by Jack Ludlow
‘Now, Lord Novello, we can return to Padua or proceed to Verona.’
‘I think we can count Verona as no more,’ was the reply.
Two days later they were feasting and carousing amidst the general joy and Sir John Hawkwood was the hero of the hour in celebrations that went on for a week. That soured as he waited to be paid, and grew rancorous when excuses were advanced and nothing was forthcoming, this including money to cover ransoms at a time when his own men were wondering when they were to receive their due rewards.
It never came: discord and the need to keep his company intact forced him to depart Padua and beat a retreat to Florence, where he required permission to mortgage not only his family home at San Donato, but several other properties to meet his debts to his soldiers. It had been a military success but a financial disaster.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The eyes of all Italy were on Lombardy and the so-called Count of Virtue. A man who could come to power by trickery and murder was not likely to be easily satisfied, and it was clear in the first year of his rule that the decrees he promulgated in his territories were no sudden inspiration. They were so complex and far-reaching they must have been deliberated on for years.
If his father and uncle had been talented administrators, Giangaleazzo showed that it was a blood inheritance by surpassing them in every way. Bernabò Visconti had ruled Milan as if it was his private household; Giangaleazzo, from his home in Pavia, surpassed that by applying personal oversight to every town and commune over which he had control. Any person entering or leaving his territories had to be recorded, thus he knew of anyone seeking to avoid their trading dues as well as the level of snooping.
No one could shut off the flow of information, however; everyone knew of the build-up of his military forces and his recruitment of a famous Italian condottiere, Jacopo dal Verme. Such people were now a numerous resource, given the locals had learnt their lessons well from the foreign mercenaries, able to apply them with equal or even greater severity.
Everything about Giangaleazzo pointed to overweening ambition to those who feared him most. The Florentine Republic was a state he would most wish to subdue, while it was not too fanciful a notion that the Visconti hankered after a crown. Once his greatest trading rival was under his thumb, the rest of the provinces of northern Italy would have no choice but to bend the knee and accept his hegemony.
The man required to blunt those ambitions was proving very hard to attract. Sir John Hawkwood needed money and without an actual war between Tuscany and Lombardy there was none on the horizon; the rest of the country seemed in a state of either exhaustion or anticipation, waiting to see the way of the wind and ready to jump in whichever direction suited their immediate concerns.
The hinterland around Naples offered the best grounds for plunder and it was there he concentrated his time and efforts, ignoring pleas from Florence that he return, for it was felt his mere presence and his reputation would stay the Visconti hand. Coming up to seventy he was still hale in body and spirit, but he was not to be swayed by supplications unless those who wanted his services were prepared to pay him and handsomely.
‘Do I hate Giangaleazzo?’ he replied to the latest envoy from Florence, a member of the Salutati family and high in the councils of the city. ‘He robbed my wife of legitimacy and stole her properties, castles and fiefs as well as their incomes.’
‘Yet it is reported that you offered him your services.’
‘Signor Salutati, I sought to ward off his greed and his malice. I will happily send to you a fair copy of the letter I despatched to him after he had usurped his uncle’s position and committed murder. There you will see it was but a sop, for I offered to sell my sword arm for less than I now pay one of my marshals.’
‘So it means nothing?’ Hawkwood laughed and just shook his head. ‘I hope you comprehend that in our home city we are concerned.’
‘Our home city?’
It did not need to be said that they had barred him from residence within the walls. Yet he was dealing with a fellow who functioned easily in the snakepit of the Signoria so he was not to be so easily wrong-footed. The response was as smooth as the best fine wool garments for which the city was famous.
‘I hope you believe we now see you as a son of Florence. But the Viper of Milan?’
Hawkwood managed to make his growl sound like he was clearing his throat; he still smarted from that refusal, yet it would be impolitic to rub anyone from the republic up the wrong way when his property and family were so close by and vulnerable.
‘I do say this. You are right to fear him, but I also say that sitting and watching a snake will lead to lassitude for he will hoodwink you into a state of sleep. Giangaleazzo does not do anything by chance. He has a plan and he will implement it in his own time and to your detriment. First he will seek to overawe communes that lack the fibre of Florence.’
Salutati gently interrupted, his voice sad. ‘Perugia and Pisa have already acknowledged his power. His legates now control their actions.’
Hawkwood sighed. What Giangaleazzo was doing presented no mystery: if his ultimate aim had to be Florence then it did no harm to weaken her first by cutting off the routes by which she could pursue her profitable trades – Pisa, at the mouth of the Arno, being the most obvious.
‘And more will follow if you do not act, Signor. But as of now I have needs to see to. You have brought me your concerns, please feel free to return to me when you have a proposal.’
If it was polite, Hawkwood was telling Florence not to trouble him again unless they contemplated action, not aware that he was pushing at an open door. The Signoria was already in touch with other communes, places that, if they were only titular republics, adhered to the myth. They were controlled by men who had no desire to be replaced and probably disposed of, for there was no chance the Viper would allow them to remain alive and in their palaces, even for show.
Messengers rode back and forth to set up meetings for more senior embassies at which it was only the final construct that required resolution, plus the agreement that wealthy Florence should pay for the coming war and provide the bulk of the forces. Bologna joined quickly, but nothing showed the depth of the threat better than the fact that Verona and Padua agreed to be part of the grand coalition and act in concert. But Florence could provide more than men: it would deliver Hawkwood.
Given command as captain general of their forces, he first reminded the Signoria of how many times he had ravaged their lands and if that induced discomfort it had a purpose. If he could do so, so could Giangaleazzo. Certain things such as moats and outposts must be put in place to protect the Valley of the Arno and thus the city itself.
Satisfied that such matters were in hand he rode north-east to join once more with Francisco Novello, The Lord of Padua, who had been given titular command of the combined army even if no one doubted who would truly lead. The force that marched north in late January in the Year of Our Lord Thirteen Ninety-One looked and was splendid, full of high spirits and comradeship.
Nine thousand horse and five thousand foot soldiers made up the host and in addition there was as a camp following of armed adventurers not paid for by the Florentine League, hoping for plunder. As soon as they appeared close enough to Parma and Ferrara, two city states who had been obliged to acknowledge Visconti as their overlord, they immediately broke that bond.
There was not a commander, captain or marshal who was not convinced that the suppressed people of Lombardy lived under a tyranny and would come to their aid. For that reason there was to be no despoliation, fields were to be respected and everything paid for. It was a command easier to issue than to enforce. The army in general could be controlled; the freebooting adventurers could not and many an offence was down to their actions. They fanned out from the route of march to steal, murder and rape at will, news of which soon spread. The locals did not, when they sought revenge, differentiate between such creatures and the soldiers.
Hawkwood rode at the head of t
he force with the other leaders, the army strung out behind them on what was an old Roman road, wide enough to only allow four horsemen or six foot soldiers abreast and one waggon. With such numbers the last cohorts were three leagues to the rear of their commanders and such lengthy arrangements allowed the peasantry to strike at will. In addition, the weather, which should have been improving, turned foul and the morale of the host began to suffer from these twin afflictions.
In such conditions supply waggons did not always turn up where and when they should, while at all times, cold and wet, the men had to look out for sudden ambuscades as the natives sought recompense for their losses, where only a blood-soaked and dead enemy would suffice. Once killed they would be stripped and mutilated.
Spirits plummeted as the sheer weight of fear, cold and often hunger sapped the will to continue and desertion became rife, which only added to the problem; men who had left the forces of the league were in hostile country with only one way to subsist. They were forced to take what they needed to survive and since they had set out in high hopes of plunder they indulged freely in that also. Their more loyal comrades thus suffered even more.
‘Make camp?’
‘No!’
Novello uttered this in a brusque fashion and not in concord. Unlike on the previous campaign with Hawkwood, where he had deferred without demur to the captain general’s superior knowledge, he had begun to assert his authority as commander which did not please the other mercenary captains who had taken service. They knew who they trusted and given it was Hawkwood who had made the suggestion it was left to him to respond.
‘If we go on as we are the losses in men will render us unfit to give battle and that takes no account of their well-being. A cold and wet army will not fight as it should.’
‘The Visconti forces are as exposed to the weather as we.’
‘I think, My Lord, that you will find no trace of the enemy. If Giangaleazzo intended they should come and face us; you would. The Lord of Milan has taken the advice of his captains and has kept his men dry and fed.’
Conrad of Landau, brother-in-law to Hawkwood and a condottiere he had campaigned with previously, spoke up in support, and he was not alone. Nods indicated he was speaking for the mass.
‘We can set up a route of supply back to Padua and also send out patrols to contain those whose actions are cursing our efforts. Then, when the weather improves we move on.’
Giovanni di Barbiano, whose own brother commanded part of the Milanese forces, was vocal in his agreement, which left Novello isolated. If he was not happy he had no choice but to agree, so the next two months were spent in keeping the host intact, no easy task for the foot soldiers, who had been sure they would not be away from their hearths longer than a couple of months.
Hawkwood had no concern for his depleted numbers, now half of his original force; moves had been put in place to engage plentiful reinforcements under the Count of Armagnac, another freebooter, a rare Frenchman who was bringing with him the equipment required to impose a siege. So when the weather turned and the spring sun appeared, the host set off again for a rendezvous with Armagnac that would end, it was hoped, with the fall of Milan.
The Army of the Florentine League marched through the lands of Brescia unmolested and headed for the River Po to rendezvous with the Frenchman, coming to a halt between Pavia and Piacenza. There they waited – and waited – as May turned to June and that became July and with it blistering heat. Scouting parties sought Armagnac in every direction, only to come across the forces of the Visconti massing to engage them in numbers they could not match.
‘I have said to you before, have I not, that retreat is not defeat.’
Novello nodded at that; it would not be politic to mention where that lesson had been driven home. The Veronese were allies and it was the man speaking who had defeated them.
‘I warned the Signoria of Florence,’ Hawkwood insisted, ‘this would be a long war, not just a single campaign, and for that they are prepared. If we fall back it is not to lose but to regroup, recruit more men and come back when conditions favour us.’
‘It is far from glorious.’
‘I think, My Lord,’ interjected Barbiano, ‘that Sir John has enough glory to withstand criticism.’ He might as well have said out loud that Novello did not and the man was visibly stung. ‘Better to fight another day than dispose of soldiers’ lives to no purpose.’
‘The men of Padua will not be found wanting.’
Astorre Manfredi, who commanded the Verona contingent, butted in. ‘They will, but they’ll suffer for allies to stand alongside them.’
‘Enough,’ Hawkwood barked; the last thing that would serve was an argument between these two old foes. ‘I am with you for my reputation, and based on that, added to my experience, I will insist we fall back.’
Novello went pale; his command title, which was no more than a sop to his pride, had just been overturned and the worst of it was he was isolated. If he wanted to fight Milan he must do so on his own, which would be suicide. He had no choice but to agree and there was no time to waste. Hawkwood insisted they must move at once.
As ever the problem of retreat was compounded by the need to cross and march alongside rivers and these were watercourses fed from the Alpine snowmelt and so always in full flow. If there was one saving grace it lay in the spray that such rushing torrents threw up, which cooled bodies and faces that would otherwise have broiled.
Flight, however tactically astute, is not like advancing. It is enervating and halts were necessary; the host also required a break lasting more than a day to allow for recuperation which was made at the castle of Paterno Fasolaro, and even then immediate rest was not possible. Hawkwood dug his defences well aware that the Milanese were on his heels.
‘We are offering battle by doing this,’ Novello complained, ‘which you said we must avoid.’
He got a wry smile and no more. It was evidence of how close the enemy was that Jacopo dal Verme sent Hawkwood a present, a caged fox, a sign that he was convinced the Englishman and his army were trapped. This arrived in sight of many of the men Hawkwood led, so in a loud voice he pointed out that the animal still lived, opened the cage and let it out. It was in the bushes and hidden in seconds.
‘That is what I reckon to gifts from Milan.’
Greeted with laughter and cheers, it was hoped the sound carried but Hawkwood had another ploy. He sent dal Verme a gift in return, a bloodstained glove, a well-known chivalric token that he wished to give combat. The message came back that the challenge was eagerly accepted and the armies would meet the following day. In dal Verme’s camp they heard the trumpets blow for the approaching dawn to match their own. First light showed the banners of the Florentine League fluttering in the wind.
Only the rising sun revealed the truth; there was no one to fight, while those fluttering banners were tied to the trees. Hawkwood, having humbugged dal Verme with his tilt at chivalry, had pulled up his tents, loaded his waggons and disappeared in the twelve hours of darkness. He was to say later if dal Verme had listened hard he would have heard his opponent laughing.
Having created a gap it had to be exploited and Hawkwood led his host towards a place where the River Oglio could be forded. Then came the Mincio and once over that water barrier the Florentine League had a clear route back to the Adige and safety, one Hawkwood wished to press on with as soon as they reached the river, a desire countered by the Lord of Padua.
‘There is no sign of Milan to our rear,’ Novello insisted, ‘the men are exhausted and a day of rest will revive them.’
The old freebooter sat with his chin on his chest considering this, watched by the other captains, for it was very likely that Novello had the right of it.
‘Conrad, I desire you to send out more patrols. Ride them hard but they are to measure a day’s march and no more. If there is no sign of dal Verme I will agree, but if there is …’
It was in private that his brother-in-law questioned that decis
ion, but gently.
‘I diminished him when first we retreated, Conrad. It will serve no purpose for the future if he feels slighted by me. We will be coming back to fight on these same grounds and that means we need Padua.’
‘I would be happier over the Adige.’
‘So would I. This is not a place I would choose to make camp. But if we are safe it will serve for one night and make our Lord of Padua feel like a general again.’
With not a sign of pursuit, the tents were set up and the fires lit, prayers said and food consumed before the army settled down for the night. Never a sleeper when deep in thought, Hawkwood was wandering through the lines as he had done on many occasions, thinking of those he used to josh with in times past and missing them.
It took a few seconds to note the rumble, more to discern its meaning and many shouts to seek to wake up those sleeping close enough to hear him, this while he was running as fast as his old legs would carry him to release as many mounts as he could in the time available, which was not much.
The floodwaters, from the broken dam upstream of the Adige, came into the camp as a man-high deluge, sweeping away tents, stacks of weapons, saddles and armour as well as many a struggling soldier. Hawkwood had got mounted on a heavy destrier and faced his horse into the coming flood. He ever thought afterwards that he owed that animal his life.
The first surge having passed it was no longer a torrent but a swirling cataract in which men were struggling to stay on their feet and suffering. In darkness they could not see the tree trunks and debris swept away upstream that came down to kill and maim. Hawkwood had always had a voice to command and now it was at full pitch, making more sense to panicked ears as the sound of the rushing waters subsided.
Pushing his mount through the fast flow he directed everyone towards the high ground, with instructions to grab a horse if they could, for that would lift them well above the level of the water and allow them to rescue others. It was a miracle that so many followed to group, to huddle and curse the Milanese under a warm night sky.
