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.
‘I
n 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.
He’d reached the edge of the village when something whirligigged out of a bush, the black shape splitting into two, the top section cawing and flapping, the bottom leaping and scratching.
‘Caw caw!’ yelled the Fugger, echoing Daemon’s cries. ‘Which means, roughly: How found you the village – brought us some food? – how far do we travel and when will we get the hand hand hand?’
Jean reached out and grabbed the Fugger by the throat. He held on through a few more shudders and squawks until all was calm. Then he slowly loosened, but did not quite release, his grip.
‘Never,’ he said quietly, ‘never again declare our goal.’
The Fugger hung limply and nodded. ‘We will be silent, Daemon and I. Not once shall we mention the hand.’
‘Hand hand!’ cawed the bird, circling above them.
‘By the soiled seat of a saint!’ yelled Jean, bending to pick up and cast a stone at the raven, which floated gently over it. ‘What have you done?’
‘Well, you were gone so long.’ The Fugger’s tone was accusing. ‘We had to talk about something.’
‘Jesu spare me!’ spat the executioner and strode off down the road.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. The warm wind that blew up the valley carried with it the unique scent of the gibbet keeper, refining and ripening under the hot sun. It didn’t help his temper for he knew that any unobserved progress with the Fugger through this land was doomed: the nostrils of those ahead would tell that something rank that way came long before the sight caused all to reach for cudgel and stone. If he kept his promise to the Fugger – and he didn’t see how he could start breaking vows now – he would have to find some way for them to proceed in amity together.
About an hour’s walk from the village, Jean could bear it no more. He suddenly left the road and made his way down to the stream they’d been following. It broadened into a little pool shaded by three willows and surrounded by sweet-smelling rosemary bushes, which he thankfully sank his head into, rubbing the prickly leaves to release the scent. Then, as he bent down to cup his hands into the water, he heard the whirligig approach a second before the stench hit him. When the Fugger began to lap the water like a dog, Jean stood up, stepped sideways and planted his boot straight up his backside.
The Fugger plunged into the water, surfaced, spat water and let out a mournful wail. ‘I drown, I drown! So cold, so chilly on my bones! Let me out!’
Jean stood square on the bank and unsheathed his sword.
‘You are not coming out until you have washed some of that stench from you.’
‘No!’ howled the Fugger. ‘I’m drowning!’
‘Nonetheless,’ said Jean, and as the Fugger tried to pull himself out, he sliced at the two shoulders of the Fugger’s clothing sack and the whole thing fell off him, leaving nothing but a bare, blackened creature flailing around. The flat of a blade on his haunch sent him sprawling again, soon to be joined by two large clumps of rosemary Jean had quickly sliced from the bushes.
‘Use them to scrub off that filth. Then use the river mud. Rub it all over your body, and especially through your hair.’ It was how he used to bathe as a child.
‘I’ll die of cold.’
‘You will if you don’t keep moving.’
Shivering, quaking, emitting a steady moan, the Fugger began to do as he was told, at first with little vigour. But as the layers began to drop off and cloud the water around him, he ceased his noise and began to use the rosemary branches more forcefully. A noise began again, and Jean made out a song under the Fugger’s breath as he began to range around the pool in search of cleaner water. When Jean was satisfied, he allowed the Fugger out and gave him the newly acquired cloak.
Sitting the shaking form down on a stone, he said, ‘And now Monsieur is clean, perhaps a new hairstyle?’ and, without waiting for a response, began to ply his barber’s shears around the unfortunate’s head. Shanks, knotted locks and rat’s-nest curls tumbled to the ground as he trimmed the head right down to the pate, the only way to get rid of such undergrowth. He then began on the beard, cutting it to a soldier’s fashionable length.
Finished, he stood back to study his work.
Before him sat a very frightened young man with a high forehead fringed by cropped hair that was actually of a reddish hew, and a red beard that tapered to a point two fingers’ width below his chin. The sharp features were not just the product of hunger; high cheekbones were divided from each other by a long thin nose and piercing blue eyes darted nervously about.
‘What have you done to me?’ the Fugger cried.
‘See for yourself.’ Jean gestured to the pool.
Lowering himself cautiously as if expecting another shove, the Fugger glanced down once, quickly, then looked away for a long moment. When he looked again he held his gaze, running his fingers up and down, exploring his face. After a while, he just stopped and stared, tried to pretend that was all he was doing. Seeing water flow from the eyes to join the pool, Jean turned away to pack up his barber’s gear.
‘Thank you,’ said the Fugger at last. ‘I thought this person was gone for ever. His soul was stolen, do you see, along with …’ He raised the stump of his arm to Jean. ‘Now he has come back.’
Then the tears really came, and he made no attempt to conceal them. Jean moved away, sat and waited; for though time was pressing he knew that some men who had emerged from a great madness, as from battle or the terrible sack of a city, needed to howl like this. He had done it once himself, in a burning church in Tuscany, a lifetime before. There was nothing to do but wait, as someone had once waited for him.
Eventually, he could tell the shivering came more from cold than emotion so he went to his bag.
‘Here.’ He threw the German soldier’s clothes across.
‘For me?’ A voice filled with wonder, hands turning the material over and over.
‘They may be a little large, and gaudy,’ Jean said, ‘but they are of good quality. He obviously lived well.’
The Fugger slipped his head into the wool shirt, found the arm holes. Jean had chosen the smallest set of clothes but the breeches were still vast. A length of rope restrained some of the bagginess, while clumps of grass filled in the front of the heavy boots. The scarlet-and-black jerkin’s sleeves were rolled up and the
cloak over the top disguised the irregularities, hiding the worst of the peacock display.
‘Not bad,’ said Jean as the Fugger moved around him. ‘And the smell’s an improvement. Even if it has a touch of German sweat about it.’
‘Well, I will add to it then,’ the Fugger spoke softly, ‘for I am German too.’
‘A German, eh? From where?’
‘From Munster.’
‘And did you not say, when we were, uh, negotiating back there at the gibbet, that you were a banker’s son?’
‘I did.’
Jean scratched his head.
‘I am not one for questions. A man’s business is his own,’ he said. ‘But how, by the useless balls of a Dominican monk, did a German banker end up running a gibbet in France?’
The Fugger laughed. It seemed a strange sensation until he realised he was doing it for no reason other than pure pleasure.
‘You have a very mixed way of cursing, Monsieur.’
‘I have been in too many countries’ armies, perhaps, Monsieur Fugger.’
With the laughter came another feeling, and the Fugger raised his one good hand to Jean.
‘The Fugger who kept a gibbet in France?’ he said. ‘It is a long tale and a strange one.’
‘That is good.’ Jean rose. ‘The longer and stranger the better, for we have a night’s march ahead of us. We must be in Tours by dawn.’
And with that, hefting sword and pack, he headed back to the road.
The Fugger stood for a moment alone on the stream bank. Stooping suddenly, he scooped up some tangled skeins of hair, running them through his fingers before throwing them back into the fast-moving water. As the last traces of his recent life swirled away, caught and burst through a small dam of reeds, he murmured, ‘And wash my sins away.’
Then he turned and hurried after the Frenchman.
SIX
ORGIES AND AXES
Giancarlo Cibo, Archbishop of Siena, was enjoying all the hospitality the church in Tours could offer him, which for a small provincial town wasn’t so bad. His host, the Bishop of Tours, knew the favour of so powerful a churchman as Cibo would help him in his quest to secure the recently vacant See of Orleans. So he was making a strenuous effort to see his noble guest was well entertained.
The French Executioner Page 5