The French Executioner (18 page)

He did not just cut away madly, as the fat assistant would undoubtedly have done. He’d kept his thick hair somewhat longer
than the current fashion so he had some length to work with. He began with a series of short snips, then longer passages of
raising and sculpting, playing with the hair, something he’d learnt to do as a youth in the army to while away the tediousness
of camp or siege, to earn a few extra sous with this entertainment. He had rarely performed on himself but the image he had
within his head seemed to be translated pretty exactly onto it. There were appreciative grunts all around at his artistry.

When he had reduced his hair to all but the bare fuzz, there remained only one lock, and he’d left that because he’d observed
men around him sporting such a plume. He met the eyes of the man who had lately been whipping him.

‘Well, Master, do I clip the last of my feathers? I wouldn’t fly far on these anyway.’

There was laughter, quickly suppressed by the raising of Corbeau’s whip. The big man, glowering down at Jean, said, ‘You are
a criminal, justly sentenced for your sins. But I presume you are a Christian and so cannot be enslaved as these Muslim dogs
around you can. They are shorn to baldness. You may keep your … plumage.’ And with that he spat, bent down and snatched away
the shears. As he did so, he said, ‘When that other son of a whore you were brought aboard with wakes, you can attend to him
too.’

He strode off down the gangway; lashing out at those who had failed to stow their oars fast enough. He was confused. Usually
the victims of his lashings just bent over their oars and wept in pain. He felt his talents had been slighted somehow.

‘Well, my friend’ – the mouth of the wizened man beside him was twisted into a toothless grin – ‘rarely doesh shomeone get
the better of Corbeau. But I’d keep out of hish way for a while. He’sh not the man to have for an enemy.’

But Jean had already dismissed the encounter, was more concerned with the last of Corbeau’s statements, that Haakon was nearby.
Scanning in front of him, towards the back of the ship, he spotted the big man, three rows ahead, slumped over and leaning
into the gunwales. He could see shallow breathing so at least he knew his friend was alive. Turning back to his companion,
he said, ‘How long have we been aboard?’

The old man smiled. ‘Tired of ush already? You wash chained up not ten minutesh before the tide took ush out of Toulon a few
hoursh ago. Unlucky, eh? Though by the look of your neck, maybe the galley washn’t shuch a bad option.’

With the pain of the whipping, Jean had forgotten about
the rope burn, the stretched muscles. He rubbed his neck carefully now, before he spoke again. ‘And where am I?’

‘In the sheventh region of hell. Where they shend all the worst shinners, the hereticsh, blashphemersh and the shodo-mitesh;
where Jewsh row beshide Mohammedansh and Lutheransh beshide defrocked Francishcansh. All gathered under God’sh open shkies
on the deck of His Majeshty’s galliot, the
Persheus.’

Some of the man’s words were hard to understand.

‘Did you shay … say “galliot”?’ Jean received a nod. ‘What’s that? I thought this was a galley.’

‘It ish a type of galley. Shmaller, lighter, twenty oarsh inshtead of forty, shingle shail, jusht the one gun, up front. Built
for shpeed, for meshagesh and quick actionsh. A beauty, besht I’ve shailed on.’

‘And where are we bound?’

The old man leant in, the red gash of his mouth opening into a smile of sorts. ‘Now there’sh a shtrange thing. We were heading
with the resht of the fleet to Livorno. But Captain Big Noshe got a late meshage altering the plan. Sheems we’re now bound
for Valletta. Which pleashesh me, for one of my five wivesh livesh there. It’d be three year shince I sheen her.’

Malta! Jean sank back onto the bench. The naming of a destination suddenly brought to him the full truth of his situation.
He was chained to a bench on a galley, or galliot – a stinking prison hulk anyway. A waking nightmare, fate of anyone who
transgressed the laws of France, opposed some more powerful man’s will or was simply unlucky. He had heard of men whose sole
crime was being too drunk in the wrong kind of inn at the moment when a recruiter with a roll to fill passed by. You heard
of such unhappy souls going. No one ever heard of them coming back.

The sentence of the galleys was a sentence of lingering death.

Every child in France was frightened to sleep with the threat of the horrors of the oar that awaited further
disobedience. For how long could one survive ankle deep in this pool of pestilence? If exhaustion didn’t weaken you and make
you sick, the lashings, the scorching sun or freezing rain, the lack of good food and clean water would all take their toll.
And then there was the not inconsiderable danger of the corsairs, the pirate fleets that preyed on all shipping in the Mediterranean
from their bases in North Africa. If their ship was sunk in combat, their chains would pull them rapidly to the fathomless
depths. If captured, they would swap Christian chains for those of Mohammed, the conditions and the risk exactly the same.

In a mere six days –
six! –
he had swapped a gibbet for an oar. Despair seized him. Bile filled his throat again, and he began to choke on it.

Then something strange happened. His companion said, ‘You’ll be needing shome water,’ then got up, slipped the chain from
his ankle and marched the dozen paces to the water barrel under the mast. When he returned, and Jean had stilled the retching
with the cupful, he tried his own chain, which would not shift.

‘How are you able to go free?’ he croaked.

‘They don’t lock up ush volunteers. Well, only in some portsh, where the temptation might be too great to shtay away. Ash
it would be in Valletta if I could shee my shweet Pancha. Jusht for fifteen minutesh, mind. I may be old but I shtill have
the shtuff,’ he cackled.

‘Volunteers? You volunteer for this?’

‘Shertainly. About a tenth of the company are here of their own free will.’

‘Why?’ was all Jean could manage.

‘Onesh you’ve been behind the oar, what elshe ish there for you? I have been a shlave, a criminal and a free man, have rowed
for Moshelman and Chrishtian, but even as a shlave I’ve never had to eat grassh as I have back in my home village, nor lain
in a ditch in midwinter wanting to die, not jusht for the cold but for the lack of shomeone to talk to. Any life ish
good enough if you accshept there’sh nothing better. That’sh what I’d do if I were you, shon – accshept the oar and get on
with it.’

During the voyage towards Malta, Jean had time both to ponder this good advice and to learn the running of the ship. He knew
that his and Haakon’s lives, and any hope of escape from this hell, would depend on it. His gummy companion was called Da
Costa, originally a Portuguese but a native of the galleys for some twenty years and all too willing to share his experience
and knowledge. Jean found his toothless speaking became more comprehensible the longer he listened to it. And he had plenty
of practice, for the old man had no sooner exhausted his wisdom of the sea than he began on tales of his adventures upon it.
And Januc, the young, dark rower at the gangway end of their bench, had stories too. As befitted his age, they especially
concerned women. He claimed he’d had three wives, all at once, had lived with them in a blue-tiled villa on the shores of
the Mediterranean. Yet when questioned as to how he’d swapped such luxury for the roughness of an oar, he just shrugged and
began another tale of jasmine-scented nymphs.

It was Haakon who revelled most in these tales. Da Costa had managed to get Haakon transferred to his, Januc’s and Jean’s
oar, replacing the two others, telling Corbeau that it would save him many whippings, for the little man could control the
big. For Da Costa, such strength beside him meant he could rest more, as the Norwegian could pull for both of them – all of
them, it seemed at times, for despite the obvious horrors of their situation Haakon was delighted to be once again on a boat,
to be pulling on an oar as he had done for years in his homeland. The sea air invigorated him, the body that had started to
run to fat in the indolence of his life in Tours was getting hard again, and the hair cut that Jean had performed on him,
reducing the long, golden hair and thick beard to the single lock that denoted the criminal, had also
removed the years. And coming from the land of sagas and epic tales, Da Costa’s stories of perilous life before the mast touched
the Viking within him, while Januc’s, of indolence, sweet sherbet and harem maidens, aroused something else. Jean would smile
to see the Norseman lean forward, as if he were sat in a chair in some smoky lodge on his native island, not chained to a
bench on a prison hulk, ankle deep in filth.

But rowing was what they were there to do. When the wind dropped they were worked hard, in twenty-minute bursts that left
them all gasping. Big Nose, as Captain de la Vallerie was universally known, had a fondness for speed and manoeuvre and anyone
who did not ‘pull their weight’, as the expression went, was brutally disciplined by Corbeau and his lackeys. The grumbling
and cursing were continuous, the stench of bodies tethered in their own filth appalling, the rations of water and food barely
adequate. But the oarsmen, for all their differences, had a kind of camaraderie, for one man not working meant more work for
others, and the more experienced impressed upon the less that speed and instant obedience were all that would save them from
sinking to Neptune’s floor when it came to a fight. As it inevitably would.

‘Ah, the battlesh I have sheen!’ Da Costa declared as he spat out the larger of the worms that infested that morning’s hard
bread.

It was early on the fifth day and the wind was at last carrying them along steadily. Around them men leant on their oars and
snored.

‘It wash in nineteen that I landed with Cortez at Vera Cruz,’ began the Portuguese, ‘the firsht time ever I shaw New Shpain—’

‘Wait, old man,’ interrupted Januc, laughing. ‘I thought you told us yesterday you were with that mad Genoese Columbus in
ninety-two. Make your mind up.’

‘I wash with Chrishtof, ash I called him then and would now, if he were shitting beshide me,’ replied the older man with dignity,
‘but I’m sure you’ll remember me shaying that I
only got ash far ash the islandsh when I wash taken with the green shicknesh and Chrishtof shays to me, he shays, “Paulho,
I need you with me, but Portugal needsh you more”, and he shent me back. Sho I never shaw the mainland.’

‘Oh,’ said Januc, smiling still, ‘and there I was sure you told me weeks ago you were the first man to set foot in the New
World.’

‘I wash. I rowed Chrishtof ashore and leapt onto the beach to shecure the boat for him.’

This was greeted with a roar of disbelief by all within range, for more than just their bench enjoyed listening to the old
man’s tales. The hubbub was so loud it attracted the attention of Corbeau. He was swiftly over them, lashing out with his
whip. ‘If that’s you telling lies again, Da Costa,’ he yelled, but Haakon managed to take most of the blows aimed at the old
man’s frail shoulders upon his own broad ones and the bearded brute swiftly tired.

As he huffed up the walkway, Haakon stared after him, a reckoning in his eyes. Then he leant in to the Portuguese and said,
‘Tell it just to me. Whisper it. What happened at Vera Cruz?’

As they murmured together, Jean turned to his other oarmate, Januc. He knew little of him, for the younger man’s tales amused
but revealed little of the teller. Yet Jean had the feeling there was much to the man, a power held back behind the mask of
his grey eyes and strong Roman nose. He also knew that when the time came to strike, to escape and pursue the quest – a time
that must come – it would be good to be able to trust the man chained beside him.

‘And so, Januc. We have heard of your scantily clad maidens. Have you no battle tales to share, like our friend Da Costa?’

‘A few.’ Januc smiled, leant in. ‘But I have found the men with the best stories rarely tell them. Those who taught me to
fight also taught that silence and scars are the true testament.’

‘I would agree. We’ve had your silence, on that score at
least. And I can see some of your scars.’ He pointed to a puckered dent in his companion’s shoulder. ‘Arquebus or musket?
Longish range I would say, because there’s no exit scar. Must have had a good surgeon to get that ball out.’

‘I did. The best.’ Januc spoke very quietly, drawing the Frenchman in. ‘A janissary always gets the best.’

Jean whistled softly. ‘Janissary? So you were a mercenary, as we were. Though you fought for the Turk.’

‘Is “mercenary” the right term? My parents in Dubrovnik sold me to the Sultan’s recruiters when I was eight.’

‘But I thought janissaries were the Bloodguard and thus the Sultan’s pampered pets?’

‘Pampered perhaps. But a slave is a slave, however well he’s looked after.’

‘A slave who had three wives at once?’ Jean smiled. ‘Sounds unlike any slavery I’ve heard of.’

He saw the grey eyes flick towards the horizon.

‘That was in another, later, life.’

Jean realised he was pushing the younger man too far. ‘Still, a janissary. I’m impressed.’

‘I hope you’ll keep your esteem to yourself.’

‘Of course. Some others here might not be as forgiving as me. For I got this from one of your fellows.’

Jean lowered his head and showed the curved line that ran from the back of his left ear, under the tuft of hair and across
to the apex of the crown.

‘Scimitar,’ observed Januc. ‘Must have been a poor janissary if you’re still breathing.’

‘He was dead even as he struck the blow.’ Jean rubbed his head. ‘I think he did quite well enough.’

‘And where was this? A sea battle, no doubt.’

‘I have never fought at sea. Though I hope to change that, and soon.’ He looked across to see if Januc had picked up the hint
but there was no reaction, so he continued, ‘No, this was, oh, ten years ago, one April morning on a plain in Hungary. The
one that’s called Mohacz.’