A Devil of a Man (3) - An Orgy of Destruction

The door of the White Lion Inn burst open letting in an icy blast of air when a solitary figure entered the tavern.

 

Hugh Fletcher, the landlord, was eagerly awaiting the arrival of his nephew John.

 

Over the years, he had been following the young man's achievements and basked in reflected glory in the knowledge that it was he who had transformed the callow young man into a military genius. Well, he and Robert Miller, to give him his due.

 

Now that, at last, peace had been restored, Hugh had hoped that John would return to his roots and settle down to a steady job and perhaps start a family.

 

But the visitor who had just arrived was none other than his old comrade himself whom he addressed in the usual jocular manner.

 

“You old reprobate, what brings you here? And why is the local hero not with you?”

 

“He is still in France needing to tie up loose ends but he intends to come back to Sible Hedingham.”

 

“I should think so too. Has been a good boy?”

 

”Well, a saint he ain't,” said Robert after a brief hesitation.

 

“Chasing all the girls, hey?”

 

“On the contrary, all the women, young and old, flock to him, like bees to the honeypot.”

 

“Here, he hasn't married one of those foreign wenches, has he?”

 

“No, don't you worry, mate. He's single again. He went out for a while with one but her boyfriend who was supposed to have died in battle, miraculously survived and was reunited with his sweetheart.”

 

Robert Miller kept up the light banter not wanting to reveal that he had the foreboding that the 'good boy' was about to deviate from the straight and narrow. if he hadn't already done so.

 

Before leaving France he had got wind of what the newly formed band of mercenaries, the Great Company, intended to do.

 

 

The loose ties that needed tying were being discussed at that very moment.

 

“Who is the richest man in the whole of France?” asked John Hawkwood.

 

“King John, of course,” was the unanimous reply. 

 

“Wrong. It is that geezer who has made a fortune selling benevolences to the peasants promising entrance not to Paradise but to Purgatory and threatening hell and damnation if they don't cough up. He's building a nest egg to enable him to take up residence in Rome.”

 

“He calls himself Innocent the Sixth but he's guilty as hell, just like  the previous five,” he added, “and it is time that he becomes benevolent towards us.”

 

“Do you mean the Pope?” queried John Creswell quickly crossing himself. 

 

Like the rest of the English contingent, he had been baptised and adhered to the faith without questioning even though he had attended the local inn more often than the village church.

 

”You can't cross swords with the pontiff,” shouted a know-all among the rowdy assembly, “that's heresy!”

 

“Just watch me,” replied John Hawkwood.

 

“Ja, watch us” added Albert Strez who didn't want to be left out of the proceedings and to remind the followers that this wasn't a solo act.

 

“But he is in Avignon!,” the bloke insisted.

 

Albert Sterz gave him a scornful look. 

 

“Yes, we are aware that the town is an impregnable fortress but we have ways to circumvent the problem.”

 

The combined brains of Hawkwood and Sterz had come up with the workable solution. Rather than trying to penetrate that fortified citadel, they would attack the town of Pont St. Esprit where taxes were collected and forwarded by the way of its toll bridge and a long dusty road leading to the papal palace in  Avignon, 25 miles away.

 

A select group of mercenaries travelled at night and by daybreak they had broken the fort's defences without encountering much resistance. The garrison surrendered within three days. 

 

The inhabitants of the town felt the full force of the venturers' orgy of destruction. Plunder and pillage took place on a grand scale.

 

The bridge, over the river Rhône, half a mile in length was blockaded to prevent people or goods from leaving the town.
 

Women fared the worst, being made to fraternise, willing or unwilling, with the marauders.

 

Mothers locked up their daughters for their safety but should have done the same for themselves because they were just as vulnerable.

 

To add insult to injury all the citizens were kept prisoner and ordered to pay 6,000 florins for having their life spared.

 

*** 

“Merde!” exclaimed Pope Innocent furiously when told that three monasteries had been ransacked and the countryside surrounding Pont St. Esprit laid to waste.

 

Brother Angelicus, who had brought His Holiness the news, was astonished to hear him using such a vulgar word. He had seen the pontiff angry many times before but on those occasions, he would have just said sacré bleu.

 

“Fetch me a scribe, this instant,” ordered the Pope.

 

One, available, had to come from the Benedictine Abbey of Saint André in Villeneuve-lès-Avignon and it took him so long before he arrived that the Pope had nearly forgotten what he wanted him for.

 

“Ah, yes, take this down,” he said to the expectant scribe and began to dictate:

 

Gentlemen,- no, scrub that; they are not that by any means. Start again.

 

“Let's see how they like this.” He thought with a smug smile.

 

He applied a seal to the letter and called for a messenger to deliver it tout de suite to the Great Company's camp.

 

 

 

 

© Luigi Pagano 2024