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Authors: C.C. Humphreys
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yourself.’ Jean gestured to the pool.
Lowering himself cautiously as if expecting another shove, the Fugger glanced down once, quickly, then looked away for a long
moment. When he looked again he held his gaze, running his fingers up and down, exploring his face. After a while, he just
stopped and stared, tried to pretend that was all he was doing. Seeing water flow from the eyes to join the pool, Jean turned
away to pack up his barber’s gear.
‘Thank you,’ said the Fugger at last. ‘I thought this person was gone for ever. His soul was stolen, do you see, along with
…’ He raised the stump of his arm to Jean. ‘Now he has come back.’
Then the tears really came, and he made no attempt to conceal them. Jean moved away, sat and waited; for though time was pressing
he knew that some men who had emerged from a great madness, as from battle or the terrible sack of a city, needed to howl
like this. He had done it once himself, in a burning church in Tuscany, a lifetime before. There was nothing to do but wait,
as someone had once waited for him.
Eventually, he could tell the shivering came more from cold than emotion so he went to his bag.
‘Here.’ He threw the German soldier’s clothes across.
‘For me?’ A voice filled with wonder, hands turning the material over and over.
‘They may be a little large, and gaudy,’ Jean said, ‘but they are of good quality. He obviously lived well.’
The Fugger slipped his head into the wool shirt, found the arm holes. Jean had chosen the smallest set of clothes but the
breeches were still vast. A length of rope restrained some of the bagginess, while clumps of grass filled in the front of
the heavy boots. The scarlet-and-black jerkin’s sleeves were rolled up and the cloak over the top disguised the irregularities,
hiding the worst of the peacock display.
‘Not bad,’ said Jean as the Fugger moved around him. ‘And the smell’s an improvement. Even if it has a touch of German sweat
about it.’
‘Well, I will add to it then,’ the Fugger spoke softly, ‘for I am German too.’
‘A German, eh? From where?’
‘From Munster.’
‘And did you not say, when we were, uh, negotiating back there at the gibbet, that you were a banker’s son?’
‘I did.’
Jean scratched his head.
‘I am not one for questions. A man’s business is his own,’ he said. ‘But how, by the useless balls of a Dominican monk, did
a German banker end up running a gibbet in France?’
The Fugger laughed. It seemed a strange sensation until he realised he was doing it for no reason other than pure pleasure.
‘You have a very mixed way of cursing, Monsieur.’
‘I have been in too many countries’ armies, perhaps, Monsieur Fugger.’
With the laughter came another feeling, and the Fugger raised his one good hand to Jean.
‘The Fugger who kept a gibbet in France?’ he said. ‘It is a long tale and a strange one.’
‘That is good.’ Jean rose. ‘The longer and stranger the better, for we have a night’s march ahead of us. We must be in Tours
by dawn.’
And with that, hefting sword and pack, he headed back to the road.
The Fugger stood for a moment alone on the stream bank. Stooping suddenly, he scooped up some tangled skeins of hair, running
them through his fingers before throwing them back into the fast-moving water. As the last traces of his recent life swirled
away, caught and burst through a small dam of reeds, he murmured, ‘And wash my sins away.’
Then he turned and hurried after the Frenchman.
SIX
O RGIES AND A XES
Giancarlo Cibo, Archbishop of Siena, was enjoying all the hospitality the church in Tours could offer him, which for a small
provincial town wasn’t so bad. His host, the Bishop of Tours, knew the favour of so powerful a churchman as Cibo would help
him in his quest to secure the recently vacant See of Orleans. So he was making a strenuous effort to see his noble guest
was well entertained.
The
Lowering himself cautiously as if expecting another shove, the Fugger glanced down once, quickly, then looked away for a long
moment. When he looked again he held his gaze, running his fingers up and down, exploring his face. After a while, he just
stopped and stared, tried to pretend that was all he was doing. Seeing water flow from the eyes to join the pool, Jean turned
away to pack up his barber’s gear.
‘Thank you,’ said the Fugger at last. ‘I thought this person was gone for ever. His soul was stolen, do you see, along with
…’ He raised the stump of his arm to Jean. ‘Now he has come back.’
Then the tears really came, and he made no attempt to conceal them. Jean moved away, sat and waited; for though time was pressing
he knew that some men who had emerged from a great madness, as from battle or the terrible sack of a city, needed to howl
like this. He had done it once himself, in a burning church in Tuscany, a lifetime before. There was nothing to do but wait,
as someone had once waited for him.
Eventually, he could tell the shivering came more from cold than emotion so he went to his bag.
‘Here.’ He threw the German soldier’s clothes across.
‘For me?’ A voice filled with wonder, hands turning the material over and over.
‘They may be a little large, and gaudy,’ Jean said, ‘but they are of good quality. He obviously lived well.’
The Fugger slipped his head into the wool shirt, found the arm holes. Jean had chosen the smallest set of clothes but the
breeches were still vast. A length of rope restrained some of the bagginess, while clumps of grass filled in the front of
the heavy boots. The scarlet-and-black jerkin’s sleeves were rolled up and the cloak over the top disguised the irregularities,
hiding the worst of the peacock display.
‘Not bad,’ said Jean as the Fugger moved around him. ‘And the smell’s an improvement. Even if it has a touch of German sweat
about it.’
‘Well, I will add to it then,’ the Fugger spoke softly, ‘for I am German too.’
‘A German, eh? From where?’
‘From Munster.’
‘And did you not say, when we were, uh, negotiating back there at the gibbet, that you were a banker’s son?’
‘I did.’
Jean scratched his head.
‘I am not one for questions. A man’s business is his own,’ he said. ‘But how, by the useless balls of a Dominican monk, did
a German banker end up running a gibbet in France?’
The Fugger laughed. It seemed a strange sensation until he realised he was doing it for no reason other than pure pleasure.
‘You have a very mixed way of cursing, Monsieur.’
‘I have been in too many countries’ armies, perhaps, Monsieur Fugger.’
With the laughter came another feeling, and the Fugger raised his one good hand to Jean.
‘The Fugger who kept a gibbet in France?’ he said. ‘It is a long tale and a strange one.’
‘That is good.’ Jean rose. ‘The longer and stranger the better, for we have a night’s march ahead of us. We must be in Tours
by dawn.’
And with that, hefting sword and pack, he headed back to the road.
The Fugger stood for a moment alone on the stream bank. Stooping suddenly, he scooped up some tangled skeins of hair, running
them through his fingers before throwing them back into the fast-moving water. As the last traces of his recent life swirled
away, caught and burst through a small dam of reeds, he murmured, ‘And wash my sins away.’
Then he turned and hurried after the Frenchman.
SIX
O RGIES AND A XES
Giancarlo Cibo, Archbishop of Siena, was enjoying all the hospitality the church in Tours could offer him, which for a small
provincial town wasn’t so bad. His host, the Bishop of Tours, knew the favour of so powerful a churchman as Cibo would help
him in his quest to secure the recently vacant See of Orleans. So he was making a strenuous effort to see his noble guest
was well entertained.
The
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