Hawkwood

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Someone must go with di Valona,’ Hawkwood insisted. ‘It need not be me.’

  Francis the Belge spoke out, for once positive. ‘It should be you and I will come too.’

  Sterz had his jutting chin on his chest and for once Cunradus did not interfere. Hawkwood was wondering if the German thought he should undertake the task himself. Did it fit with his dignity to do so? When he finally spoke it was mere prevarication.

  ‘Whoever goes must leave at first light.’

  ‘No, Sterz, whoever goes must go now.’ That brought up the head, to glare at Hawkwood again. ‘It is a clear night and my horses are fresh. In darkness we can see campfires three leagues’ distant and such a body must have many of them lit wherever they stop. The accommodation for the clerics will not extend to the Swiss.’

  ‘And if we spy such a camp,’ Francis added, ‘we have no need to approach it to know it is our quarry.’

  Hawkwood indicated di Valona. ‘He must not be seen, so spying what we think to be our cardinals, we will wait till dawn or when they break camp, then ride ahead of them at enough distance to see their dust.’

  ‘It will be hard to keep our men in check,’ came a cry from Baldwin. ‘No drinking, no women, no plunder is not an order they are happy to abide by. It has been hard to enforce this day and it will not ease over another.’

  ‘Then tell them what we seek,’ Sterz shouted, his patience clearly exhausted. ‘That is if they do not know already. If we succeed, they can drink themselves to death in the company of a personal seraglio.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  How many times had John Hawkwood ridden half asleep in the saddle, willing to let his horse pick its own way, knowing it would not deviate from whatever track he and his companions, plus two squires, were on? This time it was an old Roman road and, since the wind was from the north-east it was well illuminated, the sky a clear mass of stars, almost like a white blanket, bright enough to wash out the light of a newish moon.

  Talk between the leading trio was desultory, going from continued speculation as to future good fortune to the near-unthinkable possibility of failure. The blackened landscape ahead showed no sign of that which they sought, numerous campfires, even from the height of a high hill. On those occasions when the mounts required to be walked it was pointless to even look, so the first tinge of dawn saw the positive part of their mood begin to evaporate; by the time the sun rose it was gone.

  ‘We must go all the way to Avignon,’ said di Valona. ‘Only there can I get positive information on what has gone wrong. Plans must have been changed. Once we know of those alterations then we will find out what must be done.’

  ‘There’s sense in that,’ Hawkwood muttered to Francis, knowing the Belge shared his gloom. Having been sustained by a vision of gaining part possession of a great fortune, an ebullient mood that had made sleep seem unnecessary, he was now dog-tired and in sore need of a bed. His fellow captain’s mind was on more mundane considerations.

  ‘Avignon is two days distant and that is without resting the mounts, as we must.’

  ‘If we fail to sight that which we seek, how else will we learn the truth?’ asked the Italian. ‘As for horses, we can change them. We will be coming back by the same route.’

  ‘Di Valona’s right, Francis. If we keep going till the zenith and still find nothing I suggest we send one of our squires back to Pont-Saint-Esprit. Sterz will be chewing his belt already. Beyond that I doubt I can go on without rest and I know my horse cannot.’

  The suggestion got a nod and a raised arm with a finger pointing to a plume of smoke rising lazily into the azure blue sky. ‘Would that be a hospice ahead? If it is, then let us rest now.’

  ‘It is part of the Monastery of Mondragon,’ di Valona replied. ‘I rested there on my way to join the company. The brothers seemed kind and not excessively greedy, but there are no women.’

  ‘We are about to become pilgrims again,’ was Hawkwood’s weary response. ‘And I for one need a few hours abed and no company.’

  Two of the monks who ran the resting place were awaiting them as they passed through the gap in the drystone wall that formed a gate. Benedictines, they wore black habits frayed at the edges indicating they were poor lay brothers, a lower order of sanctity. These were the kind of men who worked to support the monastery, growing the food the choir monks would eat and running such establishments as the abbot saw fit to maintain, this obviously being one of them and designed to produce revenue under the guise of aid for pilgrims.

  Hospices like these dotted every route in Europe; there were shrines everywhere, towards which the faithful could travel for general absolution as well as their particular needs. Each saint had a purpose: healing afflictions, protecting travellers, ensuring prosperity, all with the added ability to provide blessedness. Here the welcome was excessively fulsome and so grovelling it matched the advent of the three Magi, explained by the lack of anyone preceding them, with many questions asked as to what could have caused the flow of travellers to cease.

  Hawkwood, having failed to consider this, was obliged to think quickly and to allude to a miracle that had been observed in Pont-Saint-Esprit, one that had caused pilgrims to delay there in the hope of benefit.

  ‘A young girl, a virgin, had a vision of bloodstained St Saturnin leading a bull into the cathedral. A resurrection of sorts.’

  Having seen much credulity in his travels, he was far from surprised that this tale was swallowed whole and with many a sign of the cross and whispered incantations. In a previous life, between the campaigns of Crécy and Poitiers and on his uppers, Hawkwood had been part of a group seeking to sell relics to the clergy of middle England: small bones, fingers and toes they had acquired from local churchyards, this as a way of making a living when other schemes – and there had been quite a few – had failed.

  It had proved unwise to seek to pass on anything large or from too famous a beatified entity, for the very simple reason that such articles would be the province of the larger diocese and wealthier divines. But a hint in a local tavern that a sanctified bone was close usually prompted the local priest to come and investigate the rumour Hawkwood’s accomplices had planted. He was the final link, the innocent fellow who would never sell what he possessed, a valued family heirloom, on peril of his immortal soul – only to be persuaded, and such a thing took time, that he would be more blessed in the parting for a good cause than the ownership.

  A money gift would ease the transaction and the cleric would go off knowing that once the news spread, his church would be filled to bursting at the next Mass while his neighbouring parishes would lose a portion of their congregations. Even if he proved sceptical, the bishop would be impressed and that evoked the possibility of preferment at some future date; truly the holy were as competitive as the laity.

  ‘If I had a gold noble for every time I have had a priest feel a bone and tell me he could sense its divinity, I would care nowt for what we seek. I’d own more of England than King Edward.’

  None present contested Hawkwood’s assertion of clerical gullibility; routiers worshipped God as they must and sought salvation with the same fervour as any man living. But experience made a fighting soldier turned freebooter a more rational believer than those who took the cloth, the only exceptions being those divines prepared to wield a sword as well as a crozier. It was also held as a belief that the higher a man climbed in the Church the less credence he placed in that which he preached to the ignorant layman and his lower clerical orders, material comfort engendering scepticism.

  ‘Nothing more proves that than the whore called Avignon.’

  This statement, delivered by di Valona, was borne out on arrival at the city not long after Lauds and another night-time ride without sight of fires on fresh mounts, half a day having been spent in rest at the hospice. Now just three, Gold having been sent back to give a second report, they came to the gates and paid their ‘charitable donation’ to the poor which permitted entry to the papal city, wel
l aware that little of what was raised would go to feed or house the hungry.

  If there were exaggerations of the corruption supposed to be endemic in Avignon, it was not far from the utter truth, for the pure were few. You only had to recall the luxury in which di Valona had related he had been a guest to know that the princes of the Church did not live as ordinary mortals.

  The city itself, bounded by the Rhone, was packed, noisy and filthy. Many of the streets were so narrow and crowded it was impossible to ride, a sharp eye had to be kept out for those attempting to pilfer as the accumulated dung of thousands of animals sucked at their boots. If it lacked rain, which it commonly did, Avignon stank of the accumulated dirt, the whole made worse to men accustomed to stench by the heat that seemed to keep the piles of ordure that lay everywhere steaming, creating a mass of flies that needed to be constantly swatted away.

  The cries of hawkers filled the air as they sought to sell every kind of religious object to the faithful who passed through the papal city in their thousands each year, spending money to eat, drink and sleep, as well as to purchase that which was being sold as an aid to salvation: crucifixes, medallions and phials of holy water.

  The supposed spiritual heart of the city – many claimed it had neither – which lay close to the river and its helpful breeze was the massive Papal Palace. The huge building, all near-white stone, had crennelated spires and square towers, the plaza before it packed with even more vendors. There were tumblers, jesters, lute players and money changers hunched over their scales as they weighed coins for value, plus an odd proselytising monk, a madman dressed in rags so worn nothing of his skeletal body was hidden, promising damnation for the sins he could smell on those who passed him by.

  Finely decorated litters borne by strong-armed men sought to make their way through this throng, the occupants screened from view, leaving those who gazed on ornate decoration to wonder if it carried a duke, a cardinal, or a courtesan and it could easily be the last, for if celibacy was preached by the Church it was rarely observed by those holding high office.

  Yet even in its apparent wretchedness and odours the city reeked of wealth. Merchants bustled by, each with an armed escort to force a passage. Notaries in their distinctive headgear, rapacious by nature and without whom no plea could succeed, elbowed their way through the human throng followed by clerks carrying bundled scrolls of legal cases. In the alleyways there were numerous traders in gold and silver who operated from the open front window of their dwellings, their enticing shouts adding to the general hubbub.

  Vestment makers were more discreet: their offerings were laid out on tables for inspection, small sections of cloth sewn through with valuable metals, others with jewels or pearls; they had a guard, often a blackamoor, with a broadsword ready to cut off the arm of anyone tempted to steal and there was no shortage of such creatures. Numerous beggars existed, as was to be expected, both maimed and whole, seeking alms and invoking the words of Jesus regarding caring for the meek and deprived.

  It was a relief to pass through the gatehouse of the Pont Saint-Bénézet and cross to Villeneuve on the opposite bank, a bridge as famous throughout Christendom as much for its construction as a tendency to collapse when the river flooded. Once on the far shore the streets were no longer narrow alleyways but wide thoroughfares lined on both sides with substantial dwellings hidden by high walls and mature trees.

  At a crossroads di Valona insisted he would be required to part company while his companions sought somewhere to await his return: a shaded spot with water to both rest and allow all three mounts to drink. This they found at a tree-lined pond outside a substantial Benedictine monastery, which the Italian assured them was not far from his own destination.

  ‘I must arrive on foot, as a mere student would.’ That got a raised eyebrow from Hawkwood. ‘A dust-covered horse, tired and obviously one ridden some distance will raise questions. It is not the cardinal himself I must guard against but he has many servants. It would not be Avignon if some of them were not in the pay of those he sees as rivals for the papal ear.’

  ‘What a place,’ murmured the Belge, with a shake of the head.

  ‘Just like our moving household,’ joked Hawkwood, which got him first a look, then a slow smile of acknowledgement.

  Di Valona had kept his actual destination to himself; clearly he still wanted to keep the name of his benefactor secret. This was confirmed when he parted and walked away, ignoring several gates until he disappeared into an alleyway, the quick backwards glance to ensure they were not following a good indication of his desire for continued discretion. The two freebooter captains, having unburdened their mounts so they could graze, took cheese, flats of bread and flasks of wine from their saddlebags, bought from the last stop on the way to the city. The two days spent in each other’s company had mellowed the unfriendliness originally shown by Francis prior to Saint-Esprit and he and Hawkwood had fallen to talking about their joint service in the armies of England.

  That soldiers recount battles in which they have participated would not cause surprise to any man, yet it was interesting they held different memories of one like Crécy given it had been fought on such a contained field, proving, if it needed to be, that one fighting man could see only that before him and not the whole once he was in any way engaged. That applied more to Hawkwood than the Belge, he being an archer and formed up behind the front line for much of the encounter.

  As a spearman, Francis had been given a good view of the opening moves, notably the way the Genoese crossbowmen had been obliged to retire only to be slaughtered by their paymasters because, it later transpired, the French nobles suspected treachery.

  ‘That massacre was a blunder.’

  Hawkwood nodded: even if he had not witnessed the fact he knew it had affected the end result. Without crossbowmen to give a modicum of cover, any advancing knight was riding into a death trap. The Genoese had been subjected to the fire of English longbowmen and had wilted, while the knights had yet to have that visited upon them.

  Silence followed and lasted several seconds; to men who had observed it, the concentrated fire of sixteen hundred bowmen was a wonder, thousands of arrows filling the sky at the same time, the low whine of their passing like the knell of doom for the targets. To those on whom it had rained it was indeed deadly – if not to the armoured knight, to anyone without plate and more especially to their horses.

  ‘Being paid, the Genoese were distrusted.’

  ‘We were paid, Francis.’

  ‘To fight as one, I recall, alongside your lords, which made the difference.’

  Hawkwood nodded; it had been the same at Poitiers. The French noblemen fought for their personal glory, not the cause of their King, and in doing so suffered from having an utter lack of coordination in their repeated attacks. Even after the losses in Picardy they still thought that mailed might and sheer numbers could overcome anything and anyone, not realising that Edward of England had two factors that made his army near to invincible: cohesion and those longbows.

  The first meant his line generally held, regardless of temptation – though there was the odd fortune-seeking transgressor – so that his enemies found themselves assaulting time after time a solid wall of defenders. English knights, from the highest earl to the lowest sir, joined their men to do battle on foot and in doing so could exert control. With the archers to the rear firing off their salvos, few got to the English line to do individual battle and if they did they lacked the number to force a break.

  ‘I recall the Earl of Northampton yelling at us not to slit valuable French throats,’ Hawkwood laughed. ‘Not that much attention was given and you lucky spearmen got there first.’

  ‘The nobility make much from their ransoms, Hawkwood, but the likes of us require quick plunder.’

  There had been much of that, even for the likes of the archers who arrived as a second wave. The dead were stripped of anything of value. Then the English army fell upon the tents of the French nobles and finally
the huge baggage train. There was much pleasure in listing their individual gains as well as regret at valuables missed.

  ‘And now we require news to lift our spirits in the same manner.’

  The Belge looked pensive. ‘And if it is not that?’

  ‘And what would you have sought if we had caught those cardinals – like me, a life of peace and plenty and a return to where you were raised?’

  ‘I reckoned on the same at first,’ Francis responded, the look of doubt on his face now familiar, ‘until I realised I would have to have a care where I came to rest. The lands from whence I hail are not far enough off from the places left devastated under Edward. Without an army to protect my possessions, and no wide channel of water to keep freebooters at bay, I might find myself a victim of such as we.’

  ‘You could cross to England. Having served our King a welcome would be assured.’

  ‘For you it is simple.’

  Hawkwood answered while declining to say why it was not, his tone wistful. ‘It is from where I hail, Francis. It is home.’

  The Belge produced a huge yawn. ‘While I have travelled so much I can scarce recall that such a place exists.’

  ‘Time to sleep?’ Hawkwood suggested, laying his head on his saddle. ‘Our Italian could be an age.’

  The sun was long past its zenith and they were awake when di Valona returned, his gloomy countenance enough to tell them that any information he had gleaned was not enough to lift his spirits. The cardinals had been delayed; the reasons were unknown, but were thought to relate to the slowness of the bankers in providing the specie, hardly surprising when Hawkwood considered it: no such sum was likely to have been previously raised.

  ‘And what now?’

  ‘The route is unknown, but it cannot now be through Pont-Saint-Esprit. Its occupation by the Great Company cannot be kept secret for weeks on end and it may be that long before the cardinals move.’