The French Executioner (15 page)

The Fugger was pleased with more than the food.

‘Daemon and I have news. Where do you think our quarry has gone to ground?’

‘A brothel,’ came a joint reply.

‘A good Catholic Bavarian like this fellow? How could you think such a thing? No, no, according to my friend the offal salesman
– isn’t the pig’s intestine delicious, young David? – according to him, our fellow keeps illustrious company. Royal company!’

‘How’s that then, royal?’ Haakon was already well on the way to devouring his own pile, after sharing some with Fenrir, and
was beginning to eye up the others’. Beck, who’d spat while the Fugger talked, shovelled her offal before the Norwegian and
ate just peaches and bread.

‘Can you not guess?’ Feeding crumbs to his raven, the Fugger was enjoying himself. ‘Let me riddle it for you. Who’s
the highest and the lowest and keeps his court to keep out of court?’

‘The King of Thieves,’ said Jean.

‘Bravo, Master, in one,’ said the Fugger. ‘Cunning and strength together. With you as our leader, how can we fail to triumph?’

Jean spat out a particularly chewy bit of gristle, jarred less by its consistency than by the Fugger’s jesting. He got up,
stood with one hand raising the awning and stared at the doorway opposite.

A leader, he calls me. What have leaders to do with me? I who have always been led – to battle, to scaffolds. That’s the way
for a man such as I. Responsibility for no one but myself. To fight the man in front of me, then the man after that, to strike
at the neck presented. That has been my life. The Queen of England, the King of Thieves, the Archbishop of Siena. And I, Jean
Rombaud, peasant of the Loire!

‘Do you ever think of failure, Frenchman?’ Beck’s voice was pitched low beside him, inaudible to their bickering companions
at the table.

If I am a leader,
he said to himself,
then I must speak only of success, never doubt.
But before he could frame words into an encouraging lie, Beck continued, ‘For I do, often. Sometimes it feels as if I have
challenged the whole world. Then I can see no other end but failure. And seeing it, I despair.’

There was something else in the voice, something hidden in the eyes.

‘And how do you keep going then, when the despair comes?’ He turned, noticing peach juice glisten on lips.

‘I concentrate first on my cause, then on the strength of my good right arm.’

‘I wonder if that will be enough for me.’

A hand reached up and squeezed him just below his shoulder.

‘I cannot speak as to your cause,’ Beck said softly, ‘but your arm seems strong enough to me.’

The pressure lingered for a moment, and then the touch was gone. The boy returned to the table. Jean felt suddenly bereft,
then instantly renewed.

The strength of the cause and the strength to pursue it. He had both. All he had to do was answer the simple questions one
at a time. The first one being, what was the bodyguard of an archbishop doing with the King of Thieves?

Calling in a favour.

Heinrich had spoken the one sentence he needed to speak and now he leant on the table, resting his weight on his palms, staring
down into Gregor’s eyes.

It was strange how memory worked. Maltese Gregor had spent years forgetting the last time he had seen the man before him now.
It was a good night to forget, or a bad night depending on how one viewed it. He hadn’t considered it in years. Sometimes
a bed companion would tell him he’d whimpered in his sleep, but what of that? Everyone whimpered sometimes. It didn’t mean
anything. It didn’t have to mean he was remembering Rome.

Like he was remembering it now, conjured fully formed in the cold eyes of his old comrade in arms, Heinrich von Solingen.

Remembering how, before he became Maltese, he had been part of the same squadron of mercenaries as Heinrich. Even remembering
the reason for going to Rome, for in 1527 the Pope had switched allegiances again, allying with the French, betraying the
Emperor. And the Emperor, Charles, had failed to pay his soldiers for too long. They decided to get the money he owed them
from his enemies and, despite all entreaties to turn back, had marched on the city. A lot of them were of the new faith of
Luther and slaughtering Catholics was the closest they came to holy war, give or take the odd foray against the Turk.

Gregor remembered how he and Heinrich, as good Bavarian Catholics, had limited their pillaging to unconsecrated
ground, their rapine to anyone other than nuns, salving their consciences thereby. The pickings were too easy to pass up.
There was almost no resistance.

It was that ‘almost’ Gregor was trying most not to remember, hoping that the man opposite him would say something beyond ‘You
owe me.’ But he didn’t. He just stared, and Gregor, for whom speech was never a problem, couldn’t think of anything to say.
So he carried on remembering.

How at night, gorged with excess, soldiers would fall asleep wherever they happened to be and how it was then that the despoiled
inhabitants would take such revenge as they could. How two sisters, brutally raped by Gregor and his cronies some nights before,
had been left for dead in the smoking ruins of their house, alongside the bodies of their parents. How Gregor had made the
mistake of revisiting the scene alone, sure he’d overlooked some booty, unwilling to share any of it. How those sisters had
clubbed him to the ground, stripped him naked, bound him, hung him upside down and burnt and cut him, one starting at the
head, the other at the feet. How they were just about to meet at the middle when Heinrich arrived. The sisters swiftly joined
their parents in heaven or hell, while a blood-and-shit-smeared Gregor babbled eternal gratitude and the granting of any favour.

Nine years! And Gregor had nearly managed to forget about it all. But that one night in Rome had decided him that the mercenary
life had lost its savour and began him on the road that led to Toulon. To the good life. To be reminded so suddenly of the
inauspicious start to that journey was deeply unpleasant. To be immediately reminded that a favour was also owed was even
worse. Hence his thoughts turning to garrotting, for if his lookouts had warned him of this man’s approach he might have had
time to make arrangements for a dagger in an alley. For Heinrich von Solingen was not a man you said no to face to face.

Gregor decided he could take the silence no longer. ‘What? What is it, Heine, old comrade? Why do you stare so?’

The cobalt-blue eyes never left him. ‘I just wanted to make sure you remembered.’

Hastily pouring him some wine, Gregor said, ‘Heinrich, my friend, let’s not talk about old times, eh? Sit. Sit! Here, drink
this. What happened? You look terrible.’

The stone had caused a giant swelling at his temple; it throbbed violently, causing pain to shoot throughout his head. Blood
was still caked in his ear, which he hoped was all that accounted for his faulty hearing, the ringing that dominated all other
sound. He drained the wine, gestured for more, said, ‘It does not matter what happened. All that matters is what’s going to
happen. You owe me.’

‘You already said, Heinrich, and of course, do you think I would ever forget? An oath, an oath I swore to you, old comrade.
Here, some food, more wine, of course. Ask, and if a poor man with limited means can oblige you, you know he will.’

Von Solingen looked at the smile that never reached the pig-like eyes, the face that had doubled in jowl and fat since he’d
last seen it. He’d never liked Gregor, indeed had enjoyed watching from the shadows as the sisters plied their knives and
firebrands, only stepping from them at the last because Gregor had a rat’s nose for things hidden and if he was in the house
there was booty to be had there. Yet he also knew how much a man could hate being bound by an oath of loyalty. He’d cursed
his to Giancarlo Cibo every day, and while he would not waver from it, he could not be sure of the dog before him. He knew
he’d have to throw him a bone as well.

‘I need some people killed.’

‘Easy. Name them.’

‘I do not know their names. There are three, possibly four, and they are hiding outside, waiting for me.’

‘I will call my men. Six should do.’

‘Make it twelve. These enemies are strong, and clever.’

‘Twelve men?’ Gregor sucked in his lower lip. Twelve was expensive, because he’d have to go outside his own group.

Heinrich saw the calculation, the hesitation. He threw the bone.

‘And there will be gold in it. Plenty of gold.’

‘Heine,’ said Maltese Gregor, beaming at last, ‘it really is such a pleasure to see you again.’

On his provisioning expedition, the Fugger had gleaned other information from his talkative new friend the offal vendor.

‘Two fleets sail at dawn, of equal size. One to the Indies and the other to Livorno.’

‘Tuscany.’ Beck’s voice had a strange timbre to it, eyes clouding.

Jean noticed, looked away and nodded.

‘So our search is narrowed down to half the vessels. We know which fleet the Archbishop sails with. He’ll be making for Siena.’

‘And the fleets contain slaves. You can always tell by the aroma.’ Haakon sniffed and threw down a last pork bone in disgust.
‘Of all the fates a man can face, chained to an oar on one of those death galleys must be the worst.’

‘Wait!’ Jean stood swiftly. ‘Here comes our man.’

The trail they took was short, for Heinrich went to ground again in another, larger brothel. It was harder to cover, for there
were three entrances, out of sight of each other. Beck, Jean and Haakon took one each while the Fugger scurried between them
with messages.

Jean watched the front, his anxious mood heightened by the parade that passed before him. The town was seething with the sailors
and soldiers of both convoys, attempting to get into as much trouble as they could before returning to their ships. Every
inn was crammed with a writhing mass of humanity; ale, wine and brandy was churned out as fast as it could be watered down.
Only the more expensive whores operated under a roof; the others despatched clients in every back alley, in every nook with
the slightest of shadows, just
one of the many causes of fights which broke out everywhere. It was bacchanal and battle, orgy and riot, lit by firebrands,
with musicians vying with drunk and full-voiced sailors to provide the musical accompaniment.

‘Come on, come on!’

Jean’s hand clutched and unclutched on the grip of the sword hidden under his cloak. But his desire could not speed the night.
It wore on, hour after noisy hour, while men staggered into them, offered drink or violence, rutted within their sight. Many
came and many left the house of pleasure, but not their man. And as the hour got later, or earlier, the crowd thinned as more
and more headed for their boats, staggering, carried, accompanied by cheers or curses.

‘Haakon wonders if the blow to the head has finally killed the bastard and that’s why he hasn’t appeared,’ the Fugger said,
the tenth time he’d come round. He was the only one who seemed less than exhausted by another night without sleep; but the
way he saw it, he’d been asleep for a thousand years under a gibbet.

Jean had wondered the same.

‘I could go in and see.’

The Fugger was doing the strange shuffling dance he called standing still, and Jean thought that of them all, he’d attract
the least attention. The town was mad tonight, so it was the sane and the sober who stood out.

‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ he said, for over the Fugger’s shoulder a party of particularly raucous seamen poured
out and behind them the tall figure of Heinrich loomed in the brothel doorway. Ducking down, Jean watched him speak briefly
to someone out of sight, then turn and head down the street towards the harbour, along the same route the mob had taken.

‘Go, tell the others the direction and take up your post,’ he whispered, and set off after the German.

‘Let me come, please.’ The Fugger’s face twisted in appeal. ‘I know I’m not much of a fighter but I … I …’

Jean paused just long enough to squeeze the young man’s shoulder.

‘We need you to speed our escape, you know the plan. And our rendezvous, if things go awry. Each to his own strength, Fugger,
remember? We’ll be coming back fast. Without you, we wouldn’t make it.’

And with that he turned and followed his prey.

The Fugger quickly passed the word to Haakon and Beck, then made for the stables where their horses lay. Fenrir greeted him
with the growl that had seen off anyone nosy enough to poke among the hay, where the saddle bags lay hidden. Sitting on one,
he tried to still his limbs for the wait.

A raucous caw came from a beam above.

‘Aye, Daemon,’ he said, ‘I hope so too.’

Heinrich had turned three corners by the time Beck and Haakon caught up with Jean.

‘At last,’ the Norseman muttered as he fell into step. At his side he clutched the axe in one hand and in the other a large
jar filled with lamp oil. Beck held a covered lantern in which a flame burned. They had decided that they might need some
distraction at the dockside if they were to slip aboard a boat and steal what they’d come for, and nothing distracts a sailor
as quickly as his boat going up in flames.

What was strange was that their quarry’s turns first seemed to be moving them parallel to the waterfront rather than towards
it, then away into an area of rotting wharves and abandoned warehouses. Little light shone here, only as much as the approaching
dawn and their own small lamp could shed. At times Jean thought they’d lost their quarry, and he was aware, as the noises
of the town faded behind them, of their quickened feet making more and more sound in the growing silence, lightly though they
were trying to tread. Then, just when he’d begin to truly worry, he’d catch sight of the broad back striding on, turning ahead
of them, taking them ever deeper into a labyrinth of roadways.

Beck said, ‘He must be deaf as well as stupid,’ when they rounded a corner into a long straight strip and saw that they were
now following air. The German had indeed vanished.