Hawkwood

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘I will have to work with him?’ Hawkwood groaned to Gold, who had likewise met the man and been treated as nothing. ‘He leads Clarence’s retinue and no doubt will see himself as the man to command all the English knights if they take the field.’

  ‘Which should fall to you. I am sure King Edward would wish it.’

  ‘Edward is in London, le Despenser is here and it is easy to see Lionel relies on his cousin.’

  ‘I sense they are ready, Sir John,’ said Gold, pointing out that everyone was remounting their horses.

  Entry into Milan had been delayed as Lionel, Duke of Kilkenny and Clarence as well as a Plantagenet prince, made sure that he and those with him presented the best spectacle possible. Thus any traces of dust had been polished off breastplates, cuirasses and greaves, while fresh surcoats had been fetched from the following waggons as well as new banners unbleached by the sun. The tower enclosing the Porta Ticina was already in sight and as they closed they could see it was fully manned, and as the column moved the trumpeter on the top blew a welcoming and sustained blast, which was the signal that the citizens could begin to cheer.

  Hawkwood was third behind his prince – Despenser declined to forfeit his right and even his banner-carrying page took precedence – as they rode through the gate, to emerge from the shades into a crowded route being strewn with flowers. Lionel, bareheaded, knew how to be gracious, how to smile and wave, also to occasionally stop to bend from his saddle and bestow a royal kiss on the cheek of any comely maid he espied.

  ‘What would Violante say to such behaviour?’ asked Gold in a whisper.

  ‘She is but fourteen, John, a virgin and, I should think, terrified of what she is being obliged to enter into. She will probably be glad if her new spouse wishes to show favour elsewhere.’

  The route took them to the square dominated by the Palazzo Visconti where the crowd were so packed that the Milanese soldiers had trouble in holding them in check, which had Hawkwood push past a surprised Despenser. He also ordered Gold to follow and take a position on the opposite side of the prince’s horse, but not beyond the flank.

  ‘When your sovereign appoints you as responsible for his son’s safety,’ Hawkwood barked at a furious complaint from Despenser, ‘I will gladly give way. Till then I have the duty.’

  As if to make amends, Hawkwood peeled off by the gateway that led into the palace courtyard, only following when the entire body of Lionel’s escorting knights were inside, there to find Despenser now complaining that his prince had deserved to be met outside the gates and not in the palace, the implication plain: to him the Visconti were below the salt.

  Refreshed, the man got first sight of the great feast Galeazzo and Bernabò had arranged, as well as the stupendous gifts that accompanied every one of the eighteen courses. If Despenser tried to hide his amazement, and he did, his royal master did not; he clapped with delight and was quick and frequent to sup from a goblet never allowed to be empty and he consumed his food with equal gusto.

  Lionel was presented with hunting dogs by the dozen, all wearing golden collars, multiple raptors under hoods decorated in pearls, gilded armour and plumed helms fantastic in their elaborate fretwork of gold and silver. Fine horses were paraded past the feasting guests, coursers and tilters for jousting, each one gloriously saddled to be followed by surcoats sewn with jewels.

  The food was the finest Lombardy could produce, likewise the wines, not freshly pressed but the produce of long-stored harvests, much of the food sealed with gold, which was seen as being healthy. It was a display of magnificence the likes of which no English royal or aristocrat could ever have seen: the wealth required to provide it simply did not exist in chillier northern climes.

  ‘Happen that might dent his damned arrogance,’ was Hawkwood’s opinion of the Despenser reaction, sat in a place of some honour, given his personal rank as captain general. ‘He will scarce dine like this again in his life.’

  Another object of his attention was Violante and he noticed her father Galeazzo was keen that she should drink, no doubt out of concern for what was coming. The marriage had to be consummated and that must happen that very evening. Had she been told what to expect or was that down to observation? Lionel’s face was bright red and not just from heat, his laugh the hearty bray of the inebriated: he was full of enough wine to make Hawkwood wonder if he would be up to the deed.

  The musicians delayed the inevitable, with Lionel in reality meeting his intended for the first time as they performed a rather staged dance and one which was marred by the odd stagger. The prince was not alone in his cups: Galeazzo was close to him in that regard and Despenser, in trying to keep up with his prince and lacking the liver, ended up with his face lying in the plate that had contained a sorbet made possible by Alpine ice.

  Finally Violante was led to the bedchamber followed by her father, her uncle Bernabò and various Milanese dignitaries, including the Archbishop of Milan, whose task it would be to witness the deflowering – not visually but by a close ear to the bedchamber door.

  Hawkwood had drunk well too and remarked on the length of time these worthies were absent, which could only mean Violante was reluctant or, more likely, Lionel was struggling to meet the requirements of his new estate. That lasted for a seeming eternity until a whispered bulletin passed round the great chamber.

  ‘They heard the scream and entered to see the blood. The deed is done and may God bless the union with a child.’

  If Hawkwood had doubted Lionel’s liver he had to recant when he came across a prince in robust good health the following morning, to be told that within the day the intention was to proceed to Alba and take possession of the most important of his new fiefs. Hawkwood was obliged to tell his prince he could not accompany him, which did not seem to cause much concern.

  ‘His Excellence Bernabò required that I proceed to secure an important river crossing at Borgoforte, which is under siege by a papal army.’

  ‘How important, Hawkwood?’

  ‘Very, sire. They must be driven away or Mantua is threatened.’

  It required a map to show the prince the nature of the threat and Hawkwood had to give him credit for his quick appreciation of the danger to the territories of his new father-in-law.

  ‘I should go, Cousin,’ growled Despenser, who looked a damn sight worse for wear than Lionel Plantagenet and fixed his suffering expression on the captain general. ‘Am I not to take command of our English mercenaries?’

  ‘I am happy to yield if required to do so,’ Hawkwood lied as he heard confirmed what he had feared: he might end up under this swine’s command. ‘But I am still under contract to Milan and it will require their word for me to give way to another.’

  ‘A request from you cannot be ignored, Lionel.’

  That made the blotched face flush with anger. ‘Please be reminded, Cousin, that how we refer to each other in private does not extend to public discourse.’

  ‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’

  ‘I need you in Alba and beyond. My estates need to be properly introduced to their new lord and that requires they observe I have the power to compel. Go about your occasions, Hawkwood, and report to me when you have fulfilled you obligations to Milan.’

  ‘There is a God, Christopher,’ was Hawkwood’s remark to Gold as they left to gather the men they would need to fight his representative on earth.

  The papal army outside Borgoforte outnumbered Hawkwood by a large margin, yet with the cunning that marked him out from his fellow English condottieri the superior host was soon seen off. They had set their main encampment on a flood plain that absorbed the waters of the mighty River Po in times of bad weather; by breaking the banks of the waters upstream, Hawkwood washed away their tents and made the ground untenable, so he was able to send word back of a stunning success at the cost of not a single life.

  Sent on to Arezzo, hubris caught up with him; riding well ahead of his brigade and thinking his reputation would keep him safe he was attacked at the
Porta Buia and captured. That in itself was bad; he would be held for ransom and it would be a large one, yet worse news was to come to him in captivity.

  Lionel, it was said from a surfeit of gluttony, had died and the whole edifice of the English–Visconti alliance was thrown into turmoil. Le Despenser and Lionel’s knights were sure their master had been poisoned – it was not an unknown way of disposing of rivals in Milanese politics – while Galeazzo, well within his rights in the nature of the marriage contract, demanded back the fiefs he had passed over as gifts.

  Hawkwood had to watch from his very comfortable prison – he was given a fine set of apartments that befitted his value – as le Despenser led his retinue, backed up by other English mercenaries, against Galeazzo; yet that had to be put aside as Gold was authorised to sell assets and call in loans to find the hundred thousand florins the papal commander was demanding for his release.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Raising the ransom was taking time. If Sir John Hawkwood had made fortunes in the service of his various employers it was not all in easily realisable sums. Many times he had been given properties in lieu of cash and these had to be sold in a way that did not fairly recognise their true value. Added to that he acted as banker to the men he led, lending them sums to buy armour and horses when times were lean and never being seen to press hard for recompense, and then there were the natural expenses of being their captain.

  If they got into debt and were hard up for the inability to pay it was to John Hawkwood they appealed and if he met their obligations it was with no certainty that he would be soon recompensed. If they perished it was incumbent upon him to ensure that they had a good burial and that any dependants they had back in England were not left destitute, while in many cases shrines were built to the God it was hoped would ease their way into the afterlife.

  Masses had to be said for their souls and priests never performed such services for free. Yes they were sinners, but the Almighty was a forgiving presence. Added to that the Visconti, no doubt having lavished so much on Prince Lionel, had been very tardy in paying his monies and if he had to stand that he could not ask those he led to do likewise.

  In the many months of his captivity, as news came in, it seemed to Hawkwood that Edward le Despenser was pursuing a private vendetta, which only served to show his utter ignorance of Italian politics. In cold calculation, for the Visconti to poison an English prince made no sense at all: there was no discernible gain, quite the reverse – with English help, Galeazzo and Bernabò had hoped to break the power of the papacy, which they could not do on their own.

  Kept well informed he knew that the Visconti were suffering badly; as was normal they could not find enough men in their own territories to defend it against professional soldiers. Galeazzo did try, sending a force to retake Alba, only to see them crushed and driven back until both Milan and Pavia were in some danger of capture.

  Once again stout walls proved their saviour, that and a ruthless attitude to the survival of their population. Many were left to the mercy of the English mercenaries and within the walls of their cities the distribution of food was tightly controlled to avoid speculation. If no one died of starvation when the sieges were finally lifted there was not much skin left on the Lombardy bones.

  Finally released on full payment Hawkwood found his personal brigade awaiting. Still nominally in the service of the Visconti he set off aiming to mediate between the two competing forces but with a conundrum: if le Despenser would not back off which side did he support? One, even if he owed him a great deal of money, was his employer. Yet le Despenser represented King Edward, to whom Hawkwood was a liegeman.

  It was just as well he found matters, if not settled, no longer so febrile. King Edward had accepted a sworn promise from Galeazzo that he had not poisoned Lionel and le Despenser, in a fit of pique and stupidity, had gone over to the service of the Pope, who was the enemy of his sovereign. Yet there was other business to attend to. Bernabò had taken an army south into Tuscany in an attempt to save from Florence a small but strategically important town.

  San Miniato, from its heights, controlled the routes by which goods came to Milan and through there to Europe. Indeed, it stood at a hub of roads that went back to classical times connecting Pisa, Florence and Volterra. By a decision of its Signoria it had ceded itself to Florence and that had been overturned by Milan; now Florence was trying to wrest it back and had sent an army to besiege it. Lifting such an investment was difficult; Florence had taken up a strong position that invited attack, but for all Bernabò’s eagerness to oblige them Hawkwood counselled caution.

  ‘We cannot just sit here,’ was the Visconti response, delivered with the level of bilious rage for which this brother was famed when crossed or questioned, often coming close to an apoplexy. ‘We will run out of supplies.’

  ‘Then we must get them to attack us,’ was the calm rejoinder. ‘I have said it many times, never let your enemy choose the field of battle.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By invitation.’

  What the Florentine army saw was a Milanese army taking up positions that made no military sense, for the soldiers deployed on a flat plain with no cavalry support in sight and two open flanks. Too tempting an offer to refuse, the horns blew and from being drawn up and harangued the Florentines’ horse began to advance, to see before them the gratifying sight of their enemy breaking long before contact and fleeing in panic.

  Not to follow would have required the patience of a saint and that was not a virtue gifted to men mounted, advancing and excited, especially when behind that fleeing host lay the River Arno, which with no bridge promised much slaughter. The first indication that it would not be so simple came as soon as they found themselves on the low flat ground. This, regularly inundated by the river, proved heavy-going for their steeds, whose hooves began to stick in what was now mud, yet still before them was that tempting objective.

  Certainty of success turned to panic as, from their rear, another Milanese army emerged to shut them off from their own support, and if they wondered how this could be – the enemy was both before them and behind them and that was not possible, given their known numbers – there was no time to find out, for all that was left was a reversal: the panicked flight of the Florentines.

  Yet to turn and flee over soft ground was impossible; Hawkwood and his men bore down on them and once the archers had dismounted, the slow-moving horsemen found themselves easy targets for a weapon which, fired at close range, could penetrate anything but the best plate armour. For the leaders to continue fighting was to die, to surrender was to live but in poverty, not a possibility offered to the commonality. They perished in droves.

  Sir John Hawkwood took great pleasure in parading the army the Florentines thought they could pursue and kill. These were the children of every outlying town, dressed properly and armed by Hawkwood with instruction to take flight as soon as the enemy attacked and draw them into his perfect trap.

  ‘Christopher Gold,’ he whooped, ‘I care not what they say of me now or in the future. This battle was the perfect thing. If minstrels do not sing of this they do not deserve their lyre.’

  Once he had departed, San Miniato reverted to the polity to which it wanted to belong; despite what the Visconti said, the wishes of the citizens could not be gainsaid and a fortress however strong could not be held against their desire to be ruled by Florence and not Milan, which stemmed from the location in Tuscany. A distant ruler would mean constant harassment; one close by might provide the security all Italians craved and rarely now were granted.

  That was not the end of Hawkwood’s dilemmas; Edward Plantagenet had revived his claim to the French crown on the grounds that the terms of the Treaty of Brétigny had not been met. That was true, but it was the death of ‘good’ King Jean that prompted the renewed claim.

  ‘To go or to stay, Christopher?’

  ‘Many are leaving, Sir John.’

  Called back to the service of their sovereign
in his projected French campaign, the English mercenaries were departing Italy, heeding a general call from their king to bolster his army. Edward had always had a residual grip on those who had served him previously and taken to freebooting in peacetime; indeed, it was said by his enemies that he controlled and profited from them. But Hawkwood was singular; he was in constant communication with Edward’s court, yet …?

  ‘I have no direct request from King Edward that I do so and I cannot believe it would be left to me to decide.’

  ‘He still has an enemy in Italy. The Pope still refuses to grant leave for his son to marry the widow of Burgundy. Would he not be as well served if you were to act against the pontiff rather than be a mere brigade commander in France?’

  If was difficult to know where duty began and self-interest stopped. Gold had made a telling point and Hawkwood’s own inclination was to remain in Italy. Of all the English freebooters, he was the most famous, so much so that his mere name carried a potent threat and being captured and ransomed did not much dent that. As an asset to his king that would not carry into France, where he would become merely one of many – lauded he was sure, but not singular.

  ‘We stay.’

  And to let the Pope know that all his English troublemakers were not leaving, he rode to Montefiascone, the small but comfortable castle north of Rome, where the Pope had retired to avoid the summer heat. He peppered it with arrows until Urban was driven to make a hasty retreat to the more substantial safety of Viterbo, not that he would be safe there for long.

  Hawkwood besieged him and with help from the citizens of Rome, who in the first place hated Urban for being French, and in the second for ignoring their city and staying outside ever since he had returned. Long pressured by his cardinals to return to Avignon, Urban V finally agreed and set out to travel back to France. A certain asthetic nun in Siena called Catherine, famed for her abstinence – in truth, self-starvation enough to bring on visions – and total devotion to Jesus, predicted Urban would die if he left Italy. He was gone in six months.