A handkerchief fluttered, a roar split the sky, and the two men began executing chickens. With a one-handed, shortened grip, Haakon grabbed, placed, steadied, chopped and discarded. The boys, awed by the huge Norseman and desirous of a twin for the coin already in their breeches, kept his block awash with birds. Fenrir, snapping and snarling, drove the fowl into their arms.
When the handkerchief dropped, Jean brought his sword down from his shoulders, removing in the stroke the heads of two startled birds. Changing the angle and swivelling on his right foot he brought his left around and swept sideways, his blade making a T with the ground, adding another three heads to the dust. Untwisting his wrists, he brought the blade up and over while lunging, catching a chicken that had realised, too late, the place it occupied was not a healthy one. Bringing his right foot over he swivelled on his left, scything parallel to the ground, taking two that tried to escape and one that threw itself forward onto the blade.
His enemies were much smaller, but it was not unlike the tactics he would use in a mêlée. His size, his ability to move swiftly and low, had always been an advantage and was doubly so here. As in battle, he blocked from his mind all the extra sounds – here, the cheering, the maniacal laughter, the frantic clucking, the disturbingly rhythmic and speedy thud of axe on block – and focused on opponents who duly sought to avoid him and whom he hunted down and despatched as ruthlessly as he had any enemy.
The problem with his method came with the tendency of headless chickens to still run around. He often held up strokes to avoid splitting one of these, but there were the inevitable mistakes. He’d used up four of his five by the time he had only three chickens left.
It was then he became aware of the Fugger on the fence. He was frantically signalling the score from the other pen. His one hand was raised, and two fingers were down on it.
Time slowed then for Jean, as it had on Tower Green, as it always did in such moments. He took in the thumb and two fingers raised, the two remaining chickens with heads in one corner, the last one behind him in the diagonally opposite one. It was like the game they often played in the army camps, throwing heavy wooden discs at pins set up in formation. With them split like that, two and one, what was his choice? He needed all three.
Another of the Fugger’s fingers dropped. Jean felt he was moving ever slower, but to the onlookers he became a blur of man and metal as he hurled himself to the two, took the first with a downward swipe and the second with that valuable back edge. Only the Fugger’s thumb remained upright. Jean saw the axe rising up over the top of the fence and then, miraculously, pause. Haakon’s last chicken had slipped temporarily through bloodied fingers, and it took a moment to jerk it back into position.
That moment was enough. In that half second, though his bruised ribs protested Jean used his back and outstretched leg and the weight of the sword moving forward to spin around, complete a half circle with the blade, uncurl his bunched shoulder muscles and send the sword spinning across the compound to the other corner where the last chicken obliged him by craning up to look at this possible source of flying food. It caught, but did not hold the sword halfway down its neck.
Haakon’s axe had just begun its descent when the crowd screamed at Jean’s throw. The axe bit into the wood a hair above the mottled flesh and, knowing it was too late to remove and strike again, Haakon glanced back over the fence in time to see Jean’s sword end its journey. The Frenchman was sprawled in the feathers and the blood, and it was then that the Norseman realised he’d seen this man before. There had been blood then too, and pain. But neither had come from chickens.
When the Fugger had collected his winnings, he fetched water to the hut where Jean had taken refuge from the congratulations of the mob. There Jean cleaned himself, sipping the wine he’d been given by all his new friends.
‘I knew, I knew, I knew you could do it!’ The Fugger danced before him. ‘Such a flashing, slashing, blinding victory!’ He moved around the hut, imitating some of Jean’s cuts and thrust. ‘I bet that hulking brute …’ he started, then stopped, for his lunging hand had encountered something hard that had stepped between him and the sunlight.
‘You were saying?’ The Norseman was there, making the doorway look small.
‘Nothing,’ said the Fugger, ‘nothing at all. Now where is that Daemon? Excuse me – such a nice … ooh, uh, dog is it, yes? Daemon! Come away from those chickens!’
The Fugger scrambled out of the hut, leaving the two unmasked headsmen to regard each other for a long and silent moment.
‘Wine?’ Jean offered a flask.
The Norwegian took it and drank, his eyes never leaving Jean’s, then handed it back with the words, ‘I know you.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Not your name. But we have met before.’
‘Indeed?’ Jean said again. ‘When?’
‘In twenty-five. I was with Frundsberg at Pavia.’
‘And I was with King Francis.’
‘Mercenary?’
‘Not then. For King and country then. But I took my first step along the mercenary road there. It was where Frundsberg recruited me.’
‘I remember.’ The Norseman paused, then added softly, ‘The Landsknecht whose place and sword you took. His name was Tomas. He was a friend of mine.’
‘Of course,’ said Jean. ‘You were the man with the musket.’
‘Yes. I was the man with the musket.’
For just a moment, both their minds returned to that day. France’s army had been annihilated on the plains outside Milan and in the ensuing rout Jean had been cornered by a squadron of the enemy. Their executioner had come for an unarmed Jean, who had taken the man’s sword from him and killed him with it. It was the first time he’d ever held one of the square-headed weapons, and he could still remember the shock of it, as if it had been born somehow to his hand but had been taken away at birth. While marvelling at what felt like a reunion, Jean had suddenly realised someone was preparing to shoot him, so he’d flung the sword at the assailant from twenty paces. Being unused to the weapon then, it was the pommel not the blade that hit the man with the musket, whose bullet had then gone through Jean’s cap.
The same man, it seemed, who stood before him now.
‘That blow changed my life,’ Haakon continued. ‘I was unconscious for a day and a night. Some Swiss found me and took me to fight in Flanders.’
Jean smiled. ‘And, as you say, I took the place of the man I’d killed. Frundsberg sent us to Hungary to fight the Turk.’
Haakon smiled also. ‘I always hoped I’d meet you again.’
‘Indeed,’ said Jean for the third time, and reached for his sword.
The giant did not move.
‘Have no fear.’
‘I am not afraid,’ replied the Frenchman.
‘Good. For I do not seek revenge. I used up my share of that many years ago.’
‘Then what do you seek?’ Jean’s hands were still light upon the sword’s guard.
‘I seek … a way out. I thought the execution was that way, but I misread the signs. They spoke of a man who would change my direction. They spoke of you.’
‘I do not know what you mean. For I am not a leader.’
‘The one-handed one follows you.’
‘Well.’ Jean looked out into the stockyard, where the Fugger could be seen trying to prise a carcass away from a determined Daemon. ‘I rescued him from something.’
The big man smiled, sadly. ‘Then rescue me.’
Jean looked at this man’s open face, the cascading flow of golden hair and beard, eyes the blue-green of one of his native streams. It was a face without guile.
‘What is your name?’
‘Haakon Haakonsson.’
‘Well, Haakon, listen. I am … on a quest. I have made a vow, and my loyalty is only to that. But it may be a short one and could well kill me, even as soon as tonight.’
The Norwegian thought for a moment.
‘I like the sound of a quest,
’ he rumbled. ‘Quests make for good stories. Is there a hoard of gold at the end of it?’
‘Probably not.’
‘A woman?’
‘A … woman, yes. The vow was sworn to her.’
‘Better and better. And a fight to be had, did you say?’
‘I didn’t. But there will be a fight, for sure. Perhaps many, perhaps just one, tonight.’
‘Then I am indeed your man.’ Haakon lowered himself onto the bench beside the Frenchman. ‘I would ask just one thing, the only favour I will ever ask of you. In return for it, I will offer you my loyalty, total and complete.’
‘And that is?’
Haakon smiled. ‘When I have proved myself worthy, you will tell me the tale of this lady and this vow.’
Jean scratched his head. For a man who always worked alone he somehow was attracting followers at every stage of this journey. And both seemed bereft in some way. Well, that made three of them, he supposed. A quest for the lost.
Then it occurred to him that maybe their coming wasn’t to do with him at all. Maybe it was to do with Anne Boleyn.
‘Well,’ he shook his head, ‘we can discuss this over some food. Would you like to eat?’
‘Yes,’ said Haakon, ‘I would. Just as long as it’s not chicken.’
Both men laughed. It felt good after such an afternoon, so they kept doing it for a while.
EIGHT
HERETIC’S REVENGE
When Jean met his client two hours later, he found a man unprepared to die. But not for the usual reasons.
‘Ah yes, the executioner.’ The Count de Chinon barely glanced at Jean, instead gesturing to the man who sat opposite him. ‘The Count de Valmais plays a particularly vicious game of royales. You must excuse me while I watch him like a hawk. You see?’ He’d laid down a card which was snatched up in triumph by his equally youthful opponent.
Jean studied de Chinon. Scarcely eighteen, an attempt at a beard around chin and upper lip made him look even younger, while his black hair was longer than the close-cropped regal style of King Francis’ court, probably due to its thickness and sheen. The azure bonnet was jewelled, the ostrich feather that circled it ending in a golden nib. His clothes were dazzling, in the Swiss mercenaries’ style so eagerly appropriated by the aristocracy: the striped vest embroidered with gold, alternating white satin and black, the sleeves matching, hugely puffed, white taffeta pulled through the slashes. The sleeveless overvest of vivid crimson was held only at the waist, opening wide at the chest, giving the desired effect of broadness. His legs were crossed, their hose a riot of contrasting shapes and colours. Thankfully, the youth’s surcoat of turquoise blue silk was lying on the table at the side, for the addition would have been overpowering.
Studying this latest client who ignored him in favour of his friend, Jean thought, There is nothing of the religious fanatic in his manner, no glow of the soon-to-be martyred. His heresy probably has more to do with the romance rebellion holds for the young.
There was something else about the Count though, his face flushed with wine and the enthusiasm of the game. Jean was used to bravado from his noble clients, used to the denial of approaching death from men who felt they were too young, too handsome and too important to die. It sometimes lasted right up to the point of kneeling before the sword. Yet Jean had always been able to penetrate even the strongest of brave fronts to expose the true fear beneath. This Count de Chinon seemed completely lacking in it.
It perturbed Jean. He was there to do a job, whether he actually got as far as carrying it out or not. But there was a protocol to be gone through, questions asked, answers received.
He waited silently, until the last card had been slapped down, a triumphant de Chinon snatching the final trick. Victorious, he finally turned his attention to Jean, while his friend de Valmais, his exact counterpart in clothes and hairstyle, if of a lighter colour and fuller beard, watched in amusement, shuffling the pack.
‘And so, Monsieur Headsman, what is it we need to discuss?’
‘Well, Milord, I wanted to tell you the procedure.’
The Count lazily waved a hand. ‘It is not necessary, really, I have attended enough of these events to know how they go. I make a brave speech, I accept God’s will, I kneel, you strike … Pft! It is over, and so dies another traitor. What else is there to know?’
‘If Milord would care to be blindfolded—’
‘No.’
‘And something must be done about Milord’s hair.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so. Florian thinks my hair my best feature.’
At which both men burst out in loud guffaws.
‘But the blade, Milord, it—’
Again the hand. ‘Really, do not concern yourself with any of that. It will all be dealt with on the scaffold. I will see you there.’
Resisting his dismissal, Jean had one more question, a somewhat awkward one.
‘Money?’ drawled de Chinon. ‘Really, you’ll have to wait to discuss that with my friend here afterwards.’
‘It is not customary, Milord—’
Now the Count reacted angrily. ‘I do not care for custom. It is my execution and I shall do as I like. You may go.’
Something was not quite right about this execution; the Count was unlike any martyr he had ever seen. But a waved hand and a little smile at his companion dismissed Jean. The whole interview had lasted barely a minute, and it violated Jean’s sense of professionalism. As he said to Haakon, who awaited him outside the cell, he hadn’t been planning on taking the Count’s head anyway, if he could avoid it.
‘But there are certain understandings in our work, are there not? This young braggart seems to wish to violate them all.’
‘I don’t know about you,’ said Haakon, ‘but I think there has been a definite decline in the quality of clients in recent years.’
‘Well, what do you think?’
The Bishop wasn’t happy with the Archbishop’s appearance. It didn’t fit in with the careful staging he’d ordered Marcel to create. He would have much preferred His Eminence beside him on the scaffold the entire time, having emerged together from the palace in full pomp and splendour, thus displaying the Bishop’s status to the world. However, one didn’t contradict a man like Cibo when he’d obviously set his mind on something.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like my tailor to line it? Some rabbit’s fur, perhaps?’ he suggested.
‘Rabbit’s fur? In a cassock?’ The Archbishop let out his silky laugh. ‘I think that might stretch our friends’, the Dominicans, tolerance a little far. I think they already suspect my motives for joining their parade. Besides,’ he added, twirling back and forth in the plain brown, sack-like dress, ‘I rather like the feel of the rough wool on my skin. And I won’t be wearing it for long. Mostly I shall be like this.’
He dropped the heavy cassock off his shoulders. It was held at his waist by a simple rope belt. The Bishop smiled nervously at the suddenly exposed flesh, faint traces of his kittens’ scourging still dappling it in a web of rosy lines. Suddenly he wondered if he had what it took to be an archbishop. If it wasn’t for his mistress and her grand plans for Orleans …
‘Now.’ Giancarlo Cibo moved across to a small table. ‘Which scourge shall I use? I did like those ones from last night, but leather might be a little … formal? Simple knotted rope for a monk, don’t you think? Like this?’
And he hit the Bishop over his back. Even through his heavy surplice he could feel the bite.
‘Ah, ha ha!’ he stepped back, nervously. ‘That’s quite, um … do you, uh, do you think the people should see you, um, in the flesh like this?’
‘Oh yes, that’s the whole point. Well, most of it,’ said Cibo. ‘We are burning men who claim, like Calvin and Luther, that Rome is all decadence and corruption. Now we know how sadly mistaken these men are.’ He raised the scourge again and the Bishop took another step away. ‘But if the people see me like this, merely another barefoot, suffering priest who happens al
so to be Archbishop of Siena, well, the heretics’ argument is undone. And then they see me step into my robes of office to witness the punishments, side by side with their own Bishop, well, the contrasting nature of the Holy Church’s teaching is most beautifully demonstrated. You are pomp, I am poverty. And then I am God’s Anointed again.’
The most opposition the Bishop could muster to this was a sigh. Moving surprisingly quickly, the Archbishop hit him again.
‘Besides,’ Cibo smiled, ‘you want me to end my visit well, don’t you?’
The Bishop could only nod, mesmerised by the softness of the Italian’s voice. He could feel the skin swelling where he had been last hit. He felt the blow had perhaps even drawn blood. Well, at least tonight his guest would be gone, for his taciturn German bodyguard had insisted they leave immediately after the execution.
Not before time, thought the Bishop. He didn’t know how much more sin he could stand.
That same German had now silently entered the chamber. Rubbing his shoulder, trying to keep a smile on his face, the Bishop said, ‘I’ll leave you to your, um, preparations.’
When the door had closed behind him, Cibo turned to Heinrich.
‘Well? What does my friend the Bishop of Angers say?’
A servant entered, bringing wine and fruit. Cibo beckoned his bodyguard forward and Heinrich bent down to whisper in his ear.
‘Really?’ Cibo smiled. ‘That much? You know, I definitely must have a word with the Pope. We can’t be taxing the French Church enough.’
He moved across to the table where the servant, bowing, handed him a goblet of wine. Cibo sipped and ran his finger slowly down the rope scourge.
‘Pity,’ he murmured, ‘such a pity.’
They had been assigned an antechamber to an antechamber at the back of the palace. Stale bread and some indifferent wine had been provided. The Bishop cared little for the comfort of his executioner and it suited Jean to be thus overlooked, to rest and think and make adjustments to the plan, such as it was. They would use the distraction of the execution and the heretic’s flaming pyres to kidnap the Archbishop, then force him to give up or lead them to the hand.
The French Executioner Page 8