The French Executioner (36 page)

‘Yes, to Germany, I think. And let our preparations be secret. That should ensure everyone knows our destination before the
week is out.’

Lucrezia arrived with the news the next night.

‘My sister, that sweet young whore, God preserve the instrument of her good fortune, had it from the Archbishop’s manservant
himself. They go to join the Emperor in Germany, and in haste, for they set out tomorrow. They are talking of it like a crusade.
The Cibo brothers will end the Protestant heresy single-handed. No offence, Fugger.’ She had
been eyeing the closeness of her daughter and the German since her arrival with mixed feelings.

‘Offence to my heresy or to my single hand?’ said the Fugger. ‘Either way, none taken. And where is the Emperor now?’

‘Wittenberg, they say.’

‘Wittenberg?’ It was Abraham who spoke now. His fever had broken the night before, and though he was still weak, the worst
of his cravings seemed to have passed. He’d allowed his daughter, whom he’d agreed, on her urging, to regard for the moment
as his son, to feed him vegetable soup at the meeting. Now he pushed the spoon aside and with some excitement said, ‘Wittenberg
is where Apollonius makes his experiments. It is the centre of alchemy in the world. Cibo will not care about any crusade
other than that one, his own. He goes to consult the master, to get him to do what I could not.’ He began to cough, recovered,
and his eyes shone. ‘He never realised that by dulling my resistance with that drug he also dulled my abilities. But he is
right in one thing. That hand could hold the very destiny of life.’

Jean, crouching on the far side of the courtyard, carefully put down the wine he was drinking. ‘That hand’s destiny,’ he said
quietly, ‘is in the fulfilment of a vow, nothing more.’

He rose and went to stand by the cooking fire, newly prepared for the night and already fierce, and stared into its searing
red depths, the miniature worlds existing in the heart of the flame – here a cave of white intensity collapsing in on itself,
there a channel of powdered ash stirred by that collapse. He was lost for a moment in that movement, its heavenly beauty,
its hellish depths. A familiar hand on his arm drew him back to thoughts he was trying to avoid. He spoke softly for only
Beck to hear.

‘And my destiny lies there. Consigned to the fires, waiting for hell to suck me down. Because I will fail in my vow. Who am
I to fulfil a quest for a queen? The knight in some ancient lay? The hero of one of Haakon’s sagas? No. I am a peasant, a
soldier, a headsman. Nothing more. Who am I to challenge archbishops, princes and dukes?’

Beck drew him around. ‘A peasant who has taken heads off all of them,’ she said. ‘A headsman whom a queen of England saw fit
to trust with all she had left. And as for the Devil … if he wanted you, he’s had plenty of chances to claim you before now.’

Jean looked at her again, and marvelled at her again, as he had in the moonlight the night before. The way she said his name
made him feel whole, in a way he hadn’t felt in a long age, and he suddenly, desperately wanted to stop there, just stay with
his good friend Mathias, make wine, hunt in the fields, have children with the woman who made him feel like that.

‘And what if I choose to … turn away? To stay here with you?’

For a moment she looked, as he had done, into the flames. ‘And begin our life together in a betrayal? I would always think
I had stolen you. She would always be between us and her hand would pull us apart.’

He knew she was right, even as he wanted her to be wrong more than he’d ever wanted anything; knew that all would turn to
ash, that he would keep no promise, to Beck or anyone, and fulfil no dreams unless and until he fulfilled his vow.

He was suddenly aware that all were looking at them, waiting for his words before giving their own. He so wanted to be the
man he’d always been, not a leader, just one free to do as he chose. And because he wanted that, he had to offer it to those
who followed him. He stepped back into the middle of the courtyard.

‘I made a vow that I can’t break. Until I have found what I lost, there is no peace for me in this world. So I have to go
to Germany.’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘But you – Fugger, Haakon, Januc, Beck – you have come with me this far and I
have led you into terrible danger. I go towards more of it.
You made no binding vows to me or anyone else. As a friend, I would give you some advice: do not follow a madman on a mad
quest.’

Haakon rose up immediately, putting down a haunch of meat to say, most seriously, ‘Where you go, so do I. The runes have told
me that much. Besides in my country, my mother used to say: “If you are mad as a springtime stoat you are still sane for the
sowing.” ’

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?’

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.

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.