Opposite us was the enemy left – in this case, the Papal army and, in particular, Romagnol levies and some of the Papal professionals. As they came forward, their line writhing like a snake, Hawkwood smiled.
‘It is Albornoz,’ he said.
All around me, Hawkwood’s veterans stirred themselves.
I could see the Spaniard. He was well-mounted, and by him was the Papal gonfalonier with the same flag that I had followed at Alexandria.
‘Sometimes, it is a strange world,’ I said to Hawkwood.
He smiled. ‘You are a good knight, William. Sometimes, I think that you are far more a knight than you ought to be.’
The Papal army halted six hundred paces away. By then, morning was gone. The pleasant spring air had turned hot, and everything smelled like campfires and horse sweat.
The Imperial army to our left went forward towards the walls of the bastide.
Off at the end of my line, where my archers were just cutting stakes from the trees, I saw movement, and a flash of bright silk, and there was Gatelussi, cantering across the plain. He had a scarf on his helmet – a beaked basinet – and he rode along our ranks and my archers cheered him, and indeed, he looked like Galahad.
‘Order him back,’ Hawkwood snapped. ‘I don’t want to provoke Albornoz. If he doesn’t mean to fight, let him stay over there.’
I shouted twice, and then, at the edge of sending Marc-Antonio, I had a thought. I might have smiled.
I changed horses, off Juniper and on to Gabriel, and cantered easily across the young green wheat and the hard-packed earth. I was aiming to intercept Gatelussi.
But before he even saw me, a knight emerged from the Papal lines. He trotted towards Gatelussi, and the two put their lances in rests and went at each other, with eighty thousand spectators cheering themselves hoarse.
Gatelussi was perfect; it was his moment, and he thrust very slightly at the moment of contact, just as Fiore taught, and his man went down.
By then, there was a man riding for me. I knew it was Malatesta. He knew me. In an odd way, it was almost a relief. I knew I wanted to play the game of chivalry, and Malatesta was, if not a friend, also not an enemy like Albornoz. War is not simple; chivalric war is the least simple of all.
But there was no friendship in the way he came on, and I met him in the same spirit, and we both shattered our lances. He was rocked. I had Gabriel, and I turned first, sword in hand, and the cheering almost stunned me. Even through my visor the sound was incredible.
Now he was turning towards me, but Gabriel was faster at that, too, and I struck, a single hard blow, right to the side of his great-helm, mezzano, and I snapped his head over, and reached for him.
Almost.
I couldn’t quite get his neck. By a finger’s breadth, I missed capturing Malatesta. He drew his dagger and tried for my horse’s neck, and I shot my shield forward and covered Gabriel, slamming the edge into his outstretched forearm. His vambrace held my edge, and only then did I realise that two turns had brought us very close to the Papal army. But Malatesta was a proud man and a fine knight. He didn’t run for it, but turned his horse again, this time inside my reach, and he delivered a brilliant cut, a feint that led to a strike with his pommel. Instead of reins, he had a dagger in his free hand; he stabbed, and I cut. The pommel strike just clipped me. The dagger missed, because I thrust with my shield edge, pushing his head back. My sword went into the open space above his elbow on his bridle hand – pure luck, as I was mostly parrying.
He raised his hand.
I saluted. He meant I’d hit him, and we were done. I let him go. I think that’s what friendship is, in war.
He saluted with his sword, to show he was unbeaten; both armies roared, and I turned Gabriel away. I was quite close to the Papal lines, and Albornoz, clear as day, shouted, ‘Get him! Get him!’ at his crossbowmen.
Malatesta began to bellow, in Italian, that they should do no such cowardly thing.
A dozen obeyed Albornoz. Their bolts flew; none hit me, because crossing targets are difficult. Gabriel got into his stride, and I raced for the drainage ditch. I stayed as close to the Papal infantry as I dared, because that made the aiming harder. No young sprig took a hack at me, and I reached the ditch untouched. It was the narrowest point. I had no choice, no time to deal with my fear. I just sat down hard and let Gabriel jump.
And he did.
I swear we were going so fast that it took me half a mile to turn him, a huge arc raising dust in the empty field beyond the ditch. I had to ride all the way back to the riverbank, and along the sand, threading past the Turks. Gatelussi was already back, and the English cheered me, too.
I rode up to Sir John, and I expected censure.
He laughed. ‘Not exactly what I meant,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Malatesta came for me …’
‘Never you mind,’ Hawkwood said.
‘Shall I lead the Turks …?’
‘No!’ Hawkwood said, a little too ferociously. His eyes all but burned at me.
I bowed.
A little later, he turned. ‘Listen, William,’ he said. ‘I have been beaten twice in the last two years. I spent last winter a prisoner, and the ransom almost broke me. Bernabò almost didn’t hire me – he says I’m an old woman who will bear no more sons.’
For a man who seldom revealed strong emotion, I could feel his anger, his frustration.
I bowed.
He shrugged. ‘So let me choose my moment with the Turks. Let me tell you and Andy how I see this.’ Andy was Andrew Belmont, and I knew him of old. In fact, it was as if no time had passed; Andy and I had been Hawkwood’s right and left hands before.
Andrew Belmont was one of the handsomest men I ever saw, like Nerio, and he was like Mars that day, in blue and brass. He was handsome in more than looks; he saluted me. ‘Wish I’d ridden out with you, William!’ he said.
We trotted clear of our lines. The Papal troops were in a little confusion; I think they’d just received orders to move forward. Off to my left, the Emperor had thrown his knights, dismounted, right against the bastide. They had armoured handgonners with them – the first time I’d ever seen them, I think. That is, men with a handgonne and heavy armour too.
‘He’s an idiot,’ Andy Belmont said, but he said it in a tone of wonder. ‘He’ll never break into the fort.’
The trebuchet arm began to move, and before I could comment, a load of stones and gravel flew through the air. I couldn’t see any result, but I heard the screams, and then I heard the gonnes fire.
Hawkwood pursed his lips. ‘Not our fight,’ he said. Then he looked at the Papal troops. ‘That’s our battle,’ he said.
‘If the bastide falls …’
The handgonners began to fire, and so did the Milanese militia. Long rolls of popping, like distant drums, and a hellish, sulphurous stench drifted towards us on the wind.
‘If Bernabò loses the crossing, we’re all prisoners, and I’m going back to England,’ Hawkwood said. ‘The bastide will not fall. Bernabò is not a fool. He’s just a buffoon, but a buffoon with a brain and some good soldiers. Look! Albornoz is starting forward.’
It was true. The whole Papal line was moving.
‘Andy, stay with me. William, take your own lances and twenty of mine, and go to the end of the line, right against the ditch. Dismount and wait. When you hear from me, attack.’
I left Andy getting his own orders to stiffen the line of archers. My men-at-arms were already on the right, and I sent my archers forward. Bibbo had them dismount, and I told off the horse holders. Look, ordinarily, one page holds his lance’s horses – one archer’s, one knight’s, one squire’s. Yes? But because we were stiffening the end of the line, I had to have pages for every three men-at-arms. And in the centre, we needed pages for every three archers. I didn’t have an order to arrange it all and Bibbo was
already busy being a master archer. So I did it myself, pushing boys left and right until all the horses were taken care of. That takes time.
Then I cleared the archers off my front. The rest of the line needed them, whereas I had eighty men-at-arms, most of them in something like full harness. Nothing was going to threaten us, more particularly, not an endless horde of untrained infantry pavisiers. They were coming forward carefully, and they were being compacted by the drainage ditch, as if they were coming down a funnel, if you can see that. They got deeper and tighter, deeper and tighter. I could see Sir John’s plan now, and why he didn’t want to send the Turks early.
Bibbo held the war bows until the pavisiers were less than a hundred paces away. He’d more experience of war in Italy than I – I left it to him. The reason was that no arrow will penetrate a pavis – not even a big war arrow from a big Englishman. Bibbo had the men shoot obliquely, and had some men loft their arrows high, for a plunging fire.
They scored hits. Not many, but some. Infantry are a more difficult target than horses, and Italian infantry are better armoured than most, and the big shields are tough nuts to crack. But the English archers had seen it all. They lofted arrows, and they shot flat, and all of them loosed fast, and the effect was not immediate, but it was palpable. The Papal line became uneven, and the advance slowed, and the result, combined with the funnel effect of the ditch, was to make their line into a mob.
Marc-Antonio appeared and dismounted. ‘Sir John says attack – pin them out there. He’s sent for the Turks.’
Another thing I have always loved about Sir John: clarity. He wanted me to go forward along the ditch, to hit the mob of pavisiers before they reached the archers. Our archers could fight – few better. But, in light armour and without heavy shields, they would be at risk, and despite the influx of men coming from Spain, archers were not so easy to come by. Besides, they were our people.
‘Get ready,’ I called. Everyone knew what I meant. In a big company, you develop orders – special words, like a code. But in a small company, there was always time to pass the word. Everyone knew we were going forward. The fully armoured men were in front; I was cap-à-pie, shiny steel from the crown of my head to my pointy steel toes. I had maille under my plate, and I was, in every way, a living shield for Marc-Antonio behind me.
‘En avant!’ I called.
We went forward at a gentle walk. I held my spear, twelve feet long, at the mid-haft with my left hand. Marc-Antonio held it at the butt.
We could move fast that way, the files as neat as Roman legionaries, because the spears welded us together. All I had to do was stay even with Fiore. I looked right and l’Angars, on my left, looked at me, and we went forward in the new wheat, our sabatons swishing along.
Off to my left, a company of Papal crossbowmen raised their weapons. I had my shield on my arm; I kept it up to protect my face.
‘For what we are about to receive …’ Lapot said. He always said it when arrows were inbound.
The bolts clattered around, and a squire took a ricochet off one of the Savoyards in the throat and went down. No one in the armoured front rank got much more than a dent.
We had about fifty paces to go.
‘Close up!’ I called.
The pavisiers had stopped advancing. They were huddled together. An officer or a Contadini knight was shouting at them to get their spears down. Half the poor bastards had their spearheads in the air so they wouldn’t stab their friends.
There were only eighty of us, in a battle of seventy thousand. Really, it sounds absurd. I couldn’t see a thing – my visor was down. I knew that Fiore was there because I could feel him with my right hand, and I knew that l’Angars was there.
Forty paces.
No one that I could see through my visor wanted to fight. The pavisiers were shuffling, and their spears shook like young ash trees in a wind.
Thirty paces. I looked left. As far as I could see, the Papal line had halted. I could hear Albornoz roaring, his odd, Spanish-accented voice calling for the line to form.
Twenty paces. ‘Close up!’ I yelled. ‘En avant!’
Fiore and l’Angars couldn’t get any closer. I could feel their hips against mine as we rolled forward.
Ten paces.
‘Swords!’ I called. We’ve all done this; we all let go of the spear in our right hands, leaving it to the squire, and we draw our longswords. Most of the veterans already had their swords in their left hands or pinned by the blade against the spear haft. It takes time and training to trust your scabbard and your draw. The squires take control of the long spear, put it right over your shoulder. I dropped my shield. Someone would pick it up, and I needed both hands.
I drew. The Emperor’s sword, the one he’d given me, came into my hand like a living thing. A longsword. Long, but not too long.
I took mine in both hands. Right hand on the hilt, left hand on the blade, about halfway to the point. Mezza spada.
Five paces. We stayed at five paces for what seemed an eternity, because the pavisiers were backing away as fast as they could drag their big shields. Their formation, which had rippled and compacted because the drainage ditch narrowed their frontage, was now compacted from the other direction as the men in front tried to back up.
They had to stop, and we were on them.
Fiore said later that there was another volley of bolts from the ballestrieri. I do not remember it. What I remember is the horror on the face of the young Italian in front of me, as I pulled at his pavis with my left hand and stabbed him over it with my right. I was a monster of steel, from the depths of Hell, loose in their ranks with eighty other demons, and they screamed.
Well.
They wanted to break. But they were so deep and so packed together that they couldn’t break, which may have been Albornoz’s plan. He was a canny bastard.
But so was John Hawkwood.
Our Turks raced out from their cover. They had about five hundred paces to cross in the time we covered a hundred. As we were wearing leg armour and they were on horseback, it was almost a tie. In fact, we struck home slightly earlier, and then they appeared on the other side of the ditch, perfectly safe except from the ballestrieri. They rode past the pavisiers and then began to shoot from behind the Papal flank. They had horn bows, as powerful as an English yew bow; they were fifty feet from their targets, shooting into exposed backs. They rolled the shafts off their fingers and the pavisiers, many of whom were in padded jacks or arming coats with no other armour but a kettle helm, began to die, not by the ones and twos, but by the dozens.
Suddenly, like a dam giving way in spring, I was free. I had no one to fight, and in fact my blade cut mightily through empty air – when you cannot see, you can get panicked when you can’t feel friend or enemy.
I turned. Fiore was with me, almost back to back. I could see Lapot, with the Virgin, and I ran to him – ran, trundled, jogged. Crept, perhaps.
The pavisiers gave way from the ditch, and flinched back, and back again.
They were trying to form at right angles, to get the big shields up against the Turkish arrows. At the same time, because they’d never closed on the main line of the White Company, the English archers now had the flank of the new line as a target. For perhaps one terrible minute, the Turks and the English both enfiladed one arm of the angled line. Later, I saw the ground, and there were more than a hundred corpses there – more likely three times as many.
I turned, got my visor up as much by luck as by skill, and shouted at Marc-Antonio. ‘Horses!’ I called.
Marc-Antonio turned and ran for the pages. They were only a hundred paces away, and Marc-Antonio didn’t have leg armour or sabatons. He ran, and no bolt felled him.
Again, training told. The pages trusted the order; they came forward eagerly.
Arrows flew from the left and right, driving the corner of the enemy line back an
d back. It was no longer a corner. The militia were no longer attempting to reform. They were like sheep huddled against a storm, and I hadn’t lost a man.
I saw Andy Belmont off to my left, and beyond him, Boson. Boson had the White Company banner, and it dipped and rose.
Behind me, unnoticed by me, eight of Giannis’s stradiotes threw two great oak boards across the narrowest part of the ditch, where it was just fifteen feet wide, and began to lead their horses across. But the Turks didn’t wait for that.
They rode down into the ditch, and then they rode straight up the other bank. I’m told a dozen of them didn’t make it, but hundreds did.
The first Turk came up the bank and gave a long scream, like a tortured soul.
Stefanos ran up, and I took Gabriel from him, and Marc-Antonio was into his charger’s saddle. As fast as I mounted, Lapot was already there, and brave Stefanos mounted and began to blow short notes on his horn. One of the pages handed me my shield.
I felt none of the usual fatigue. Oh, there was icy sweat running down my back under my arming cote, for sure. But I felt like a knight of romance – the field open before me, and the enemy breaking.
Forty knights, forty squires, forty pages, give or take, and three hundred Turks.
Loose in the back of the Papal army.
We weren’t all, though. Hawkwood kept his men on foot, but there he was, unarmed except his white baton, which pointed like an arrow at Albornoz, and the Papal army was already beaten. To Hawkwood’s left, the Veronese came on, their pavisiers better armoured and much better trained, and their knights all mounted.
The Papal militias began to throw down their shields.
The Turks rode past them. They needed no orders – they simply swept along the rear of the unravelling line, loosing arrows into helpless men.
Albornoz was no fool. He knew the day was lost, and he knew what he had to do, and he did it. He gathered his household knights around him, and Malatesta’s Romagnols, and he aimed them at the Turks and charged, scattering the Turks like chaff on a windy day. The Turks could no more stand the charge of mailled knights than the pavisiers could fight us on foot. The Turks raced away, shooting backwards over their saddles. They had done their damage, and in fact, as soon as they were gone, the Papal army broke up faster, because they had a clear route to safety.
Sword of Justice Page 45
