The French Executioner

by C. C. Humphreys

  Knipperdolling paused in the entranceway. ‘For once, and only now do I realise it, the word of God and the word of Bockelson are not one and the same. At the last, I choose God.’

  He and all the other men ran from the room. Jean knew, by the volume of the sounds coming from the streets, that they would not have far to go to find the swiftest route to their salvation.

  ‘No!’ screamed King Jan, straining against the blade so that Jean had to loosen his grip slightly to prevent him slitting his own throat. The relaxation was enough for Jan to twist free and he fell out of Jean’s grasp and onto the forefront of the stage. There he was grabbed by the women of the court.

  ‘Fuck,’ Jean said, remembering Beck.

  In the midst of his harem, the King regained a little of his courage.

  ‘Seize him!’ he screamed. ‘There is yet time to raise Anne Boleyn and bring destruction on our enemies. The hand. We need the hand!’

  Makepeace had said that the women were the fiercest fighters in the town. And these seven, headed by the large Divara, looked as fierce as any Jean had ever seen. Enflamed with devotion to their leader-lover, knives bigger than his had suddenly appeared from within their flowing gowns. The way the women held them, he knew they had used them before.

  They surrounded the stage. As each attempted to leap up onto it, Jean cut the air before her. He was fast, but they were clever and the stage too wide for him to cover in a single leap. One would make it soon, and he would have to kill her. In the act of killing, more would make the stage, more would die and, very likely and soon, so would he.

  The torchlight flickering off his pistole flashed brighter off the women’s blades. He was tiring, and the cut he had inflicted on the first woman to get her knees up onto the platform hadn’t stopped her trying again. As Divara herself made the leap, Jean’s knife poised for the first of what would be many killing strokes, the doors the Elders had closed behind them burst open for the third time that night.

  If Jean had any hope that the conquerors of Munster would be so concerned with murder and rape that they would afford him a chance to escape, that hope left when he saw Heinrich von Solingen in the doorway.

  This is the moment, Januc, standing behind Heinrich, thought. I strike, I bury my sword up to its hilt in this devil’s back. Without their leader, maybe the rest will lose heart. We might, just might, prevail.

  He even raised his sword, but then Heinrich turned to him and said, ‘You! Take that traitor to his gold. Get them out of the town. It is my gift to you, for saving my life. We are even.’

  And the moment was gone, the back that could have held his sword moving away through a crowd of scattering, shrieking women. Heinrich, cuffing aside a weeping man dressed as an Old Testament king, leapt onto the raised platform where Jean had already killed the first two men who had come for him but had gone down under the attentions of three more. Twenty men were surrounding him when Januc, still hesitating at the door, saw something raised in triumph above the throng. It looked like a hand.

  He turned to Cornelius Fugger cowering at his side and said, ‘Take me to your gold. Take me now.’

  Strange, thought Jean as he writhed on the floor of the dais, blows from feet and fists falling on him. A gap had briefly opened between the flailing legs and for the merest instant he could see all the way to the doors. Strange how familiar that man in the helmet looks, the way he holds himself, the way he grips Cornelius Fugger by the arm and leads him out.

  Then the gap closed. Another opened almost immediately and he was swept into a cloud. He was grateful for its red warmth because it took him away from the blows and the pain and away, finally, from the cries of doom spreading through New Jerusalem.

  SEVEN

  THE SCATTERING OF THE

  QUEST

  Haakon wasn’t sure if it was the first shaft of dawn or merely the glow from the dozen fires that had sprung up within the city, but he took the light as the harbinger of the day and made his preparations accordingly. His axe he had honed beyond the point of sharpness, until he felt he would only have to level it at someone to cut them in two. He had gone into the camp and purchased breastplate, mail undercoat and helm, as well as a small but powerful bow and a quiver of arrows. He had even managed to find a leather collar for Fenrir, with razored barbs thrust through at angles that would cost the hand of any who dared try to seize the wolf-dog. With both of them prepared, and with the excuse of any light in the sky, he was ready to go in.

  Haakon had watched the city gates crumple inwards and the waves of Switzers pour unopposed through this breach. But the many casualties that had come back through showed the opposition beyond was still fierce, and reports from the wounded told of how the townspeople had absorbed the initial thrusts and were now mounting a heavy counterattack.

  He stood before the gates, uncertain. The most direct way forward was through them, but as Munster was a town he did not know, he would have to follow the assault aimed at the heart of the city. No matter how much he avoided it, he would have to fight most of the way, with all the risk that entailed. He would also have to keep pace with the advance and his friends might need him sooner than that. Indeed, every moment that passed increased their peril. There was the alternative of the Fugger passage into the city but then he would be in a strange town walking alone into Christ only knew what opposition.

  He had positioned himself to the side of the road, a hundred paces before the gates. Wounded men limped or were helped past him and he scanned all of them, half-hoping to recognise a bloodied but living comrade. One man, a short and stocky warrior, seemed to have shed more blood than most, indeed more than any human could spare and still be walking. Head to feet in gore, his face almost obliterated by clots, the man trailed a sword on the ground behind him which ploughed a furrow in the dust. He was a few paces past when Haakon noticed the shape of that furrow. It was square. The sword making it belonged to an executioner.

  ‘Hey!’ Haakon called and caught up with the warrior. ‘Hey, you, you! Where did you get that—’

  He would have finished the sentence if the half-dead, bent-over man had not driven into the Norseman’s stomach with a shoulder and suddenly straightened up. The action took both of them off the roadway and onto the verge, the man on top, Haakon on his back, winded and greatly surprised, for there were not many men who could lift him and those that could were generally not anywhere close to death. Such was the shock that he lay there silently, staring up at the bloodied mess of a face not a hand’s breadth from his own, until a voice emerged from the face speaking in a tongue Haakon had learnt when fighting with an English company in Flanders.

  ‘Easy, matey, easy. No need for you and me to ’ave a quarrel.’

  Uriah Makepeace’s dagger made its presence felt just where the mail undershirt was weakest, under the armpit. It prevented the Norwegian’s first impulse to rise because, though he was sure he could best this bloody apparition, he did not need an arm-weakening wound to take with him into the tasks that lay ahead.

  So instead he said, one word: ‘Fenrir.’

  The growl made the eyes within the gore widen. They shifted to the side, saw the dog crouched there, hair rising around the razored collar, fangs bared, its rectangular eyes agleam and murderous.

  ‘Shit!’ the Englishman pronounced carefully, not moving. ‘I ’ate dogs. Except when they’re roasted.’ Then a light came into his eyes. ‘Wait! A dog. A big man. You’re not … oh, what was the name? ’awkman? Something like that?’

  ‘Haakon. Why would you know that?’

  ‘Because I have a message for you from Jean Rombaud. Tell you what, you call off your ’ound, I’ll take this little knife away, and we’ll talk, all right?’

  A little later, crouched in the lee of an earthwork, Makepeace told Haakon what he knew.

  ‘And ’e said to be sure to let you know ’e will never give up,’ he concluded. ‘While ’e’s alive there’s ’ope, ’e said.’

  ‘And do you think he is s
till alive?’ Haakon watched as a cloth wiped away the blood from the face. The Englishman had assured him earlier that none of it was his.

  ‘Dunno. But ’e’s got more lives than a cat, that one.’

  ‘So it is said. I must find out if he has one left.’ Haakon rose.

  ‘Not that way, friend.’ A hand delayed him. ‘The lunatics are fighting for every inch of the main road in.’

  ‘Then I know of another way, a tunnel into the city. But I will not know where I am when I come out the other end.’

  Makepeace looked back whence he had come, at the steady stream of soldiers entering and leaving the main gate. ‘Look,’ he sighed, ‘I want to be on me way. But if you take me to this tunnel, I’ll give you a route from the other side to follow to the palace. Can’t do more than that.’

  Men and dog skirted the earthworks, Haakon detouring briefly to collect the horses. Leading them down the old riverbed Haakon had last taken to see Januc off, he tied them to a stump and, after a little groping, found the entrance behind the thorn bushes, the metal grille swinging on rusted hinges.

  ‘All right,’ said Makepeace, ‘I know where we are. This must come out somewhere among the old warehouses. There’ll be this small square just beyond ’em, and three roads leading off. Take the—’

  The growl halted him. Something or someone was moving just inside the tunnel.

  A hand lifted to lips, an axe and square-headed sword raised either side of the entrance, a dog crouched among the thorns. Whatever it was moved slowly and with effort, the breathing heavy; a sound of some object, a body perhaps, being dragged. Makepeace indicated that he would strike first and Haakon shook his head, mouthing clearly, ‘Mine.’

  So when the shape emerged from the gloom of the entrance into the murk of the new day, it was the Norwegian who threw himself onto it, the axe haft coming down in a blow designed to stun. But the target of the blow sensed or heard the wind of the strike through the air. Something was raised, and wood thunked into sackcloth filled with metal, a dead sound replaced by that of a sword ripped from a scabbard. Makepeace brought his weapon down now, a killing stroke, but a blade met it and deflected it into the grille with a clang that shattered the stillness of the dawn. The shape rolled away under the triangle made by sword and gateway and on into the thorn bushes ahead. The snarl which greeted this intrusion caused a cry of sudden fear and anger, in it a tone that Haakon recognised.

  ‘Fenrir! Off!’ he yelled and, raising his arm to halt the Englishman’s next attack, called into the bush, ‘Januc?’

  There was a moment of silence, then the Croatian’s voice. ‘Haakon? A fine greeting you give me, my friend. I’ll be plucking thorns out of my arse till Doomsday.’ He emerged from the bush, his sword still raised before him. ‘Who is that with you, Norseman?’

  ‘Uriah Makepeace, at your service.’ The Englishman stepped forward, carefully.

  Introductions were brief, explanations not much longer.

  ‘You left him there?’ Suspicion filled the Norse eyes that Januc avoided.

  ‘He is dead, my friend. It was time to look to myself.’

  ‘Is that what these are about?’ Haakon nudged at the two bags of gold coin Januc had pulled from the tunnel. The blow of the axe haft had split one and Januc was picking up the coins that had spilt out.

  ‘I told you this time would come. The time when Jean was beyond hope.’

  ‘You saw him die? Actually saw his life bleed away?’

  ‘As good as, Norseman. I saw him at the palace falling beneath a dozen swords. I saw him in the power of that German. His life was a short breath from its end and so would mine have been had I stayed.’

  Haakon spat. ‘If you did not see his body, janissary, then I will not believe he is gone. And I am going to find out for certain. Will you come with me?’

  Januc raised his eyes. ‘I will not. Only a madman pursues death for no purpose.’

  ‘And you have found your purpose in this gold?’

  ‘Our gold, if you will help me. It is hard to carry and the way ahead dangerous. There is enough here for both of us to die rich men. Die in our beds.’

  Haakon hefted his axe to his shoulder. ‘I can think of nothing worse. Find yourself another porter.’ He turned and walked into the tunnel.

  ‘Haakon!’ Januc half rose, calling after him, but the gloom had swallowed the man and his shadow of grey wolf. ‘May Allah protect you,’ he added softly, in his own tongue.

  ‘Now me,’ said Uriah Makepeace. ‘I’m always willing to earn a little extra. No such thing as too much gold. Where do you want these carried?’

  ‘This way.’ Januc lifted one of the bags. ‘And while we carry, you can tell me the story of how you got that sword.’

  Without a lantern, Haakon held to the fur of Fenrir’s neck and allowed the better-sighted dog to guide him through the darkness. Despite a few stumbles they emerged swiftly into the murk of a big storehouse, its ruined roof pierced by the light of the new day.

  It shone on three bodies. The two soldiers were obviously dead, crumpled in unnatural poses, one thrown back over a barrel, the other half sat on the remains of a table. The third man, however, was alive, bound to a wooden pillar and whimpering through a rag stuffed into his mouth. There was something about the face, twisted as it was in intense fear, that seemed familiar to Haakon.

  ‘Spare me! Please, take pity on an old man,’ Cornelius Fugger screeched as the rag was pulled out. ‘They have taken everything from me. My money, my family. I am not worth hurting.’

  Haakon swiftly stripped the bonds from him and pulled the shaking man to his feet. ‘You will not be harmed, as long as you do exactly what I say. You will lead me to the palace.’

  Complete horror twisted the captive’s face. ‘To … to the palace? Not again!’ he wailed. Then indignation briefly replaced the terror. ‘Does no one know their way around this damned town any more?’

  Through his sobs, Haakon heard another sound and went to the entranceway to listen. It was one with which he was familiar, a sound that had brought him much joy in stormed cities across the years. It was a trumpet blast and its refrain spelt out a simple message: Victory! Munster had fallen.

  ‘Come on.’ Haakon hoisted the man to his feet. ‘The main square, and as fast as possible.’

  The streets bore confirmation of the trumpet’s message, for looting had begun in earnest and mercenaries were carrying any object worth the effort from the houses, slaughtering any displaying the slightest desire to oppose them, and many who did not.

  Haakon, a weeping Cornelius preceding him, moved through the devastation. It was not far to the square, and their arrival coincided with the triumphal entrance of Philip of Hesse and the Bishop of Munster.

  Just behind them rode the Cibo brothers.

  Franchetto was in full armour but still hunched forward, Giancarlo upright in the red robes of his office. They were moving towards the platform where only recently the King of Munster had received the acclamation of his people. He was there now, but all vestiges of majesty had been stripped away, leaving a naked man in a cage, his body blue with bruises, blood coagulating in patches around his many wounds, eyes downcast and glazed. Those townsfolk who had survived the assault, the many who had always hated and feared him, jeered him now, and there was a continuous barrage of muck that coated him.

  As the mounted leaders reached the stage, Haakon scanned the scene for any sign of Jean and his nemesis, von Solingen. The German was a hard man to miss, and Haakon’s eyes found him soon enough, surrounded by his guards. Looking closer, he made out a sack-like thing at their feet, and only after staring through the shifting figures of the crowd was he able to see it was made not of cloth but of flesh, trussed like a chicken. That thought took him for a moment back to a hot day in Tours, to an abattoir and a competition with this unmoving, bound figure. At least it meant one thing: Jean Rombaud was alive. There was no point in binding a corpse.

  He was too far away to hear the exchanges
on the platform. The cage containing Jan Bockelson was hoisted up onto the façade of St Lambert’s church to much derision and acclaim. First Philip, then the Bishop, made speeches, the latter calling over the Cibo brothers at one point and obviously praising them for the conduct of their men, for Giancarlo then made a speech himself and at its end signalled Heinrich to follow them back out of the square. A pole was placed through the bonds on Jean’s ankles and hands and he was carried, hanging like the trophy of the day’s hunt, through the square towards the main gates.

  Haakon, abandoning his weeping guide, made his way down through the people to intercept the convoy, with no plans as to what he would do there, just needing to see Jean closer to. Fenrir went before him, the dog’s growls opening a gap swifter than any pushing would have done. Soon they were standing at a rank of soldiers, the Landgrave’s personal guard, who lined the route in and out.

  He reached it just as the brothers were passing. Ten paces behind them was the battered figure of his comrade, dangling from the pole. His breathing was shallow and he was obviously not in this world, which was as well for him. Haakon watched, all other sounds fading, his huge hands clasping and unclasping on the haft of his axe. He wanted to lift it up and fling it with all his great strength, take the heads off the brothers, follow up with his short sword, his snarling warrior dog, somehow reach Jean and free him, steal horses, ride triumphantly away. It was a majestic vision, and the gap between desire and reality brought tears.

  It was when the last of the procession had passed that Haakon finally felt the hand tugging at his shoulder. He shrugged it off, but it returned and tugged harder, and this time a voice went with the insistent pull.

  ‘Fuck! Tell me what has happened here, Norseman.’

  He turned, and Beck was standing before him, hands at hips, one clenching and unclenching on the pommel of a sword. The look was a mixture of distress and fury, the latter directed straight up into Haakon’s eyes.