by Jack Ludlow
Head on chest and deep in thought, Hawkwood came eventually to the riverbank, where the gurgling waters of the stream formed a pleasant background sound. Not yet high summer the watercourse was in good flow, reflecting the overhead light, and for a moment he was back in his Essex homeland, a flat landscape crossed by many a watercourse in which he had, as a youngster, fished and swam. It was beside such as this and after a naked dip that he and Antiocha’s mother had first lain together and probably conceived her.
As always when such thoughts occurred he went through the various moods, the ups and downs that had brought him to where he was now. Rarely a man to lie to himself, John Hawkwood was aware that in the life he had lived he had been far from perfect even when very young. It had never occurred to him he had a position to maintain to protect the reputation of his family and nor had he paid any attention to that outside his immediate gaze or given any thought to the worries of his father.
In a country riven with several years of famine, Hawkwood senior had held station enough in life to ensure his own wife and children did not suffer as did the peasantry. The youngest in his brood, he had been much cossetted by his mother, who saw him as a late blessing and treated him with a less strict hand than his older siblings. In his mind’s eye he could conjure up his home county easily. The seemingly endless Essex landscape, the searing wind blowing too often over the few hills from the sea to the east, the trips with his eldest brother to Hedingham Castle where he had been steward to the de Vere’s and where the little brother had seen at first hand the tempting luxury of aristocratic life.
As a boy he had hankered after such as he played within the motte-and-bailey part of the castle, imagining himself as a Norman warrior defending the high square tower and its valuable possessions against hordes of … whom? He had forgotten who those boyhood troublemakers were. Not Saxons, for they in folk memory were held in high regard. Danes and Vikings more like, even if it was hundreds of years since their incursions.
There was his daughter, named after a famous crusader victory outside the walls of Antioch, last seen suckling and wrapped in swaddling clothes, a small pinkish face much wrinkled by concentration until he was shooed away by the wet nurse. There was no image of what she would look like now, well past being a young lady; only that of the funeral he had been obliged to watch from a distance as her mother was interred in a de Vere family vault.
John Hawkwood was over forty summers old now and it was hard to count what he had and how he had come to this place as an unmitigated achievement. There existed a desire to return home to the family manor house in Sible Hedingham, not as the prodigal needing forgiveness but flushed with success. This would be measured in money and he desired it should be of a quantity that would see him ride into the village on a fine palfrey carrying saddlebags full of coin, which would enable him to flaunt his status as a dubbed knight.
Perhaps that could be brought to pass with John le Bon’s ransom and he now was prey to such visualisations. But it would not happen without guile and application, so he made a conscious effort to put his mind to what he had heard in the pavilion and how what was required could be achieved.
CHAPTER FOUR
First he reprised the list of facts di Valona had imparted to the assembly. Pont-Saint-Esprit had sound walls but no citadel, which he would have expected with such an important river crossing where the bridge tolls would be lucrative. Not all the town income came from that source, it being a place where travellers took their rest before passing on in either direction. That meant lodging houses and inns, where trade in food and drink would be lively.
The fields around the town were fertile, which was to be expected, bordering as it did a great river in warm climes. This produced abundant annual harvests of food and wine, as well as providing good pasture for horses, cattle, sheep and goats in excess of local needs, which spoke of traders in surplus with full purses untouched by war. Never having even been close to the battle zones of the Anglo–French conflict, Pont-Saint-Esprit looked to be a prize worth taking on its own.
The town was garrisoned by a body of some fifty soldiers, these provided for the local citizens by their ducal overlords and paid for through taxes. Those with property outside the walls might wish to see that protected, but di Valona had assured the assembly Pont-Saint-Esprit had no resident force of mounted men, only militia raised as necessary. The soldiers were static and their duty was to protect the major asset, the bridge, not to range far and wide seeking threats.
The questioning had been extensive, most keenly the need to know how he had come by the information he imparted. His answers told those assembled that a papal court was as full of intrigue and competing interests as any staffed by laymen. Jockeying for position in Avignon was endemic, the ear of the pontiff the prize sought, for in that man lay the very fount of a wealth and power to rival and even surpass an emperor.
Having studied civil law at Bologna, di Valona had come to Avignon to acquire a knowledge of canon law, the very different statutes which covered the activities of the Church. Taken in by an Italian cardinal, the young man had resided comfortably in the suburb of Villeneuve rather than be left, like most itinerant students, to lodge in an overcrowded and stinking Avignon hovel. In doing so he had become something of a trusted confidant of this high churchman, the name of whom he declined to divulge.
He did admit him to be a partisan of the Holy Roman Emperor and, like that German potentate, an advocate of a papal return to Rome and an end to the too strong influence of Paris in Church affairs due to residence in Avignon, imposed not least by a succession of popes from that nation, who ignored both German and Italian claimants.
Being so inclined he was no friend to the French princes seeking to free their father, bankrupting their country in the process. Avignon might not be a direct fief of the Crown of France but it depended upon its goodwill for its continued prosperity and was thus obliged to contribute to that outrageous ransom agreed at Brétigny.
Life in a luxury villa, safe from urban pestilence on the left bank of the Rhone, with fountains in the flower-filled gardens and peacocks roaming free, with good food to eat and wine in abundance to consume, had made for a pleasant life. Hawkwood wondered if others might suspect, as did he, that there could be some other connection with his cardinal for this comely young fellow outside the bounds of mere nationality, one in which an indiscretion in a situation of intimacy had provided an opportunity.
Whatever it was, and it could have been sexual, di Valona had been able to observe the centre of a court fully Byzantine in its scheming. The papacy sat at the hub of the vast web of a faith that provided a stream of steady income, not confined to Peter’s pence and tithes. Gold flowed into Avignon from all over Christendom in the form of gifts and bribes, both necessary to procure such things as the annulment of an inconvenient marriage or the legitimisation of children born out of wedlock, many of the latter from prelates supposed to be celibate.
Only the Pope could grant permission for the building of new churches or cathedrals, the holding of festivals or any act of community not already sanctioned. In disputes of title over property that could not be decided in civil law or even by a ruling sovereign – and these would be substantial fiefdoms – the papal word was sought and, win or lose, the price paid was high. When it came to making peace between warring sovereigns it was to the Pope they turned for arbitration which, like all other pleas for intercession, rarely came free.
Most lucrative of all, and it had assumed the proportions of a scandal, was the sale of indulgences: the granting of absolution even for sins unconfessed to those with the money to pay. In a world full of wickedness and the prospect of expiring from disease within a single day – the plague was ravaging Europe in waves – many were prepared to pay vast sums to be guaranteed direct entry into paradise or even just to avoid damnation. Such monies flowed through the hands of venal church divines, a great deal of it sticking to their bejewelled fingers before being passed to the papal va
ults.
Hawkwood’s reflections were not all on popes, cardinals and their greedy excesses. He could not avoid his thoughts returning to what could come from the ransom money, something that could satisfy all his old and unfulfilled longings. He could see himself as the owner of a decent manor. Such a holding would require a wife but as a man of means he knew fathers would queue to offer their daughters in spite of any reputation he might carry.
In his mind’s eye he could envisage a substantial timber-framed, wattle-and-daub dwelling, with a good woman, servants and rosy-cheeked children to complete the scene. There would be horses in the paddock, livestock in the fields and hardy souls to sow and plough what was not pasture, with himself in benign authority. First he and his confrères must get hold of that million in species, though, and an immediate worry surfaced, the cause being the ambuscade of the previous morning.
Those peasants, even if they badly miscalculated the numbers they would face, had known who was coming and on routes way off the pilgrim tracks, which meant news of the Great Company ran well ahead of its actual presence, even to the ignorant. If such a thing happened at Pont-Saint-Esprit, with a quicker-witted populace by far, it could spell disaster. Yet to realise that did not immediately provide a means to avoid such an outcome and that was now the thought dominating his thinking.
He was still by the river when the sky turned to grey. Behind him the camp was stirring as the early risers undertook their duty, getting the fires flaring again, filling the cooking pots with water and small wheeled baking ovens with charcoal. Their comrades, when they rose, would first look to their basic needs before seeing to the horses, a vital task.
By the time he made his way back to his own lines through the men grooming hides, picking hooves and bathing equine noses and arses, he had resolved to have words with Sterz and his notion of a forced march. It seemed to him a bad idea for several reasons, not least that if the Great Company arrived outside Pont-Saint-Esprit they would do so in a state of exhaustion and disarray, but that was not the only one.
He found his captain general surrounded by servants and in the act of dressing prior to the morning Mass, which would be taken when the work needing to be done was complete and before any man broke his fast. Courtesies exchanged he began to outline his objection to forcing the company into an immediate movement, careful to avoid detail, such as where they would be headed.
‘But it is not that alone which gives me pause: it is the chance of forfeiting that which we seek.’
For a second time in a dozen hours the German dismissed his servants, as well as his personal confessor, leaving only him and his factotum, Cunradus, speaking as soon as it was safe to do so.
‘You do not believe di Valona?’
‘I am prepared to, without being certain of his honesty. He seems the type to pass through a closed door. Yet I can see no purpose to his coming to you with a lie unless he seeks to draw the Great Company into a trap, and on whose behalf would he be acting if he were? All those who desire revenge on us are to our rear.’
Sterz nodded slowly; clearly he had considered the same possibility, which was positive, yet what Hawkwood was about to propose was tricky. A policy had been agreed, one Sterz had propounded, and he would not be keen to have it challenged. Added to that was their troubled relationship. Hawkwood often made jokes that tested the man’s patience. He was also inclined to dispute with his leader, to ask awkward questions as he examined every proposed move from multiple angles. While he respected it, he refused to just accept that the German’s experience gave him the right to favour his own opinions.
‘Our plan to force-march the whole company to the Rhone and take possession of Pont-Saint-Esprit is flawed.’
The response was a skywards look, larded with impatience followed by a frustrated glance at Cunradus.
‘Is that all?’
‘You heard di Valona describe the walls as sound and in good repair. There are papal levies set to guard them.’ A nod. ‘Not numerous, I grant you, but we will have to fight to overcome them and they will hold an advantage by being on the ramparts.’
‘Perhaps you have a Joshua trumpet, Hawkwood,’ Sterz wheezed, his belly heaving at his own jest, which got a wry smile from his fat friar. ‘Loud enough to bring the stones tumbling down.’
‘If I had I would silence it, but I ask you this, how are we to take Pont-Saint-Esprit without news of such a coup reaching the ears of those cardinals who are heading for the same location? We cannot get across the River Rhone lest we use the very bridge those papal levies are there to protect. Nor can we approach the walls from the riverside, as a host, without being seen before we can deploy and begin to besiege it.’
It was a good thing to pause and let that sink in, but the next point was paramount. ‘A messenger will surely be sent to Avignon as soon as we are sighted to say we are about to attack and asking for relief. Is it too much to suggest they might well encounter the party carrying Jean le Bon’s ransom money on the way and tell them to turn back?’
‘What is it you want, Hawkwood?’
‘I want to cancel the notion of a forced march so we can decide on a strategy that will gain the end we desire. Pont-Saint-Esprit is tempting but our real aim is to get our hands on that treasure. I ask that you call another meeting at which I can propose an alternative way to proceed.’
It was Cunradus, well larded and sleek, who spoke, not Sterz. ‘You have never hidden the notion that you feel that you are cleverer than any one of us, Hawkwood.’
‘I have never said so and I do not believe it to be the case.’
‘It is not something in need of words.’
‘Cunradus, we can march on Pont-Saint-Esprit, invest it, yet even if we overcome those walls that will not happen in one day, so the odds are high that the true aim will fail. News will get out.’
‘We can kill everyone down to the rats in their cellars and that will get us silence,’ Sterz snorted.
‘Thousands of bodies putrefying in the streets, human and animal. You will have a sky full of scavengers visible five leagues off and if you throw them in the river – well that, according to di Valona, flows on to and past Avignon.’
Hawkwood paused once more; he needed to convince this man, not show him the flaws in his thinking. ‘I ask only to put my concerns to the captains assembled, and if a better way to proceed emerges then I will be obliged to agree to it. You will, as usual, have the most powerful voice and if you carry the meeting you will not find me wanting in execution. As for a forced march, we have a week, so half a day will make no difference.’
‘It is near time for Mass,’ Cunradus said, puffing his full and rosy cheeks. ‘Perhaps following on from that it can be considered.’
Sterz, who was looking at the monk, nodded. Hawkwood reckoned not all the time on soul cleansing would be spent in prayers.
‘Can I suggest that if it is agreed we should reconvene after Mass, di Valona be escorted to his own tent and not this one? If he needs to know anything it can be imparted once matters are decided.’
That engendered a few moments of consideration, but finally Cunradus nodded.
An assembly of near twenty captains could be a noisy affair and the taking of the Eucharist did nothing to dent their pride; these were men who had led elements of proper armies and were accustomed to having their views considered. Many recalled what had already been agreed and stated they should not be standing around arguing but should be making ready to depart.
It took time for Hawkwood to be given the floor so he could address the same concerns he had outlined to Sterz, indeed to elaborate upon them. Pont-Saint-Esprit presented a problem by its mere nature. The Great Company was ill-equipped to assault a walled town, given they had no ballistas to batter the walls; nor were the men they led of a type to be keen on assault by ladder in daylight; a cause for casualties. Such an undertaking could not but be full of individual risk.
Added to that, if the company moved as a body and acted in their usual
manner, stripping the land as they went, word would precede them and the garrison would be alerted well in advance of their arrival. Despite di Valona’s assurances, Hawkwood was not prepared to fully trust his account. Any places he had not seen where the walls had been neglected would be quickly repaired.
In addition the means to repel attackers would be put in place: stones to batter and burst open exposed heads, large urns with which to boil oil or tar that would strip the skin off a man climbing a ladder, poles with hooks to overturn the same – all the panoply of defence these captains had faced in previous encounters. It was possible, with enough time, the soldier would be reinforced before the town could even be invested.
‘We could bypass it, Hawkwood,’ interjected Thibaut of Douvres, a Norman who led the fully accoutred knights. ‘It is, after all, not our true object.’
‘Not before messengers go ahead of us,’ Hawkwood cut in quickly. ‘We will take the bridge, that cannot be prevented, but we cannot close it before word of our presence spreads and I am contending that will happen certainly a full day before we get to those walls, maybe more. Do I then have to say what is likely to occur?’
Looking around the faces as he spoke, he sought to pick out those who might support him. He alighted on that of Roland de Jonzac, who, being the friend he was, looked at Hawkwood, a broad and encouraging smile on his face, which was soon followed by a question.
‘You have related to us your objections to what we agreed, John. That does little to convince unless you can propose a solution.’
‘I am going to suggest that my company, and we alone, take possession of Pont-Saint-Esprit. The host should follow, but slowly, without setting light to a single peasant hut or stripping a single vine or olive tree. We should pay for anything we need instead of just taking it and no man should suffer a wound or any woman be discomfited.’
