Whoever he was, he was frightening to behold. The Count saw him make the sign of the cross on his forehead, then stand in his stirrups to keen a loud war cry. Behind him, bursting out of the foul smoke, more armed horsemen emerged. The wind shifted, and the smoke funneled up, revealing a wall of men.
Count Vincinguerra da San Bonifacio turned his horse and rode for his life. Ahead of him the Podestà was doing the same. San Bonifacio kicked his heels to force his big horse across the bridge. On either side of him rode a Carrara, and just ahead to his right the Podestà and Mussato.
Suddenly the historian's horse pitched forward. Mussato's mount had stuck its foot in a hole in the planks and fallen, snapping its leg. Now man and beast were a barrier across the Count's path. Vinciguerra was unable to do anything but ride on. He heard a scream from beneath him. Poor luck, poet.
Back at the half-demolished gate, Vanni Asdente led his men afoot into the attackers' flank. Under his direction four horses went down on the right side of the Vicentine column. The Vicentines stopped, turned, and began the process of decimating the drunken Flemings. In spite of the howling and spitting Asdente, the sixty Flemings lost their nerve and edged under the stone arch to run across the bridge, only to be cut down as they presented their backs to the mounted soldiers. Asdente disappeared among his own fleeing men.
The main body of galloping Vicentine horsemen continued on under the stone arch and over the bridge to bring destruction to the army that outnumbered them more than fifty times. Ahead of them, the Count followed Ponzoni and the two Carrarese to where the Paduan army disported itself in the gardens and hills beyond the moat.
Paduan soldiers struggled to their feet, reaching for weapons. It was as the Count had hoped — threat was stirring them to action. Satisfied, he pulled up at his reins, halting in the center of the line. He still held his breastplate, the family crest blazoned across it. But his grandfather's helmet was lost on the bridge. No matter. If this worked right, he'd have it back in a very few minutes.
The Vicentine force checked just this side of the bridge, watching the twenty remaining Flemings run for safety. The tall Nogarola champion shifted in his saddle as he waited, his back to the banks of the moat. The Vicentines lined up behind him. The Count watched with grim pleasure as the Vicentine champion took in the numbers he faced. He couldn't possibly ignore the vast horde of men arrayed against him. Even disorganized as the Paduans obviously were, the odds were impossible. The champion would count it a moral victory and order his men back. But the moment he turned, San Bonifacio would lead a charge and destroy this force, then press on to the center of the city and victory.
The champion did not turn back. With the hound prowling about at his horse's legs, he stood in his stirrups and tore the helmet from his head. Light from the western sun set the hair ablaze. Dangerously handsome, the face was clear to all. Even those who had never seen him knew who he was. Cangrande della Scala, the Greyhound, in all his glory.
Vinciguerra da San Bonifacio felt the Pup's damned smile settle on him. The bastard's baiting me! The fool! Doesn't he realize how badly he's outnumbered?
As if in answer, Cangrande gestured upward with his mace. In response, there came a massive cheer from a thousand throats, more voices by far than just the riders with the Pup. The sound was deafening even at this distance. But who was cheering?
Around the Count men stepped back and horses shied. Beside the Count, Ponzino was aghast. "Dear Christ! Look! Look! Oh, has he no honour?!"
The Count glanced up and swallowed his heart. All along the walls of San Pietro, those same walls he had scaled that morning, hundreds of helmets glinted in the light of the setting sun. Enough of these silhouettes bore outlines of bows to show they were archers.
But they did not hold crossbows. They held bows of yew.
Somehow, beyond all possibility, the Scaliger's army had come. Worse, against dictate of emperors, kings, knights, and church, he had armed his soldiers with longbows. A violation of every code of chivalry, it was political suicide. It was also deadly.
Instead of indugling in outrage, the Count was doing the math. Those weapons could drive an arrow three times the distance of any crossbow. It wasn't an army the Greyhound had brought. It was death, in the form of a hail of arrows.
Below the rows of archers, the Scaliger howled a wordless cry that froze the blood. Ponzino actually shivered at the sound, for a moment believing it was the dog that had made the noise, so feral it was. The Count saw Cangrande throw his helmet aside in a show of contempt. Still standing in the stirrups, he lifted his reins in his left hand and kicked his horse into a gallop, the spiked mace in his right hand poised and ready to crush his enemies. Behind him, against all reason, his followers charged, screaming for blood.
In that moment San Bonifacio understood. It was neither courage nor reason nor a grasp of tactics. Not honour, not chivalry. It was a streak of madness that defied reason, thought, life. It was a kind of immortality, perhaps the only kind a man owns. For this heartbeat of time the Greyhound was more than human. He was Mercury, the messenger of the gods. He was the Angel of Death, descended from the heavens to reap a fearful harvest. He was the Greyhound.
Ponzino was horrified. "They can't possibly…"
Already knowing the worst, the Count snarled. "They already have. Run!"
All around them men in every state of readiness — sober, drunk, valiant, cowardly — fell back before Cangrande's mad charge. They'd witnessed their daring leaders run to them for protection. They'd watched the Flemings, darlings of the fierce Asdente, run as if the devil nipped their heels. They'd seen men armed with bows along the walls. Now this giant, this impossibly fearless, murderous man, rode at them like Mars on the field of war.
The Paduans broke. The massive army disintegrated into clusters of terrified men. In their desperate flight they shed booty, weapons, provisions and armour. Into ditches or into the Bacchiglione it all went as the men scrambled back to preserve their lives.
The Count of San Bonifacio didn't hesitate. Tossing his family armour aside, he turned his horse about, kicking hard. Grabbing the reins of the Podestà's horse, he dragged the stunned commander with him. Ponzino ripped every seal of office from his body, wanting no sign to mark him as Cangrande's enemy. For the first time that day, the Paduan commander did not think of his honour. He thought only of his life.
Seven
The charging gait of the warhorse rocked Pietro violently. He'd never ridden a fully barded animal, and the weight of the horse's armour took some getting used to. The sound of its hooves on the stones was odd. Glancing at the closest destrier he saw sharp nail heads protruding from the horseshoes. Shivering, he made sure he was snug in his saddle.
Pietro had no idea where the archers had come from. He only knew they had saved his life. Cangrande had charged, and for some baffling reason Pietro had followed, riding onto the battlefield towards glory, flanked by friends, glowing with pride, and out of his mind with terror. What in Heaven's name am I doing?
Cangrande was in the lead, of course. Ahead, some impetuous Paduans, probably hoping to make names for themselves, reversed their course of flight and set themselves to slay the enemy prince.
Seeing five horsemen riding towards him, Cangrande made a whoop of joy and spurred harder.
"Come on! Ride! Ride!" cried Mari. Pietro tried to speed up, but because he lacked spurs his horse failed to respond. Pietro kicked again but the pointed slippers offered no purchase in the stirrups, and the kicking hurt his heels worse than the horse's armour.