Hawkwood

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Which cannot but be enhanced by a bout of single combat, one I’m sure will grow in the telling as the recounting of it makes its way back to your homeland.’

  ‘The offer?’

  There had to be one to make a contest worthwhile. ‘Withdrawal from Figline if you lose. The Florentines to return to the city if you win.’

  Calvine reflected on that for a moment. With peace between King Edward and the Scots – they had been defeated at Neville’s Cross and King David taken prisoner – there was no fighting at home. Hawkwood knew that it was for that reason this Scottish knight had come so far, to a land where there was opportunity for a younger son who would inherit little. Stuffed with pride he wanted nothing more than to be the subject of a heroic ballad, but that did not preclude a desire to return home with a purse full of gold.

  ‘Ensure that the story is related, sir.’ He called over his shoulder, having spurred his destrier. ‘I would want my name known.’

  The Scotsman trotted towards the Florentine piquet, his squire behind him with his Gryphon banner; a suitable beast Hawkwood thought, for it was as snappish a creature as the man using it as identification. He was too far off to hear clearly what message he imparted to a sentinel, no more than indistinct words but it had an effect as another bannered knight, accompanied by a soldier bearing his standard, came in a short time to confront Calvine in an exchange again lost in the air. That was short and the knight soon reversed his course as did Calvine.

  ‘My man’s name is Allesandro Farnese and he is a nephew to the captain general of the Florentine host, so a worthy opponent. He addressed me as Englishman, even after I gave him my name and patrimony, for which he will pay. We are to meet inside their lines at sext.’

  ‘We will have to accompany you, Sir Murdoch, disguised as common men, for if we do not how can we chronicle your victory?’

  It was again typical of the man in that he took victory for granted, even if his next act was to demand that the priest who administered the host be sent for so he could be shriven. No man, however arrogant, wanted to enter the lists with an uncleansed soul.

  The party who followed Calvine towards the appointed hour looked a sorry lot when it came to grandeur. Hawkwood had fetched along disguises: for himself monastic clothing, a worn black Benedictine habit allowing him a cowl with which to hide his features. Gold was dressed as close as he could to that worn by Calvine’s squire, while the rest of the party came as mere foot soldiers of the lowest kind, in padded jackets. But all were men who had sharp eyes and the ability to make and recall mental maps.

  They found the Farnese nephew bareheaded and waiting at the perimeter of the encampment as Calvine approached, he too now with a banner-carrying squire. The device was six blue fleur-de-lys on argent, which fluttered as he spun his horse to lead his challenger within the lines, followed by Hawkwood et al., progressing through a city of tents until they came to the open ground on which stood the pavilion of the captain general. Above that flew the Farnese flag as well as the arms of Florence.

  Horns blew and a crowd of spectators gathered to witness their man crush this upstart representing Pisa, a number of them German mercenaries. Hawkwood was aware they had recruited such a brigade: big men from Swabia, broad-chested, flaxen-haired, wearing mail and leaning on the long axes they customarily used in battle. Assessed they looked to be formidable opponents.

  The Florentine militias lacked the same build, being slighter in their physique, but they were in a majority of the gathered host, which tempered the assessment of the whole. Their champion had arranged for a marshal to oversee the contest, so men under his instruction were busy placing flag makers at either end of the site, of the kind used to range arrow fire on a field of battle.

  Hawkwood stayed close to Calvine, which would be normal given his guise as a confessor, but the others were free to mingle and wander as names and titles were exchanged, the rules of single combat – known by heart to everyone – being read out regardless. The last act, having crossed themselves, was for the two knights to don their plumed helmets and trot to their respective places, there to receive lances, which were quickly couched.

  On what had to be an oration platform in front of the pavilion, a place from which to harangue and cajole their forces, stood a knot of richly dressed men, clearly the leaders of the host. They would see this contest in the same light as Sir Murdoch Calvine: a fight in which the honour of Florence was at stake with a worthy reward to be gained.

  The Farnese nephew was an unknown quantity; Calvine was not and some in the crowd, particularly the Germans, had seen his ruddy face, his square build and the scars of battle, on flesh as well as his dented armour. They perhaps calculated his age and reckoned their man was not a match. Wagers were being laid on the outcome until the buzz of excitement rose. The marshal raised his flag and held it in suspension long enough to energise the Florentine levies who began calling for their champion; those who did not had bet against him.

  The flag dropped and the horses, heavy destriers, began to move in the manner of the breed, slow at first, barely gathering anything that could seriously be called speed. With such mounts added to the short distance between the combatants, they met at no great pace, which allowed each to manoeuvre the point of their lance, seeking to deceive their opponent. Looking through narrow visors made calculation difficult but it was vital to assess where the lance point was aimed so as to move a shield to deflect it.

  The crash as they made contact, accompanied by yelling that came close to drowning out the sound, nearly unseated both. The fighting lances splintered on contact, both men having got their shields in the right place; they passed each other, seeking to stay seated while at the same time controlling their mount until they reached the opposite end, where another lance awaited and the attempt was repeated.

  The next joust showed Calvine’s experience. Trotting to close, he dropped his lance to a point that threatened the Farnese horse, but it was a bluff. As the younger man moved to counter that, Calvine’s lance came up sharply to get over the top of his lowered shield and strike the breast armour. Caught between breastplate and shoulder guard, looking for a second like a pinned fly, the Farnese nephew was lifted from his saddle to a huge groan from the crowd, his weight with armour making the eventual drop to the ground both heavy and damaging.

  Calvine came off his horse in a way that made time seem to stand still, so slow was the action due to the constraints of his armour. Nor was he any quicker as, mace in hand and held aloft, he approached an opponent still struggling to get to his feet and with no weapon ready to defend himself. There could only be one outcome even if the victim still had on his helm. A blow from a mace would crush the metal and that would likewise implode his skull.

  The cry to stop needed no translation. The man Hawkwood took to be the captain general leapt from the oration platform to rush forward and get between the still recumbent nephew and the man set on despatching him. The shouted riscatto had Calvine hold his mace, still high in his hand, in abeyance, even if the word was probably strange. The next entreaties, delivered with heaving breath and loudly, were in Latin, the common language of Europe for those with any education. It was numerical, a price in ransom florins to spare the young man’s life.

  There was ritual to this too; it was not for an uncle, however elevated, to plead – that fell to the defeated. It was an indication to Hawkwood of the folly of this kind of honour that the younger Farnese hesitated, until his uncle commanded him to beseech his opponent for mercy. The face of the fiery Scot was not visible, but Hawkwood did wonder if, with his temperament, he could be dissuaded from slaughter by what came next, the figure of three thousand florins for a life?

  Money obviously mattered to Murdoch Calvine as much as honour and the mace was dropped. Around the arena, those who had thought the older man a better prospect were collecting their winnings in a way that showed they cared not a whit if Farnese lived or died. Eventually Calvine removed his helmet and verbally ag
reed to spare his opponent. When, on the way back to Figline, Hawkwood congratulated Calvine, his response was to be irritated.

  ‘If I had known his quality I would never have sullied my lance. He was a mewling dropkin not worthy of my time.’

  ‘But worth three thousand florins.’

  ‘Och, it is a poltroon who cares for silver.’

  Hawkwood declined to admit he was that very thing. They stayed to see the preparations being made for a Florentine withdrawal; they waited in vain. The enemy was going nowhere.

  ‘So much for knightly honour,’ was Hawkwood’s jaundiced opinion.

  ‘What does it mean, a lack of horses?’

  This enquiry arose when, riding back to Figline, Hawkwood began to assess what had been gleaned by his party. There were horses within the Florentine encampment but too few in number for what should be present, enough to mount the commanders but not enough for a fighting force known to have cavalry. The response was slow, it sounding like a question to which their captain already had an answer but eventually Gold provided one.

  ‘The Florentine cavalry cannot be with the main host.’

  ‘Are we sure they have any?’ Alard asked.

  His captain slowly shook his head. ‘It would be a poor host without cavalry and Pisa lost to them when they had a strong force. They must be around for Farnese would be near to useless in battle if he cannot quickly call them in.’

  ‘They have been there,’ Gold insisted. ‘I saw peasants clearing up the dung of a substantial herd.’

  ‘So where have they gone?’ was Hawkwood’s next question.

  To find an answer required more reconnaissance, this time at night, which established that the senior Farnese had spread out his mounted forces along the banks of the River Arno, the only conclusion to be reached being that he feared that the White Company, and he must assume their presence, might avoid his position at Incisa and try to bypass him to cross the river and attack a city short on defence.

  ‘Where in the name of the devil is Sterz?’ was the next cry from Hawkwood once he was back in Figline.

  Men sent back along the road to Pisa saw no sign of the main body but Robert Knowles arrived with his brigade of three hundred lances, which gave Hawkwood, to whom he was happy to defer, a total force of seven hundred, all mounted. He also brought the depressing news that the main body was yet to stir. Either Sterz did not believe what he had been told or he did not care, which frustrated Hawkwood.

  ‘We can defeat them if we have the numbers. But how soon will it be before they discover how weak we truly are and attack us? Campfires will only fool Farnese for so long, indeed I’m surprised he has yet to see it as a bluff.’

  ‘They have chosen the field, John, and you are forever telling us how vital that is. They may wish to be attacked there, sure they can defend it.’

  Another two days would have had Hawkwood tearing out his hair if he had not shaved his head for the heat. The only thing that calmed him was the fact that the Florentines had not made any move to advance. That calm was soon shattered when a messenger from one of his scouting parties informed him that a body of five hundred horsemen were manoeuvring to the north of Figline, no more than a league distant.

  ‘Go back and ensure they never escape your sight. Robert, I need your thoughts.’

  ‘It might be best to abandon Figline and fall back on Pisa.’

  ‘I swear such a move would break my heart. I have drawn out the Florentines, which should have been carried out by another.’ The name of Sterz did not need to be mentioned and nor was it possible to underestimate the Hawkwood fury. ‘We have here a chance to earn our fee and more and that German swine who calls himself captain general seems unwilling to stir.’

  Hawkwood had been pacing as he was complaining. He suddenly stopped and looked quizzically at his fellow captain. ‘How many horsemen do we reckon Florence can muster?’

  Knowles smiled; he knew well his friend’s capacity to ask questions to which he already knew the answer. It was a way of clarifying his thoughts.

  ‘The host is eight thousand in number, we are told. A quarter of that would have to be mounted.’

  ‘And a quarter of those are wandering about to the north of Figline, not close enough to threaten and as yet showing no signs of doing so. Added to that we have some idea of the whereabouts of the remainder and they are strung out along the river.’

  ‘I can see the way your mind is working, but we are seven hundred strong.’

  ‘All mounted, Robert. Farnese has made poor use of his cavalry and they could be too far away to intervene if anything threatens his main body; certainly those we have just been told about would be useless to him.’

  ‘You wish to attack him at Incisa, and it could be six thousand men?’

  There was a smile and a nod to indicate that clever Robert had discerned his thinking. ‘Six thousand foot-bound men, Robert, think on that.’

  ‘Move towards him and he will know you are coming and prepare his defence.’

  ‘How close would we have to get to come upon his lines at a gallop?’

  ‘Let’s start with a slow trot and that would need half a league.’

  ‘When we rode out the first time, we saw no evidence that Farnese had put out a screen to warn of any approach. They would have to be mounted, so he has sacrificed that so he can make sure he is not outflanked with the river at its summer level. The waters are low and at places surely it could be forded.’

  ‘Yet he had crossed it with his main host and has the bridge to his rear.’

  ‘I see him as vulnerable. Do you not?’

  ‘Please know I am not minded to disagree, but I sense nothing I or anyone else says is going to sway you from what you are contemplating.’

  ‘I cannot command you, Robert, you are captain of your own brigade.’

  ‘Did you not tell me of Calvine and his damned honour? If I am not a mad fellow such as he is, I still have some sense of that. I would not want it said that I let you and your men ride to their deaths while I stood back.’

  ‘You are a good friend.’

  ‘It may be that I am a great fool.’

  Hawkwood was prepared to abandon Figline, it being no use to him if the Florentines could not be driven off. So he had his waggons loaded and his camp followers and non-combatants made ready for a swift withdrawal. The notion of a complete defeat was not sought, but at least seven hundred mounted, experienced fighters could inflict on the enemy a blow that would keep them too fearful to advance. This would give time for the rest of the White Company to come up for a full-scale battle, if Sterz could be persuaded to take the field.

  The move forward was done slowly and in groups, half a league at a time, so as not to raise a telltale dust cloud, a real risk on the dry autumn ground. Added to that contingents were sent by different routes, arching out to the flanks mainly to ensure there was no enemy closing in to get to their rear. In Figline those left behind had the task of keeping alight the night fires that indicated a powerful but stationary force.

  Hawkwood could not be certain, but by the lack of response he reckoned he got, over two days, to where he wanted to be without the movement being detected. Now he had to decide to continue or desist, for that remained in the balance. Such thoughts troubled him through a night in which the stars seemed to carpet the heavens, with the regular flashes of heavenly bodies scooting across the sky, his mood swinging from confidence to doubt, as would that of any man with such a weight on his mind.

  The hint of grey and a stirring camp, there were no fires, obliged him to decide. He would launch one all-out charge with every man he possessed, but they would be abjured to listen for a horn blowing the retreat. He had to hope the main Florentine camp was still bereft of cavalry so there could be no real pursuit. He could do damage, but with minimal risk if he got clear.

  Mass had to be said, given men needed to confess their sins in preparation for possible death, but he made sure the priests were brief. With the horses
watered and fed they walked them for a while until that was digested. Finally, the lances were mounted and moving as the sun rose, lighting the way ahead as the two brigades trotted towards the River Arno, which ran behind the rear of the Florentine encampment. That trot turned into a canter when the camp came in sight. Closer to, Hawkwood raised his sword to order the charge.

  Ahead of them was confusion. Men hitherto wandering about were running to form lines of defence, with trumpets blowing mightily but to little avail. The Hawkwood and Knowles brigades came thundering down the valley slope to smash into groups of soldiers in total disarray, sweeping them aside as well as killing and maiming those who sought to stand in their way. They faced a fragile front which, when it collapsed, impacted on the men yet to join the fight.

  Reluctance to engage turned to panic as the Florentines sought to save themselves, and that transferred itself to the Germans who had assembled in an orderly way; alone they could not prevail and, since the alternative was to die, no welcome fate to men recruited with money, they too began to break apart. The attackers poured through the tents, slashing at the guy ropes to bring them down, but only if there was no human flesh to harm. The Florentine army was quickly broken and running for the bridge that crossed the Arno, one that was too narrow to allow passage to all.

  A goodly number of their leaders, if not all, had got mounted and away first – the Farnese standard could be seen on the far bank – which must have contributed to the flight of the rest, even if others were vainly trying get their men to turn and fight. That lasted until the futility of that became evident and they sought to save their lives by surrender. If your senior commanders are running, so must you, yet with a bridge blocked by struggling and pleading humanity the only recourse for the rest was to try the river. If it was flowing slowly at this time of year it was deep by the bridge, so it still had enough force to drown as well as carry the bodies of some of the dead down toward the sea.

  Many would snag on obstacles like fallen trees and sandbanks, to be fished out and searched for anything of value, their naked cadavers probably thrown back into the river to continue their journey. A dead body in the Arno was a common enough occurrence yet the sheer number heading towards the sea told a different story and enough had passed on unmolested for their livery to identify them as Florentines.