The French Executioner (6 page)

‘And I know mine,’ said the Fugger. He jumped up, thrusting his good arm through the bars again. ‘What will you give me if
I free you now?’

‘I gave you the story. Was not that my part of the bargain?’

The Fugger let out that strange, crackling laugh, like sheets of rough parchment rubbed together.

‘Only if it pleased me, you said. It does. But I want something more.’

‘I have nothing more. I never had much and they have taken everything. Even my sword – which is the first thing I plan to
get back. I have no gold.’

‘Gold?’ The Fugger turned and spat on the midden heap. ‘As a banker’s son my life was all gold before, and look where that
has led me.’ Before Jean could question him, the Fugger went on. ‘No, a duke’s ransom would not free you from this cage. I
ask for the one thing you are able to give me – another vow.’

‘And that is?’

‘That you will let me help you fulfil yours.’

‘By setting me free, you help me.’

‘No. I want to help you regain what is taken from you. You see, I too have lost a hand. It seems fitting that I find another.’

Jean looked into the Fugger’s crazed eyes and thought,
All I have seen so far is his madness. I have not seen the person at all. Now I see both the man and his need. A need as great
as mine, perhaps.

Still, he said, ‘I will not lie to you. My promise to my Queen is all to me. Help me and somehow I think you will be blessed
for it. Cross me, and I’ll abandon you in an instant.’ It was a brave speech for a man swaying on a gibbet. Which the other
recognised.

‘You drive a hard bargain. And from such a strong position,’ laughed the Fugger. ‘I accept.’

One leap fetched the key from the crossbeam and the Fugger turned it in the lock. With a scream of metal, the iron cage opened
and Jean tumbled out. The raven set up a loud croaking.

‘Oh yes, how could I forget? Daemon comes too! What a force we will make, the three of us. Let the quest begin!’ And the Fugger
started his strange, twitching dance.

As Jean lay on his back on the midden heap, fire rushing through his cramped, bruised limbs, he watched the caperings of a
madman and the cawing swoops of a raven.

‘God help us,’ he groaned.

‘Amen!’ yelled the Fugger, whirling round and round.

To the innkeeper of the village of Pont St Just, it was very clear: the Germans had made a mess of his inn when capturing
their quarry and they had not paid a sou for it. Furthermore, the two wounded comrades they had left behind in his barn for
his wife to tend on the promise of recompense when the rest returned had, shortly after dawn, suddenly, simultaneously and
mysteriously died. This was not his fault, but he now had to deal with the bodies, scrub away the stains on floor and palliasse,
repair or replace the furniture and pots smashed in the mêleé … and then there was the waste of the wine spilled and the stew
now feeding the cats among the floor reeds!

‘And so, my sweetness,’ Guillaume Roche declared to his wife, his sausage fingers fluttering under his fat chin, ‘since they
have not returned to pay, by ancient right their goods are forfeit.’

‘Oh good!’ said his equally plump wife. ‘More prize weapons to rust on our walls, more big boots to use on our fire. If you
stood more by cash up front and less by “ancient rights”, we might have something worthwhile now. How many times must I tell
you?’

Guillaume sighed, nodded and agreed, but remembered the shock of a group of large, exotically dressed Germans at his tables
demanding food and wine. There hadn’t seemed to be a moment to ask before. And he assured his wife that they were
just about to reach into their purses, they truly were. But then the stranger had walked in.

‘It must have just slipped their minds afterwards,’ he reasoned, and his wife snorted and walked away, leaving him, broom
in hand, to contemplate the damage.

One man against eight – you’d have thought it would have been over much quicker, with a lot less fuss. Guillaume would gamble
on anything, from the quickness of rats to logs burning in a fire, so when the man with the square-tipped sword had reduced
his enemies by half within seconds, well, he’d have given quite good odds on him finishing them all off. And he would have
done too had it not been for that plate of stew and a misplaced foot, a moment off balance.

Once down, a search of the loser’s possessions had yielded a purse from the saddle bags, heavy with coin; but the real yell
of triumph came when they found a velvet bag, shouts which stopped abruptly at the upraised hand of a figure as slight and
drab as the Germans were bulky and colourful, dressed in a cloak that had a monastic air until one noticed the richness of
its cloth, the lush fur around the hood. This hand had silenced all except the two wounded men, though even their groans subsided
a little. And when it felt what was in the bag, the slight figure gave out a moan that was … well, the memory still made Guillaume
shudder, for it had reminded him of love-making and death at the same time.

He assessed his limited haul. The bag of the vanquished stranger had yielded a spare set of clothes, a complete barber’s set
of scissors, combs and knives, and a leather mask. All this might fetch a few sous in the market in Tours at month’s end.
The clothes from the four dead Germans were more of a problem, though. Not only were they somewhat stained with blood, they
were also of the type worn by mercenaries the world over.

‘Peacocks!’ Guillaume spat, raising one scarlet and blue jacket by its puffed, blistered and slashed sleeve, eyeing with distaste
the clashing interior lining, pulled through the cuttes,
of vivid yellow. The breeches were golden, a horrible contrast to the black-and-orange hose stocking that rose through them.
Aside from these fripperies, there were two huge Landsknecht swords (conversion to ploughshares possible), two pairs of very
large boots (use the leather again or burn them as fuel), some serviceable cloaks and shirts, and two hats which, when stripped
of their ostentatious plumes, might suit a farmer.

‘Twenty sous, the lot,’ he grumbled. Hardly worth the trip to town. Probably wouldn’t even cover the damage. His wife, annoyingly,
was correct. So much for ancient rights!

Then he realised what he could do with these items, and the thought made him beam. It was Sunday, the priest was adamant about
Sabbath rest, and many in the village would be around with nothing to do. If he could offer them some entertainment such as
an auction, he could barter these goods away and sell some extra wine and beer into the bargain.

Much cheered, he went round the back to water down both immediately.

The sight that greeted Jean when he limped into the inn was one of frenzied bidding. He had spent the morning binding his
ribs – bruised but not broken – and shin, tending the nasty sword slash to it, eating such food as the Fugger could provide,
resting and thinking. His impulse was to run in the direction the Germans and the Archbishop had ridden, but the feeling soon
passed. He had campaigned long enough to know that an attack in haste and in a weakened state always failed. He needed supplies
and a weapon, and to regain some strength.

Walking into the inn, he doubted his enemies would have left his possessions, certainly not the hefty fee he’d earned the
week before in London. But they might have left some clue as to their identity and their next destination.

The Fugger was waiting on the edge of the village. Once his euphoria had passed, the strange man had become very upset,
tearful even, at the thought of leaving the kingdom he ruled and returning to the world that had taken so much from him, including
his hand. It had only been Jean’s determined strides away from the crossroads that finally prised him loose, although he darted
back to pick up some little trinket, a scrap of food and, fortunately, the coins Jean’s assailants had left in the offertory
box. When they reached the village, the Fugger had slunk away into the shadows. He would not enter the inn, for he looked
like what he was, the gibbet keeper, reeking of his trade, an offence to nose and eyes, body parts thrust through his gaping
rags, hair and beard a nest of lice, a now silent raven perched on his shoulder. As he contemplated him, Jean feared he would
have cause to curse this latest vow of his many times.

‘Two sous … and a cockerel!’ someone yelled as Jean stepped quietly through the partly open door. There was much cheering
at the bid, some oaths, tankards raised and clinked loudly.

‘Come come, Messieurs.’ Guillaume waved the sword above the heads of those nearest him. ‘Two sous for such a fine piece of
weaponry?’

‘And a cockerel!’ the bidder reminded the landlord and began to crow in imitation of his bid.

A slight man with rat-like eyes caught Guillaume’s attention and declared, ‘Three sous!’

‘Three sous is bid. I say, three sous,’ called the landlord. ‘Come, come gentlemen, surely one of you has a son who wants
to go a-warring, to bring back honour and loot from foreign scum? Why not give him the advantages of this fine German weapon?
Look at its length, its keen blade, its superb balance. I’ll even throw in a Landsknecht jacket to give the little master
strut. Or if warring’s not to your taste, think of the ploughing! A little hammering at the forge at La Fontiane and your
furrows will be deeper and straighter even than Gaston’s here.’ A derisory yell went up. ‘Who will give me five sous?’

Guillaume was enjoying himself. It wasn’t often he got to use his city wiles on these peasants. Seven years as an apprentice
to that brewer in Beaune had not been wasted time.

It was then that he saw the stranger, and the moment their eyes met, Jean began to move through the crowd. Guillaume knew
he’d seen the fellow before and recently, but for a fateful second’s delay he didn’t recognise him, so completely had he dismissed
the idea that the Germans’ victim could still be alive. By the time he remembered, Jean was in front of him, one of his hands
resting beside the landlord’s on the hilt of the sword.

‘May I?’ he said quietly, his eyes never leaving Guillaume’s, and he lifted the sword away.

‘Hey,’ said the rat-eyed man, ‘that’s mine.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Jean was still looking at the landlord. ‘You know who I am. Tell them.’

‘But Monsieur,’ the big man stuttered, ‘they left without paying. By ancient right—’

‘By ancient right the man they robbed and tried to kill is entitled to restitution.’

‘Ancient right be damned!’ The frustrated bidder had risen and turned to his friends. ‘I put in the highest bid. Are we to
let a stranger cheat us of what’s ours? Let us—’

He’d got that far when the flat of the blade caught him just above the ear. Only a short backswing followed by a sharp pull,
but it was enough to tweak Jean’s sore ribs and he uttered a small prayer to St Vincent that it would suffice. They may have
been peasants but there were ten of them, on their own ground and full of cheap wine. Each was sure to have a cudgel about
him somewhere.

It was enough. Caught in mid-sentence, the man hung in the air a second longer than his words, then suddenly sat down on the
floor. As he sat down, Jean swung the sword back to rest on his shoulder.

‘I am not here for trouble,’ he said evenly. ‘The landlord
will tell you how I was wronged. If you will join me in a flagon to toast the miracle of my survival and the recovery of my
possessions, we may all part friends.’

They didn’t care for strangers in Pont St Just. Even if this one held a weapon, they were still ten against one.

‘A flagon on the gentleman!’ yelled Guillaume, suddenly realising that a little wine sold was better than a room destroyed.
Again. Besides, he had already seen what this man could do with a sword. He didn’t want to see it a second time. He had few
enough paying customers as it was. ‘Did I not tell you, Messieurs,’ he hurried on, ‘what this one Frenchman did against ten
– no, wasn’t it at least twenty? Against twenty Germans, only yesterday? Madeleine, the wine, quickly. Ah, what a sight …’

The landlord’s well-spun story, and the free wine, soon had good cheer restored. Even Jean’s victim revived, choking on his
share of the handout. And when the story had been told and retold – how Jean, a native hero, had despatched at least thirty
Germans – five extra flagons lay upended on the floor.

Later, Jean took the landlord aside to negotiate a swift exchange.

‘Are you a surgeon, then?’ Guillaume laughed nervously, handing over the set of knives and scissors.

‘In a way,’ said Jean, remembering his time in the army. Before he found his true vocation, before he found his sword, he’d
been the closest most soldiers got to a doctor. A barber-surgeon, cutting hair, extracting musket balls, stitching wounds.

He took just the one Landsknecht sword, his own meagre gear and the least stained set of clothes from the Germans. He gave
Guillaume one of the gold coins from the offertory box at the gibbet for the flagons and some food and wine for the journey.
And he learnt from him all the landlord knew about his assailants, who apparently had arrived just before him from the local
town, Tours. Guillaume had recognised the marks on some of their pack horses from a stable there.

Finally, Jean went and looked at the German corpses. They were naked and blue in the inn’s stable, and he briefly studied
the wounds. What had undoubtedly done for the wounded men was a knife thrust between the six and seventh ribs. He doubted
the landlord would have the skill or stomach for that. So the others had been back and taken care of their own. It told him
a little more about his enemy. In war he had seen this often – when retreating, never leave a comrade to be taken and killed
more slowly by the foe. But this was a time of peace, the wounds not so serious that these soldiers could not have been moved
by cart. His enemy was in a hurry. And so was he.

Yet it was mid-afternoon before he was able to leave. The weather, as was customary at that time of year and especially in
that part of the world, had changed again, the last chill of a cold spring gone, a warmer wind sweeping in from the south
bearing scents of Africa. It was a day for beginnings, and if his destination weren’t so important, Jean would have savoured
it more. Now, he merely set his eyes on the horizon and walked towards it.