by Jack Ludlow
The overcoming of the guards was a secondary concern. Now ropes were coming up that would allow Hawkwood’s men to lower themselves into the actual alleyways below without using the stairways normally employed by the sentinels and their superiors. Once he had two-thirds of his men in the streets, going after the guards on the various gates, he could see to matters on the other three stretches of curtain wall. With every one of his company inside the town these, the defenders, would be outnumbered.
He needed to be down there himself, and using his feet and his hands he lowered himself, waiting at the bottom until Gold and a dozen others joined, to then make their way through the streets to the north-west gate, from which the Great Company would approach. Jonzac had the bridge gate and Francis the Belge the one that faced south.
There were two men on each, secure in the knowledge their walls were sound and protected and thus barely alert. So it was shock that rendered them useless more than weaponry and their quick surrender saved their lives. Meanwhile the citizens they were paid to protect lay in their beds asleep, unaware that their town was now in the hands of the men led by a freebooter of whom they had never heard.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The people of Pont-Saint-Esprit, as well as those who had chosen to rest there for the night, awoke to find the only armed men in their town were those led by Sir John Hawkwood. Each gate was barred and no one was allowed to leave, though the normal morning carts bringing in market produce were given entry. Anyone who baulked at the strange faces found that a sword to their throat generally altered any objections. Once inside, they too would be denied the right to depart until the arrival of the Great Company.
The wardens manning the bridge toll had been replaced by freebooters, under strict orders to be polite to any west-bound traveller, who could continue their journey if bypassing the town or enter as they desired. If they chose the latter they found themselves in a place in a strange state of hiatus; there was none of the normal activities, no bustle of citizens going about their business. They saw few womenfolk or children, for they had been kept indoors for their own safety.
Hawkwood himself was atop the tower above the north-western gate, looking out for the remainder of the company. When they appeared, the signal, a red flag, was hoisted to say that the town was in the right hands. Soon they were marching through the gate below him to take up residence within the walls, crowding into houses quickly vacated, but with strict orders that there was to be no looting or ravaging and especially no burning. Everything to an approaching traveller must look normal.
‘We must send some of our men on south, Sterz. If we do not, then I for one would be made suspicious by the lack of fellow travellers.’
Lacking a citadel, the German had been allotted the spacious Bishop’s Palace, the unfortunate divine, seen as a man about whom resistance might gather, being left to contemplate his coming fate in the vaults that lay close to the river. Hawkwood, having assured that all was secure, had come to see Sterz there to proffer that advice.
‘Allow that I have wit enough to see that for myself.’
The gruff reply was to be expected; the German liked such things to be broached in a way that allowed him to draw the right conclusion, not suggested as if he had been too dim to see the necessity. Hawkwood saw it as politic to allow for that.
‘Forgive the tone. I am exercised by what is at stake, too much so, perhaps.’
Sterz nodded. ‘They must be trustworthy.’
Cunradus, present as usual, had words to add. ‘As long as they are restricted in numbers and kept separate in small bands they will have to be. Their true task should be to close the road back to Avignon so the cardinals, should they suspect anything, elect to retire.’
It was agreed that a string of routiers, with weapons concealed, would make their way over the Rhone in twos and threes and at intervals, to try and replicate what would be the normal level of traffic, some with a cart, others carrying crosses to identify themselves as pilgrims. In each group there was to be a leader who would act as spokesman should they be engaged by strangers, especially clerical ones in bright-red robes.
‘As to the town,’ Sterz insisted, ‘the captains must patrol the streets in person. We cannot have our men forgetting what we are here to secure.’
He had made a valid point to the captain present; it was one thing to say that the company should behave, another thing to ensure that with drink taken such an injunction was obeyed. Every tavern had barrels of wine in their cellars and many of the better houses would have the same. Broached and consumed, any orders issued would lessen by the goblet.
‘I will look to my patch,’ Hawkwood replied. ‘It is up to others to look to theirs. As of now I must partake of some food and rest. It has been a long night and a tiring one, but thank the lord it was a success.’
There was in that statement an invitation for Sterz to issue congratulations for the way he and his company had achieved that which they set out to do, because by any stretch it was outstanding. All he got was a nod, as if it was only to be expected. That was the way of the man; the German was ever stinting at the achievements of others, while expecting paeans to his insight when he managed anything to be remarked upon.
‘Why is it that a man like Sterz sees it as demeaning to give praise to another?’
These words were muttered to only one set of ears: his standard-bearer Christopher Gold. Even if he would never admit it, Hawkwood was wounded by the lack of praise. Not really expecting a reply he continued his grumble.
‘A leader should never fear that he is diminished by sharing credit, and in that our German, for all his qualities, is sadly lacking.’
‘Does he have qualities, Sir John?’ the youngster asked. He saw Sterz only as a distant presence, one who would scarcely deign to acknowledge the likes of him.
‘He possesses gifts which I will openly admit I lack. We are two thousand strong and there are proud captains who have to be brought to agreement, while they and their men need to be fed and kept happy, and that takes no account of those who cannot fight but attach themselves to us. That is a task I see as beyond me. Mind, I expect his monk has a hand in the running of the host, but still it must be held together and that alone is hard.’
As he walked Hawkwood was back in the Sterz pavilion, not on any specific occasion but an amalgam of many, to hear arguments, sometimes heated, about future plans or of escapades that had failed to lead to the desired result. If all the captains acknowledged that someone must lead, a few, the likes of Jonzac and Thornbury, were careful enough of their pride to show some independence, while the Belge was a pessimist who rarely saw good in any scheme. If he personally sought to use wit to make his views known, others were sharper in their manner of speaking, which always riled the German.
The position of outright leader, while reasonably secure, was ever open to challenge if matters did not go according to plan and the details of the contract were not met. John Hawkwood wondered if Sterz, or more probably Cunradus, thought of him as one to watch when it came to a bid to replace the leader, when nothing could be further from the truth. For a moment he considered bearding that particular problem only to put it aside; neither Sterz nor Cunradus would believe him if he sought to convince them that leadership of the company was of no interest to him. Quite the reverse, it would only arouse suspicion.
‘This I am going to enjoy,’ he said as he looked up at the sign for the Impious Bull, with its rough-painted image of St Saturnin being dragged along by the beast to his martyrdom. ‘We shall break our fast at no cost and then relieve our fat friend of every florin he has accrued from cheating his customers.’
‘If he is wise he will offer it up freely.’
Hawkwood grinned at the boy. ‘Some of it, Christopher, but he will seek to keep a sum well hidden and that he must surrender. I will give you the honour of slicing open that belly if he seeks to hold out, but I suspect it will not come to that.’
What the pair experienced as they ente
red was close to a comedy. The innkeeper had no idea who he had previously served but he knew by now the town was in the grip of the freebooters of the Great Company. No doubt he had spent the time since that became known seeking to conceal what he could and there was a game afoot to get it revealed without violence.
The sight of John Hawkwood and young Gold drained the blood from his mottled face and he looked like a man who had involuntarily evacuated his bowels. The hands were soon wringing, the pleas for understanding gabbled out. He was a poor man, ever having to trim his prices to avoid being undercut by rivals, so that often he incurred a loss.
With no more than a look Hawkwood sat down, followed by Gold, and if that tempered the flow of excuses it was insufficient to stop it entirely, even interspersed with commands to his girls to fetch food, the very best, as well as his finest wines, for nothing could be good enough for these kind gentlemen. The game was played and the pair ate and drank in silence with the fat sod ever in attendance to bark at the serving wenches for supposed failures.
Finally Hawkwood had enough. ‘Do be silent man! You will upset my belly with your lies.’
‘Excellence,’ came the protest, with those fat hands clasped tightly under his chin added to a wetting of the eyes.
‘You are a rogue,’ a furious shake of the jowls, ‘who would dun any innocent traveller who comes your way.’
‘Never in life.’
‘Life,’ mused Hawkwood, throwing back his head to look at the smoke-dark beams. ‘Is it better to be alive and a beggar or dead with burgeoning coffers?’
‘Alive, always life first,’ Gold added. ‘Unless you have paid out for an indulgence and are sure of paradise.’
‘Have you paid the pardoners?’
‘Where would a poor man like me get the means to buy an indulgence?’
‘It is not only the Church that can issue such favours. It must be an indulgence to let live a ne’er-do-well who swindles by habit. Much better to string him up by his heels, and then slit his throat so he bleeds like a pig.’
Tears welled up, which nearly got a laugh as a reaction. If Hawkwood was playing with the innkeeper the man was unaware of it, for there was nothing jocose in his tone. Pont-Saint-Esprit may have been spared Routier rapine but what such men were capable of was no mystery, even here.
In truth, while guying his host, Hawkwood was ruminating on that very matter: the citizens, as yet unharmed, must be wondering what was afoot. No doubt their imaginings would be replete with fears of a dreadful fate and the whole town, behind closed doors, was probably on its knees in prayer. By repute, the streets should be running with the blood of the menfolk, while no woman or girl, if the attempt to hide them had failed, should still be unsullied.
They would have heard tales of towns being stripped of everything they possessed to be set alight before the freebooters moved on to their next victim, taking with them the gold of the citizens’ coffers and the contents of the public and private granaries, as well as the younger females to act as concubines on their journey to the next set of unfortunates.
Nothing of the kind having taken place, the fact raised in Hawkwood’s mind an interesting thought: could the company gain as much by consent, perhaps even more, than they could by plunder? He knew himself to be less bloodthirsty than many of his confrères. That did not mean he would not kill – he would as the need arose – but he had always felt that to slay another for the mere pleasure of the act was sinful. Not that he would interfere with others so disposed; to seek to impede when one of the company was inflamed by bloodlust and no doubt stupidly drunk, was to put one’s own life at risk to no purpose.
Likewise with women; John Hawkwood was strong on consent, for he drew little pleasure from forced carnality. Experience again had informed him that in any place where the soldier put his feet there were women willing to become their companion rather than being forced to that estate; all it took was a little time to find one.
Here in this very tavern, one of the serving wenches had indicated that any attention paid to her would not be unwelcome, so any rest he took would be preceded by a good bit of rutting. The other thought he had centred on Gold; the boy was shy, but his voice was breaking. The time had come when the stallion had to be led to the mare, so he would have to find another willing partner for it would not serve for his first dip to be a forced one.
‘I must be about my business, pig,’ he said finally. ‘When I return I expect you to be ready for me to inspect everything you own down to the last copper coin. Should you fail to do so, and there will be a thorough search, you will suffer the fate of the pig, your namesake. If you are honest, and I suspect it will be for the first time in your miserable life, you will see old bones.’
The eyes within those puffy bags narrowed and Hawkwood could sense the man calculating what he could get away with.
‘Lie and this building will be demolished down to the last standing stone.’ Again there was no need to elaborate; with the inn intact he had a chance of future prosperity. A glance was thrown at the particular wench who had caught Hawkwood’s eye to get a quiet smile in response. Beside her was a girl the boy’s age with a cheeky cast to her manner, so she might serve to pop the cherry.
‘We will rest here tonight, so make our chamber ready with all that is required. Come, Gold.’
Sterz had tried to keep secret from the commonality what the company was seeking but that had barely held; how could it with so many having knowledge? He had seen for himself men whispering in a way that indicated they had some information, if not all, but that was enough to set the mill of rumour furiously turning, strong enough to get pumping the blood of every greed-filled heart. Such stupendous wealth would conjure up a vision in the brain of the meanest intelligence.
A strong command had to be issued to keep men off the parapet overlooking the bridge, lest their sheer numbers caused the approaching cardinals, more so their escorting soldiers, to hesitate. Whoever captained the Swiss bodyguards would be a soldier of some experience and a crowded wall would arouse suspicions. That did not stop the men’s leaders from endless visits, ascending the steps to peer along the Rhone bridge and beyond, this in between their need to patrol and keep order in their various sections of the town.
There was traffic, of the kind to be expected. A divine with a relic, a bone of St Anthony on his way to Bourges where it would be venerated in the cathedral. Folk by the dozen who were returning from pilgrimage, most from Rome or the Shrine of St Michael at Mount Gargano in Apulia, others with the darkened skin brought on by the heat of Palestine and many eager to rest. Such travellers were taken into guardianship but not harmed.
One papal messenger on his way to Autun was closely questioned, but could reveal nothing about cardinals and ransom money, so as the day wore on frustrations grew. Di Valona was interrogated but could provide no reason as to why that which he had predicted had not come to pass. Gloom descended as the sun dipped and those men sent out as disguised pilgrims drifted back to inform Sterz that they had seen no sign of the large body they had been told to look out for, heavy waggons and litters being escorted by soldiers.
‘Perhaps on the morrow,’ was the view of Cunradus when the captains gathered in the Bishop’s Palace, candlelit now that the light was fading. ‘It would not be unheard of for such a body to suffer a day’s delay.’
‘I am willing to go and seek an answer,’ di Valona ventured.
The look that got for all assembled must have told him that he was far from entirely trusted, which to Hawkwood, who had spent some time in his company, did not now make sense. Suspicious as the next, he had come to see that what this young man had said must be true. He could not get his hands on that treasure on his own so had shrewdly found a way to get a decent part of it, with others taking what risks had to be overcome.
Everyone present was aware of the threat posed by those Swiss mercenaries, formidable by reputation: even as paid retainers they were known to adhere to their bond. They would fight to
keep safe the ransom money and their clerical charges, perhaps prepared to die to fulfil their task. Hence the need to avoid a fight in the open because that would not be successful without severe loss; for all their abilities the Great Company were not at their best in formal battle against a disciplined enemy and the men most at risk would be the leaders, of necessity to the fore in a fight.
‘I will accompany him,’ Hawkwood said, in a voice loud enough to carry over the murmuring that di Valona’s offer had engendered.
‘Ever keen to put yourself forward, are you not?’ Sterz sneered. ‘You wish for preferment once more.’
For once, Hawkwood, who was ever carful to contain it in favour of a witticism, lost his temper. ‘If you wish to do it, say so or agree it is a wise thing. We cannot just sit here and wait.’
‘Why not?’
This was demanded by a captain named Baldwin of Gitschtal, German like Sterz but from land further south, bordering Italy. From the look on the face of the captain general he seemed to concur, which forced Hawkwood to respond.
‘How long before news of what has happened here spreads? The hospices and taverns on the road to Avignon must be wondering why they have no custom even now. If we have bottled up the road to the west and north do not tell me we can keep that secure for ever. Nor can we keep the route south intact. Those we have held up will be seeking an alternative route by footpath and there are boatmen all along the Rhone who will be only too willing to carry them across for a fee.’
‘We must know if what we seek is coming,’ said Thornbury softly, ‘and we must be prepared to set out from here and fight to take it should it be necessary, whatever that means in terms of risk.’
‘We must do everything necessary. To fail to secure the ransom would be a failure hard to suffer. I for one would happily hang up my sword and my spurs and leave this life we live.’
The speaker was Leofrick of Aachen, a seemingly mild-mannered warrior captain until he had the chance to swing that weapon he was so keen to hang up. His speciality was beheading his enemies, which wits insisted was a ploy to find some brains with which to fill his own empty head, for he was often unwise.
