The French Executioner (33 page)

The dog was making straight for the sign of the Scorpion.

Years of lonely vigil at a gibbet had left the Fugger unprepared for the Palio crowd. The heat, the panic of being trapped
by walls of bodies, the close confines of the heavy leather Scorpion mask meant that he was soaked in sweat long before he
entered the square. And the sight of so many armed men engaged in an obvious search did nothing to calm him. What was worse
was the knowledge that many in masks were also thus engaged, that a hundred spies or more moved among the crowd. Every mask
that loomed towards them could conceal an enemy. Only Maria-Theresa soothed him a little, never relinquishing his hand.

Beck was faring better, mainly because her concern was so focused on her father. Abraham was frail and here, pushed and buffeted
by the crowd, he was beginning to sway alarmingly. His forehead was heated and slick, his tongue swollen, he complained of
cramps. He said he lacked the medicine he depended on from the kaleidoscope.

There was nothing for them to do but wait as Lucrezia had decreed. Once the race was over, mayhem would be loosed upon the
streets, and under the cover of that revelry the fugitives would be able to disappear underground. That was her firm belief
and nothing, not even the appearance by their side of the Cibos’ Rooster
contrada,
would change it.

‘Soon, soon!’ she shouted into the Fugger’s ear above the noise. ‘It is a huge build-up, then the event is over in a moment.
A little like my first husband!’

A bigger roar, and all faces turned to the balcony of the palace as the Archbishop emerged, preceded by his guard of
twenty wielding their halberds. The horses, in the colours and symbols of their respective
contrade,
the jockeys in bright coats and caps, bare-backed and struggling to contain their spirited mounts, were gathered below to
be blessed. The Scorpions, like all the others, surged forward, pushing the crowds up against the barriers and soldiers that
marked off the race track. The Fugger, Beck, Abraham and everyone else found themselves picked up and swept along, their feet
dangling under them. And the Fugger, perhaps half a head taller than those around him, saw through the slit-eyes of his mask
another mask more grotesque than any in the crowd around him, all the more horrific for being made, not of leather and cloth,
but of flesh and hair. Heinrich von Solingen was moving towards them, against the tide of the crowd, with a force of armed
soldiers behind him. He was not thirty paces away.

‘Beck! Beck!’ The Fugger struggled to make himself heard above the tumult, but in vain. Lowering his head, he whispered fiercely
to the girl beside him, ‘He comes! The enemy! Somehow he knows us!’

For Maria-Theresa, there was no hesitation, no politeness. Sharp elbows in ribs opened a channel to her mother, who listened
and spoke quickly to those about them. A little passage was forced through the human wall and Beck, the Fugger and Abraham
were pushed into it, heading away at an angle from their pursuers, up towards the tower. They were halfway from the crowd’s
periphery when they heard a sound within the greater noise that caused their step to stutter. A long, hunter’s howl.

Beck’s and the Fugger’s eyes met.

‘Fenrir!’ they both said, and as they did the Fugger saw von Solingen turn towards them again, leading his phalanx of men
unerringly to where they were.

Urging Lucrezia and Giuseppe to redouble their efforts to get them through the crowd, Beck and the Fugger thrust as hard as
any. But they did not have the force of a wolf before
and armoured men behind, and the gap between them narrowed.

It was hard to detect little shifts in such a crowd, but Heinrich had fought so many battles where noting the slightest change,
the merest gap opening, was the key to winning. And here, even in the sea of shapes and colours, he saw a group move from
the protection of the Scorpion banner and cut away at a different angle from the rest of the surge, away from the focus of
the race. It was odd, and oddity was what he was looking for in this uniformity.

But his were not the only experienced eyes looking for shifts in the crowd. Franchetto Cibo too had seen his brother’s bodyguard
moving towards them. He too had seen the movement within his Scorpion rivals’ ranks.

‘Follow me,’ he called to his lieutenant, and with ten men at his back and his short whip rising and falling brutally, he
began to march steadily to intercept.

Before the Palazzo Pubblico, the blessing was concluded and the horses led off to the starting point under the tower. The
Archbishop leant out over the balustrade. Stretched across the front of the balcony was the ancient, tattered relic, the prize
for all this, the cloak that was the Palio itself. A remnant of it rested on top, and all in the square were focused on that,
for when it fluttered from Giancarlo Cibo’s hand, the race was on. Reaching the top of the little flight of three steps, he
carefully picked up the fraying square cloth. As Archbishop, he was impartial to the rival factions. As a loyal son of the
Roosters, he had worked out a little signal, a slight hesitation before he let the cloth fly. It would not be much, but in
the crazed five-minute sprint through the streets that was the Palio, a second’s forewarning could make all the difference.

I’ve got them.
Heinrich had seen the three figures, different somehow from the rest. The way the small one tried to hurry another limping
one along, the way one kept looking back, his strange shuffling gait interrupted by his constant turning.

Got you.
Ten paces away now, the hound before him, breath heaving between bared fangs, almost pulling his men off their feet in its
eagerness. His mind was already turning to the ingenious tortures available to him within the Archbishop’s dungeon. He didn’t
like a lot of what these Italians did, but they were masters of cruelty, he had to admit that.

One of those Italian masters, Franchetto, moving in from a different angle, could see the German a little closer to the prize
than he was himself. National pride required him to redouble his efforts, and he laid the whip about him even more enthusiastically.
Pride, and the thought of his coffers filling with his brother’s gold. He would be first. He had to be first.

A little square of cobalt-blue cloth was raised above the crowd. A slight hesitation and a horse surged forward, hitting its
stride just before the cloth fluttered free, just before the rope dropped across the track. Fifty paces along the first stretch,
the fleeing Scorpions pressed themselves against the race track’s wooden barriers.

‘Got you!’ yelled Heinrich and Franchetto simultaneously, hands descending just as the cloth fell and the Rooster jockey,
cruelly spurring his horse’s flanks, stole his lead. Just as Beck yelled ‘Under!’ and half-dragged, half-pushed her father
beneath the wooden rail. Just as Fenrir, delighted at the sight of his friends, burst free of the men who held his leash.
Just as the Fugger wriggled out of the cape that Heinrich had grabbed and followed his companions. Just as Maria-Theresa,
Lucrezia, Giuseppe and three others from the Scorpion
contrada
also burst through onto the race track.

The screams of those who watched them dash almost under the hooves were lost in the noise of the race. The Fugger saw the
massive animals bearing down on him but panic spurred him on, and he even managed to push Abraham none too gently in the back.
The horses were all blinkered, but two scented the dog at their feet and reared back, ending
the hopes of the followers of Snail and Broadsword. Somehow the group made it across, just as the bulk of the horses crashed
by them. One of Franchetto’s guards was foolish enough to follow and had his brains dashed out by flying hoofs. The rest had
to wait, furious, for the horses to pass.

Sprawled breathless against the opposite barrier with the race still crashing by, it was Beck, pulling her father after her,
who urged them on. ‘Through! Through!’ She was up and pushing at the spectators before her who, stunned, opened up a slight
gap through which they fled.

The crowd was thinner here, for most were trying to push towards the finish line on the other end of the Campo, where the
horses would re-enter. The Scorpions found a channel and surged through it, but not before the Fugger, glancing back, saw
the last of the horses pass, revealing the tortured face of von Solingen and a huge man garbed as a rooster. Both now urged
their men across the track.

Maria-Theresa struggled to Beck’s side, the Fugger’s hand once more held in hers.

‘The entrance. It’s up that alley beside the palace. Come!’

They had gained maybe fifty paces on their enemy who even now, united in a band of some twenty men, were ducking under the
barrier. The scattering crowd would not hold them up for long. Three of the
contrada
had picked Abraham up and were running with him, the old man almost unconscious, urged on by Beck, Fenrir at her side. Maria-Theresa
alternated between pulling and being pulled by the Fugger. Lucrezia and Giuseppe ranged ahead trying to clear a path with
shouts and blows.

‘This way!’ yelled the Scorpion leader, her voice carrying above the crowd. ‘It’s a few paces down the Via di Salicotto!’

They entered the alley at the palazzo’s side, only for Maria-Theresa to let out a wail of anger. ‘The storm drain! The entrance
to the cisterns, it’s under that!’ A huge cart in the shape of a giant goose was straddling the lane, blocking all progress
beyond or down.

‘Shift it!’ barked Lucrezia, and the Scorpions put their shoulders to the cart and heaved. It gave slowly. Too slowly.

Fenrir bared his teeth and let out a long, low growl.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Heinrich von Solingen, breathing heavily. ‘It looks like this hunt is over. I win the prize.’

At the centre of his men, Franchetto Cibo pulled the Rooster mask from his face and said, ‘But I win the money. Know that,
German.’

Heinrich nodded, and whispered through burnt lips twisted into a parody of a smile, ‘Just as long as their bodies are mine.’

He took a pace forward. A sound, naggingly familiar, made him stop, twitch and instinctively duck.

‘Remember me?’ Beck stood under the whirling rope of her slingshot. ‘This time I really won’t miss.’

Two of Franchetto’s men raised crossbows.

‘If he fires at me,’ commanded Heinrich, ‘kill the old man.’

The guards began to move down the alley. Long stiletto daggers appeared in the hands of the Scorpions. Even Maria-Theresa
had a blade. Like the others, she knew it was hopeless, but she was not going to subject herself to this man’s attentions
again. She would die there. It was better than the alternative.

‘You know,’ said a voice familiar to some of the people in the alley, ‘I didn’t think it was possible for you to get any uglier,
German. But it seems I was mistaken.’

Everyone turned. At the alley’s end, their backs to the Campo, three Unicorns stood, white surplices flowing to the ground
beneath masks that had both mane and horn. One of the unicorns held a bow in his hand. The biggest one, an axe. And the man
who had spoken had an unusual square-tipped sword, its wide, flat blade balanced lightly on his shoulder.

‘You!’ Heinrich spluttered as all three removed their masks and dropped them on the ground. ‘Are you a cat? How many lives
do you have?’

‘More than you,’ said Jean Rombaud easily, bringing his
sword down before him and moving forward. ‘At least one more than you.’

Both a stone and an arrow flew, and two crossbowmen fell.

‘Claim your money, my Lord. Grab the old man and the girl,’ said Heinrich, unsheathing his sword. ‘I’ll deal with this scum.’

Jean swiftly calculated the battle odds. He hadn’t come this far to see his friends murdered at the end of an alley.

‘Januc, I think they need you down there more than we do.’

‘You can handle this many?’

Haakon laughed. The sound went with the battle lust in his eye and two of the enemy broke step when they heard it. ‘There
are only seven of them. Didn’t you see me on the galley?’

‘Six,’ corrected the janissary, his bow a blur, a feathered shaft appearing as if from thin air in the neck of one of the
advancing men. ‘Now you might just have a chance.’

With that, he leapt up and caught a flagpole thrust out over them. He spun his legs over, balanced on it, then stepped onto
the narrow ledge that ran the length of this side of the palazzo. With a brief salute, he ran down it and leapt off to land
lightly between Franchetto Cibo and his quarry, a curved sword suddenly in his hand.

‘That man,’ said Jean, ‘is a show-off.’

Heinrich yelled, ‘Get the big brute, leave the French runt to me!’

Haakon looked at Jean. ‘Brute?’ he said. ‘I’m deeply offended.’

‘You’re
offended? He called me a runt.’

Then they turned back to the enemy and, as one voice, let out the old mercenary cry.

‘Hoch! Hoch!’

They closed, Haakon’s axe swung at shoulder height causing five soldiers to leap back. Heinrich side-stepped it to come straight
at Jean, his heavy-bladed broadsword chopping down. Sparks flew as finely forged steel met its match,
and intensified as Jean changed the square parry over his head to a slope that the German slid down, the force of his charge
taking him through and past. A guard to his left, seeing a clear opening, lunged at Jean’s exposed chest. Twisting his body
sharply round, the sword slid down the front of him, slicing through the Unicorn tunic to the flesh beneath, the force of
the lunge bringing his opponent close. Jean dropped his raised hands, the pommel of the sword crashing down onto the guard’s
knuckles. His scream of pain was swiftly cut off when Jean elbowed him hard in the mouth, knocking him backwards.

Just in time, for Heinrich had recovered from his charge and had borne around swiftly. He thrust at Jean’s open back and the
Frenchman just had time to drop the sword point square to the ground to parry, the broadsword’s blade snickering under his
armpit. For a moment they were locked there, looking into each other’s eyes over a metal crucifix of Toledo steel, two swordsmen
awaiting each other’s move.