Januc smiled at him, then quickly hid his amusement. He had learnt that the big Norwegian took both his runes and pronouncements from his mother very seriously.
‘And what does that mean, my friend?’
Haakon scratched his head. ‘I don’t know. But I do know that there is madness and then there is madness. Madness for me was getting fat and lazy in a brothel in Tours. But is it madness to fight, to journey, to dare? Besides’ – and here a gleam came into his sea-blue eyes – ‘think of the stories we have yet to make!’ With a brief nod he sat down again and resumed his eating.
‘Well.’ Januc rose, tugging at his thin, oiled moustache. Of all of them, his dark hair had grown back the quickest, was nearly a match for Beck’s. ‘I am loath to break up the company, and I have rarely met men I so enjoyed fighting beside. Is there gold, Jean, where we are going?’
‘I do not know. I find I have lost my appetite for gold.’
The Croatian whistled. ‘Then you definitely need me along. To look after your financial interests. And I cannot go back to my homeland empty-handed, for I was not created to farm. So it looks like I will come too. For a while, at least.’
The Fugger tried to get up, but Maria-Theresa was clinging on to him. Gently, he disengaged her hands.
‘You know that I will come.’
As the girl started crying, reaching up and tugging at the Fugger’s arm, Jean said, ‘Fugger, it is I that owe you a debt, not the other way around. You freed me from the gibbet. And you have found some peace here. Why not take it?’
The Fugger smiled, and stroked the girl’s hair for a moment.
‘I think the peace will remain here for a while. Maria-Theresa is young’ – he could see Lucrezia nodding emphatically at that – ‘and very grateful. I do not want to presume on that. If I go and come back, maybe we will understand this more, both of us? And anyway, you need me. Germany is where I am from.’
He bent down to console the weeping girl.
Finally, Jean turned to Beck. She had gone to rejoin her father and was feeding him soup again. She didn’t look up, just said, ‘I must take my father to Venice, to our family, where he will be cared for.’ Then she raised her eyes to add, ‘And after he is safe I will come to you, wherever you may be. No power on earth will hinder me.’
The strength of these quiet words made even Haakon stop eating. Yet no one apart from Jean and perhaps the Fugger understood the force underlying them. Abraham, suspecting something, gazed at her for a long moment. Jean held her eyes then looked away, back to the red glow of the cooking fire, to the collapsing world and a heaven and a hell that beckoned there.
‘It is settled then,’ he said. ‘We leave tomorrow.’
Later, after preparations had been made for the dawn departure, with Mathias filling saddle bags for several horses, they gathered for the last time in the warm courtyard, the sky overhead a scattering of rich and shining gems. The morrow was forgotten in a feast eclipsing any that had gone before, in contentment, laughter and song. The lay of the galleys was once more recounted to loud acclaim. The Fugger traced the constellations for all, telling the myths, mainly for his Maria-Theresa, while her two hands never left his one. Jean sat near Beck, not touching, not even looking, both a little shy suddenly yet both feeling the heat build, knowing they would steal away again once her father was asleep. Abraham was lively though, as if he’d slept for a thousand years and now had just awakened.
Haakon had told several runecasts in the preceding nights, commenting on the past, envisaging the future. A life full of love and contentment for Maria-Theresa, a second, unprecedented win for the Scorpions at the next Palio, a vizier’s hat for Januc back in Istanbul. Lucrezia, who had only just arrived, was intrigued as she herself was a reader of palms and cards. She had learnt in the stones that there was a night of love ahead of her with a tall, fair stranger, and there was little doubt in her, or Haakon’s, mind that the prophecy would be fulfilled promptly.
Only Jean’s future was undecided, but now, with the wine working within him and his love untouchable an arm’s length away, he decided he needed the distraction.
‘Come, Haakon, let us peer into the murkiness of my fate.’
The Norseman tumbled the runestones out again upon the green cloth laid on the tiles, turning them face down, swirling them, then getting Jean to do the same.
‘Now,’ said the Norseman in the serious voice he seemed to adopt for this purpose – nasal, over-pronounced – that had everyone fighting to control their laughter, ‘focus on your question, keep it silent and strong in your heart, and pick out three stones. Lay them down before you as you think they should be.’
Jean thought of love, then obeyed. Haakon had him turn them over, one by one, analysing each stone as it appeared.
‘RAD. Upright. I would say you are going on a journey, and you—’
Laughter interrupted him. ‘It needs no revelation from the spirits to tell us that, Norseman. Otherwise I have been stuffing those saddle bags with food for no purpose!’ yelled Mathias.
Haakon continued with an injured air. ‘If you please. This is a rune associated with the god Odin. Mercury here in Italy. The raven in some cultures. It could mean trickery.’
‘You hear that, Daemon?’ the Fugger called up to the preening bird in the chestnut tree above. ‘Even the stones do not trust you!’
Struggling over the laughter, Haakon continued. ‘A journey is indicated, anything could happen. But the runes that follow will tell us the outcome. Next, please.’
Smiling himself, Jean turned the middle stone.
‘It looks like an arrow flying towards you, Jean. Better duck! Especially if I shot it.’
Januc laughed until he saw Haakon’s face. The big Norwegian had gone a little pale, and when he spoke, his voice had lost its pompous tone.
‘TIR. Reversed. The god of war. See, I wear this rune around my neck.’ He briefly showed them the metal arrow hanging on a thong under his jerkin. ‘Upright, like this, it is a rune of power, of courage, even madness, in battle. The berserker’s sign.’ He was silent a moment, contemplating.
‘And reversed?’ Beck asked, coming to join the circle.
Haakon said nothing, except, ‘Turn over the last one, Jean.’
When he had, all saw what seemed to be an open mouth trying to swallow the other stones. Only Jean was swift enough to see the shadow form in the Norseman’s eyes. Form and disappear before the others looked up.
‘PEORTH. Reversed. That’s all right then. Looks like your wish will be granted.’
Haakon flicked all three stones over and melded them with the others. The suddenness of the move surprised them all but Haakon dismissed any questions, saying the runecast was ambiguous, and refused to read any more. He launched instead into a boisterous and epic tale from his homeland to do with clever farm boys, troll kings and beautiful maidens with cow tails hidden down their dresses. Soon all were laughing again.
Later, as the Fugger and Maria-Theresa slept chastely in each other’s arms, when Abraham had finally exhausted his words for the night and slumbered and Januc had disappeared in the direction of the town, Jean watched Lucrezia head into the house with a meaningful glance backwards at Haakon, who slowly rose to follow. He was just in the entrance when Jean caught up with him. He took his arm.
‘What did you see, Haakon?’
Haakon shrugged. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. We were just playing. You should never do that with runes. My mother used to say—’
He stopped when he saw the steadiness of Jean’s gaze.
‘What did you see?’ Jean repeated, softly.
Haakon met his eyes. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. It doesn’t matter what you thought your question was. Your real question was underneath it. PEORTH is a dice cup. A gamble. Reversed is twice as dangerous, twice the risk. It’s tied to RAD, to the journey, what you are trying to do. To your quest.’
‘And that arrow? Aimed at me? Reversed too, right?’
&nb
sp; Haakon looked past Jean at Beck, disengaging her arm from under her father.
‘Yes,’ he said quickly. ‘The god of war, reversed. Hardship, struggle, great odds.’
‘We’ve always known that.’
‘It means something else too when joined to the trickery of RAD, of Mercury.’
‘And that is?’
Beck had started to move towards them. Haakon’s voice had become a whisper. ‘Betrayal. Someone close. Very close.’
‘Very close?’
‘Yes. If I were to hazard … someone here tonight will betray you.’
Jean watched his friend disappear into the house. A hand was laid on his shoulder. Jean turned, but for a moment did not see the eyes he had grown to love. All he saw was an arrow flying towards him from the red flames of a fireplace. An arrow of betrayal.
PART THREE
THE RECKONING
ONE
HELLFIRE
It was Fenrir who first told them something was wrong.
He had been ranging, as usual, far ahead. Every day of their journey he had preceded them, warning of brigands in the mountain passes, of wolves, of villages hidden in forests. His keen nose and ear at night allowed the party to sleep without fear for he would not wake them without reason. They had learnt, a dozen times, to trust his instincts.
So when he ran back to them, ears flattened against his skull, the hair on his neck and along his spine raised as if by a brush, when he crouched behind his master’s horse and gave out a continuous low growl, everyone shifted in their saddles and reached out to feel the comfort of their weapons.
‘Hedge knights, you think?’ Jean said softly to the man beside him.
The Fugger touched his fingers to his stump. The very naming of that particularly German variety of highwayman made it ache in memory.
‘It’s possible. We crossed the border into Bavaria about six hours back, by my reckoning. We are within the territory.’
‘My Fenrir is not frightened of a bunch of disinherited noblemen.’ Haakon had descended to comfort his dog. ‘Look at him. Something he’s seen or sensed has terrified him.’
Fenrir stood, growling still, hackles raised, despite his master’s strokes.
‘What lies ahead, Fugger, do you know?’ Januc had taken the precaution of stringing his bow.
‘If my memory serves, a small town called Marsheim. It has a famous abbey, and an abbot equally famous for his love of vice. The sort of man who gave the Catholics such a bad name here in Germany, who prompted our holy monk Luther to his holy rebellion.’
As soon as he had crossed the border of a German state, the Fugger had begun to feel like a Protestant again.
‘The sort of place our Archbishop could well desire to rest for the night,’ observed Jean.
‘What do you think?’ Haakon was scratching Fenrir behind the ears. ‘Shall we heed my hound’s warning? Set up camp here, go in and scout at dawn, as usual?’
Jean felt their eyes upon him; another decision expected. With each one taken it had become a little easier. Advice he always heeded, even from the dog; but, after debate, the final choice was his. He’d insisted they wait when they had first caught up with Cibo’s party a week before in an Austrian forest, not go charging in at dead of night as Haakon, especially, desired. Three weeks struggling in high mountain passes summer seemed not to have reached, forcing their way through snow drifts at times, had exhausted them all. He had even let their quarry gain a few days’ lead again, when Januc was struck with an ailment of the guts and could not ride. The enemy had at least fifty men-at-arms and he needed all his comrades. Also, as strong as the pull of the hand was, Jean was aware just how lucky he had been so far. He had survived a gibbet and a galley. To rush into an armed camp, even while most of them slept, was challenging fate too far. Besides, he had the distinct feeling it was exactly what Cibo wanted.
He had another reason to keep his skin in one piece: Beck had promised to kiss every inch of it when she met them at the rendezvous in Munster, the Fugger’s family town. As long as it was unblemished by wound.
His thoughts were interrupted by an agitated cawing. Daemon, who had been resting quietly on his master’s shoulders, suddenly rose up into the air, flapped twice and flew swiftly ahead.
‘Carrion,’ murmured the Fugger. ‘My Daemon has a nose for things that are dead.’
Jean’s mind was made up. ‘We’ll heed the animals, yet proceed a little further. Maybe what has so upset our Fenrir and lured our raven will become clear to us too.’
The party moved on, down the long avenue of beech trees sheltering the road. The sun was sinking into the west, giving them ample light to see the ruts made by the Archbishop’s carriage the day before.
‘There’s a ridge up ahead,’ said the Fugger. ‘I think it overlooks the abbey, and beyond that lies the town.’
Before they gained the viewpoint, three things happened to halt them.
Firstly, the wind change Daemon had first noticed now gusted down upon them from the direction in which they were headed. It brought with it, faintly but unmistakably, the sound of screaming. Secondly, a bell began to ring, but not in the regular way of summons or warning. It struck once, then once again, then three times quickly. There followed a silence. Then from a different bell, one single toll.
‘A curious way they have with bells, these Bavarians,’ said Januc. ‘What—’
He never got to ask his question because at that moment the third thing happened and it ended all conversation for a while.
A cat, a big, brindled tom, appeared on the road ahead. Fenrir growled but needed no restraint from Haakon to hold back. The cat was moving strangely, dragging its hips along the ground as if its back were broken – which it wasn’t, for it then leapt up, skittered a few feet forward on four paws, then flopped and resumed its sideways slide, mewing all the while.
Behind it came a black and white dog, a town cur. It seemed to be in pursuit of the wounded cat but then ran past it and towards their horses. It halted just before them, and this time Fenrir needed to be restrained from launching an attack; but then, ignoring them completely, the dog ran to the side and began to assault a rock there. Snarling in frenzy, it hurled itself onto it, attempting to bite it, to prise it from its position with scrabbling paws. The dog’s mouth filled with blood, teeth were spat out, claws ripped off; still it continued with an overwhelming ferocity. Finally, it threw back its bloodied muzzle and howled, then ran, slipping onto its side twice before disappearing into the woods.
The cat, meanwhile, had just laid down.
‘Dead.’ Haakon had descended to pick up the body. ‘Poor thing.’
Fenrir whined and nuzzled at his master’s hand.
‘Do we go on, Jean?’ the Fugger said, hoping for a no.
‘I think we must.’ Jean dismounted. ‘But slowly. Let’s take a look from your ridge.’
It was up there they found their second body. Human, this time.
Daemon’s caws drew their eyes to it; he was quarrelling with a crow in a linden tree. The corpse was wedged between two branches, on the rise just off the road. The man, it seemed, had tried to climb higher and had fallen back, because an undershirt flapped a dozen feet above him. At the base of the tree, a monk’s cassock lay, torn in half. The body was naked, and cruelly marked with gouges. Januc climbed up to have a closer look.
‘There’s flesh under all his nails and his hands are covered in blood,’ he called down. ‘The fall probably killed him for his back looks broken. But …’ He hesitated. ‘But it might have been a blessed release. I think … I think he was trying to rip his own skin off.’
‘Holy Father,’ whispered the Fugger, ‘what madness is this?’
Jean pushed his way through the knee-high bracken of the ridge, the others following. When they reached the point where the slope began to descend and they could see into the valley, they gathered to look down. The foliage did not completely obscure the view.
‘My eyes are not so
good for distance.’ Jean turned to his companions. ‘Does anyone have the long sight?’
Haakon put a foot on the low branches of an oak. ‘I grew up eating little but fish. Fish is good for the eyes, my mother always said.’ He hoisted himself swiftly up the tree, agile despite his size, gazed down, ducking this way and that around the branches. ‘I see a walled enclosure, gardens within it, a big stone house at the centre.’
‘That would be the monastery,’ the Fugger called up. ‘Are the monks there?’
‘I do not see … wait, there is some movement. Some men moving around a garden. They seem … they seem to be dancing. And there’s some smoke rising further on.’
The wind eddied around the ridge. They each caught a faint trace of laughter borne on it. There was an odd quality to it, as if it lacked all humour.
‘The town is beyond, is it not, Fugger?’ Jean asked.
‘It is.’
‘Haakon, come down. If the town’s afire too we may not have much time. Let us go and see what is happening there.’
With some dread, they mounted and began the descent. But if they were reluctant, Fenrir nearly refused to move. Only a stern command from Haakon got the beast going, and even then it slunk along at the rear of its master’s horse, hair standing up, whimpering.
The light rain that had pattered intermittently upon them most of the day turned heavy as they approached the monastery. From a distance it seemed the gates were open; but drawing near they saw that one of the huge, iron-studded panels lay flat on the ground and the other hung off just one hinge. Under the end that reached the ground lay a man, squirming, naked, his hands pinned as if he had tried to catch the gate as it fell.
Jean, Januc and Haakon together just managed to raise the gate long enough for the Fugger to drag the weeping monk clear. They cut some strips from a nearby cassock and bound his mangled hands. While they did this he gradually ceased weeping, his eyes searching the sky.
The French Executioner Page 28
