Hildegard got up and the hem of her robe swept the floor as she paced back and forth. She had heard of Walter of Hemingborough’s account but had never seen it. She held out her hand. ‘May I read it?’
Pierrekyn fumbled in the lining of the slipper and pulled a thread loose then prised from its hiding place a small piece of much folded parchment. He handed it to Hildegard.
It was written closely in a fine, small script in order to get every detail on the two sides.
She read quickly. At length, she said, ‘If I recall what was written in Gaunt’s version, Tyler was supposed to have drunk a yard of ale in
front of the king in a uncouth manner, as an insult. But here it says he asked for a stoup of ale to pledge the king’s health and wish him a long and happy reign.’
‘He meant it as a symbol of his loyalty. In fact he raised the stoup and cried, Long live the king!’
‘And after that, according to this, his men cheered and raised their lances in support.’
‘But then some bastard courtier shouted an insult at Tyler—’
‘Yes, you mean Ralph Standish?’ She looked at the text again. ‘This confirms what we heard from some of those who fled north. Tyler was unarmed and alone—’
‘He would have been mad to approach the king’s retinue by himself and attack them – they were fully armed militia, thirty or forty of them – so Tyler simply stood his ground and denied the allegations.’
‘It clearly says here that Standish pushed his way through the men-at-arms with a drawn sword. Tyler stepped back, pulling out his eating knife, and Standish ran him through. At this point, according to
anomenalle
Tyler’s supporters, realising that something was wrong, tried to push forward to see what was happening.’
‘Mayor Walworth wouldn’t allow them close to the king so they were lined up on the opposite side of the square. Walworth called his men-at-arms forward but instead of defending the king, they fell back like cowards.’
She nodded. ‘This confirms the rumours we heard in the North. Maybe it was hoped the king would be killed in the confusion and all Gaunt’s problems would be over.’
‘King Richard was alone between the two factions,’ said Pierrekyn. ‘He rode forward on his horse and shouted above the tumult to Tyler’s men, “Follow me! I am your captain and your king! I will grant you all your requests.” And they did follow him. Meanwhile Tyler was taken to the hospice at St Bartholomew’s and there died.’
‘And those present at his death made a pact—’
‘They dipped their scarves in his blood and swore to avenge him.’
‘It says that Walworth had Tyler’s body dragged out into the square and beheaded.’
‘That’s true.’ He paused. ‘I saw it all. I was there.’
Hildegard looked at him in a new light. She said gently, ‘So afterwards did you go back to your manor with the rest of them?’
He nodded. ‘We all did. Were we fools?’ he asked in a subdued tone. ‘Did the king betray us?’
Hildegard sighed. ‘Who knows. Some say his uncles threatened that if he didn’t obey them, they’d do to him what had been done to his great-grandfather, Edward II.’
‘I wonder if we’ll ever know the truth.’
‘Maybe not. Meanwhile we should give King Richard the benefit of the doubt. What happened when you went home?’
‘As soon as my master found out where I’d been, he threatened to break my fingers. He gave the names of all the men who marched on London to the Justices – as well as the names of his personal enemies. I wasn’t going to wait around for the same fate as my father and brother. I ran.’
‘Did you slit his throat before you left?’
Pierrekyn laughed bitterly. ‘I wish I had. Someone did the world a good turn that day though.’
‘And Reynard?’
‘It was my lucky day when I caught his eye. He got me away to Yorkshire where Wyclif’s supporters were hiding out. When Walter wrote his account Reynard was determined to make as many copies as he could so people would know what really happened. He said: we must fight fire with fire. If Gaunt can twist the truth and peddle it around the realm, then we can show them the truth in the English version.’
‘There are more copies, then?’
‘Yes. All sent out. There’s also one he started but never finished, hidden somewhere in his things at Meaux. When you and the steward burst in that night I was still looking for it.’ He indicated the one in her hand. ‘This is the complete version. I knew it was precious but I didn’t know what to do next. Reynard would want me to do something.’ He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘At least, I wasn’t sure what I could do until I heard the mercenaries talking on the journey here.’
‘The mercenaries? You mean Jack Black and his men?’ she asked in surprise.
‘They said they were going to join Sir John Hawkwood and the White Company of Free Lances.’ He paused. ‘I knew about the fate of the White Hoods in Bruges who rose, like Tyler, against their overlord—’
‘The Count of Male.’ She nodded.
‘And that bastard the Duke of Burgundy,’ he added. ‘I thought, if only they had had mercenaries on their side things would have been different. They wouldn’t have been slaughtered at Roosebeeke. And then I thought, if only we had mercenaries on
our
side. And then I decided to come to Florence with you – turning my back on the skylark once and for all – and take the turnshoe to Hawkwood—’
‘Hawkwood?’
‘Yes, to beg him to send arms to England to support the Company of the White Hart.’
‘He won’t set foot over there!’
‘But he could send troops. He must be on our side.’
‘I understand he’ll be on anybody’s side if they pay him well enough.’
As soon as the words were out, Hildegard had a vision of such burning clarity she could only gasp. Hidden in her belt was something that would help such a cause. It was the bill of exchange. Equivalent to a large sum of gold, it would be enough to entice Hawkwood to send his best battalions.
Pierrekyn stared at her. ‘Sister, you’ve gone quite pale.’
‘I have had a most dangerous thought,’ she told him. ‘It’s this.’ She hesitated. ‘I have access to a small fortune – don’t ask me how or why – and I have it in my power to make a choice, to give it or withhold it. And yet—’ She frowned. ‘I cannot see a clear path.’
She went over to the window and stared outside as if for a solution. Turning, she said, ‘Forgive me, Pierrekyn, let me consider the matter more carefully. There are many aspects to take into account.’ She didn’t want to raise his hopes only to dash them later.
Whether by chance or fate, the sacristan’s refusal to take payment for the cross now gave her the opportunity to purchase Hawkwood’s services. There could be no better cause than to lend support to the king against the cunning of his adversaries.
Before retiring to her chamber to consider the situation, she asked Pierrekyn one more question. ‘Did many people know that it was Reynard who was disseminating the true text?’
He shook his head. ‘Only his friend in York. Another musician. Reynard knew when to keep his mouth shut.’
I
T WAS EASTER Sunday.
La colombina
was ready to take to the air. Meanwhile, the whole city was in uproar for another reason. Sir John Hawkwood had condescended to enter the city where he was to receive final payment for his services to the Signoria. He clearly had no intention of sneaking in like a thief.
With all the churches flung open to celebrate the risen Christ, bells pealing in exultation from every tower, and everyone dressed in their most expensive garments, it promised to be a grand celebration of the city’s gratitude at being delivered from its enemies by God and his English deputy, John Hawkwood.
From early morning bands had been playing in the streets. Wild boar was roasted on blazing spits, wine flowed from barrels set up in the squares and flowers had been strewn ankle-deep over the cobblestones. Banners representing the many different guilds were strung between the houses and the flags of the merchant princes rippled in the breeze in every thoroughfare. Housewives brought out their best carpets to drape over their balconies in a display of wealth, while inside the Palazzo Vitelli the servants threw open the windows overlooking the via Porta Rossa so that the household could crowd into the principal chamber to watch the passers-by. Everyone wanted to view the notorious Englishman as he arrived at the Signoria to take possession of his gold.
Hildegard had had a sleepless night. Pierrekyn had appeared at her door at midnight, demanding to know what she intended to do.
‘England isn’t Tuscany,’ she told him. ‘Hawkwood riding to the rescue strikes me as implausible in the extreme. It’s not a country he could control with itinerant bands of militia. Other allies would have to be found to support his troops.’
Pierrekyn’s face flushed. ‘Isn’t that what some of them are waiting for? Aren’t the northern lords waiting to come out on Richard’s side?’
She nodded. It was true. It was the reason Gaunt had seen fit to reward Standish, the murderer of Wat Tyler, with the constableship of Scarborough Castle. It meant he was able to deploy his spies in the north and have early warning of a rising coming from that direction. That was not all. ‘The outcome of any insurrection is impossible to forecast,’ she told him. ‘Whichever way it goes, there’ll be bloodshed. I cannot have a part in that.’
Pierrekyn exploded. ‘But it’s a just cause! Everybody knows Gaunt wants to depose the king. All the omens say so.’
When the newly crowned ten-year-old lost his slipper as he was carried from the coronation feast on the back of his tutor, Sir Simon Burley, some whispered that it was a sign that he would also lose his crown. Now Hildegard said, ‘I believe Richard has lived with malign prophecies ever since the day of his coronation.’
‘His enemies play on it.’ Pierrekyn curled his lip,
As she agreed with him, it was all the more difficult for Hildegard to deny help. But she could not sanction violence.
‘Even if the payment offered was to Hawkwood’s liking,’ she pointed out, ‘we have no guarantee he would keep his word.’
‘He’s our only hope if we want to match force with force.’ Pierrekyn had gripped her sleeve. ‘We must act and it must be soon. We’ll never have a better chance.’
Hawkwood had obtained a peace treaty between the Florentine Republic and Bernabo Visconti of Milan. After receiving the final payment for this service he would be off to another part of the country and another bloody encounter.
When Pierrekyn left, Hildegard had taken out the bill of exchange and stared at it for a long time by the light of the guttering candle. There would be some explaining to do if she spent it on the purchase of an armed mercenary. Pierrekyn’s fears for the king were real, however. Gaunt wanted power, not in the role of advisor to an underage king. He wanted nothing less than the throne of England for himself.
Now, Easter Sunday, a group of Ser Vitelli’s
fattori
crossed the loggia in an excited crowd as Hildegard descended the steps. Led by
Matteo they were dressed splendidly in their best velvets and greeted her in high spirits.
Matteo made a deep flourish when he saw her. ‘We’re off to join the crowds outside the Signoria, Sister, and we’d be honoured if you came with us.’
‘Listen, you can already hear the procession!’ exclaimed one of his companions. There was the unmistakable racket of bagpipes, sackbuts and cornets blaring above the regular beat of kettledrums from the direction of the river. Just then Pierrekyn came into the courtyard.
He was wearing one of the short tunics the
fattori
so loved. His tights were blue and green, one leg striped, the other plain, and a new belt tightly bound his waist. His doublet, a borrowed one in a shade of vermilion that made Hildegard blink, scarcely reached his thighs. It had trailing sleeves, dagged at the cuffs. To complete his ensemble he wore a pair of newish-looking leather ankle boots, somewhat pointed.
Hildegard covered her surprise with a smile of greeting. ‘Just in time, Pierrekyn. We’re about to leave.’
His glance was fixed when she lifted her gaze. ‘It was Franco’s idea,’ he said, defensively. ‘He thought I’d merge in better with everyone else.’
‘And so you do,’ she replied evenly.
The rest of the boys were already stepping outside to join the stream when Pierrekyn whispered, ‘I’m going to speak to Hawkwood. This may be our only chance. ’
‘It might be better to try to arrange an audience with him when all the excitement is over,’ she cautioned.
‘Do you mean you have a plan?’
‘I don’t know, Pierrekyn. I really don’t know.’
Ser Vitelli,
il capo
, had already left to join his fellow priors. Hildegard wasn’t sure whether he had given permission for his prisoner to leave the palazzo but thought it unwise to ask. In a bunch they forced their way down the street.
The vendors were doing a roaring trade as were jugglers, musicians and fortune-tellers of every description. There was a man with a dancing bear in one of the squares, and some shaven-headed penitents
howling and lashing themselves with metal-tipped scourges in another. A fire-eater distracted her, and Pierrekyn tugged her sleeve. ‘We mustn’t lose them in this throng or we’ll never get near the front.’
Vitelli happened to be one of the priors elected by lots for a period of two months. He also represented his guild, the Arte de Medici e Speziali – a group made up of doctors, apothecaries, dyers, spice merchants and anyone who used powders, including painters and gilders. As he was a merchant, it was the most useful trade association he could join, he had told her, though not the most prestigious; the guild of judges and lawyers had that distinction. A handful of families dominated the life of the city and there were many long-standing feuds. Rival supporters of the pope and the republicans also gave rise to plot and counter-plot. For a man of humble birth like Vitelli, it took skill to survive in such tricky waters.
Today, feuds seemed to have been put aside. On the loggia all the elected members of the council were standing in a group, their brilliant scarlet and blue robes a vivid focus of colour against the grey stone.
La colombina
had already been attached to a string that crossed the piazza. Soon, firecrackers would ignite the fuse and propel the silver dove of peace over the heads of the crowds.
Meanwhile, the rest of Vitelli’s household, including Hildegard and Pierrekyn, were pressed tightly in the crowd behind a line of armed men keeping the route clear.
It was not often Hawkwood visited any city other than to attack it and lay it waste. This time, as part of his payment, he had demanded a house in Florence in addition to the chests of gold.
Fearing that he would use it as a base in order to mount an insurrection against the city, the council had reluctantly granted him some property – a safe few miles outside the walls. It was said to consist of a sprawling villa, with farms, gardens, vineyards and stables, all protected by a moat.
The preparations for his entry now, within the walls, matched those made for a conqueror. In the view of many, that’s exactly what he was.
The sun blazed down. Hildegard pulled on her straw hat. The boys looked hot in their finery but everyone was in the same state and discounted physical discomfort.
Hawkwood would lead his cavalcade over the River Arno with its reek of dye-stuffs, tannin, dead dogs, butchers’ offal, decomposing cabbage and any other rubbish fit to be thrown away, and enter the city by the red gate before marching down the Via Porta Rossa, making a short right turn onto the street of the shoemakers, and entering the piazza from the narrow street facing the Signoria.
The onlookers, cooped up behind the line of pikemen, could judge the minute he rode within the walls because a roar of welcome broke out in the distance from the direction of the city gate. It continued in wave after wave, all along the route, getting louder by the second, until the crowds on the far side of the piazza added their own roar of welcome. It reached a crescendo and by the time he appeared it had become a deafening storm.
Matteo and his friends were shouting themselves hoarse as the entourage emerged from between the buildings. First came the armed and liveried men, marching in close formation. Close on their heels was Hawkwood’s personal bodyguard of twenty fully accoutred men-at-arms.
Soon Hawkwood himself was visible. There were cries of ‘Acuto! Acuto! Giovanni Acuto!’ – the nearest the Florentines could come to the English name. Hildegard mentally translated it as ‘Sharp John’ and grimly smiled. Even so, she too stood on tiptoe to get a first glimpse of her notorious countryman.
He was astride a glistening black battle horse.
Its rich caparisons gleamed scarlet and silver between the scintillating armour of his guards and as he drew closer the gold escalops, recently adopted as his emblem, were seen a million times over in his own dazzling apparel. Sunlight bounced off his men’s armour and there was such a glitter of gold and silver it seemed to scorch the eyeballs. His own breastplate was polished to so fine a lustre it reflected the crowd back to itself like a mirror.
The source of this brilliance was a thick-set man of about sixty.
His reputation had been carved out over nearly three decades, first in the war with France, then in the continual competition between the city states south of the Alps. He had started with straightforward plunder. Latterly he had learned to play one side off against the other and, astute and far-seeing, was eventually able to sell the use of his
troops to the highest bidder. Sometimes it was the Duke of Milan, sometimes the pope. For the last five years it had been the
priori
of Florence.
Now, coarsened by decades of bloody warfare, he gazed coldly at the upturned faces of the crowd. They waved their little pennants of white silk to display their allegiance with the anxiety of people hoping to ward off evil. His glance swept them for assassins.
The steel links of his mail shirt were visible under his silver breastplate and over that he wore a white silk banner tied crossways in a style adopted by the rest of his mercenaries. He rode amid the clash of steel. Despite all this, his hands in their steel gauntlets looked light on the reins of his horse.
Hildegard felt Pierrekyn tense as Hawkwood drew level. The man was surrounded by rows of armed foot soldiers, pikemen bristling with weapons, then mounted militia, swords swinging at their sides.
She gripped Pierrekyn by the sleeve. ‘Don’t risk it. You’d never get near him. They’d run you through and ask questions afterwards.’
He scowled in frustration. ‘I’d no idea there’d be such a turnout.’
A fanfare blared from a row of buglers on the steps of the Signoria as the cavalcade came to a well-drilled halt. The priors, arrayed in their best cloaks and chains of office, stood in a line of welcome.
The crowd was pressed tightly on all sides with a mingling of body odour, armpits, unwashed feet, bad breath, and the sweeter scent of flower-water made by the monks at the Santa Maria Novella apothecary. But suddenly, as the buglers blew one final flourish, Hildegard became aware of a smell that did not fit.
She could scarcely turn her head in the press even when a voice growled in her ear, ‘That’s a fine piece of horse-flesh he’s got under him, Sister.’
A rough beard brushed the nape of her neck, making her flesh crawl. There was no way out. She couldn’t even reach her knife. She managed to turn an inch then drew in a sharp breath. Standing behind her was Jack Black. The strange smell was saltpetre. By his side was the Scotsman, Donal. As her glance skimmed over them she saw that they wore no badge in the shape of an escalop. They were not with Hawkwood then.
‘Didn’t mean to alarm you,’ Black said, peering into her face. ‘But I see you’ve managed to find your young minstrel again.’
‘He wants to have a word with Hawkwood,’ she said, to explain the fact that she was still gripping Pierrekyn’s sleeve.
‘Aye, so would many.’
‘How did you get here after the storm?’ she asked, aware that she had cut the bridge on the descending path.
‘After many setbacks and much travail,’ he said with a strange glint in his eyes. ‘And your knight, Sir Talbot?’