by Jack Ludlow
Once through the arch – Hawkwood had noted the double walls and the raised portcullis – they came upon crowded narrow alleys that required pressure from their horses to push through. The way was full of inns, their swinging signs giving names and often their particular specialities. Needing one with a stable, Hawkwood turned off the main thoroughfare to find a less crowded area, with substantial gates hiding houses of some size where the quality of the provender was likely to be higher.
That brought him to the Impious Bull.
CHAPTER SIX
It is in the nature of innkeepers to be garrulous – their trade demands it – and by ordering a deal of food, as well as the best available wines in the establishment, John Hawkwood got the attention he required, not least an offer of free stabling and livery for his horses. They were fed with oats and washed down to both cool them and remove the dust of travel, then brushed so they gleamed even down to their hooves being oiled, all fitting service to a man who looked as if he could afford to pay.
Claiming to be on the way to Avignon, hinting without actually saying so that his business there centred on a case in the papal courts he hoped would be decided his way, Hawkwood quizzed the owner of the tavern about the town, using praise of its beauty, as well as of the man’s service, to open his mind.
‘I see you indulge your servant, sir, which is a Christian thing to do.’
This was said as Gold rose, having gobbled his food in the way youths do. Since sitting at the board he had remained silent and concentrated on provender of a much better quality than that eaten with the Great Company on the move, his head rarely coming up from his plate. Without his being commanded to do so he would make sure the horses were being well cared for.
‘Good in a servant comes from kindness,’ Hawkwood replied, not naming his true position of page, now squire and adoptee. ‘To do otherwise gives a man more trouble, not less. He’s a good lad when not sneaking off to fish.’
That statement from the supposed master got a quizzical look, which was responded to.
‘It is a passion with the lad and I must admit to myself being partial to plying the rod. It can be a sport, but there is little to match the consummation of the catch over your own fire, to conclude a day when God has been kind.’
‘It is a common pursuit in Pont-Saint-Esprit, sir; how could it not be with such a mighty river on our doorstep? If you could glance over the parapet you would see many seeking their supper.’
Hawkwood feigned surprise. ‘It is permitted on the strand?’
‘Frowned on, happen, but none bother to curtail it unless the town is threatened and that, sir, is rare. Why, there hasn’t been an alarm since I was working as my father’s pot boy in this very place.’
That had to be commented on, so many years of toil, seemingly happily undertaken, before Hawkwood returned to the subject he needed to pursue, beginning with an enquiry regarding those walls, the information quickly forthcoming that the town had a garrison.
‘I would have thought the men set to guard them might object to people fishing where they have a responsibility to keep it secure.’
‘What, and give themselves exertion?’ came the querulous reply. ‘No, sir, they are not inclined that way, indeed not much disposed to anything, bar ensuring a full belly and ample wine. There’s many a belt needs to be loosened in that quarter, with no thought to the cost laid upon us for their presence.’
Hawkwood had to work hard to avoid looking at the fellow’s own ample belly, straining at a thick leather belt and heavy buckle, while the man went on to talk of the garrison’s numbers and abilities – and there was scant praise regarding the latter.
‘I assume you are taxed to pay for it?’
‘We are, and I am not alone in seeing it as nought but waste.’
‘It would, then, be permitted for me to have a look at the riverbank? I will come back this way and hope to be less pressed for time, which would allow me a chance to test the river.’
‘I judge by your garb, sir, that if you fish, you do not do so from necessity.’
He will be assessing me for what he can fleece, Hawkwood surmised. The man before him had a round, vinous face topped with tight curled hair and eyes rendered sunken-looking by the large puffy bags beneath them. The nose was purple which, added to the mottled skin, indicted a serious imbiber, a man who was not one to put aside a flagon till it was emptied. He might be a glutton too, given his waist required that strong belt to stop his belly slipping to his knees.
‘I would be a richer man if the clerics of Avignon were less avaricious.’
‘In that we share strong opinions, sir.’
That tended to be a safe subject of conversation wherever you went. The excesses of the Church were a common cause for resentment among the laity. It was said no one ever saw a thin priest or friar, still less a bishop on foot and only rarely favouring a palfrey over a coach or a seat in a servant-borne litter. His host made a good fist of an angry growl and a look meant to convey agreement.
‘You hinted at a plea before the papal court, sir.’
Posed as a possible question Hawkwood was not going to oblige. ‘One so finely balanced that I fear to talk of it lest I affect the outcome, though when I reflect on the bribes I have to pay to even get a hearing my blood boils.’
‘If any in Avignon believe in God over Mammon, it is well concealed.’
Hawkwood sat back and looked at the destruction he and Gold had wrought on the meal: an empty pie dish, likewise the soup tureen, the bones of the two pigeons and a chicken now bare of flesh, patting his own lean and tight-muscled stomach to convey satisfaction. A loud belch got an appreciative nod from the innkeeper.
‘I am happily content, sir, and I congratulate you on the quality of what you have provided. Now, before you present me with an account I ask that I may leave our horses for the length of the hourglass, perhaps two, while I walk off being in the saddle all morning as well as the contents of my gut.’
‘Why, sir, I have yet to calculate the tariff. Feel free to settle on your return and happen your mounts will need a second feeding too. And might I add that should you feel your nether regions have suffered enough for a day, then it would be my pleasure to accommodate you in my humble establishment and to provide for you anything you might require. If you cast your eyes over the wenches serving and one catches your fancy—’
‘What a temptation, for I espied a couple that were comely. I must keep going, though, or risk missing my hearing. But now to stretch my legs.’
‘I would welcome you on your return from Avignon, sir.’
‘Having found such a fine place, where else would I lay my head? You will certainly see me again and I hope as a happy fellow.’
As soon as he left, the innkeeper set a boy to keep an eye on the stables, not that it troubled Hawkwood to see it; indeed it would have engendered surprise if he had not. Trust was to any man in trade an alien concept and this one had good grounds to act that way. He must have been dunned in the past by a plausible stranger passing through the town.
Hawkwood, Gold at his heels, exited the gate hard by the paved road that led to the tollbooth on the bridge and its barrier, stopping for a while to assess the revenues that this must produce, given the traffic was steady and continuous. The trade between both banks of the Rhone was brisk on its own but this was a major route and not only for pilgrims. Messengers must be frequent, not least those carrying communications from Pope Innocent to his bishops and abbots. There would be diplomatic envoys too, those travelling on behalf of Italian bankers, and that was before the flotsam of a polity in constant flux.
The walk along the strand between the wall and river was made slowly and caused no comment, given it was interspersed with many an exchange. Fishermen were ever willing to talk to anyone interested in the subject, to boast of the best and biggest creature to take the hook on their line, of bait and ways to cast and play a catch as well as the foibles of the differing varieties of fish.
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bsp; In between such conversations Hawkwood had ample time to closely examine the walls on which he hoped to launch an assault, in good repair like those he had seen earlier. The red-tiled roofs of the houses that crowded against the walls were just visible, which meant once over, anyone assaulting would soon be in among the citizenry before they could be alerted and armed.
The approach was dominated by the square tower of the cathedral, which he had just been informed was dedicated to St Saturnin, a man martyred ten centuries past by being dragged along the ground tied to the feet of a bull and much commemorated in place and church names, not least in the tavern he had just vacated.
The height of the church tower was a worry; anyone up there would be able to observe an approach long before the men on the walls, while he would have to cover as much ground as possible while it was still light to be in place for a final advance. He noticed the beacon baskets, which would be lit before dark, calculated the height of the walls at twenty cubits – ladders would have to be made of the right length – as well as the possibility that the strand was full of vegetation growing out of pebbles, which would make it difficult to keep silent when moving.
Close by were spits that stretched out into the river like sandbars, exposed at this time of year. Their presence created noise as the water flowed over and on to the south at a lick. The whole gave Hawkwood much to think about, not least that he would need a special kind of sky, a mix of cloud and moonlight, for what he had in mind to be a success. To that would need to be added a very large dose of luck.
The day was progressing, the time to leave becoming pressing, as none but a fool would set out to travel with darkness approaching. He called to Gold and they made their way back to the tavern to go through the comedy of being presented with an inflated bill, one Hawkwood paid with seeming willingness to a grovelling but very happy innkeeper. Even the youngster knew it to be bloated and he asked why Hawkwood had been so forthcoming.
‘Our fat friend will be less happy when I come next to this place, for my first act will be to retrieve what I have just paid him and perhaps a great deal more.’
No assault would be launched that day and, once he had rejoined his men, word was sent back to Sterz to keep him abreast of events. Hawkwood checked that a company as discreet as his own had been sent forward ready to seal the roadway as evening approached, for delay would become impossible; once in place he must proceed quickly to attack.
The lack of traffic from a countryside accustomed to supply the town would be spotted immediately and could raise concerns. Yet another company would be needed on the following day to mask their movements once they left the pilgrim route and they would also be given charge of di Valona who was no soldier and thus a burden: Jonzac and the Belge were in no way prepared to miss the coming action.
The rest of that day and the first half of the next was spent in preparation. Weapons were sharpened, ladders made in short easy-to-carry sections that could be assembled in situ. Longer poles had to be fitted with hooks strong enough to bear the weight of buckets, these with a rope attached in a way that could tilt them so the water they contained, taken from the river, could quietly douse some of the fire beacons and plunge the bank into darkness.
The weather augured well, a mixture of cloud and clear sky with the former increasing throughout the day, which would mean long periods of darkness in the coming night. The approach to Pont-Saint-Esprit was to be made in a wide arc to the south of the town, which would bring Hawkwood to the river before the light faded completely. With the Rhone on one side no further guide was needed, and when the cloud did clear that became a silver beacon by which progress was made easy.
Silence was achieved by using the shallows; water disturbed by feet sounded no different to the normal flow of the river and when it became too illuminated by the light from overhead a halt was called so that static figures became close to invisible at a distance. Weapons, sword blades and spearheads had been blackened with grease and earth to prevent reflection.
The trickiest moment for Hawkwood was the final approach to the narrow, bush-strewn strand, which was carried out in stops and starts, controlled by him – he had gone ahead with just Gold – using a shaded lantern only ever opened to face the southern side. First his men, once they felt stones underfoot, moved with great caution along the walls, their backs hugging them so that to be seen would require that a guard lean right out over the parapet.
One precaution was essential: a spit of gravel led out into the river near the northern corner of the walls. Out onto that, dressed all in black and with his skin likewise made muddy, went Ivor the Axe who for all his name and skill with that weapon was the best archer in the company. The risk had to be taken; he would stand out in the open and alert those on the strand to a man patrolling the walls by a low bird whistle. His bow would be strung but lowered and if any guard was prepared to risk a fall to see what had alerted their interest, his task was to put an arrow through him.
With much caution the buckets were filled by dipping. Hooked on to the poles they were eased aloft to very slowly extinguish the beacons, not rushed in any way to curtail the hissing of suppressed flames and with a sharp eye on Ivor the Axe. By the time they had finished there was practically no light and men could begin to bind together their ladders.
It required six sections to get to the necessary height. Each one lashed to the next, the join stiffened with another stout piece of wood to act as a batten. Throughout all of these activities John Hawkwood could do nothing but signal a message to proceed at each stage, that being determined by the number of times he unshaded his lantern. But that was over now; everything was either ready or it was not.
The last flick of light from that lantern was upon him and once employed it staying open would be the signal to begin the assault. He waited, as still as a nervous mouse, listening for sounds and sure that his imagination might be providing many. The stakes he could not put out of his mind: those cardinals and that treasure was due at some time in the next day and he wanted them to enter a town that they and their escorts had no reason to think presented any danger.
Many years of experience in giving battle allowed him to steady his nerves and give the candle command that would see the ladders raised. The section at the top of each one had been muffled with cloth so as to make no sound on contact, and slowly they were slid up the walls, the sections being counted off until those below them knew they had enough height to clamber through the crenellations by which the defender expected to be able to repel an attack.
It fell to John Hawkwood to be the first up a ladder; his duty as a leader demanded it and both Jonzac and the Belge had claimed the right to be likewise indulged. Ten ladders spaced at the correct width meant ten men would get to the top of the walls near simultaneously, more than enough to overcome what guards would be on this east-facing aspect when most threats would come from the inland flank.
Swords were held tightly and kept to the centre of the ladder, for a clash of metal on stone would mean instant discovery at a time when a man was at his most vulnerable. Rung by rung and slowly, they kept ascending, knowing that they would not be joined until each was three sections ahead of the next, this to avoid creaking wood and possible failure of a joint.
It was odd how every sound seemed magnified; the least rasp, even the gurgling of the water behind and below seemed louder the higher Hawkwood rose. He knew behind him Gold would be champing to follow and could only hope the lad’s impatience to be at his master’s side would be overcome by the strict instructions he had been given to wait.
When he came abreast of the crenellations, with the ladder top so close to stone he could rest his cheek and cool it, the sky, which had been cloudy, suddenly cleared, a short break of starlight but enough to give him pause. There was no way to issue orders, he could only hope that his confrères would do as he did and quickly drop a rung to stay hidden until it passed.
Hawkwood was holding his breath, which was necessary since he was uns
ure his exhalation would be soundless. When the cloud cover came back he moved with speed because a glance aloft told him there would be another burst of light following in short order. A hand grasped onto the crown was sufficient to lever him up and through. There he stopped, crouched and hidden by the depth of the blocks just as the light increased again.
A slowly raised head allowed him sight of the parapet. There was a lone guard with his back to him, walking away, but far enough off to make it a risk to attack him. Lowering himself slowly he eased his feet on to the timber floor, hearing a squeak from wood long laid and dry from being much weathered. He froze and pushed himself back as far as he could, his sword ready. If the man came to investigate he would kill him; if he shouted to alert his comrades he would attack.
Neither happened: another one of his company had come up behind the fellow and, creeping along to his rear, cupped his hand around the mouth and drove a dagger into his lower back, ripping it upwards to cause a massive wound, causing so much shock that no sound would emerge. The next swipe across an exposed throat brought silence, while the now inert body was dropped soundlessly onto the parapet.
All along the walls his men were emerging, moving to occupy the corners and prevent too early a discovery. The target was the town gates; once in Hawkwood’s hands he would have what he wanted: possession of Pont-Saint-Esprit with no chance for any of the inhabitants to leave and alert any one approaching.