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  HAWKWOOD’S SWORD

  BY

  FRANK PAYTON

  Fireship Press

  www.fireshippress.com

  HAWKWOOD’S SWORD: By Frank Payton

  Copyright © 2012 - Frank Payton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN-13:978-1-61179-253-9: Paperback

  ISBN 978-1-61179-254-6: ebook

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC014000FICTION / Historical

  FIC002000FICTION / Action & Adventure

  FIC027050 FICTION / Romance / Historical

  Cover Work: Christine Horner

  Address all correspondence to:

  Fireship Press, LLC

  P.O. Box 68412

  Tucson, AZ 85737

  Or visit our website at:

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 Lombardy 1361

  Chapter 2 Treachery

  Chapter 3 Revelations

  Chapter 4 Laying Seige

  Chapter 5 Negotiations

  Chapter 6 Genoa

  Chapter 7 A Delayed Campaige

  Chapter 8 Reprisal

  Chapter 9 Pursuit

  Chapter 10 Rescue

  Chapter 11 Confrontation

  Chapter 12 Battle Joined

  Chapter 13 Canturino

  About The Author

  Advertisements

  Chapter 1

  Lombardy 1361

  The attack came as I had half expected. I had felt for some time a strange unease about the darkling woodlands through which we rode. No birds sang. There were none of the familiar rustlings of small beasts scurrying about their daily business.Suddenly, my fears took shape. A shrill blast of trumpets rent the air, and as the leaders of the vanguard emerged into the sunlight of a clearing, groups of mounted men-at-arms hurled themselves forward in attack.

  Whirring volleys of crossbow bolts swept in from either flank. Our men reeled under the shock, the first two ranks going down to bloody ruin before the rest were able to gather their wits. I slammed down the visor of my helmet, unhooked the shield from its place on my saddle, and, thrusting my left arm through the straps, took a fresh grip on Boy’s reins. Sword in hand I plunged into the fray, urging the big bay destrier to the front. Smashing aside the shield of a tall man-at-arms, I ran him through under the mail coif of his helmet. Bright blood poured over his armour. He screamed, choked bloodily, slid sideways and fell under trampling hooves. To my left, a long-handled mace swept towards my head. I caught it on my shield and pushed mightily, overbalancing the rider so much so that he fell forward across his saddle bow and took a blow from my sword across his unarmoured neck. His horse carried him away, and several of my men engaging lustily with the enemy swept in front of me as I turned aside to seek new opponents.

  “Stand! Stand! God damn you all!” Will Preston, the vanguard commander, roared at the top of his voice. “Spread out at the front! Let more men through!”

  I called to him, flinching as a bolt clanged off my shield. “Where are those crossbows, Will?” He waved his arms to either side and shouted something I could not hear above the surrounding tumult of clashing weapons, shouting, screaming men and neighing horses.

  “Get back to Master Ashurst,” I told Ralph Blount, my page, who rode close beside me, his own weapon crimson to the hilt. “I want sixty or more archers up here. Quickly now!”

  “Aye, Sir John.” He disentangled himself from the melee, turned his mount and rode off as if the Devil were behind him. I returned my attention to the fighting. More men under Jack Onsloe, their marshal, had ridden up to swell the ranks of the van. I called to him.

  “Dismount half your men, Jack. Send them out to either side. Save the horses, and deal with those goddamned crossbowmen.” He raised his sword in reply, and gave the order.

  His men-at-arms flung themselves off their horses and moved off into the woods, using shields and the trees as cover against the whining bolts. The crossbowmen were well hidden. I imagined them furiously winding their clumsy weapons to get in another shot against the advancing swordsmen, who would hack them to pieces when they got to grips.

  The grinning face of Giles Ashurst, my captain of archers, appeared, bow in hand; behind him followed a jostling throng of archers.

  “We’re here, Sir John. What’s to do?”

  “Bring your men up to the front, and out to the flanks. Break up that cavalry. You know how.”

  He showed his teeth. “Aye, we know the way.” He called to his men, who ran up to the back of the press and deployed themselves on either side of the men-at-arms. They began to shoot. It was near point blank range, and the long yellow shafts sped almost horizontally into the enemy ranks. Horses went down screaming in agony under the deadly torrent, as the bodkin points bit deep into their flesh. The riders fared little better as the arrows pierced mail and flesh alike. After a space the pressure on the vanguard eased, and slowly we began to push the unknown enemy back.

  I met Jack behind the main line. His voice boomed hollow behind his visor. “We should throw in an attack now, Sir John. The archers have scattered them.”

  “Very well, I’ll follow up with my guard.” I turned and waved my men on to follow me.

  Jack wheeled his horse about, calling to his men, together with Will Preston’s troop, to follow him in the charge. I followed, but even as we went forward there came again the sound of trumpets rising above the clamour of battle. Hearing the signal, the enemy cavalry, whoever they were, turned and withdrew as quickly as they had come. Many of the crossbowmen melted away with them, clinging to the horses’ stirrup leathers.

  The tall marshal trotted his horse over to me. He removed his helmet and wiped a cloth over his sweat-streaked face.

  “Well, that’s that, I suppose. I wonder who they were.” Jack always relished the excitement of battle. “Why did they not stand and fight?”

  “Not surprising, is it? Look what they’ve lost.” I pointed to where the ground was littered with the dead, men and horses, and groaning wounded. The loss of some of the horses was a great pity. We were always in need of good mounts to maintain the Company’s numbers. Fighting men were easier to come by.

  Ralph’s voice broke in upon my thoughts. “I’ll take your sword and clean it, Sir John.” I handed it to him absently, my mind still on the ambush. As Jack turned away to rejoin his men, I called after him. “Where were the fore riders? Why did we have no warning?”

  His brow furrowed. “That’s what I wondered. I’ll find out.”

  The badly injured on both sides who were like to die were despatched cleanly with a dagger thrust, as was the custom, but two of the enemy crossbowmen were relatively untouched. The first, an older man, had taken an arrow through his upper arm. One of Giles’ archers broke the shaft off short, and as I watched he pulled out the other part. The man gritted his teeth and groaned with pain. Then, muttering something in his own tongue, he bound up the wound with a white scarf which he took from about his neck.

  The other survivor was but a boy, or so it appeared. Also a crossbowman, he leaned unsteadily upon his weapon and stared at his captors. He seemed to be suffering from a broken, or at least a badly sprained ankle. I dismounted and went over to him. He was a sturdy, dark-featured lad, who looked me boldly in the face. Suddenly my mind took me back to England years ago when I stood before one of the King’s officers who travelled through the land seeking men for the assault on France. Memories flooded back.

  “So, you’re an archer, lad,” the King’s officer had said to me. “How good are you?”

 
; “I can knock a pigeon out of a tree at fifty paces, or kill a fox at a hundred,” I answered boldly, looking him in the eye.

  “Hmm, you’ll do,” he grunted, handing me a shilling. “Go, stand over there with the others.”

  Thus I became an archer for the King, long years ago.

  Now there stood before me a young lad, a Genoese crossbowman, much as I had been. I remembered how I had felt and had difficulty in stifling a laugh, but I addressed him kindly.

  “What’s your name, boy, and his?” I asked, nodding towards the other prisoner; but he shook his head, so I repeated my question in French, which he seemed to understand somewhat. “I am Marco di Stoldo Bandini, of Genoa,” he announced with some pride. “And my companion is named Ugo.”

  “Was this your first fight?” I asked. He looked so young; I could not help but be curious.

  “No, I have been in such skirmishes before. This time I expected to die when the swordsmen came at us, but I was too busy to care at the time. Yes, I was afraid, yet it was exciting. As it is, I am still alive, though I am your prisoner.” He cast his eyes down.

  I spoke to him, softening the tone of my voice. “What do you know of your master? Is he the Count of Savoy, and where does he presently lie, and in what strength?”

  “Our master is the Doge Boccanera of Genoa, and we were engaged by the Count of Savoy for his own ends, and what they are I know not.”

  “But who was your commander in the field?” I pressed him.

  “Federico Orsini.” He was very wary.

  “And your Doge gave him instructions to attack us, I suppose.”

  “No. On our way here we were met by knights from the Count’s household, and their horsemen. Messer Orsini acted upon their orders. Until this day we did not know who we were to fight. You were too strong, and too many for us,” he finished ruefully.

  His companion, Ugo, swayed upon his feet and clutched his arm, muttering in his own tongue. Marco caught him as he began to fall and lowered him to the ground.

  He looked up at me. “He is very weak, Signor. I fear he will die.”

  “Hmm. We will speak again later. Ralph! Take this Marco and his companion to Master Turton to be held securely. They must give up their weapons, but they are to be well treated, and fed properly. See that our healers attend to their wounds.”

  I watched as the two lads went off, followed by the older man, whose arm still bled freely through the white scarf. Ralph and Marco seemed to be much the same age, and might make fine friends for each other if matters turned out as I began to hope. An idea was forming in my mind.

  *****

  Gradually the Company began to shake itself back into marching order. The captured horses taken into the Company’s service to make up for losses from death or lameness. All the weapons of the slain were taken into the care of Will Preston until they could be stored in the baggage train, which was a day’s march ahead under the command of John Brise, my burly senior marshal.

  At last the column moved off again, but not before Jack took me to one side and amongst the trees showed me the body of one of the foreriders. His throat was slashed from side to side, so fiercely that the head hung half off the man’s neck.

  “Do we know who he was?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged, and turned down the corners of his mouth. “I’ve seen him before. I’m sure he’s one of Belmonte’s men. Shall I ask around?”

  “No, not now, later will do. But at the right time I will find out. Get two of the men to bury him and say a couple of prayers for his soul. I don’t want his spirit following us.”

  Grave suspicions were beginning to arise in my mind, but there was little I could do about them at the time. Small happenings of that nature had arisen before, especially since the Battle of Brignais, when we of the Great Company defeated an army sent against us by the French, who were anxious to clear us out of their country for good and all. It was then I joined my band to that of the Almain freelance, Albrecht Sterz, who I had chanced to meet many years before at Coblenz, when the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire had appointed King Edward to be one of his lieutenants. Over the years we met at intervals, on one field of combat or another, and regarded each other as comrades in arms.

  His Holiness the Pope eventually agreed to pay the Companies to leave France and fight in a cause dear to him. Thus the White Company took up the sword on behalf of the Marquis of Monferrato against his long-time enemies the Viscontis, Dukes of Milan, who for years had sought to add his territories to their own.

  Bearing in mind what happened earlier in the day, and the suspicious death of the forerider of our company, I determined to keep a close watch on events.

  *****

  Later, I sat over the evening meal with Jack, Will, and Giles. Our night camp was in an area of pasture-land hard by a small stream. The site afforded us a clear view in all directions. The stream made one boundary for defence, and for the other we relied on a fence of roped stakes such as the archers used in a pitched battle. My small tent was set up, as we were on the march. The others had their own tents and bivouacs. We set regular guard patrols. With men and horses trampling the ground the fresh smell of the crushed grass took away the stench of blood and mire.

  Four of us sat around a small fire, for the evening air had begun to wrap its chill fingers about us. Above us the clear black sky showed its familiar array of stars. Jack was speaking quietly, as was his way. His dark features were reddened in the firelight.

  “I lost three good men today, Sir John,” he mused. “All knocked down by bloody crossbowmen hidden amongst the trees. They didn’t even see who killed them. They never got in even one blow against the cowardly knaves. Now I’m told we have two of these men as prisoners. What for, I’d like to know?”

  “Jack, think on this. They could be very useful, and at some time not too far ahead we may want to recruit some of their fellows for our own ends. This has been in my thoughts for some time now.”

  “Haven’t we enough archers already who can shoot faster?” he growled.

  “Yes, we have, but in a siege speed doesn’t matter so much, and at such times crossbows can be better. Don’t forget, we don’t know this country. We’re riding blind, and much as I trust Albrecht Sterz, there are those amongst his following about whom I have grave doubts. These prisoners may be of great help to us if we treat them well.”

  “I suppose so,” he grumbled. “But it won’t give me back my men, will it? Three of my best they were, who’d been with me for years. Little Robbie Marshall was one. A rare young limb of the Devil, he was.” He shook his head grimly.

  Will laughed. “You’ll soon get over it. Have some more wine, Jack. In our trade we all know we could be dead by the end of any day. We’ve lived with Death at our elbows for years.”

  Jack heaved a sigh, relapsed into silence, and spoke no more. He cared for his men, but his temper was well known. I had heard from others that years before in England he was a villein bound to a cruel landlord who exacted harsher fines than usual from all his people, who chafed helplessly under the yoke. One day the lord’s son came upon Jack’s daughter as she worked in the fields. He took her off on his horse to a place in the surrounding woods and there raped her. She was greatly distressed, being but a maid of thirteen years. At last she escaped and made her way home, where she collapsed sobbing in her mother’s arms. When Jack learned what had happened, he went out and found the culprit. Dragging the young man off his horse he beat him to death with a flail.

  That same night his lord came to Jack’s house with two armed men. They fired the thatch and drove out the family. As they fled, the two young boys were cut down straightaway, and Jack was seized. His wife and daughter were raped and butchered before his eyes. Jack broke free, wrenched an axe from one of the killers and hewed off his lord’s head with one stroke. He fled into the forest.

  Despite the hue and cry raised by the Lady of the Manor, over the next few weeks Jack hunted down and slew both the retainers who had raided
his home, stalking each man as a cat would stalk a mouse. Afterwards he vanished from the familiar woods and fields where he had lived since he was a boy, and walked to Southampton. On his arrival he found a great stir, as the King was making ready to lead yet another foray against the French. Offering his services to the first knight he met, Jack began his military life as a humble spearman at two silver pennies a day. Even that was seven times as much as he had from working in the fields.

  Over the years Jack rose in the world of battle and constant strife, so that by the time he joined me in the White Company he rode a fine horse, owned costly weapons and armour, and fifty men followed at his back. He had become a leader of men, but in all the time that I had known him, never once did I see him smile. Many times I wondered what he held close in his heart, but on that he was silent. After hearing of his beginnings I always tried to be a good friend to him, but only partly succeeded, due to the harshness of his character.

  Of a sudden there came the sound of hooves in the darkness outside the camp, hoarse shouts, challenges and replies. A guard ran towards us, as we sat around the fire.

  “Sir John, Sir John, the Almain knight, von Felsingen, and his escort to see you.”

  On his heels came a familiar tall figure, that of Werner, Ritter von Felsingen, followed by his close companion and lieutenant, the blond Conrad Harzmann, always a sinister figure to my mind. He was devoted to Werner, but to little else, apart from his own ends. They were both in full armour, carrying their helmets. At my word the ever-attentive Ralph brought more wine and food, and we shuffled back from the fire to make room for our unexpected guests. I glanced at Jack, who raised an eyebrow in enquiry, but I could only wonder, and shrugged my shoulders.

  “This is a surprise, Werner. We did not look for guests so late in the day.” I lifted my cup. “Good health to you both.”