Hawkwood

by Jack Ludlow

  Besides those concerns he had worries about the White Company. Long gone was the homogeneity with which they had arrived in Italy. Death from wounds or disease, added to a modicum of desertion, had taken its toll on the numbers. Then there were men leaving with permission, unable to still soldier through age, infirmity or just weariness. These had seriously weakened his English base so the company, through ongoing recruitment, was now made up of many nationalities, which meant the discipline of old on which he had relied was no longer strong.

  In a raid that devastated the lands around Bologna – they too having evicted their cardinal-governor and were thus fair game to a papal army – he had encountered too many disputes over booty, including one in which two of his captains were wounded trying to mediate. Even worse, he came across another pair arguing over who should have the body of a young virgin nun, seen as a special trophy – nuns always were.

  That she would be ravished was not in doubt, only who would be the perpetrator. That she would suffer was also not in doubt, physically certainly but her spiritual life would probably likewise be destroyed: once a captain was finished with her she would be handed over to their men. Fresh of face and terrified, she was standing, crucifix in hand, praying to God either to be spared or to die, even pleading with Hawkwood for the means to avoid her certain fate.

  He argued long and hard but was unable to facilitate a compromise with two intransigent men on whom he knew he would have to depend in future. Hawkwood took out his knife, having kissed her forehead and invoked God, and drove it up and into her heart, despatching her to meet the maker she so clearly worshipped. The contesting pair witnessed a solution that seemed worthy of Solomon. What they did not see was Hawkwood’s personal confession and the misery and tears that went with it. That she died with her virginity intact and would surely enter paradise was not sufficient recompense.

  Robert of Geneva had his host marching south from his imperial base, presenting such a threat to Pavia that Galeazzo Visconti let him through his lands unmolested, which alarmed a Florence that felt betrayed. If relations with Milan and Pavia had been far from cordial, the Visconti had always stood at the head of resistance to the Pope; now for the sake of their own skin they were prepared to allow the whole of Tuscany to suffer.

  With no way to avoid the coming storm, Florence began to extract what it could from papal and ecclesiastical property. The many churches were stripped of anything of value, monasteries too, while what lands they owned were appropriated and sold to raise funds for defence.

  Betrayal was likewise in the air; not all those who rebelled seemed sound and every city and town had an element within prepared to back the Church and open its gates to the coming invader. This was made more pressing by the news that Gregory had left Avignon and was returning to Rome, to use the power of his personal office to aid his armies in recovering papal possessions. Advised to make peace with Florence, Gregory responded that he would rather be flayed alive. There would be no compromise: either submit and suffer or stand and die.

  ‘This is not what I want, Christopher.’

  Surveying his encampment, John Hawkwood saw unrest where he had once had order. More troubling was the fact that his presence, once enough to quell the most deep-seated dispute, no longer had the same effect. Indeed, he did not feel he was fully in control of the company and neither was his constable.

  ‘If you cannot make them mind you, Sir John,’ Gold admitted, ‘I am no substitute.’

  ‘This is perhaps the way of our trade and inevitable. How can we ask such ruffians to behave? What I would not give to have back the men I led at Pont-Saint-Esprit.’

  Christopher Gold had rarely seen his leader cast down. Hawkwood had always had the ability to be positive even when the situation seemed dire, something that seemed to fire his imagination to create unique ways to win anything from battles to skirmishes, employing tactics that often bemused his own men, never mind his enemies.

  ‘But we must go on with what we have and join with Cardinal Robert and his Bretons. We will break camp in the morning and move to meet them at Cesena.’

  One of the few towns to remain loyal to the Pope and situated north of Rimini, Cesena provided a perfect place for Robert to assemble his forces. Romagna was fertile and produced a famous crop of wine once praised by Pliny. The town also had a fortress set on the edge of a cliff which hung over the town dwellings, in which the prince-cardinal could be accommodated in the martial style to which he now aspired. His huge Breton host was encamped in the nearby, well-watered and rolling countryside.

  Hawkwood, seeing that area as crowded and wishing to keep his men away from the bellicose Bretons – too great a proximity invited dispute and possibly serious bloodletting – chose to set up camp two leagues distant, in close enough proximity to his titular commander yet distant enough to work on re-imposing a sense of order in his company. Some men were deprived of their ranks, new marshals and corporals taking their place. It was hoped that in time, when they had bedded in, they would earn the respect necessary to exercise proper discipline.

  The trouble that arose came almost as if it had been written as a biblical prophecy; a group of unruly Bretons sought a supply of meat in Cesena, but declined to pay for what they demanded. The butcher was unwilling to allow this and brandished his knives and cleavers to ensure no one took what they wanted. Raised voices attracted a crowd, all citizens of Cesena, who had quickly formed a deep detestation for the arrogance of these rogues from Brittany.

  Perhaps if the mercenaries had not drawn their weapons it would have been resolved. But the threat of such violence had the locals running for their own arms, to reappear in numbers the Bretons could not hope to overcome. Pride precluded withdrawal and in the ensuing struggle the transgressors, who had demanded free meat, were slaughtered.

  Suddenly the whole town was up in arms, with Robert of Geneva watching from the castle as his authority seemed to crumble away.

  Once the call went out the remaining Bretons massed closer to the walls, while Hawkwood was summoned to bring the White Company to their support. Waiting outside he sent Gold in to find out what was happening, the news brought on his return heartening, for Hawkwood held that the Bretons, by their high-handed action, probably deserved their fate. If a papal army could only rely on two towns in the whole of north Italy, it made no sense to upset the citizens of one of them.

  ‘A delegation went to the prince-cardinal. They offered to put aside their weapons if he promised no retribution.’

  ‘And?’ Hawkwood enquired, gazing from a hilltop into a town that looked very peaceful with the lazily rising smoke of fires. ‘Has he agreed?’

  ‘He requires that they surrender their arms to him and provide fifty hostages as a token of their future behaviour. Given that, he granted that the Bretons must remain outside the town and that for trade the vendors will go to them. Added to that they must pay for anything they require.’

  ‘I never had him down for a peaceful solution. Somehow it does not suit the nature I have observed of either our leader or our Bretons.’

  ‘He was said to be all mercy and it shows sagacity. Robert has a bigger task ahead. Cesena barely matters.’

  ‘Muster the men, we will return to our camp. I sense nothing will happen to keep us here. You stay and follow when you are certain there is nothing to concern us.’

  The White Company did not get far when an order arrived that they should turn back and take station outside the western gate to the town, Hawkwood to attend upon Robert immediately but discreetly.

  ‘Any notions of what he is about?’

  ‘None, Sir John, but I wonder if it will be as peaceful as you thought.’

  Hawkwood took with him no more than a dozen of his own bodyguard. These were familiar faces all the way back to Brétigny and he felt comfortable in their presence. Given one side of the fort formed the outer defence of Cesena, sneaking in through a postern gate presented no difficulty. Soon he was in the presence of the prince
-cardinal and what he observed was not the benign presence reported to him by Gold. This was a grandee in the throes of a spitting tantrum and he was demanding retribution.

  ‘The Pope’s army and they think they can take up arms against us at will? They must be taught a lesson and so must Italy. Let it be known far and wide what comes of challenging God’s will.’

  Robert was in a rare passion; there was the smell of drink on his breath and to Hawkwood’s mind he had lost sight of reality. He was invoking the will of God when it was his pride that was wounded. He needed to calm down and consider how best to act.

  ‘My Lord, have the population not given in to your every demand? If it is not enough, tell me what is and I will go and ensure they meet your wishes.’

  ‘I want justice, Hawkwood!’

  The prince-cardinal was so close, and so venomous was his shout that the Englishman had to use a hand to ward off his expectorated saliva, which was as well for he spat out more.

  ‘No! Blood and justice. Arrange your men outside the western gate and await my orders. Malestroit already has his waiting to get their revenge and he will enter north and south as soon as darkness falls.’

  ‘To frighten the recalcitrant?’

  ‘To chastise them! Let the world see what happens to a rebellious town. A demonic fate will fall upon their heads as it should and I shall pray for their souls to rot.’

  ‘If you let loose the Bretons on the city there will be a massacre.’

  ‘There will be divine retribution. Now do as I command.’

  About to argue Hawkwood felt a tug at his sleeve, which was unobserved. Robert had turned away and was fulminating at his own retinue in a like manner to which he had harangued his mercenary general. A low voice with a strong Welsh accent whispered:

  ‘You will not change a mind like that, now will you? Best be far and decide what you will and will not do away from his gaze.’

  Hawkwood spun on his heels and left, his mind racing, for he reckoned to have a good notion of what was likely to follow, knowing the Breton reputation and having seen what had happened when Prince Edward let loose his English–Gascon army on the French city of Limoges. That had been an exercise in terror, designed to cow any other municipality that in future thought to stand against him and it had been sickening. By the time he got back to his own lines Hawkwood had decided he wanted no part of what would likely come to Cesena – the level of punishment did not fit the perceived crime.

  He made his opinion plain, but now the lack of discipline showed in all its devilish form. The word soon spread of what Robert of Geneva intended and it was obvious that a large number of his men were unwilling to leave the sack of Cesena and the loot that would accrue from it to the Bretons, news of this brought to his pavilion.

  ‘It pains me to say you will face outright mutiny,’ Gold advised him. ‘Stop those eager to take part and White Company could be no more.’

  It was a reluctant commander who was obliged to let every man make his own choice, his only consolation being that he would not partake in what was inevitable. Hawkwood was left with only those around him who held to the previous loyalty. For the rest, they could not wait and once the horns had been sounded they rushed through the gates of Cesena to carry out the wishes of Robert of Geneva.

  The slaughter lasted three days and, by the time exhaustion brought it to an end, there was not a living soul in Cesena and the surrounding villages outside those who had raped, pillaged and murdered men, women and children. Many they had also been tortured to find the hidden treasure they were sure existed. Sir John Hawkwood only entered the town when it was over, to kick hard the comatose and blood-soaked bodies of the men he led, drunk from butchery and wine so near insensible to the pain. The White Company must be brought back to its duty and if he felt disgust then that must be hidden.

  Only a fear of disease afforded the unfortunates a burial, many bodies being dragged from the town moat and the nearby streams to be thrown into mass graves. If the Pope’s prince-cardinal wished to send a message to Italy he succeeded; the news of the annihilation of Cesena spread fast, but the effect was not all that he had hoped. The result was revulsion, not fear. If the Church had been despoiled in what was an interregnum it had still been left with much property and wealth. Enraged citizens all over Tuscany and Lombardy turned on what was left.

  Christopher Gold often wondered if it was that disgust which turned Hawkwood against serving the Pope, though he was careful to keep his severance a mystery. All he ever got in response when he sought to find out was that Gregory had yet to pay the White Company. The dishonourable rogue had not even ransomed his own brother.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  He was owed a fortune in monies; the Pope, like the Visconti, tended to pay John Hawkwood in properties rather than cash. On the face of it this seemed generous, yet it was more of a drag on his finances than an asset. Every gift was in need of substantial repair as well as upkeep and he had his company to maintain as well, though that had shrunk somewhat due to the sudden defection of Thornbury with several hundred lances.

  This led to a serious consideration that he might give it all up and return to England, where he owned several properties paid for over the years by money sent back through various Italian bankers. He had even gone so far as to petition King Edward for a pardon, his crime the very freebooting that had made him what wealth he had. In the distorted world of mercenary warfare his sovereign could not be seen to support the likes of Sir John Hawkwood or Robert Knowles in their activities.

  If he encouraged the ravaging of the property of the King of France it was supposed to be covert, even if no one was fooled; the Treaty of Brétigny, until Edward himself repudiated it, had expressly forbidden his soldiers to stay in France, an offence in itself to which was added the threat of dire punishment for acts of plunder.

  Gratifyingly, no doubt due to his efforts on behalf of the King’s late son, he stood in high regard in London. Held up only by the constraints of time and distance, his pardon was soon in his possession and since the Pope was even more behind with payments and the idea of continuing to serve under Robert of Geneva was not one to relish, he began to look for a way to terminate his papal service.

  The offer that dissuaded John Hawkwood from leaving Italy surprised everyone and he was no exception. It came from something he had never thought possible: a community of interests between Florence and Milan. Bernabò Visconti had formed an anti-papal league to ward off the attempts of Pope Gregory to reinforce the rule of the Church in Lombardy. Given Florence was fighting the same forces as Milan in Tuscany, neither of the two greatest powers in Italy had anything to fear from each other; if it was far from an alliance, it was an unspoken truce.

  As ever, both probed John Hawkwood to see if he would serve their city but it was Milan that won his support. The messengers that came from Bernabò invited the most famous condottiere in Italy to take command of his forces, but this time the offer was not just of money: Hawkwood was offered the hand in marriage of Bernabò’s natural daughter, Donnina, as a way of binding him to the Milanese cause.

  ‘Too good to be true, Christopher?’

  ‘The Lord of Milan has a large brood and even with their wealth I cannot see a royal hand being offered for one of his bastard children. Such alliances are reserved for the legitimate.’

  ‘So an old freebooter like myself will do?’

  ‘You know I don’t mean that, Sir John. As to its advantages, they are obvious.’

  Hawkwood did not have to be advised on that; he would be allying himself to the most powerful man in Italy and not just in the way he had previously, by a money bond. If he would not be in receipt of the kind of gifts showered on Prince Lionel, the hand of the Lady Donnina would come with a substantial dowry. It was no secret that in terms of affection, Bernabò did not differentiate between those born within and without wedlock. Even his wife Beatrice treated all the children equally in what was a ménage that occasioned much wonder.
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  The notion that he, the younger landless son of an Essex tenant farmer, should rise so high was too like a dream, for if John Hawkwood did not lack ambition his aim had never encompassed anything so extraordinary. The title of Captain General of the Host of the Anti- Papal League sounded grand, but he would be more than that, while it did not escape the recipient of such good fortune that perhaps the Lord of Milan wanted him for his political connections in England as much as his sword arm.

  ‘Dammit, Christo, she’s only just seen her seventeenth summer.’

  ‘Sir John,’ was the sarcastic reply, delivered with a knowing smile, ‘please be aware that I am jealous enough already.’

  The age difference meant he could be her grandfather, given Antiocha was four times a mother now. Indeed her husband, Sir William Coggeshall, a knight from a prominent Essex family, had come out to serve with him and bring him news of his grandchildren. That presence alone showed how much his stature had already changed back home; wait until news of this new development reached their ears!

  Prior to his moving north, the news spread that Edward of England had passed away, his Woodstock heir having predeceased him. The throne was now occupied by the Prince of Wales’ ten-year-old son Richard, the second of that name. Ever faithful, Hawkwood, joined by all of his English freebooters, attended a special Mass to pray for the late king’s soul.

  It was hard to be disconsolate with what was in prospect and when Hawkwood saw his intended bride for the first time it near took his breath away: she was as beautiful as her mother had been when she first attracted Bernabò’s wandering eye. It was commonly the case that dynastic unions did not always provide beautiful brides: drawing from a small princely blood pool was more important than comeliness.

  But Bernabò, who had favoured many a mistress with his insatiable appetites, never chose badly and Donnina de’ Porri, the mother of five of his natural children had, at one time, been famed throughout Lombardy for her loveliness. Naturally there was nervousness and Hawkwood insisted on meeting the young Donnina with her mother prior to the nuptials, wondering what impression she got of him. Before the seventeen-year-old stood a man coming up fifty-seven. He was also a warrior who wore the scars of his hard service on his face and on his seriously calloused hands.