Gioncavallo - A Folk Tale of Bandits, Demons and Witches.: GIONCAVALLO, #1

By Pier Maria Colombo

In the darkest time of the Middle Ages, Gioncavallo, a blacksmith's son in medieval Italy is left alone to fend for himself after his parents died of a fever. No matter how hard he tries to avoid it, trouble always seem to find its way to him. Whether it is offended husbands, the city's lord, the church, or supernatural threats, Gioncavallo faces his problems head on, with inexhaustible willpower. But how long can a person live on the run, alone? And does he truly have bad luck, or is there something more sinister at play?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seagull Editions
• Release date: May 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223377122

Book preview

Part 1

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The sound of wood shattering rudely woke Gioncavallo, pulling him away from a pleasant dream. The last vestiges of the dream, which featured a pretty woman whose face Gioncavallo could no longer recall, faded completely, and he shot up from his hay bed. After the first crash, he heard metal scraping against metal. He knew the sound intimately. It was that of armored men moving quickly.

There was no good reason for armored men to be in Gioncavallo’s house, and he was far from willing to stay and ask them about it. He shoved the shutters of his window wide open and got out onto the roof just as the loud figures entered his room. He shot over the roof of his smithy, his feet quick on now familiar shingles. However, before he had managed to jump to his neighbor Loffredo’s roof, a steel-gloved hand grabbed him and pulled him back.

I swear, it wasn’t me! Gioncavallo shouted as he was grabbed rudely by his nightclothes and dragged over the roof. The man who was holding him was strong and Gioncavallo was still tired from the day’s work, so his futile resistance got him nowhere.

More men grabbed him under his arms as he was led back inside his room, and they carried him down and out of the house.

Close the door behind you, he shouted when they were out in the dark street, turning his head back. I don’t want thieves going through my forge.

One of the armored men spit in his face instead of answering, and they left the broken door ajar. Filthy whore’s son, the guard swore for good measure, as if the spit wasn’t insulting enough.

As they dragged him, Gioncavallo managed to see Corte Mona’s emblem on their armor in the light of their torches, confirming his suspicions. What did I do? he asked his captors, hoping to clear what had to be a misunderstanding of some sort.

The guards said nothing, nor did they help him up on his feet. They dragged the man through the streets, his shoe-less feet picking up mud and who knew what else from the ground, soiling his night clothes. He spotted neighbors peeking through their shutters, having heard the terrible commotion that the armored men were making. He hoped someone would realize the reason behind the shameful parade and at least close the door to his smithy.

He was finally, violently, pushed inside the city’s prison, the heavy lock closing behind him with a clang. At least here the smells were marginally better than out in the streets. He made a show of dusting himself off even though the filth he had picked up needed a much more serious cleaning, then turned to see who he was sharing the cell with.

Inside, he found four men. They had been sleeping but were now looking at him curiously. He realized he knew two of them.

Good evening, gentlemen, he said, raising his head proudly. How are you this fine evening?

Hey Gioncavallo, one of them said, a burly man with scars on his arms named Hugo. Whose wife did you fuck this time?

I’ll have you know that I am not here under charges of fornication and adultery, Gioncavallo countered. Though I haven’t been told why am I here yet.

Then how do you know that it wasn’t some poor man who put you here? Hugo insisted.

Because I haven’t had any woman for... a while, Gioncavallo said, though he doubted himself for a moment. There was that blond girl a few days ago... could she have been married? And the woman from the castle, as well.

The other man laughed loudly. You rotten wormhead, he said, haven’t you learned not to shove your— he started to add, but was interrupted by Gioncavallo.

No, it isn’t that. It can’t be. I’ve been working all week in my shop. And don’t talk to me as if your conduct is godly and good, Gioncavallo retorted. We’re in prison, not a church. No one here is a saint.

Ferrante here claims to be, Hugo said, patting a thin man on his back. He said that the priest was a devil’s son.

That’s not very clever, is it? Gioncavallo said, finding a corner with relatively dry hay and sitting down. Especially if it’s true.

"It is true, Ferrante said. Saint Agatha told me."

And when did she tell you that, Ferrante? Hugo asked, his eyes playful.

When I saw her in the church, he said. She came over the altar, hugged me, and whispered it in my ear. He had a dumb smile on, his eyes looking at nothing, lost in the remembrance of his encounter.

How drunk was he? Gioncavallo asked Hugo, who shrugged.

Drunk or not, you can see that our friend Ferrante here is in for quite a lashing.

You can’t blaspheme, Gioncavallo muttered, and you certainly can’t blaspheme against the church officials.

But it’s true! Ferrante shouted.

True or not, you can’t say things like that about priests. You’ll only get yourself marked as a blasphemer, or worse, Hugo said, shaking his head.

And why are you here, dear Hugo? Did you throw your hoe at someone important? Gioncavallo asked.

Worse, Hugo said, hanging his head. The lord’s guards heard me talking about hiding some of the grain. His taxes have grown so much that my family’s going without food some days, and I was planning on hiding a sack or two from the tax collectors.

I don’t know who has it worse, Gioncavallo shook his head.

We’ll learn tomorrow morning, Hugo said, shrugging. They’ll take us to the judge. But I think they have it the worst, he added, pointing his head towards the two other prisoners.

They were chained to the wall, away from the rest. The man on the left had his head hanging low, and he had been staring at the ground while the others talked. The one next to him looked more pleasant, and had been looking at them. Gioncavallo knew neither.

Gentlemen, the pleasant man on the right said. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Vittorio il Truce, bandit.

Not a good idea to present yourself as an outlaw in the first meeting, you know, Gioncavallo laughed. Nice to meet you, though. I’m Gioncavallo, blacksmith and fornicator.

That’s not a good job description either, Vittorio laughed.

Mine won’t get me killed, though, Gioncavallo countered.

It might. Some men take their wives’ or daughters’ playful misadventures too seriously, Vittorio countered.

I’ve seen that first hand, Gioncavallo muttered. And what are you in here for?

Banditry, believe it or not, the bandit said, smiling ironically. They found me and my band stealing goats, but I let my boys go so that only I was caught.

So, you might get away with a few lashings then, Hugo said.

And this guy? Gioncavallo asked.

Don’t know his name, only what he’s done, Vittorio said.

And what has he done?

Killed a man, Vittorio said. And took his wife, before killing her too. The man said nothing to defend himself, only continued staring at the ground.

Why? Gioncavallo asked. He never really understood murder.

Does it matter? the man spoke up, in a low voice devoid of emotion. There was an emptiness in his eyes.

To me? No, Gioncavallo said. I was just curious. The man said nothing, and Gioncavallo turned to the others again. So, it’s tomorrow that they’ll put us before the lord’s lackey— Gioncavallo started.

Don’t make your position worse, Hugo interrupted. Let’s just pray that they will have mercy on us. I have a family to feed.

I’m sure that Saint Agatha won’t let us be harmed, Ferrante said, his eyes shining in excitement. I’ll pray to her for you. She might even come here to speak to us!

I’m sure she will, Hugo said to pacify the man. Now go back to sleep. You’ll need your strength tomorrow. Gioncavallo decided to follow the man’s advice himself. Having nothing to cover himself with, he packed as much hay under himself as he could to shield his body from the cold, wet ground, and curled into a ball.

He didn’t get that much sleep in the end though. The metal clanging of the guards’ armor warned him of the arrival of his captors, and he sat up, hoping to avoid being dragged again.

You five, the guard said, and Gioncavallo wondered if there were any other prisoners in the cells around them, though he hadn’t heard anything. Stand up. The judge will see you now.

Gioncavallo knew that the judge was just one of the lord’s family members, there only to keep up appearances. He wondered if they would even tell him what he had supposedly done wrong.

The guards put a pair of metal manacles around the hands of each of the three free-roaming prisoners, each connected with a long chain held by the guards, and unlocked the other two prisoners’ chains from the wall. Gioncavallo, along with Hugo, Ferrante, Vittorio, and the unnamed man, followed them out of the cell. Gioncavallo was somewhat relieved to find himself walking behind the guards instead of his naked feet scraping the floor, being dragged.

Every time he visited the castle, he was impressed by how majestic everything was. And surprised by how cold it felt. Despite the heavy carpets and draperies, the damp, chilly air seeped through, and he briefly wondered how could anyone sleep here. He knew that the nobles slept on feathered mattresses and covered themselves in furs—he had found himself in such beds a few times before—but what about the poor servants? The