Christian Cameron: The Long Sword

‘Not with professional soldiers,’ Chaucer said.

‘Fie!’ Sir William answered, and again they exchanged that look.

Froissart leaned past Chaucer. ‘Tell us about your crusade,’ he said.

Gold smiled his wolfish smile, and stroked his beard. ‘Very well. But I hope you are no fan of Robert of Geneva.’

Chaucer narrowed his eyes.

So did Sir William.

1364

In the spring of 1364, I had just been knighted on the battlefield by that two-faced bastard, the Imperial Knight Hans Baumgarten, for my feat of arms at the siege of Florence. Except, as you know if you’ve been listening, there was no siege and we never had a chance to take the city. Five thousand men against a city with a hundred thousand citizens?

And the aftermath of my great deed was bitter; most of the companions, the Englishmen and Germans who had formed the great company that had made war on Florence for Pisa, accepted bribes and changed sides. There were fewer and fewer of us with Hawkwood — even Baumgarten himself, one of the most famous soldiers of our day, took the gold and crossed the river to join the Florentines.

Sir John Hawkwood didn’t change sides. Some say this is because of his honour. That’s possible — he had a solid view of his own worth, and no mistake — but for my money, he stayed loyal to Pisa because they’d made him their Captain General and that meant promotion. He had never been the sole commander of an army before, and he knew that if he could stick it out and attract men, he’d make a name that would mean employment and real money, not the forty florins a month that most of the men-at-arms earned, if they didn’t take a wound, lose their horses or pawn their armour or get the plague or fall prey to the hundreds of perils that beset soldiers.

At any rate, I stuck with Sir John. If you’ve been listening, you know he saved me once or twice, and despite being the devil incarnate in many ways, I liked him. And I still do. But by late May, we were down to two hundred lances or perhaps fewer. And that’s when Fra Peter came into our camp — Fra Peter being a Knight of the Order of St John that most men call the Hospitallers. Fra Peter brought me orders from his superior, the Grand Master; from Father Pierre Thomas, who had saved my soul, and from my lady, who I loved par amours — Emile d’Herblay. I won’t tell you which of those three held the highest rank in my heart, but I will say that the three together pulled far more weight at the plough than Sir John. And since tonight’s story will be about fighting the Saracens, let me begin where the story truly began; in Sir John’s pavilion outside Pisa, in May of 1364.

Sir John seldom displayed any emotion at all, and if the loss of two-thirds of his lances troubled him, he never showed it. Neither did he drink, or wench. That is, he liked a maid as much as the next man, but he was unwilling to show weakness — any weakness. His clothes were always perfect, and his horse was always groomed, and he did not lie abed, nor did he let us spy a pretty thing between the blankets of his camp bed. If there was one such, I never saw her. Indeed, he kept much the same discipline of the brothers of the Order, with none of their piety or purpose.

His squire served me wine.

‘How much have they offered you?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘It’s Fra Peter,’ I insisted. ‘I’m off for Avignon.’

He fingered his beard. ‘I can let you have a hundred florins if you stay.’

Now, this felt odd. First, I knew I was leaving with Fra Peter. If Emile was going on pilgrimage, I was going to be with her. And I had sworn to a living saint to go on crusade when my Order called me.

And a hundred florins was no longer so very much money. I had a surprising reserve of money in my purse, and a gentleman-squire to carry that money, and an account with the best Genoese bankers that could get me cash anywhere in the Christian world and pretty far among the paynim .

‘I’m not going with Andy,’ I said. ‘I’m off to fight the Saracens.’

He held up an ewer of wine, voicelessly asking if I wanted more wine. I nodded.

‘At least you have the honour to come and face me,’ he said. ‘But if you are riding with Walter Leslie, you might as well tell me.’

I knew of the Scottish knight, Sir Walter Leslie. I knew his two brothers, Kenneth and Norman, as well. We’d all served together in France. Sir Walter had the ear of the Scottish king, and the Pope, and he was across the river. That is, with the Florentines.

‘I’m not going with Sir Walter,’ I said.

‘He says he’s recruiting for the King of Cyprus,’ Hawkwood said. He drank a little more. ‘But right now, he’s in the pay of Florence. Stealing my men. For the fucking Pope.’ He looked at me. ‘If you go with him, you are, in effect, leaving the service of the King of England for the King of France.’

I was used to this; Sir John had the habit of using patriotism against us. And I knew — none better, as Master Chaucer will allow — that Hawkwood was always the king’s arm in Italy. ‘I thought we were serving Pisa against Florence,’ I said.

‘Florence is aligned with the Pope, who is raising the French king’s ransom,’ Sir John said.

I smiled, then, because Fra Peter had passed me a titbit of news when he gave me Emile’s letters, and I had assumed Sir John already knew it. But he didn’t.

‘King John of France is dead,’ I said.

Hawkwood froze for a moment. And for the first time in the conversation, his eyes met mine. ‘Says who?’ he asked quietly.

‘Fra Peter Mortimer,’ I said.

Sir John pursed his lips, but he didn’t protest. The Hospitallers had superb sources of information — they were the Pope’s mailed fist, and their intelligencers, too.

‘And you go to Avignon,’ he said.

I nodded.

He took a deep breath. ‘The Spaniard and the Friulian are donats, too. But I can’t let you take my master archer and ten lances. Nor Courtney nor Grice nor de la Motte. I know they are your men, but by God, William Gold, if you take all your companions, I’ll lose the rest by morning.’

‘I’ll come back!’ I said.

He embraced me, one of perhaps three times he did so. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘If you don’t — God be with you.’

John Hawkwood embraced me and invoked God. My eyes filled with tears, but I clasped his hand and left the tent.

Say what you like about John Hawkwood: he could have made my leaving him a test of loyalty and allegiance. But he didn’t. Which is why, when the lines were drawn later, I went back to him.

Fra Peter agreed with Sir John. ‘I’m not hiring your lances,’ he said. ‘You are volunteers for the Order, and you have to pay your own way. The Order will feed you and your horses; we’ll find you lodging, but there is no wage.’

Crusading is a rich man’s sport, and no mistake.

I sat down with Sam Bibbo and laid it out for him, and he laughed. ‘You needn’t make a fuss,’ he said. ‘I’m your man, but I wouldn’t go to the Holy Land for all the fish in the sea. Italy is rich, the fighting is easy, and this is all I need.’

I had hoped that he’d insist. I relied very heavily on Sam Bibbo — he knew how to do everything, and when he didn’t, I still felt better for his support while I made things up. But I understood.

Bibbo also embraced me. ‘Bring me a piece of the true cross,’ he said.

We were sitting at a camp table in a sumpter’s tavern one of the wine shops that served the army. I shaved a splinter off the table and gave it to him, and he laughed and slapped my back.

‘John Hughes won’t want to go to the Holy Land,’ he said. ‘But he’s had a message from home, and if you are headed north across the passes, he’ll want to ride with you.’