Hawkwood

by Jack Ludlow

  Where she was slim and graceful, with soft skin, he was stocky and muscular enough to feel a trifle gross. He had the shoulders of a soldier, broad, with limbs made hefty from wielding his sword and hauling on his heavy bowstring. Where her voice was musical his seemed gruff, yet Hawkwood observed no reluctance on her part. She conversed with him easily and without any maidenly shyness, bestowing smiles on him that lifted his spirits.

  Donnina’s father knew what his putative son-in-law must have: property and revenues enough to keep his daughter in the state in which she had been raised. These were gifted, but that was not all. Sir John Hawkwood was able to write back to his young sovereign and John of Gaunt, his guardian uncle, that his wife had been granted the Castle of Pessano as well as many other valuable properties, the costs to be borne by the state. On the day of the wedding, Donnina would come to him with a dowry of twelve thousand gold ducats.

  That was mere icing; the gifts poured in from well-wishers as well as Donnina’s mother and Beatrice Visconti. His son-in-law Coggeshall, seated in a positon that acknowledged his relationship to the groom, presented him with a cup of silver, filigreed with gold, while many a noble neighbour and Milanese merchant saw it as politic to gift the newly elevated Hawkwood something of real value. He would remember, but more importantly, so would his father-in-law.

  There was one absentee in brother Galeazzo, but he could be forgiven because he was crippled by gout. In truth, Pavia was being run by his son who was proving to be a far better administrator than a soldier, but Giangaleazzo too was missing from both wedding and feast while the lack of any form of gift that would welcome John Hawkwood to the extended Visconti family stood out starkly. If the point was not mentioned it was noted by the bridegroom and put away as an insult not to be forgotten, quickly buried by what was to come.

  Hearing his young, coiffed bride answer firmly when asked if she would take him for a husband removed the last residue of concern while the feast that followed the nuptials was near enough a rival to that given to Prince Lionel. It lifted John Hawkwood’s heart and he did his part, arranging entertainments at the house he had been given: jousting, jugglers, tumblers and a jester who did not hesitate to make salacious puns about what was about to follow.

  The bedchamber, after the raucous nature of the latter part of the day, seemed unnaturally quiet, the only sound being the murmuring and suppressed giggles of the ladies preparing their charge for bed. These girls, none older than Donnina, were her lifelong friends, companions with whom she had been raised, and the talk of conjugality was not something fresh but a subject much raised between them ever since they had come to womanhood.

  He found it absurd at his age that he felt so nervous. He had first lain with Antiocha’s mother over forty years before when still not much more than a lad. It had been a rare day since that he had not had a bed mate of the likes of Aalis of Pont-Saint-Esprit, and if she had fathered his son she was not the only one. In every place he had laid his head since there had always been someone to warm his mattress, so in terms of experience he was way ahead of his bride.

  What Hawkwood did not know was the preparations Donnina’s mother had made for this moment, later revealed when they were comfortable together in married estate. She had advised her daughter that while that which came first would be painful, what would follow should be undertaken for pleasure. Donnina was also told that she must ignore any strictures from her confessor about what constituted proper couplings, things which the Church saw as sinful, which was almost anything they could put a name to.

  Donnina’s friends finished their tasks, curtsied and departed with their secret smiles. She emerged, hair no longer dressed but loose and in a flowing diaphanous garment through which, in the candlelight, he could see indications of her flesh and most certainly her dark nipples and a hint of pubic hair. He had to suppress the urge to rush to take her while suddenly the coat of brocade that he had donned to greet her in modesty felt stifling.

  In consideration of her blushes and his much scarred body he blew out most of the candles, leaving only one, sufficient to light them to the side of the bed. There with gentle hands he divested Donnina of her flimsy gown and himself of his coat, before easing her slowly back.

  The four days that followed came close to bliss for in his new bride he found no delicate flower, which had Hawkwood wondering how much she took after her parents. Her mother was lusty and her father Bernabò rated as a satyr. She took to carnality with little reserve and an eagerness for experience that surprised him, even with his garnered knowledge. They feasted well, took to their bed frequently and laughed often and long, which had Hawkwood feeling as if the years he carried had dropped away.

  ‘How many of the Church’s rules have we broken, sweet one?’ he asked on the fourth night.

  ‘Not enough,’ came her reply with a throaty laugh.

  ‘It is Sunday.’

  ‘Which will make the sin special, Husband.’

  ‘And the penance?’

  She threw him backwards with a surprising degree of strength before straddling him, her intent plain and the notion that it was a sin in the eyes of the Church ignored.

  ‘I look to you for that.’

  ‘Two transgressions at once. Truly you are a fit wife for a freebooter.’

  On the fifth day duty called; he was not only the Milanese captain general, he was now bound to the Visconti by marriage, so their enemies and rivals had become his. But first he must secure the properties given to him in the Romagna by the Pope, in one of which he would install his bride, for he had no notion to set up home too close to Bernabò. To act properly he required a degree of independence and Hawkwood’s experience of nonmilitary folk was that they interfered, and not to the good.

  His property at Cotignola was in poor condition but it was a fief that provided a decent revenue, so it was worth restoration. The coast south of Rimini was a place of salt pans, and given most of the markets for that essential commodity were to the west of him he could extract valuable tolls to allow passage along his roads. Given such revenues it had to be fortified so they could be protected.

  Another property at nearby Bagnacavallo already had stout walls in decent repair, though they would have to be strengthened, and it was here he would take up residence. Now he had a wife and she must have somewhere safe to live. Given the accommodation was at present primitive, it was also a place for her to exercise wifely skills and turn into a proper home.

  Had the Bretons stayed as a host, life for Hawkwood would have been difficult, but they were as fractious as they were barbaric and in Robert of Geneva they had an overall leader for whom they had scant respect; his manner did not permit that he be loved or held in regard. The prince-cardinal’s problem was that in a country in the grip of near anarchy, in which the possibility for plunder was plentiful, groups of his army had begun to ignore the papal cause and split off to seek their fortune.

  This led to a very fragmented war as Hawkwood led his men to wherever he could find these Bretons and if he had the numbers, he set out to force a withdrawal; where they outnumbered him it came down to wily manoeuvring to keep them confused and he had any number of fortified places into which he could withdraw. In addition, they too were struggling to be paid by a papacy that had lost the revenues by which such a force could be sustained. This left them low on supplies while their enemies, backed by nearly every town north and east of Rome, suffered no such constraints.

  In what would be a war of attrition Hawkwood saw no need to overly expose those he commanded. Aware that the Bretons were moving towards Siena he masked their movements. When they besieged Grosseto he was content to set up a near permanent camp so as to keep their progress under observation. It was there he was called upon by the emaciated Catherine of Siena, come to beg him to return to the service of the Church.

  What Hawkwood saw was a strange creature but not a unique one, even if Catherine saw herself as such. The world in which he moved was full of those who were sure
they were closer to God than mere mortals and could interpret his wishes in a way that brooked no dissent. In her purity – she drank only water and ate hardly at all, while being given to self-mortification – Catherine sought to persuade Hawkwood that her mission was his. She required him to help broker a peace between Florence and Rome, for both sides were approaching exhaustion and in what way would that serve the Almighty?

  That he did not commit himself seemed not to affect Catherine’s certainties. Within weeks he received a request from Rome to allow ambassadors to call upon him, which required that he seek for them safe conduct across the territory of Siena, as much under interdiction as most of the Italian cities and likely to string them up without such documents. They too spoke of peace with Milan and Florence and indicated that the famous and feared Sir John Hawkwood was the man to bring it about.

  Aware of how such matters could be seen, Hawkwood was careful to keep Bernabò informed. But he also wrote to Florence to tell them what he was being pressured to do, adding he was willing to arbitrate to secure a truce if that was what the Eight Saints who ran the city wished. The rebuff was swift; in effect he was told to stick to his profession of arms and leave such matters to those better qualified to pursue it, given Gregory had previously demanded three million florins in payment for their sins as well as many other draconian disbursements and these he would not soften.

  ‘They are fools,’ was the opinion of Christopher Gold. ‘They could negotiate and get better terms. Gregory too is on his knees.’

  ‘They are afraid, and not just of Gregory. If they see me negotiating they do not think it is on their behalf but on that of Milan. So see it from where they sit. Bernabò makes peace with the Pope and they then become the place threatened, this time by a combination of Gregory and Bernabò.’

  ‘Talk of strange bedfellows.’

  ‘I don’t doubt the Pope would hand Florence over to Milan to bring this folly to an end. No one in Italy trusts their neighbour and certainly they do not trust anyone seen as a rival. They expect to be betrayed.’

  ‘Which I say is what they so often are.’

  ‘Thank the Lord for it, otherwise we would be paupers.’

  If the offer of the hand of Donnina had come as a surprise, what came from Florence was close to equalling that. It was nothing less than an invitation for Sir John Hawkwood and those men he saw fit to bring with him to visit Florence, where he would be greeted with all the honour due to his rank. His wife was visiting him when he got the request, come to tell him he was to be a father, which barely seemed to penetrate his thinking.

  ‘I sat outside those damned gates fifteen years ago and have done so many times since. If I had a florin for every arrow I sent over the walls I could buy the place.’

  ‘Are they more important to you than what I carry in my belly, Husband? Arrows?’

  The admonition might be gently delivered yet it was firm. John Hawkwood had already found out that Donnina was her own person. She was dutiful but not meek, while her lack of years did not prevent her from checking him when she thought it right to do so. This had happened in the manner of repairs to the mansion that they would call home. He had left behind plans of what he wanted; she had changed them without reference to him and that which she wanted cost twice as much.

  ‘You know I cherish that, Donnina, but Florence and I have a long association.’

  ‘Not one in which you are favoured.’

  ‘This said as you spend the pension they give me on furbelows.’

  ‘You would deny me a fit place to raise our child?’

  ‘My sweet, I would not deny you anything.’ As he said that Donnina began to smile, but that was cut short by the addition. ‘Because even if I do you would fail to obey me.’

  ‘If I do it is only for the best.’

  ‘And may it ever be so,’ he said, taking her hand and kissing her. ‘Now you must look to the duty you owe a husband who has been too long parted from you.’

  Donnina would not accompany him to Florence, her stated reason being that she saw the city as an enemy of her family and nor did she think they would welcome her presence. What she kept hidden was her real reason which was not to distract him from something he found so precious, for entry into the city he had fought so often would be a moment to savour and not one to share. Fears of being shunned, of being bought off to spare their lands while Florence had held him at arm’s length, would fade away, so she went home while he rode into the valley of the Arno.

  ‘How long before they seek to engage your service?’

  Hawkwood threw back his head and laughed at Gold’s question. ‘I daresay not long after the first goblet of wine.’

  It took longer than he supposed due to the depth of the welcome. He entered a city decorated with flags and banners, the streets lined with a cheering population, which was mystifying given the miseries he had visited upon them in the last fifteen years. The entire Signoria was outside the palace of the Archbishop of Florence to greet him and the celebrations lasted three full days, with endless parades organised by the various guilds as well as a palio in which each had a horse competing in their gaudy colours while an extra mount and rider, both excellent, was included in his.

  For years the name of Sir John Hawkwood had been used to frighten Florentine children into going to bed. Now the ogre was in their midst and an object of deep curiosity, as were his famous English bowmen. Everywhere they went, and that included the area of prostitution, his men were followed by the lower orders and being in a benign frame of mind they were happy to engage in many a conversation, for the English and the Florentines had a deep shared interest.

  The most famous and profitable export from Florence was cloth and that depended on a regular supply of English wool, the staple of government revenues in Hawkwood’s homeland. As much came to Italy as went to Flanders and the artisan quarters of the city of Florence contained the carders, weavers and dyers on which prosperity depended.

  The Florentines could not know that the captain general had expressly encouraged these exchanges. From the skilled citizens of the city he would find out that which their leaders would wish to keep hidden, and that was the state of morale outside palaces and banking houses, for there he was exposed to much wooing. He remained immune to the offers hinted at, non-committal so that he did not cause offence, but when he was with those he trusted, he was regaled with tales of grievance.

  The war had gone on too long and cost too much; the artisans’ trade had halved or worse. The city needed peace and a revival of normal trade, as well as an end to the forced loans and taxations that were ruining their lives.

  ‘They open up all confident and damn Gregory,’ said the Radish, ‘but it ain’t long afore their true thoughts are aired and the poorer they are the quicker it happens.’

  ‘Ivor?’

  ‘The same, I found.’

  Christopher Gold had met a higher class of citizen – merchants, not artisans – but even there he saw their confidence as false, a mask to seduce the English Company to fight on their side and even there doubt existed as to the certainty such an association would prevail.

  ‘They want peace, Sir John.’

  ‘Which is the opposite of what they tell me.’ A questioning look. ‘Never fear, Christopher, I am no more deceived than you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We leave and wish them well. I must go to Bagnacavallo to see my wife and take her the gifts I have received, which I see as much more suited to a wife than a warrior. You take our men back to the encampment at San Quirico and, barring an emergency, I will join you in a few weeks.’

  What had become known as the war of the Eight Saints could not go on; everyone was exhausted and the monies expended were taking all parties except Milan close to penury. A conference was called at a town called Sarzana and there, after much deliberation, a sort of peace was agreed – a good one for Milan, but a possibly ruinous one for Bernabò’s erstwhile ally Florence.

  The world was s
o dangerous for the papal envoys that they required Sir John Hawkwood and his company to escort them to the conference, and if he was bystander in what followed he was nevertheless an interested one; what transpired might affect his immediate and long-term future.

  The Pope was not willing to moderate the terms of his previous demands and the Florentine envoys would have refused to settle if the Visconti had shown them the slightest sign of support. What they got was sweet words and no more, so the matter seemed settled.

  ‘It is far from that,’ was Hawkwood’s opinion, expressed to his close band of old friends. ‘I sense a pause, no more. They will be at each other’s throats within the year. For us – well, Milan has us contracted, so let us go and find who Bernabò has in his greedy gaze now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Nothing defined Sir John Hawkwood’s new status more than the emissary from London, who came to his encampment at Monzambano before he went near the Visconti court, arriving with half a dozen other officials and an armed escort. The object of the embassy was to explore the possibility of a marriage between King Richard II and Caterina, the daughter of Bernabò and Beatrice Visconti. If there was an oddity, it lay in the fact that Hawkwood was busy fighting Beatrice’s Scaliger family, who ruled Verona, on behalf of Bernabò.

  Charged with presenting this proposal was Geoffrey Chaucer, who had risen from the clerkish role he had occupied previously. Chaucer had met Hawkwood as part of Prince Lionel’s retinue and had progressed in the interim to what he was now, a fully-fledged ambassador trusted with the most sensitive of assignments. The reason for the proposal was quickly explained and there was no attempt at subterfuge: matters in the conflict with France had not gone well and had cost much. If that was true for either side the fact was that young King Richard now oversaw an empty treasury.