there has been no alarum. The morning will tell all. Now, I’m for my bed. You’d both better get some sleep too. It will be another long day tomorrow.”

  With a last glance at the night sky, I went to my sleeping quarters.

  *****

  The next day a chill mist hung over the whole countryside with no sign of the sun. Brother Edmund met me as I emerged from my quarters. He held the reins of what was clearly one of the packhorses, sturdy enough I supposed, but Wat Spikings was evidently not giving too much away. How like his master, Will Turton, I thought.

  Whether the beast would carry the good brother all the way to England I would not have liked to guess.

  “I am leaving now, Sir John.” It appeared that Brother Edmund was eager to be on the road. “And I thank you for the horse and the parcel of food. May God go with you and your men.”

  “A word or two of advice,” I said. “Do not, at this time of year, attempt to cross into France over the great mountains to the north of here. You must go to the south, and pass by the coast roads. Have you been provided with money?”

  “Yes, indeed. I am sorry I did not mention this. Your man Spikings gave me a small bag of silver florins. They will suffice for me. In any event, members of my order are not supposed to carry money, but have to depend on charity. I do not fear the journey.”

  “You have a stout heart, Sir Monk. Take with you this paper which I have had prepared. Show it to any English commander you may encounter on your journey, even in France. I am known to many, and they will help you for my sake. Here is another for you to give to Salvestro Mannini, a wool merchant, or his representative in London, to whom you will give your letter to be sent to me here in Italy. Now, fare you well, for we must be away!” We clasped hands, then he turned away and went to his horse. Huw, who had been waiting nearby, handed me Boy’s reins. I swung up into his high saddle and turned his head towards the monastery gate. Brother Edmund then climbed clumsily into the saddle of his mount, and took up the reins. We rode out of the gate side by side, to a farewell and blessings from the old Abbot and his brown-clad flock.

  Once through the gate we parted company, as he made off to the west. I was joined by John Brise and Jack Onsloe, and we took up our places in the van of our column.

  *****

  “Master Sterz approaches,” Marco said quietly, as he sat his horse next to mine.

  I looked over to my left. Albrecht was already halfway between his column and mine, accompanied by Hannes von Auerbach and Wolf.

  Behind them rode a man-at-arms who carried a bloodstained bundle across the front of his saddle.

  “Good morning, Jack. I see you are ready for the day.” Albrecht nodded to Marco, who dropped behind to stand next to von Auerbach. At a sign from his leader, the man-at-arms threw the bundle to the ground
and jumped down to unroll the cloth. A body sprawled out, and the Almain placed a mailed foot underneath and turned it face upwards. I looked down into a dark face, framed by long, blood-matted black hair. The lips were drawn back in a grimace halfway between surprise and a snarl. I had seen that the back of the head had been smashed in, probably by a mace.

  “Here’s a Cuman warrior for you. One of the devils on horseback,” said Albrecht. “We’ve kept his weapons for you as well.” He handed me a curved sword, a twisted bow not much over three feet in length, and a quiver of black arrows. I examined them briefly.

  “Ask Giles to come up here, Marco. He will wish to see these. There is good steel in this sword, Albrecht. This is very fine work.”

  “What’s to do, Sir John?” came Giles’s voice. “I’ve all my men chafing at the bit to be off. What’s this then, a toy?” He took the little bow from me. It was still strung.

  “It’s a Cuman bow. There’s the owner.” I pointed to the dead man. “What do you think of his bow?”

  “A child’s toy, surely.” He took the bow in his left hand, hooking the fingers of the right around the string, and pulled on it. I watched as a puzzled look came over his face, and he had to use more strength, and yet more to get to full draw. He looked in some wonderment at the weapon.

  “I’d never have thought it to be so stiff, to look at it. What is it made from? May I keep it?”

  I smiled at his eagerness. I knew that anything to do with the bowyer’s craft always held his attention. “Yes, of course. I know you will keep it safe.”

  Albrecht laughed. “One of my men says these bows are made from wood, horn, and the sinew from cattle or horses. I know not what else. But now, Jack, I expect you’ll want the explanation for all this?”

  “We knew something had happened in your camp last night. What was it?”

  “A group of these devils fell on us out of the night, killed three men and stole a few horses. We turned out to fight but only cornered and killed this one. His friends fled away to the east, and we did not try to follow. It might have been a trap.”

  “That was wise. You could have lost more men. It’s a warning, I’d guess. Our best course is to carry the fight to Landau. We should move now, my friend.”

  “I’ll leave you then, Jack, and we shall see how the day fares. God speed. We will see each other this evening, at the latest.”

  With that Albrecht and his three comrades left us, and we began our day’s march. I caused word to be passed down the line for all to be especially vigilant. To Giles and Andreas I gave instructions that the archers should ride with braced bows to hand, and the crossbowmen their weapons spanned and loaded.

  As events turned out they were not needed, and by previous agreement the whole Company halted in the mid-afternoon for rest and an early meal. Our intention was to carry on into the evening and make a night attack on the outskirts of Milan. Such a thing would never be expected on a New Year’s Eve, by the people of the city or of the outlying villages.

  We crossed the River Ticino virtually unopposed by the pathetic guard at the bridges and fords, and left men to collect boats and barges against our return. Fanning out on the far bank we swept through the open countryside, firing farms and villages as we rode. We didn’t stay for booty, as the richer prizes would come later.

  *****

  Resistance to our advance began as the night ended and the first flecks of light appeared in the east. I was riding with Jack Onsloe’s men at the time. We were snatching a hasty breakfast of bread and wine when two scouts galloped in.

  “To horse! To horse! They are on our heels! Sir John, Master Onsloe, to horse!”

  “How many?” bawled Jack. “And what’s amiss with Tom?”

  One of the men was sagging over his horse’s neck.

  “Can’t say, but a goodly company. A bolt in the shoulder, I think. They’ve some mounted crossbowmen amongst their number,” he yelled. “I’ll get him to the rear.”

  “Come on, Jack, or they’ll be upon us.” I swallowed a last morsel of bread, ran for Boy, and vaulted into the saddle. Huw tossed my helmet over, and I put it on and shook the mail aventail into position about my neck. Drawing my sword, I spurred Boy into movement. Jack followed with his men. We spread out in our usual three line formation and trotted forward.

  “Here they come!” Jack yelled, his voice booming hollow inside his helmet. “Shields hup! Set on lads!”

  Then we were at it. With a rolling clang, a double line of mailed horsemen crashed into us. I had secured my shield high on my left arm to protect that side. Swords and maces struck at me as I fought with whirling blade. I was glad that my sword had been newly secured to my breastplate with a long chain, which allowed me a full swing on all sides but guarded against losing the weapon. I carried a warhammer as well.

  Jack was to my right, and Huw on my left. Beyond him Marco drove forward with a will, darting his sword like an adder’s tongue.

  All around us the noise was deafening, a great hammering of sword and mace on shield and armour. A knight—he could only have been such—in silvered armour, launched a great blow at my head with a long-handled mace. I ducked behind my high-held shield, dug my left spur into Boy’s flank, and pulled on his bit on the left. The shock made him dance around, and the knight shot past me, bent over his horse’s neck with the force of the blow—which missed. I straightened up and dealt a thrust into his neck and shoulder. The red blood flooded over his bright armour, and he fell away screaming in shock and agony. I did not see him again. Once down and rolled to and fro under the horses’ flailing hooves, few lived through the ordeal. Here and there riderless horses, some trailing riders with one foot caught in a stirrup, bucked out of the press. We fought as men possessed by devils. Jack and I and our immediate companions carved a way into the ranks of the enemy. They began to shy away from us, but there was no escape, as our larger numbers wrapped around their flanks.

  “This is goddamned hard work!” Jack’s voice boomed from within his helmet.

  I yelled back, “They’re beginning to give way!”

  There was a sudden caving in the ranks to the front of us, and a lessening of effort by the enemy. Gradually we made headway into their ranks, but still they fought on. Then into both their flanks came a drift of white-feathered English arrows, and that finally tipped the scale in our favour.

  They began to wheel away, and soon were in full flight. I let Jack’s men follow the rout, but the enemy were quick to disperse in all directions. The men-at-arms returned before too long. Many swayed in the saddle, and not a few slid to earth and lay exhausted.

  We removed our helmets and mailed gauntlets, and gulped in great gulps of cold fresh air. My face ran with sweat, and I pulled a cloth from my saddlebag and wiped it away.

  “Goddamn me, Sir John, that was warm while it lasted.” Jack handed me a leather bottle of wine. I drank thirstily, and gave it back. He passed it on to Marco with a quick nod to him.

  “You’ve done well this morn, my lad. I thought that fellow with the mace had done for you, but not so. Your thrust as he raised his arm to strike was good to see. I saw him go down.”

  Marco smiled broadly with pleasure at the words. He knew that Jack’s praise was not given lightly. He bowed and replaced his sword in it’s sheath.

  “Thank you, Master Onsloe, for your kind words. It was exciting work, but I was glad to see the arrows come in. They hadn’t expected that.”

  “Nor had I,” I said. I had left Giles with the main body of archers. I looked about me but there was no sign of him. A tall archer stood by, leaning on his bow.

  “Master Giles sent us, Sir John. I am Alain Mawe, one of his ventainers. I hope all is well with you.”

  He was a tall, well set-up young lad, but with the hardness of battle experience written in his face, and a bold and forthright air.

  “Yes, Alain, thanks to you and your men. We were hard pressed, but there’s nothing like a gust of arrows to slow up the boldest horseme
n. Give Master Ashurst our thanks for his thought. I’ll make sure that in future there are two or three ventaines of archers with each company of men-at-arms.”

  He grinned, and saluted. “I’ll tell Master Ashurst what you say, Sir John. Now I’d better get back to my lads.” He turned on his heel and stalked away, very erect, yellow bow in his left hand. I watched him go, thinking back to my own days in his rank—standing in the harrow formation, bow in hand, arrow on string, more shafts stuck in the ground at my feet, left side to the advancing mailed tide, usually the French, waiting for the ventainer’s shout. “Draw!” I’d swing the bow up, drawing the string with the arrow well nocked back to the ear. I’d see the arrrowhead against the blue sky. “Loose wholly together!” and the old familiar thrum of the string would resound from a thousand or more bows, followed by the hissing shriek as the white-feathered hail vanished into the distance, to fall with gathering speed, finally to smite the enemy like a huge fist.

  We would repeat this time and time again as confusion spread amongst the oncoming ranks. Horses would go down, screaming and neighing in agony, throwing their riders to the ground. Other riders pressing behind would seek to leap over the fallen to come at us, their defiances booming from their helmets. Arrows would find their way through the mail-covered joints in armour, piercing the thinner plates as t’were paper. The knights and men-at-arms would fall to earth to be trampled by those behind. But still they would come on, and soon we would have to withdraw behind our own fighters, knights and men-at-arms, behind the spearmen who thrust the butts of their long weapons into the ground and raised the cruel points towards the fast approaching horsemen. And then...

  “Jack! Jack! For God’s sake where are you?”

  I shook myself as John Brise’s heavy hand descended upon my shoulder, bringing me back to reality.

  “I’m sorry, John. I was lost in my own thoughts then. What’s to do with you? Have we lost many men?”

  “Don’t know yet, I’ll find out. More to the point, where now?”