Hawkwood

by Jack Ludlow

  In what would be a Free Company every man must have a pair of horses and the proper assembly of the necessary weapons, not just a single mount and their bows and knives. As archers there would be a need to get hold of spears and shields as well as a good supply of arrows, for there would be none from a royal source. The ability to deliver a shower of those would be their primary attraction to any host they offered to join, for his brigade were too few and too singular in their skills to operate as an independent body.

  The camps around the hamlet of Brétigny were awash with men considering the same course and not all were English. There were fighters from the lands of the Holy Roman Empire, from Brittany, Hainault, Flanders and Gascony, as well as a dozen other provinces, come to fight for the rewards that could be accrued and scarce caring from whom they needed to be taken. Over the next days, as what came to be called the Treaty of Brétigny was settled, John Hawkwood made his way from farmhouse to manor house, from tented encampments to a band who had sequestered a monastery, throwing out most of the inmates, keeping only enough to see to their needs as servants. He sought out those who styled themselves captain generals and examined each group, now beginning to form into companies of a formidable size.

  Finally he settled on one led by a Rhinelander called Albert Sterz, who spoke decent English and had gathered under his banner a large number of individual brigades. Most vitally, it was one well balanced in its various arms, including enough mounted knights to effect a telling charge against a well-mounted enemy, should the need arise.

  Hawkwood had many reservations about Sterz on his first meeting; in fact he was unsure if he liked the German, not that affection was paramount. Yet he had to admit the man had a level of organisational skill the Englishman could not match and was not prepared to posture and pretend he did. Hawkwood could command his company and lead them to where they were needed: such placement would often lay outside his present competence.

  He was welcomed: Sterz was eager to add English longbowmen to the force he had decided to call the Great Company. Here too there had to be contracts: written obligations from captains of bands to serve for a period and a portion of the spoils acquired, which would be disbursed, once a leader’s share had been deducted, amongst those they led.

  With an air of command, taller by a full two hands than Hawkwood, the German looked impressive. Much scarred by combat, he had a knobbly forehead and a set of greying eyebrows that hung like curtains over his hooded green eyes. The nose might have been prominent once; now it was near flat to his face, evidence of fighting with fists as well as his sword.

  Latin was the language of contracts, English of discourse. His was guttural as that of any German speaker but, with a deep voice and an ability to carry without shouting, he possessed the vital air of leadership, backed up by a ready fist with which to quell disagreement that was needed to impose order. Yet the Great Company could be no tyranny: which direction to march, what places to attack and plunder, to accept or avoid battle had to be discussed and John Hawkwood would be as much part of that as two dozen others of equal merit. All that was needed now was confirmation of a treaty of peace and that came within days.

  As a loyal subject of his king, Hawkwood had a letter drawn up to tell Edward of his intentions, though that had to be disguised since part of the treaty insisted that all English fighting men must depart France, not a sanction the king was inclined to enforce; peace was one thing, leaving your enemy to prosper unhindered was another. The fact that he swore fealty said that which was required: I am your liege man and wherever I serve I uphold your crown.

  Everyone, from lowly men men-at-arms to the greatest magnates, attended the ceremony in nearby Chartres that closed the Treaty of Brétigny, the masses of the commonality held back by the familia knights who rode into battle with their various aristocratic banners to protect their valued person. Edward Plantagenet and his son, gorgeously clad in silks, embraced the offspring of King Jean as if they had been boon companions all their lives. The French princes, Charles and Philip, would have as soon knifed their counterparts as kiss them on the cheek, of that there was no doubt.

  Parts had to be played, amity pushed to the fore. Edward Plantagenet now flew a banner above his pavilion with only his three golden lions, the flag no longer quartered with the lilies of France. He had renounced his claim and knelt in fealty to the absent King Jean for his possessions on the Continent as had all Dukes of Normandy before him. After a mass in the Cathedral of Our Lady a feast had to be consumed, with cups of wine disappearing down willing throats, to be refilled with alacrity until most of the main assembly ended up drunk.

  Lesser beings were not to be left behind and the fights that ensued were a commonplace with men well into their cups. The mayhem that followed, as the most rapacious descended on the hitherto untouched hamlet of Brétigny, was only to be expected. If the French princes and nobility, still at their tables eating and drinking, heard the screams of violated women and men being put to the sword for seeking to protect them, they paid it no heed. Their sense of personal honour and their tradition of disdain for the commonality demanded indifference.

  At dawn the opposing camps began to break up, the English lords aiming to go home through Calais, leaving behind a smouldering Brétigny and those who declined to be part of the exodus. The French, expected to head back to Paris, instead moved to protect Chartres, well aware that those forming free companies would be tempted by such a wealthy prize. Hawkwood moved his men close to the encampment occupied by Sterz and it was there that the first true gathering of captains came together.

  The decision, quickly taken, was to march south into the fertile lands of the province of Beauce, known as the granary of France. The towns were untouched, wealthy, the farmers rich in a countryside groaning with produce and so a temptation to the profitable depredations of the Great Company, two thousand fighting men strong.

  Other bands headed west and south-west, taking any road that led to profit, scorching that through which they passed to leave behind diminished populations, ruined crops, unwilling women who would in time bear their bastards as well as a dearth of living men to till the soil. Of all the names they were called, and none of them were favourable, the most common became ‘Routiers’ and this would soon spread over all of France inducing terror.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The thick, leafy overhead canopy cut out so much light that the track seemed to be in near darkness, made more telling by the twin arcs of sunlight ahead and behind that showed the outer limits of this patch of deep woodland. Such gloom rendered ethereal the way the forest edge suddenly came to life. The undergrowth began to move, shapes that grew arms and legs moments before this seeming illusion took proper form.

  The missiles came next: catapult-launched stones, not as deadly as arrows or spears but with the power to seriously wound those slow to get their sheilds up, made doubly difficult because of the effect on the more vulnerable mounts.

  Horses were rearing and spinning, threatening to unseat their riders; the pack horses were straining on their lead ropes, their noisy reaction to pain and shock adding to the general mayhem. Ahead of the column and behind, a succession of tall mature trees began to fall, slowly at first, until crashing through the leafage of those opposite they thudded into the ground to form a set of formidable barriers to the front and rear of the horse-borne company.

  John Hawkwood was as astonished as any man he led but as captain it was incumbent on him to produce a response; he needed a cool head not a panicked one and if he wondered from whom this ambuscade came that would have to wait; it was now a matter of survival. Having registered those falling trees he quickly guessed the aim; first to block any desire for continued forward movement, which left him and his men with retreat as the obvious option. That suggested a killing zone had been set up on this side of the thick trunks, easy targets for slingshot and attack, as men and mounts sought to get around or over them.

  ‘Never do that which your enemy desires.’


  This was a watchword Hawkwood had learnt from his royal commanders and it was one he uttered to himself now. Fighting to control his courser and aware that the original assailants had vanished, he risked standing in his stirrups, simultaneously unsheathing and raising his sword to shout, not with force enough to entirely overcome the bellowing and neighing but sufficient to get the attention of those closest to him. Enough men moving in the right direction would drag the remainder with them.

  A second salvo of catapult stones came winging out of the woods, only for those firing them to once more dissolve into the greenery. That had to be ignored: certain actions were unthinking in a band of professional fighting men. The youngest of his company, boy recruits picked up on their travels, had been quick to follow the standing command that they dismount in order to gather together the still troubled packhorses, thus freeing their seniors to give battle.

  Time did not allow for a leader to think on such matters; action was required. It was the aimed sword at the end of an outstretched arm his men followed, not the roaring voice. Hawkwood drove his mount into the dense foliage that hid the forest floor, a thick tangle of bushes in full summer bloom, behind him young Christopher Gold, his standard-bearer as well as his horn-blowing signaller, who never left the side of his chief.

  The human form that rose from within was no more than a pair of white, wild eyes in a face daubed the same colour as the leaves around his head, the branch-strewn clothing of a dun and near invisible hue. There was the glint of a blade and the rider knew where that would be aimed: not at him but at the belly of his horse. Hauling hard on the reins and throwing his own weight to the rear of his saddle he got his mount’s hooves high enough to flay, a threat that created its own obstruction to his opponent’s intentions.

  At the same time he was seeking, by the pressure of his knees, to turn to the left and thus clear the way for his sword arm. It all happened in one movement, seconds that felt an age as if time had decided to stand still. The way he had to extend his reach nearly unseated Hawkwood as he slashed at the man’s neck. Had the fellow been less eager to strike he would probably have survived, but with his passions high and yelling unintelligible imprecations, he rushed into the arc of the blow.

  Taken between jaw and shoulder the sharp metal sliced through the vital organ that carried his blood, sending forth a spray of bright-red fluid. Hawkwood was not looking at that but at the eyes, now displaying the shock of a man who knew he was about to die. With a weapon both sharp on the edge and pointed at its tip the second blow was a straight jab to the upper chest, waste since it jarred on solid bone, sending a telling jolt up the rider’s arm.

  Given his men had followed his lead, albeit in piecemeal fashion, the entire forest edge was now a melee of freebooters seeking to get far enough into the trees to kill their assailants. Hawkwood had a fear that more attackers, in numbers of which he had no idea, could come upon their rear – and that might prove calamitous.

  Wheeling out onto the track and seeing no movement, he called for his horn carrier to blow a command to rally to the banner, raised high and waved by Gold. It was not swiftly obeyed, yet bit by bit those seeking to penetrate deeper into the forest began to emerge, to form up on the track. Blood dripping from many of their weapons stood as testimony to the act of killing; now they must get ready to continue a fight against an enemy that seemed to have disappeared.

  ‘Alard, dismount your section and string your bows. The rest stay horsed and in position to charge.’

  In his band, still a hundred-strong after a year of campaigning but of mixed skills as new recruits joined, forty men slid from their saddles, to ease the required weapon from their packhorses. The stringing was quick through long practice and a sheaf of arrows followed, along with the slung quiver to hold them.

  Whoever led their attackers must now be wondering what was coming, for the men he had drawn into this ambuscade were not acting as he would have hoped for and planned. There was no headlong rush to get clear and certainly an utter lack of panic, which had surely been expected. Seeking to put himself in his opponent’s shoes Hawkwood tried to work out how he would react.

  The original method of assault indicated a body of men not trained to fight in the open and thus not soldiers. There had been no thrown spears and that indicated a lack of weapons. The man he had killed carried only a knife and there was no evidence of even a padded jacket for protection.

  ‘Horsemen to the fore,’ he commanded, moving forward himself to lead. ‘Alard, I will close the range to a hundred paces then you will deploy.’

  He had to bank on his enemy remaining in the cover of the trees, but what if they came out to fight? Surely they would be on foot, in which case cavalry could charge and scatter them. He held his breath as he led his men forward, yet it became increasingly obvious he had guessed right. Whoever had contrived this trap was still hoping for an attempt to get past those tree trunk barriers. Even if carried out with no panic the horses would cause difficulties, leaving them in some disarray and thus vulnerable.

  The forest was quiet, which had Hawkwood quietly castigating himself: surely it had been that when he entered this stretch of shaded track and it had not registered. There was an alternative: those awaiting him could have been in position for a very long time, which would allow the forest creatures, most importantly the birds, to settle. The horsemen stopped as he held up his hand, the men on foot slipping by to line up, bows resting on the ground and an arrow to hand ready to be nocked.

  ‘Fire on my command.’

  Hawkwood tried to conjure up an image of what was being observed in reverse, from within that screen of trees looking onto what was a deeply shaded trail. They would see and recognise the weapons they were going to face: every boy born made a bow as soon as they grew enough to draw and pretend. Yet would they remark on the length of those about to be employed against them? This far south would they have heard of the great defeats of the French kings by the English and the reasons it had come about?

  ‘Your ruse has failed!’ he shouted. ‘I grant you a chance to withdraw. Send someone to parley if you agree.’

  This was called out in Latin, the only language that might be understood in a land where there seemed to be as many dialects as people. Every district he and his comrades had passed through since heading south from Chartres boasted its own unique patois. Only in the towns and cities was there any semblance of a common tongue and that was so larded with idiom as to be nearly as incomprehensible. If they had a monk in the forest then his words would be understood. If not, matters would take their course.

  The act of killing did not overburden John Hawkwood but he was still on the wrong side of those tree trunks with no real knowledge of what he faced in numbers and ability. A guess was just that, and it was incumbent on him to preserve the lives of those who followed his banner. It was a foolish captain who led his men into a fight against unknown odds.

  ‘No reply, John.’ The words were called back by Alard the Radish. As one of Hawkwood’s corporals and commander of the bowmen he had the right to speak. ‘They might have fled.’

  ‘But perhaps not. Better safe.’

  The order to fire to the left-hand side of the barrier followed immediately. The bows came up, each of an individual length but taller than the man employing it, the long pull requiring strong muscles in the arm and back. There was no need for another command, each archer was trained to count the right numbers in his head for each act and they knew to fire flat in such circumstances and at the perceived range. Thus the volley was simultaneous as was the reloading and firing of a second salvo. By the time the third was on its way from quiver to bow the first screams began to come out of the woods, caused by those arrows that had missed trees and found flesh.

  ‘Fire to the right,’ came the shout.

  The archers swung their weapons to obey, sending three salvos into the foliage opposite to again be rewarded with more cries as they struck home. Then it was back leftwards to ca
tch those who had forsaken cover to look to their wounded comrades, the increased volume of pained sounds evidence of their success.

  ‘They’re coming out,’ Alard cried.

  Which they did, seeming hundreds of ragged peasants carrying pitchforks, scythes and knives, goaded into action. The price paid for this folly was high as they ran into a hail of arrows, fired with enough velocity to penetrate the trunk of any body they struck, the points emerging out of their backs. As a charge it was suicidal, yet they were strong in passion, for those who managed to avoid a wound came on.

  The drill that followed was carried out smoothly; the archers turned and slipped back through the screen of horsemen, who, with Hawkwood to the fore, immediately closed with these poor unfortunates. The sight of big-chested coursers and thudding hooves coming towards men on foot was too much. Some turned and ran to be followed by the more stalwart, many tripping over their dead or dying comrades, seeking the safety of the trees.

  Few managed it and a slaughter ensued, for the archers knew what was required. Out came their bollock knives and in they weighed at the run, to skewer or slit the throat of anyone who appeared to still have breath, while the horsemen pursued and sought to kill those still fleeing. They were strangers in these southlands and an example must be set: the best way to avoid any repeat of what had just happened was to leave none of their assailants alive.

  The main body of the Great Company came across Hawkwood’s men working with axes and multiple teams of horses and ropes, seeking to clear the forest track enough to let the main body following get through, not least the dozens of heavily laden carts carrying possessions, booty and the hundreds of artisans and camp followers. They required the full width of the track to pass on and the enclosing forest precluded any detour. To one side lay heaped a pile of bodies, the earth stained with their blood. There they would remain as food for carrion if no one came to bury them.