The Condotierri: A Contract is a Contract

This story is based on the life of Sir John Hawkwood, a condotierri, or contractor, in medieval Italy. Hawkwood was a mercenary through and through, and gold was worth more to him than honor. 

***

“Niccolo! More wine! Now!” A servant boy in his early teens bustled out of the magnificent tent. Marquis Giovanni held his golden cup out, waiting for his servant to return with the reddish liquid that so many lords lived on. Next to the Marquis, seating at a long table in the tent, sat Ludovico Tolliani, the chief minister of Montferrat. Montferrat was located in the north of Italy. Not large, it boasted bountiful vineyards and a gateway through the Apennines to France. The Marquis was a large man, with an enormous belly and drooping jowls. Giovanni II of Montferrat had once been a strong, able soldier who had defended his principality from ravenous neighbors to the south, but now, after a decade of wine, women, and a lack of fighting, the Marquis was as soft as his own pitiful army. He contrasted severely with Tolliani, who sat to his left. The minister was stick thin and  dressed in black, with a pointed mustache on his chin. The minister surveyed the tent with sharp, dark eyes.

As the servant boy returned with more wine, the tent flap opened, and a knight appeared, carrying his helm at his side.

“Pardon me, my lord, but the Englishman has arrived.” The Marquis put his cup down and clapped his hands loudly, grinning with glee. The servant boy, not knowing what to do now that the Marquis had replaced his cup, stood nearby, hesitantly.

“Excellent! Send him in immediately!” As the knight exited the tent, the Marquis turned to examine the boy and frowned.

“Are you simple, you piss-face sow? Pour me my wine! Stupid boy!” The Marquis’ face was contorted with displeasure. Young Niccolo turned red with embarrassment. He quickly poured the wine into the Marquis’ now proffered cup. With his cup filled, Giovanni seemed to relax, and he waved the boy away.

The tent flap opened once more, and a tall man in simple grey armor entered. The Marquis did not know what to think of the man in front of him. The Englishman was strong, possessing an air of rigidity and dignity, yet not nobility. The man’s face was rough and scarred, no doubt from his many battles with the French; rumor was that he killed a French lord at Crecy and plundered his gold. This knight in front of Giovanni was common, but he was a good soldier. His armor bore the look of well-used metal, beaten in many places. A pure white surcoat covered his breastplate.

“John Hawkwood. At your service, my lord.” The man’s hard face remained emotionless as he stared straight ahead. Tolliani scanned the man for any sign of weakness. The Maquis smiled at Hawkwood and opened his arms wide, cup in hand.

“Master Hawkwood! Welcome to Montferrat!” Hawkwood raised an eyebrow, noting the evident fact that they were not in the castle of the Marquis.

Giovanni’s smile faltered slightly.

“I know that this isn’t my castle, but I thought that you should come to my military camp to equip your company with whatever weapons you may need.” Tolliani shifted uncomfortably. The Marquis’ generosity in giving away weapons to the Englishman and his company would be expensive, since any mercenary company would take what they could. Hawkwood nodded once, still expressionless.

“Thank you, my lord. I will inform my captains. Now, do you have a job for me” Hawkwood’s direct tone caught the Marquis off guard. Tolliani narrowed his eyes, but Giovanni laughed.

“Excellent! You are direct then. I like that in a man. Yes, a job.” The Marquis motioned to Tolliani, and the minister stood up, reaching for a scroll laying on the table. Tolliani gave the scroll to Hawkwood, who took it hesitantly.

"The Green Count. Do you know him?" Tolliani inquired. Hawkwood shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"I have heard of him, yes. Amadeus of Savoy." Hawkwood looked directly at Tolliani. Tolliani stared back, not willing to be outdone by a soldier.

“Quite so.” Tolliani turned and seated himself on the Marquis’ side. Giovanni spoke next.

“This meddlesome Count is one of my greatest rivals. He believes that he can simply raid my territory and get away with it. It must stop now.” Hawkwood thought for a moment before he spoke.

“And what is the target? I need a town, or castle, or army.” The Marquis smiled.

“A village in the south of Savoy. St Gilbert is the name. It’s not particularly strategic, but…” he glanced at Tolliani, who turned away his head in disgust. “It has certain, uh, aspects that make it a very tempting target.” Hawkwood did not flinch.

“Such as?” The Marquis realized that he had lost the savor of his joke, and his smile faltered.  

“Ah, well, I can see that there is no fooling you. The village in question is the birthplace of the good Count. He was christened in the church there, and I would hire you to burn this church to the ground The fool claims he was born in Chambery, but I know the truth.”

Hawkwood for the first time looked uneasy.

“I am not sure that some of my men would do harm to a building of God. If any clergy were harmed…” The Marquis’ eyes narrowed.

“From what I hear, you were not squeamish when you burned that church in Burgundy.” Giovanni’s venomous tone was not lost on Hawkwood, who looked down with a painful look on his face.

“I understand, my lord. My financier will arrange for the contract and payment.” Hawkwood looked up, his face once again without expression. The Marquis’  face brightened immediately.

“Well then! Now that we have that settled, would you care to dine with us this evening?” The Marquis seemed sincere, but Hawkwood cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Thank you, my lord, but no. My company must depart as soon as we can.”

“I see. Then you must be off! Farewell, and Godspeed!” The Marquis waved Hawkwood away, and the mercenary bowed his head and left the tent.

The afternoon air was cool with a breeze drifting by lazily from the Alps. The mountains, only miles away, dominated the horizon with snow-capped majesty. Hawkwood scanned the camp around him. The sound of a blacksmith hammering a sword echoed through the small sea of tents. The simple white field and red bar of Montferrat fluttered in the wind above the Marquis’ pavilion. A few dozen Montferrat soldiers milled around the camp, carrying firewood and cooking supper. Most were young and inexperienced, dressed in a leather brigandine with the Montferrat badge stitched on.

But towards the center of the camp, in a wide open space, there was a group of an entirely different sort of soldier. A pure white banner trimmed with crimson flew from a lance propped against a cart full of weapons. Around two hundred soldiers gathered in the open area. Some were clad in chainmail tunics, some with leather and metal brigandines, and a few in solid breastplates; all wore a white surcoat.

As Hawkwood approached the mass of men, a head poked out from the center of the crowd. A massive dark haired man called out from the crowd.

"The Captain has returned!" All heads turned towards Hawkwood as he walked through the tents. The crowd parted to allow Hawkwood to stand in the center of the group.

Hawkwood stood amidst the mass of soldiers, looked around determinedly, and began to speak.

“Gentlemen, we have been given our first contract as a Company.” A roar of triumph greeted these words. Veterans amongst the crowd looked eager for glory, while the novices cheered but still looked anxious.

“The objective is a small Savoyard village. We move in one hour. Captains, organize your sections at once. Dolfini,” Hawkwood turned to a small, bespectacled man with a ledger in hand. “Come, we will sort out the contract.” Dolfini nodded, and he and Hawkwood walked off, away from the crowd. As the mass broke up into sections, Hawkwood addressed his financier.

“We’re a long way from Burgundy, Giulio.” Hawkwood said. Dolfini smiled.

“Certainly, Captain. But here it is more profitable. The Marquis can pay, I imagine?” Hawkwood shrugged.

“Your imagination could be correct. From what I hear, he offers plenty in the way of provisions and weapons, too. But he wants us to burn a church.”

Dolfini stopped dead in his tracks. Hawkwood stopped too. He glanced at Hawkwood in disbelief.

“What? A church? That won’t sit well with the Italians, or the Germans. But, why?” Hawkwood kept walking, looking straight ahead, and Dolfini jogged to catch up.

“This is personal for the Marquis. He wants to insult Amadeus of Savoy by burning the church where he was christened in.” Dolfini pursed his lips in disapproval.

“Hmph. This Marquis would have us take on the Green Count for a petty vendetta?”

Hawkwood stopped.

“Of course. That’s what we’re paid for.”

The Bloodstained Banner: The Death of Danton

This is the first in a series of short stories about the French Revolution called The Bloodstained Banner. These stories are meant to look at multiple perspectives of the Revolution and its consequences, negatively and positively. 

***

“It’s time.” 

The words of the officer rang in Danton’s ears, leaving an echo after they left his head. Danton was still defiant, but the cold glaze of impending death had settled in already. Desmoulins’s face was contorted in a grimace, but Danton knew that it wasn't for his own life; Camille was worried about his wife and children. Danton had heard earlier that Lucile had been arrested just days ago, but he hadn’t the heart to tell Camille. 

Soldiers used their musket butts to herd the prisoners onto the three tumbrils. The condemned men were all silent, but there was an air of hopelessness around them. Many of these men were heroes of the Revolution, Danton thought. Some, like Herault de Sechelles, had been betrayed by Robespierre and now found themselves facing the guillotine. Danton glanced at Fabre D’Eglantine, a man whom Danton had once appointed as his secretary. However, as Danton’s eyes fell on Camille, he felt a wave of despair fall upon him. 

An army captain had arrived to the prison with a number of soldiers, ordered to be a further escort in case of mob unrest. The captain then turned to Desmoulins, his face blank and expressionless. 

“Camille Desmoulins, I am here to inform you that your wife Lucile Duplessis has been arrested for crimes of aiding and abetting the escape of a man convicted of treason.” 

The words were spoken without emotion. Camille’s eyes grew wide, and his mouth opened in a terrible scream. 

“No! Lucile! You can’t do this, she has done nothing wrong!” Camille began to struggle against his guards, who in turn wrestled him onto the tumbril. Camille continued to yell madly as the tumbrils began to roll forwards towards the scaffold. 

Danton looked around at the crowds of people gathered on the route to the guillotine. Many looked sad, as they watched their hero carted off to his death, but others were angry. Plenty of Danton’s supporters had turned against him after the sentenced was given, as they believed that if he was truly innocent, he would have been acquitted. Many in the crowd shouted insults at the condemned, throwing pieces of garbage along with the words. 

“Traitors!” one person yelled.

“Sons of whores!” shouted another.

“Words won’t save you now!” exclaimed a third. 

Some in the crowd laughed at the last comment, and Danton himself smiled grimly. He had always been the best orator in the Cordeliers Club. He was a better speaker than Camille, and he had more restraint than Marat. But all of that was over now. Words could do nothing now. 

The ride to the scaffold was both agonizingly long and brutally short, Danton thought. He turned to see Camille, now in pieces after hearing that his wife was arrested. The verdict would be guilty, and the sentence would be death. The guillotine came into view as the tumbrils rounded the corner from Rue Royale into Place de la Revolution. A large crowd had gathered around the scaffold, larger than usual. The deaths of so many prominent victims would inevitably draw out a bigger selection of people. 

The tumbrils came to a stop at the foot of the stair leading to the guillotine. No ceremony was given for the condemned as the soldiers hauled the first grouped off of the tumbril and towards the scaffold. 

The first man was brought up the steps towards the guillotine. As he was strapped to the board, he closed his eyes in silent prayer. He was then slid into trap, the trap was set, and the executioner’s mate gave the signal. The grim-looking executioner pulled the lever, and the blade fell to earth, severing the man’s head in one swift motion. His head tumbled into the waiting basket, which was out of sight for Danton. The man’s headless corpse was removed from the board and tossed onto a cart at the side of the scaffold. 

As the second victim was taken by a soldier and led up the steps, Danton heard Camille’s name being called from the crowd. One of the members of the Cordeliers Club, Claude Dumare, was trying to get through the crowd to talk to Camille. The guards were forcing Dumare back, but Camille struggling against his own guards. Danton could not hear what Dumare was trying to tell Camille, as the second condemned man had already been executed and his body was being disposed of. Camille fought his captors, ripping his white shirt in the process. As Dumare was forced away by the guards, Camille called out to the crowd. “Citizens, you know me! I am one of you! I have been wrongly accused.” Camille’s desperation, Danton knew, was so that he could free Lucile somehow. Alas, it was all in vain, as many in the crowd shouted Camille down. 

By this time, the captain, who had escorted the column, ordered two soldiers towards Camille. The two National Guardsmen grabbed Camille’s shoulders roughly and pulled him away from the crowd. Camille continued to struggle against the Guardsmen until he reached the steps of the scaffold. 

Danton saw Camille stare right at the blade of the guillotine, and then the struggling stopped. Camille had accepted his fate, and he was now going to die with honor. One of the Guardsmen shoved Camille in the back with his musket. Camille winced in pain, and then began to ascend the steps. It seemed an eternity before Camille stepped onto the scaffold. For a moment, Camille stared up at the blade, transfixed on the blood dripping from its fresh kills. The executioner’s mates grabbed hold of Camille and pushed him against the board. As they tightened the belt around his body, Camille closed his eyes tightly. They executioner’s mates tipped the board and rolled Camille forward. Camille’s head went through the hole and the trap came down on his neck. The executioner stepped forward and grabbed hold of the lever. After a moment of hesitation, the executioner pulled the lever. The blade swiftly came down on Camille’s head, taking it off in one clean stroke. Danton could not see his friend’s lifeless face, but he didn’t want to. For the next few minutes of living, Danton wanted to remember Camille as a patriot, not a dead man convicted of treason. 

After Camille’s execution, the rest of the prisoners were quickly dispatched. Herault went to the scaffold stoically, but Fabre was pleading with the executioners before he was finally silenced by the blade. At last, Danton was the last condemned man remaining. The captain turned to Danton, motioned in the direction of the scaffold. 

“I can see, sir.” Danton said venomously, and the captain turned red and stepped aside as Danton walked slowly up the steps. Danton chuckled to himself slightly, thinking about the captain who had just been rebuked by a dead man. Danton reached the top of the scaffold and stopped.

 As the executioner stepped towards him to bring him to the guillotine, Danton said: 

“Show my head to the people. It’s worth a look.” 

The executioner nodded solemnly, and Danton walked over to the executioner’s mates. Without a word, they strapped Danton to the board and rolled him forward. Danton looked down into the basket. He saw Fabre’s head lying in the bottom, looking up. The expression of disbelief and horror was still upon his face. Danton would not die like that. The trap was set, and the executioner’s mates stood back. The executioner took the lever in his hand and pulled it down. Danton heard the click as the mechanism began, and heard the blade sliding against the wooden beams. 

The events of the last five years flashed by in an instant. The storming of the Bastille, drafting the Declaration of the Rights of Man, the insurrection against the King, the fall of the Girondins, and finally his own fate. Danton smiled as he realized what they had started would never be fully seen to its end, not in his children’s lifetimes. France was free, but the world would take much longer to be rid of their chains. 

As the blade fell closer to his neck, Danton's thoughts turned to fishing. 

To be a fisherman now, Danton thought.

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Naturally, there will be some rules and regulation on the site. This is for me, as well as anyone who wants to submit.

1. This is for enjoyment only, political agendas are not encouraged.

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- Self-censor if you want, but use your best judgement on if it is appropriate to the situation.

- If you do not care for offensive language, there will be a disclaimer before stories. (There will be a disclaimer regardless of if it offends you or not, but you don't have to pay attention to it if you don't want to)

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Welcome to the blog!

As a lover of all things historical, this topic has been close to my heart for the past while. This blog will be devoted to short stories, poems, and novellas with historical fiction subjects. I will be posting as much as I can, but I will also be accepting stories from anyone who wants to submit. I will make sure that stories are subject-appropriate.

My email address is fightinghistorian@gmail.com.