The French Executioner (12 page)

Reaching the platform, the parade dispersed across it, Jean and Haakon to either side of the two thrones that sat centrestage.
The Bishop placed himself before one of them, the other occupied by an archbishop’s robes and mitre. Behind him ranged ten
priests, each with a boy chorister
before him, their white surplices a background to the Bishop’s of brilliant red. Before them the trumpeters, in their tunics
of blue studded with fleurs-de-lis and the town symbol of mace and key, blew a fanfare that gradually hushed the crowd.

In the silence, the doors of the town hall opposite slowly opened and a single drum struck up a steady beat. The Count de
Chinon did not so much walk as stroll from his gaol. His hands, as was customary for his rank, were free and he used them
to acknowledge the crowd. He looked more like a triumphant general than a man marching to death, and his attitude, youth and
handsomeness had an effect on the crowd. The soldiers in the lines had a hard time beating them back with their pikestaffs.

He mounted the platform with easy strides. Raising his hands, he tried to calm the crowd to hear his final speech, but a gesture
from the Bishop brought guards to the Count’s side, pulling him away, forcing him to kneel with his back to a mob whose frenzy
increased when the four heretic weavers were swiftly led out and tied to their stakes before the scaffold.

Another trumpet blast, another near silence. Then, from within the darkness of the hall’s entrance, two new sounds clearly
carried: a sharp snap and a groan poised between pleasure and pain. Figures appeared, shrouds hiding the faces, torsos bared,
cassocks cinched at the waist. Pausing, each raised a thin, knotted-rope scourge high above his head then brought it down,
sharply and in unison, across his shoulders. The crack as the scourges bit into flesh made the crowd collectively wince. The
twenty Dominican monks moved forward in a huddle, one shrouded figure trailing slightly behind. With every strike and step,
they intoned the penance of guilt: ‘Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.’

They beat themselves along the Via Dolorosa created by the soldiers. The odd oath or drunken laugh that had greeted their
appearance died away now, leaving only the dirge of voices and the crack of whips biting home.

The rhythmic blows, the chanting, the pulse of the drums; Jean felt himself slipping again into familiar ritual. His hands
began to clasp and unclasp on the sword hilt, his mind to focus on the stroke that was to come.

No,
he told himself angrily,
I am not part of this. I am here for Anne Boleyn.

He tried repeating her name like a chant. But on this scaffold, the memory of that other one seemed a mere dream, the voice
in his head dying away. There was no vow, no six-fingered hand, no moment when a door opened and revealed his lost loves.
There was only this ritual of death, and his function in it. He looked ahead to a kneeling man, a sword raised, a perfect
swing.

The Dominicans, on reaching the scaffold, lowered their shrouds then took their places by the wood bundles that surrounded
the four stakes, each lighting a torch from the braziers there. All save the last man, their still-shrouded leader, who stood
dripping blood at the scaffold steps. The trumpets sounded again and the Bishop walked forward, spreading his arms wide in
blessing.

‘Brothers in Christ,’ he shouted, ‘we welcome this, your example of true faith and sacrifice. It shines forth as a beacon
to those who would accuse the one true Church of sin and decadence. And see, see, oh my flock, how even a prince of our faith
is prepared to take on the pains of our Lord.’

Jean found he was gripping Haakon’s arm.

‘This is him,’ he said, through his teeth. ‘At last, I will know my enemy.’

The bloodstained man had raised his hands to the shroud on hearing the Bishop’s words. Now, as he lowered it, all on the scaffold
heard the puzzlement in his voice as he said, ‘I am flattered by the title, my Lord Bishop, but I am simply the Abbot of the
Dominicans.’

The Bishop of Tours stood staring, his mouth opening and closing like a freshly caught fish on a river bank. Jean had stumbled
forward, sword and scabbard gripped tight. In the
shocked silence that greeted the Abbot’s voice, Haakon’s whisper came clearly to him: ‘Look there. There! At the centre, where
the lines meet.’

Still dazed, Jean followed the Norseman’s pointing finger. A group of some twenty men, each in a large hat and cloak, had
massed at the junction of soldiery directly before the scaffold. As Jean and Haakon looked, they saw each man reach within
his cloak and hold his hand there.

One of the men looked up. For a moment their eyes met, and Jean recognised the Count de Chinon’s companion, the Count de Valmais.

The explosion shattered the first floor of the town hall, flames bursting through the crumpled leaded glass, a huge column
of smoke belching into the night air. Everyone ducked and Jean heard a single shout of ‘Now!’ Looking down, he saw each of
the muffled men pull a dagger from beneath his cloak and stab the soldier directly in front of him.

Instant mayhem. Those at the back surged away from the explosion and the flames, while those nearest the front, witnesses
to the soldier’s sudden assassinations, tried to go the other way. They imploded into the middle and the guards who had lined
what had been the path simply dissolved into the crowd. Those on the fringes rushed for the side lanes, swiftly blocking them,
rebounding into the only gap that now existed – the area around the scaffold. The potential martyrs were engulfed in the wave,
picked up bodily, still attached to their posts, and swept along in the torrent.

Only the men in cloaks knew exactly where they were going. They moved forward over the writhing bodies of the soldiers to
the stairs.

The Bishop had regained his voice. ‘The Count! Heretics come to free the prisoner. Seize him!’

These orders were shouted at Jean and Haakon. Neither had any intention of obeying, the cause was not theirs. But the rescuers
were not to know that, for de Chinon was still kneeling at the centre of the scaffold behind the executioners.
And there were now swords as well as daggers in many of the rescuers’ hands.

Crouched beneath his horses, locked into foul memories, the Fugger was only startled back to consciousness by the sudden explosion,
the sound crashing down the lane from the square, causing his animals to whinny and pull against their tethers. In calming
them, he calmed himself a little. He had returned so utterly to the gibbet midden, its safety and familiarity, that he did
not want to come back fully to this world.

The man who had caused him thus to slip back had stepped outside the stables, where the Fugger had heard him pacing up and
down. A few minutes after the explosion, he came back inside. He was no longer alone.

For yet another moment the Fugger thought he was truly back, safe again, within the gibbet midden, for it was while lurking
there that he’d first heard the seductive voice that he heard again now.

‘I couldn’t resist seeing the Bishop’s face,’ Giancarlo Cibo was saying, ‘but it seems he has received an even greater shock
than the one I intended for him. Are the horses prepared?’

‘Here, my Lord.’ Heinrich untethered the Archbishop’s stallion. ‘And here are your travelling clothes. But the rest of our
possessions, they are in the palace.’

‘We will have to leave them. We need to get through the city gates before they are blocked. This town is closer to the heretic
than we thought, something else I will have to discuss with the Pope. I will shed my Dominican garb on the road to Toulon.’

The Fugger saw the two men straddle their horses. He ducked down lower into the hay of his stall.

‘Do you have the Bishop of Angers’ gold, at least?’

‘Here, my Lord, in my saddle bags.’

‘More importantly, where is the witch’s hand?’

‘In your saddle bags, my Lord. As always.’

The Fugger heard leather being patted.

‘Good,’ came that voice, ‘then let us ride.’

The horse’s shod hoofs clattered on the cobbles, the sound swiftly swallowed by screams, by the crackle of wood on fire and
the clash of arms, all coming from the direction of the square. The Fugger could tell that men were fighting and dying down
there.

Jean’s weapon was still in its scabbard, so it was the haft of Haakon’s axe that deflected the first two swords away from
the Frenchman. Then the scabbard was shed, and with a sharp uppercut Jean took the third sword away from Haakon’s exposed
flank and threw it high into the air, reversing the arc to bring the flat of the blade down on the assailant’s head. The man
fell back with a cry, arms flailing, blocking the approach of five more of de Chinon’s rescuers.

‘This is not our fight, Norseman. Our quarry has fled,’ Jean yelled.

‘Tell them!’ Haakon gestured at the men now leaping over their comrade’s fallen body.

There was no time for debate. Five men were trying to kill them and three of them died, the last two pulled off by their fellows
who had reached and freed the Count de Chinon. Swept into their midst, his white shirt disappearing under a cloak and hat,
the remainder of the Count’s men pushed away from the scaffold, moving as solidly as only a body of determined men can through
chaos.

The lane from the square, though a major route out of it, was still no broader than a cart, putrid and greasy from the sewer
running down its centre, piles of garbage clogging the edges. Many fled the carnage with Jean and Haakon, slowing them down,
and it took a while to reach the rendezvous of the stables.

‘Fugger?’ Jean pushed the doors open with his square-tipped blade. ‘Are you here?’

It was Daemon who appeared first, surging out of the pile
of hay where the Fugger had hidden. The bird’s master followed, paler than ever, eyes moving as if they would leave his head.

‘What is it with you, Fugger? You look like you have seen a devil.’

The teeth chattered still, but words came out.

‘I have, oh I have. One such as I thought I’d never see again. And I heard another, though he has the voice of a fallen angel.’

‘We have no time for this, Fugger,’ Jean snapped. ‘The Archbishop has gone.’

‘He … he has. He rode from here just now. He—’

‘Then let us follow. No, no more words. We can talk when we are clear of the town. They will be closing the gates soon to
try and keep the Count and his followers inside.’

They rode through an unguarded town gate, the watch called to quell fire and riot in the square. They halted on a hill just
beyond the city walls to confer.

‘Even if we knew their destination, how can we pursue them on these?’

Haakon spoke from the back of the biggest horse and his feet almost reached the ground. With their big bellies and slung backs,
they knew the animals were fit for the working farm but not for a pursuit of thoroughbreds down country roads.

‘But we do know their destination.’ The Fugger’s breath was coming easier now, though his eyes still moved about. ‘I heard
him say it. Toulon.’

‘Toulon?’ Jean looked into the darkness ahead. ‘So they make for a harbour and a boat back to Italy, do they?’

‘How far is Toulon?’ Haakon asked.

‘Three nights and a day if you ride by the main road. But’ – Jean smiled – ‘there is more than one way to Toulon, to a man
who knows his way. These horses might not move fast, but I’ll bet they are bred for the hill paths.’

They mounted again, Jean ahead, the Fugger struggling
with the most docile horse in the middle, Haakon at the rear, Fenrir at his stirrup. They followed the main road south for
a while, then Jean turned his horse onto a trail just perceptible in the weak moonlight. It twisted up into the hills, and
as they climbed they became aware of the noise from the distant town. Looking back, they could just see that fire had spread
from the square and was consuming a considerable section of the crammed streets.

‘Look, Daemon,’ the Fugger whispered to the bird nestled on his shoulder, ‘they got their cleansing flames after all.’

After a few minutes, the trail widened to a farm-cart’s width, and Haakon pushed his nag up beside the Frenchman’s.

‘Is now the time to remind you of your promise?’ he said.

Jean grimly indicated the path ahead. ‘You believe I think of anything else?’

‘Not to your lady,’ Haakon grinned. ‘Your promise to me.’

‘And what was that?’

‘If I should prove myself worthy, you would honour me with the tale of your quest. Have I fulfilled my share of that bargain?’

It was Jean’s turn to smile.

‘You might have stopped me dying on a heretic’s blade back there, I suppose. But do you truly want to hear this tale now,
on a hard night’s ride?’

‘I can think of no better time. Besides, and I have thought much about this during our short acquaintance, you are a very
dangerous person to be around. And I suspect you have more hazards in mind for us. So now might be the only time.’

Jean laughed. That was twice in a day, and this man was responsible both times. The horses had their heads and would follow
the dark trail better than he. So he sat back in his saddle and for the second time told the tale of his promise to Anne Boleyn.

The moon was on the wane, but still gave off enough light to show them the path. They rode without break through the nights,
rested for a few hours each morning, then rode or walked out the day before a short evening rest. A final night ride ended
with them, near dawn, wearily tethering and feeding their horses on a small knoll overlooking the main road to Toulon.

‘They will not have passed here yet,’ Jean told them.

‘How can you be sure?’ The Fugger was bent with exhaustion, and had fallen to the ground as one dead. It was many years since
he’d straddled a horse and he’d forgotten which parts of the body were required. They were reminding him in fire now.

‘The man we hunt is no fool. He will not want to kill his horses and leave himself a long walk, not in this country.’ Jean
looked about him, scanning the little valley in the growing light. ‘A man on a horse might outrun the brigands who thrive
here. A man on foot, never. We have three hours at least, by my reckoning.’