Hawkwood Read online

  HAWKWOOD

  JACK LUDLOW

  Contents

  Title Page

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  About the Author

  By Jack Ludlow

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  ‘You’re a damned scoundrel, Hawkwood, regardless of how high you think to stand in the eyes of our prince. And a satyr to boot. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you debauched a great-niece of mine. I should have flogged you for that instead of taking you into my service. You may thank God that your skill with a longbow saved your back.’

  No acknowledgement of his Christian name from this noble bastard, or of his being daubed knight by Edward of Woodstock. Worse still, silence on the years of service rendered since the day King Edward landed his army at St Vaast in pursuit of the French crown. The temptation to remind him was there, the desire to argue even stronger, to suggest that when it came to debauching it took more than one to make merry. Yet it would be impolitic to say to the Earl of Oxford that his young and comely relative had been a very willing victim in their couplings; all he could do was cross himself and murmur an incantation for a paramour long departed this life, taken in childbirth.

  ‘May God rest her sweet soul and bless Antiocha, the child of our innocent misdemeanour.’

  One of the falcons perched in the tent furiously flapped its wings, as if to question the veracity of that statement and it produced for Hawkwood another glare from his liege lord. Was John de Vere being crusty merely for effect? He had barely said two words to the relative in question and Hawkwood knew him to be far from sentimental as regards the loss of even family members or a close friend. As to the child, she was being raised by the earl’s Essex cousins.

  Right now the enquiry he had posited was more important than pointing up blue-blooded hypocrisy; he needed to stay on the right side of the earl in the hope that he and his company of archers could remain as paid retainers and perhaps even fighting men. Weeks of talking were coming to a head and it was rumoured the two sovereigns of France and England were close to agreeing the terms of a lasting peace, one brokered by a representative of the papacy.

  No one doubted the necessity: Edward’s army was exhausted by years of campaigning added to the failure to take Paris. They had been obliged to withdraw from a siege they were too few in number to properly impose. Calais apart, all the most important successes in the English campaign had come in the open field on a well-chosen site that suited a numerically inferior force.

  Taking fortresses was hard toil: Calais had held out for just shy of a whole year, while the walls of Paris had proved too lengthy to fully invest, which left starvation as the only possible avenue to success without a high quantity of siege equipment and that, as well as the men with the skills to build such things, was lacking. As short of food as the city inhabitants and with morale plummeting, the time had come for Edward Plantagenet to withdraw to the safer territory of Normandy.

  Not that they got there unscathed: as if by divine judgement a great tempest, biblical in its intensity, hit the retreating column, with hail the size of rocks and bolts of lightning falling with an intensity akin to the arrow swarms of Crécy and Poitiers. Many a knight perished as well as a number of soldiers clad in chain mail, lightning literally frying the former in their plate armour and striking down the latter either by the attraction of their metal cowls or the tips of the spears they carried. Such chain mail hoods had been the price of vanity; how was it necessary to still be so garbed with no fighting in prospect?

  ‘Transgressions aside, you have grown to be a good captain,’ de Vere growled, bringing his visitor back from unpleasant recollection. ‘So know this. You have the right to continue in my service, perhaps as a steward like your older brother, though not, God forbid, anywhere near Castle Hedingham, given your previous offence.’

  If it was an offer with some attraction – de Vere owned land all over the southern counties of England – but it was one he could not accept.

  ‘You will recall I was asking not just for myself but also for my company?’ Seeing the hackles rise – a belted earl was not accustomed to being questioned by a man-at-arms, even a captain of archers – Hawkwood added quickly, ‘I mean should there be an accord that brings an end to the war.’

  ‘What use does King Edward have of an army if there is concord? What use do I have for a hundred longbowmen, men I’ll have to sustain from my own purse?’ The shaking of the head was violent enough to move the long greying locks. ‘No, if a treaty is agreed they must fend for themselves, as will many.’

  ‘On short commons’ was the thought that engendered as well as the memory of what he had faced himself after the Crécy campaign. Success in battle had granted Hawkwood and many others much in the way of booty, enough to contemplate a return to England with the hope of a decent life immediately after the capture of Calais.

  Contrary winds had destroyed that prospect, blowing the Earl of Oxford’s ship off its course for the shores of southern England, driving them far to the west and the coast of Ireland. There they were stripped of all they possessed by the bare-arsed locals, left with only the clothes on their back and a long trek to find a boat to take them home on a pledge of payment from the earl, which counted as money owed.

  True, de Vere had lost more than the men he led, but he came back to England and the landed possessions as well as income he held as a potent magnate. In addition to his rents he still had a claim on unpaid ransoms, and they were substantial, from the French noblemen taken prisoner at Crécy.

  When the next call to arms was promulgated, for an assault on Aquitaine under the King’s son and heir Edward of Woodstock, a strapped Hawkwood, living from hand to mouth on nefarious schemes and with a writ as a common malefactor hanging over his person, had been left with little choice but to volunteer for a second campaign.

  At least that had provided good returns. Called the Festival of Pillage, the young prince and his army had devastated the rich lands of the Languedoc, their endeavours ending in the even greater victory over the French at Poitiers. The English nobility had proceeded to ransom half the captured chivalry of France and pocketed fortunes. This would pale into insignificance against the money that would be needed to get the King of France released, also taken prisoner in the battle.

  The evidence of success for John de Vere lay all around this beautiful silken tent, once the property of the French Constable: fine furniture, gold plate off which to eat, ornaments and illuminated manuscripts of great value to fill empty hours, while the lordly stables were packed with the finest mounts, saddlery and gilded accoutrements France could produce. And that was before every man he led offered up one-third of his own gains to his liege lord, de Vere in turn passing a third of the whole to King Edward through his son.

  If the men had done well from plunder and sack on the march, stripping the dead of their weapons and possessions as well as purloi
ning the property of a slain French knight, the coin gained had been expended to maintain their needs in wine and pleasure in the failed attempt to invest Paris. Non-noble fighters were not the kind to accumulate: they were a tribe who regularly faced death and not only in battle. Prey to disease as well as misfortune, they lived for the moment and not the rainy day.

  Going home to England, which was being touted as their future, would scarce be attractive to the men Hawkwood led. Nor was it to him personally, even with de Vere’s offer. Quite apart from the risk to his person, to accept would be a betrayal of those who trusted him to look to their well-being. They were likely to land on their home soil with little left to sustain them and no occupation of worth to look forward to. Skilful archery would not provide a living; the Welsh and Scottish borders, where many had previously plied their trade, were known to be peaceful.

  ‘I would wish to appeal against this, Your Grace.’

  ‘Then I suggest you do so to Prince Edward, who still believes he owes you his life.’

  There was mockery in that; many believed the claim that John Hawkwood had come upon Edward of Woodstock just in time to stop him from being skewered by an enemy lance to be nonsense. In addition the prince, having laid his sword upon Hawkwood’s shoulders to dub him with the honour of knighthood, had passed by him several times since without so much as a nod of recognition, which marked the elevation for what it truly was: a piece of flummery from a leader in the first flush of glory, designed to add lustre to his name and no other.

  ‘His Grace has his own companies to maintain. I cannot believe he will seek to add to them.’

  ‘You have my offer, Hawkwood, say aye to it or decline.’

  ‘War does not train a man for collecting rents, Your Grace.’

  ‘You were not born a soldier, Hawkwood, you were sired by a tenant farmer.’

  ‘Nor was I born a villein, though happen I saw service under one.’

  Accompanied by a glare, it hit home as it was supposed to. The term for an indentured man tied to his strip of land, when spoken, was close to that of a thief. Hawkwood wanted to make it plain that in denying those who had swollen the de Vere coffers any hope of comfort was something akin to robbery. Judging by the flushed cheeks and furious glare he had struck home.

  ‘I bid Your Grace good day.’

  The call that followed, not a shout but just as meaningful, told the Captain of Archers in the Earl of Oxford’s division there was no going back.

  ‘While I, Hawkwood, bid you a full if not a fond farewell. Oblige me in this, do not call upon my person again unless you learn humility.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  The route back to his own encampment took Hawkwood past the tents of both his sovereign and his prince. Above the former flew the lions of England quartered with the lilies of France, the statement made that Edward, third of that name, was the rightful monarch through his mother Isabella, denied his title by the illegal invocation of the Salic Law barring women from succession. Above the tent of his much-loved eldest son flew the armorial design he had taken from Blind King John of Bohemia, who had perished at Crécy: the three plumed white feathers emerging from a golden crown, above the motto Ich Dien.

  The thought of seeking aid from either died when Hawkwood counted the number of supplicants waiting for an audience: several dozen and possibly many on the same mission as he. If he declined to join them, he did stop long enough to converse with acquaintances. In an eight-thousand-man army and after four years on campaign he could name most of the prominent fellows among them, captains of companies awaiting the pleasure of their prince.

  Such talk confirmed to him that which he dreaded. A treaty of peace was close to a conclusion, the last haggle only the ransom price for the French King Jean, living, hunting and hawking in much comfort outside London. Stalemate had been acknowledged: Edward could not win the crown he claimed and the French lacked the force to evict him from their lands.

  Those with whom he spoke were sure that Edward would renounce his claim to the French crown, that he would trade some possessions for others, while hanging on to those he considered most important; his family fief of Normandy, Aquitaine and Calais the most vital. When it came to the ransom demand for King Jean, for the first time in his life Hawkwood heard the word ‘million’ employed. When he asked for clarification as to what it meant, he could get no more than that it was many times greater than a thousand or even ten times so.

  ‘No man, king or commoner is worth so much, whatever he signifies.’

  ‘The French princes will be paying to buy back both their father and the honour of the lands they rule.’

  ‘You cannot purchase honour, it must be earned,’ Hawkwood insisted.

  He threw a meaningful glance towards that one-time Bohemian banner, fluttering above the tent: Blind King John had ridden into a battle he knew to be lost, his bridles held by the knights who accompanied and perished with him. There was a monarch who needed no money to secure his name; his death and the manner of it had made him immortal. The fellow for whom he had fought enjoyed no such reputation.

  ‘Jean le Bon should have opened his breast to the knife or the sword if he had a care for the name of his patrimony or his realm. To plead for mercy because of his worth in gold was demeaning.’

  That occasioned murmured approval; John of Bohemia, by common consent, had a good and honourable death. The King of France lived still, but surely in ignominy. No minstrels would sing of him as they would of Edward of Woodstock, the man who had beaten his army at Poitiers.

  Returning to the farmhouse they had taken over as their billet, he noticed some of his archers trying to sham indifference, looking away, fiddling with their long, unstrung bows or examining weapons, starting conversations with their comrades or one of the horses in the paddock, seeking to mask their curiosity. The truth was in the anxiety of those who watched him closely as he approached, hoping to see in his expression some sign of a good outcome. Ever well versed in dissimulation, their captain kept on his face a bland countenance that was impossible to read.

  ‘Gather you all.’

  The men shuffled forward, keen to be to the fore. As he looked around the faces Hawkwood could not help but recall those that were missing, men who had died on the march as well as those who had fallen in battle – few, it had to be said. They had perished in astounding occasions that would be commemorated in songs and ballads or the chronicles written by scribes both noble and monkish. But it would not be the names of the commonality who would be praised. Kings won renown off the backs of their subjects.

  ‘De Vere will not dent his purse and has no use for our service. He means to leave us to make our own way in the world even to the manner in which we get home.’

  The statement induced many an angry growl from those assembled. Hawkwood let it run its course before pronouncing on the alternative, which was not really necessary; the men he was addressing knew as well as he what it would be.

  ‘The possessions of the French are vast and most of their manors lie untouched. Our sovereign and his son have taught us it is possible to live well off the land and that is what those of us who do not wish for England must do. For those of you determined to return to your hearths we will bid a fond farewell and pray to God for your safe passage.’

  ‘To hell with hearths, let us form a free company as others have done.’

  This admonition came from Alard the Radish, one of Hawkwood’s corporals, so named for his rubicund skin added to a propensity to blush at the mere proximity of a woman or any carnal thought. This would produce flaring red cheeks, set off and made more striking by a thick mop of flaxen hair and an impish grin.

  ‘Freebooters we will be,’ called another, Badger Brockston, he of the white streak on one flank of his jet black hair. ‘If our own will not see to our prosperity then the land hereabouts must, and who is to say we will not be ourselves lords one day?’

  ‘Temper your ambitions, Brockston,’ Hawkwood sighed. ‘Settle for
food and wine. If it is to be done then we must be properly conjoined, with a scribe-written contract by which each who volunteers must put their mark. The same fellow must be taken on for a fee, to keep a tally of that which we acquire and ensure fair distribution of our spoils.’

  ‘First we must elect a captain,’ Alard insisted.

  ‘Then we must have a vote. Who wishes to put their name forward?’

  Hawkwood was offered no rivals and nor did he expect any; he had led this company of archers for years now. It would have been strange indeed if others had put themselves up to be leader. The acclamation that he should command them was heartening, only the Badger asking, ‘No one has asked if you intend to take that path, John? And it is rumoured King Edward is set to forbid it and insist all his fighting men return home.’

  ‘Home to what, Brockston? I have no wife and no property, with little hope of gaining either in a country flooded with the returned of our ilk. No, whatever our sovereign says I will stay in France and seek what the good Lord sees fit to provide.’

  ‘Happen that wife you hanker after,’ Ivor the Axe called, his glee obvious.

  ‘Any woman will do, Ivor, for me and I think for us all.’

  As a statement it was simple, yet John Hawkwood knew the position he was being invited to occupy carried with it responsibilities. They would not be part of a paid host as they had up until now, nor under the command of leaders who had steered them to great victories. There would be no marshals scouring the land to find the food to feed them, nor Constables to plan their movements and form them up for battle. They must look to their own needs.

  What he had said about written commitments was not an idle point: it was vital that all committed to the cause by contract. There would be a need to engage someone capable of acting as their factotum. A monk would be best if he could find an honest one, which was not likely to be easy, as they tended to be a venal bunch. But they generally had a superior command of Latin and numbers.