The French Executioner by C.C. Humphreys Read Free Book Online Page A

the soldier?’ asked Jean.
    ‘I didn’t see him. But from his voice I could tell he was a countryman of mine. German. But from the south. One of those accursed
     Bavarians, for certain.’
    ‘Well.’ Jean stared through the slats along the road the horsemen had taken. ‘I begin to know my enemy.’
    ‘And I know mine,’ said the Fugger. He jumped up, thrusting his good arm through the bars again. ‘What will you give me if
     I free you now?’
    ‘I gave you the story. Was not that my part of the bargain?’
    The Fugger let out that strange, crackling laugh, like sheets of rough parchment rubbed together.
    ‘Only if it pleased me, you said. It does. But I want something more.’
    ‘I have nothing more. I never had much and they have taken everything. Even my sword – which is the first thing I plan to
     get back. I have no gold.’
    ‘Gold?’ The Fugger turned and spat on the midden heap. ‘As a banker’s son my life was all gold before, and look where that
     has led me.’ Before Jean could question him, the Fugger went on. ‘No, a duke’s ransom would not free you from this cage. I
     ask for the one thing you are able to give me – another vow.’
    ‘And that is?’
    ‘That you will let me help you fulfil yours.’
    ‘By setting me free, you help me.’
    ‘No. I want to help you regain what is taken from you. You see, I too have lost a hand. It seems fitting that I find another.’
    Jean looked into the Fugger’s crazed eyes and thought,
All I have seen so far is his madness. I have not seen the person at all. Now I see both the man and his need. A need as great
     as mine, perhaps.
    Still, he said, ‘I will not lie to you. My promise to my Queen is all to me. Help me and somehow I think you will be blessed
     for it. Cross me, and I’ll abandon you in an instant.’ It was a brave speech for a man swaying on a gibbet. Which the other
     recognised.
    ‘You drive a hard bargain. And from such a strong position,’ laughed the Fugger. ‘I accept.’
    One leap fetched the key from the crossbeam and the Fugger turned it in the lock. With a scream of metal, the iron cage opened
     and Jean tumbled out. The raven set up a loud croaking.
    ‘Oh yes, how could I forget? Daemon comes too! What a force we will make, the three of us. Let the quest begin!’ And the Fugger
     started his strange, twitching dance.
    As Jean lay on his back on the midden heap, fire rushing through his cramped, bruised limbs, he watched the caperings of a
     madman and the cawing swoops of a raven.
    ‘God help us,’ he groaned.
    ‘Amen!’ yelled the Fugger, whirling round and round.

FIVE
T O THE V ICTOR, THE S POILS
    To the innkeeper of the village of Pont St Just, it was very clear: the Germans had made a mess of his inn when capturing
     their quarry and they had not paid a sou for it. Furthermore, the two wounded comrades they had left behind in his barn for
     his wife to tend on the promise of recompense when the rest returned had, shortly after dawn, suddenly, simultaneously and
     mysteriously died. This was not his fault, but he now had to deal with the bodies, scrub away the stains on floor and palliasse,
     repair or replace the furniture and pots smashed in the mêleé … and then there was the waste of the wine spilled and the stew
     now feeding the cats among the floor reeds!
    ‘And so, my sweetness,’ Guillaume Roche declared to his wife, his sausage fingers fluttering under his fat chin, ‘since they
     have not returned to pay, by ancient right their goods are forfeit.’
    ‘Oh good!’ said his equally plump wife. ‘More prize weapons to rust on our walls, more big boots to use on our fire. If you
     stood more by cash up front and less by “ancient rights”, we might have something worthwhile now. How many times must I tell
     you?’
    Guillaume sighed, nodded and agreed, but remembered the shock of a group of large, exotically dressed Germans at his tables
     demanding food and wine. There hadn’t seemed to be