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

a moment to ask before. And he assured his wife that they werejust about to reach into their purses, they truly were. But then the stranger had walked in.
    ‘It must have just slipped their minds afterwards,’ he reasoned, and his wife snorted and walked away, leaving him, broom
     in hand, to contemplate the damage.
    One man against eight – you’d have thought it would have been over much quicker, with a lot less fuss. Guillaume would gamble
     on anything, from the quickness of rats to logs burning in a fire, so when the man with the square-tipped sword had reduced
     his enemies by half within seconds, well, he’d have given quite good odds on him finishing them all off. And he would have
     done too had it not been for that plate of stew and a misplaced foot, a moment off balance.
    Once down, a search of the loser’s possessions had yielded a purse from the saddle bags, heavy with coin; but the real yell
     of triumph came when they found a velvet bag, shouts which stopped abruptly at the upraised hand of a figure as slight and
     drab as the Germans were bulky and colourful, dressed in a cloak that had a monastic air until one noticed the richness of
     its cloth, the lush fur around the hood. This hand had silenced all except the two wounded men, though even their groans subsided
     a little. And when it felt what was in the bag, the slight figure gave out a moan that was … well, the memory still made Guillaume
     shudder, for it had reminded him of love-making and death at the same time.
    He assessed his limited haul. The bag of the vanquished stranger had yielded a spare set of clothes, a complete barber’s set
     of scissors, combs and knives, and a leather mask. All this might fetch a few sous in the market in Tours at month’s end.
     The clothes from the four dead Germans were more of a problem, though. Not only were they somewhat stained with blood, they
     were also of the type worn by mercenaries the world over.
    ‘Peacocks!’ Guillaume spat, raising one scarlet and blue jacket by its puffed, blistered and slashed sleeve, eyeing with distaste
     the clashing interior lining, pulled through the cuttes,of vivid yellow. The breeches were golden, a horrible contrast to the black-and-orange hose stocking that rose through them.
     Aside from these fripperies, there were two huge Landsknecht swords (conversion to ploughshares possible), two pairs of very
     large boots (use the leather again or burn them as fuel), some serviceable cloaks and shirts, and two hats which, when stripped
     of their ostentatious plumes, might suit a farmer.
    ‘Twenty sous, the lot,’ he grumbled. Hardly worth the trip to town. Probably wouldn’t even cover the damage. His wife, annoyingly,
     was correct. So much for ancient rights!
    Then he realised what he could do with these items, and the thought made him beam. It was Sunday, the priest was adamant about
     Sabbath rest, and many in the village would be around with nothing to do. If he could offer them some entertainment such as
     an auction, he could barter these goods away and sell some extra wine and beer into the bargain.
    Much cheered, he went round the back to water down both immediately.
    The sight that greeted Jean when he limped into the inn was one of frenzied bidding. He had spent the morning binding his
     ribs – bruised but not broken – and shin, tending the nasty sword slash to it, eating such food as the Fugger could provide,
     resting and thinking. His impulse was to run in the direction the Germans and the Archbishop had ridden, but the feeling soon
     passed. He had campaigned long enough to know that an attack in haste and in a weakened state always failed. He needed supplies
     and a weapon, and to regain some strength.
    Walking into the inn, he doubted his enemies would have left his possessions, certainly not the hefty fee he’d earned the
     week before in London. But they might have left some clue as to their identity and their next destination.
    The Fugger was