Free The French Executioner by C.C. Humphreys

dead.’
    ‘I don’t care. He’s left us in a very bad position with his carelessness. The execution is tonight.’
    ‘I could send to the Bishop of Angers?’
    ‘Idiot!’ The Bishop struck his steward hard across the face. ‘Is this the sort of advice I pay you for? The Bishop of Angers
     wants Orleans for himself. He will come with his executioner and he will steal my glory. No, you must find someone here in
     Tours.’
    ‘Here?’
    ‘Yes. There must be an executioner out there among that rabble of discharged soldiers. Mercenary scum, most of them, not even
     French. Find one.’
    ‘Eminence,’ Marcel spoke carefully, while backing out of range, ‘I doubt we’ll find a skilled swordsman at such short notice.’
    ‘I don’t care,’ screamed the Bishop, turning the same colouras his purple hat, ‘if he takes off the head with a sword, an axe or my tailor’s pinking shears! Find me someone to do it!’
    And with that, clutching his own head, the Bishop sank back onto his bed. He wasn’t used to panicking. He had people to panic
     for him.
    By the time Jean and the Fugger reached Tours mid-morning, the town was abuzz as an ever-changing crowd gathered at the main
     church’s doors to read the poster hung there.
    ‘ “Due to the unexpected and sudden demise—” ’ the Fugger read swiftly, ‘uh, “only men of true worth and experience need apply.”
     That’s you, isn’t it?’
    ‘It is,’ said Jean, ‘but I had not thought to ply my trade again so soon, if at all.’ He looked across at the young German.
     ‘I thought, perhaps, a new career in barbering.’
    ‘Either way,’ mumbled the Fugger, rubbing his shorn head, ‘you’re a butcher.’
    Jean laughed and turned back to the poster.
    ‘Wait! What’s this?’ He gestured to the words scrawled near the bottom of the paper.
    He could not read as quickly as his companion and by the time he’d finished the Fugger was hopping from foot to foot in excitement,
     humming the while. He stopped when Jean looked at him.
    ‘I know. I’m drawing attention, but think of it. He’s here, he’s here! That’s what it says, “In the presence of his Holiness
     the Archbishop of Siena”.’
    ‘I can read.’
    Jean turned away down the alley to the left of the church, quickly entering the rancid, sweating, crowded heart of Tours on
     a festival day. The Fugger followed, the raven perched on his shoulder. The lane was so narrow and the opposite houses overhung
     so much that they nearly touched two storeys above, making flight impossible.
    ‘We’ve caught up with him. It is here, what we seek. We can take it back,’ the Fugger whispered excitedly.
    ‘Indeed.’ Jean was straddling with his steps the line of sewage running down the middle of the lane. ‘And how would you suggest
     doing that?’
    The Fugger grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an alcove.
    ‘I have a plan. My fine, educated mind has worked on the problem and come up with an answer instantly, yes it has. It’s a
     golden opportunity. You take the job of the executioner. You will be up there, shrouded and armed, right beside the Archbishop.’
    ‘Fugger, you want me to steal the hand in front of a thousand people?’
    ‘Why not?’ The Fugger’s darting eyes finally settled upon Jean. ‘It’s not as if you haven’t done it before.’
    The second gold coin from the offertory box bought them a share of a palliasse, unoccupied now it was day, a hunk each of
     bread and meat, some sour beer, and gave them a little change. Consuming his food swiftly, Jean straight away lay down and
     tried to sleep. The Fugger, delighted to find his mind working once more along relatively straight lines, was determined to
     share the results. He sat up and uttered a continuous stream of words.
    ‘What we’ll need is some sort of diversion. Well, that will be my job, mine and Daemon’s. We will direct the eyes away for
     a moment from the block – oh, I’m sorry, I know you don’t use a