The King of Thieves:

by Michael Jecks

  The dagger he threw was little more than a flat, sharpened steel splinter ten inches long. There was no defined cross, only a rough leather grip. Now the highly polished steel flashed in the sun as it sped on towards the running man, and suddenly the man’s steps faltered. He looked as though he would fall, but managed to pick up his rhythm again, running harder. Toscanello willed him to succeed, to reach some place of safety where he might be able to escape, but even as the thought ran through his mind, he saw the man’s legs wobble, like a puppet whose strings were loosened. His eyes widened, and he slowed. Blood trickled from his lips, and he staggered, and then was suddenly still. He gazed at Toscanello with what looked like rage mingled with incomprehension, and then toppled to his knees, falling to rest on all fours before very gently sagging down to lie with his face in the dirt.

  Paolo walked to him with a beaming smile. ‘Said I could hit him, Hugues,’ he called over his shoulder to one of his men. ‘That’s a gold piece you and Thomas owe me!’ He pulled the dagger free, then stabbed twice, quickly into the man’s back – one to the kidneys, one to the heart – before wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s robes. He cast a contemptuous glance in Toscanello’s direction, and swaggered away.

  He was plainly dead before Toscanello reached him. Rolling the body over, he found himself staring down at a young man of his own age. The eyes were brown, but already fogged with death, and the splash of blood about his face made him look repugnant, but Toscanello forced himself to peer down at him for a few moments, reflecting that this had been a man. That it could easily have been him who died here.

  Just a man. A young man with a tonsure. Toscanello shook his head. The fellow had a crucifix about his neck, and a rosary at his belt. And then he peered. There was a key, too. A large steel key, as though to a door or a large chest.

  That was how Toscanello became richer than any man he had ever met.

  And why he was slain.

  Monday after Nativitas, Blessed Virgin Mary, eighteenth year of the reign of King Philip IV of France*

  Anagni

  Guillaume de Nogaret marched over to the figure lying dead on the ground. He looked at the Sergent. ‘Well?’

  ‘They killed him, took the money and bolted. They’re not the only ones though – you know that. All the men are sitting here hung-over and riotous.’

  ‘Which ones were they?’

  ‘Paolo’s men – Hugues and Thomas – but he’s dead too. So only those two. You want me to send after them?’

  The King of France’s most trusted adviser looked down at the broken figure of Toscanello. ‘He was only Italian,’ he said. ‘Let them go. We don’t have the men to catch them.’

  Chapter One

  Morrow of Deusdedit,

  Third year of the reign of King Charles IV of France, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II of England*

  Louvre, Paris

  At last the woman was gone. He would not meet her here in the Louvre on his way to the chapel, nor in the King’s chamber. He was rid of her.

  Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou could not help but feel the spring in his step at the thought. Her presence here in Paris had been an embarrassment for too long. The idea that a woman like her should come here and flagrantly ignore the rightful demands of her husband … well, it was not to be borne.

  King Charles IV had demonstrated enormous sympathy for her. Of course, he always considered any situation from the perspective of chivalry, and what was honourable, so when his sister arrived here in France, King Charles had made her welcome. The fact that she was a negotiator from that despicable tyrant, King Edward II of England, did not detract from the King’s evident joy at seeing his sister again.

  Perhaps his pleasure was enhanced by the fact that he was himself married again at last. The poor man had suffered so much from the adultery of his first wife. The whole royal family had. She and her sisters-in-law had been found to have committed the foul sin with two knights. Immediately the women were imprisoned, while the men suffered the most humiliating, painful and public deaths ever meted out by a King to a traitor.

  King Charles’s woman was mentioned only in lowered tones since then. But at long last the Pope had permitted the annulment of the marriage when she had fallen pregnant to her gaoler at the Château Gaillard. The clear, incontrovertible proof of her faithlessness at that point had been enough, and the Pope at last gave his agreement. Now the faithless one was safely installed in a convent far away, and the King had remarried a second time. Sadly, his second wife had died in childbirth. The baby himself had only lasted a short while before also succumbing, and now the King was married to his third wife, the delightful young Jeanne d’Évreux. Hopefully, with her he would prove more fortunate and provide an heir for the kingdom.

  There had been so much trouble in the last few years, Cardinal Thomas thought. Ever since the end of the Templars, the Parisians had experienced increasing hardship. Kings came and went, but they were astonishingly short-lived, and none seemed able to father a son. This latest King could be the saving of the line – it was an end to be desired, after all. God alone knew who else might take over the realm.

  But his sister’s arrival, and her refusal to obey her own husband, must be a shameful reminder to King Charles of his own suffering. Even the joy of his latest marriage must be soured by the presence of his sister, Queen Isabella of England. After all, she it was who had told their father about the women’s adultery in the first place.

  A messenger came, knocking gently on the door.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cardinal, there is a man to see you. He says he has information for the King.’

  The Cardinal made a dismissive gesture. ‘You want me to come and see someone now? Are you a complete fool?’

  ‘He said it was about a treasure, Cardinal. Something stolen from the King. I thought someone should know, but the steward, the marshals – everyone – is preparing for the departure of the English Queen.’

  Cardinal Thomas frowned, looking at his reflection in the mirror. There was a little mark on his cheek, and he licked a finger, removing it. ‘Very well. I shall come to find him,’ he said eventually, and rose. ‘There is still some little while before the King and his lady arrive. I shall go to see this man, and then you can take him back to the gates again – yes?’

  He waved the servant onwards, and the man led the way along the high corridor, and into a tower. They descended by spiral stairs to the ground floor and turned left, past the kitchens and storehouses, where the din of clattering pans and dishes mingled with shouted commands to the kitchen staff and one hoarse bellowing voice demanding to know where on God’s earth his kitchen knave had gone. The Cardinal also saw the black-haired whore who was Hugues’s latest favourite, sitting and combing her hair with slow, wanton deliberation near the horse troughs. No doubt she’d been washing away her sins, the Cardinal thought sardonically.

  At a door near the great gate, the servant stopped, waiting for a sign. The Cardinal nodded, his eyes closed. ‘Be quick!’

  The servant opened the door for the Cardinal, and stood back.

  Cardinal Thomas entered. ‘What on … Man, there’s been a murder! Call the guard at once!’

  ‘Sir? I—’

  ‘GO!’

  As the servant hurried away, his feet silent on the sanded ground, the Cardinal crouched by the side of the man on the ground. The fellow was only twenty or so. Not much more, certainly. He had a strong face, but resentment showed in the narrow set of the eyes. There was much you could tell from a man’s face, the Cardinal thought; this one had lived with bitterness. ‘Where you are going, all bitterness will be gone,’ he muttered gently, and pressed his fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. There was nothing. Just the coolness that was unnatural in a living man.

  Sighing, Cardinal Thomas knelt and began to recite the Pater Noster, then the Viaticum, as he glanced about him at the room where the fellow lay.

  ‘What a place to die, eh
? What a place.’

  Château du Bois, Paris

  Queen Isabella of England stood with her back to the window as she held her arms out for her ladies to clothe her. All must be perfect, after all. She was a Queen.

  Yet even a Queen had concerns. For Queen Isabella it was hard to know what to do for the best. If she were weaker in spirit, she would have given up her embassy and returned to her husband. There was so very little money remaining now. That was a permanent worry, because her grasping, miserly spouse had not entrusted her with sufficient funds when he sent her here to Paris to negotiate with her brother. No, instead he had taken away all her revenues, as though she herself might become a traitor. All because she was French.

  Perhaps there was no actual malice in it. Edward was not generally malicious. Or hadn’t been before his mind had been poisoned by that murderous devil, Sir Hugh le Despenser.

  When they had first been married, he had treated her with scant respect, but she had been so young compared with him. He was four- or five-and-twenty, while she was just twelve. It was not surprising that he preferred the company of others, of older men. And women, of course. She was wise enough to know that. It was four years before she would be able to give birth to their son, Edward. Adam had been the King’s firstborn son, although poor Adam had died in Scotland on one of the King’s adventures to pacify that cold and wet province.

  Still, he had appreciated her when his great companion, Piers Gaveston, had died, murdered by his most powerful barons. They had dared set themselves against their lawful King! That was something a French baron would never have thought to attempt, but the English were ever truculent and rebellious. Even the people of London would revolt at the slightest opportunity and rush through the streets causing mayhem and murder as they went. It was a land that demanded a mailed fist to control it.

  At that time she had done all in her power to aid and support him, as any wife would. The birth of their boy had helped, naturally. King Edward II was besotted with the lad. As soon as little Edward was born, the King seemed to change. He lavished presents upon the man who brought news of the birth, he made grand gestures to his boy, endowing him with lands and ennobling him when he was only a few days old.

  But the depredations of Despenser were bound to cause problems, and soon the depth of the Despenser’s greed became apparent.

  In the beginning he was more circumspect, but as he grew less worried about his position, depending upon the King for support, the people in the land grew to hate him more and more. Eventually his thefts, his murders, his kidnaps and tortures proved too much and the Lords Marcher in Wales could take no more. They overran his territories and brought their armies to London. For a while they held the King to account and forced Despenser’s exile. But then, when he returned, he was stronger, more deeply in the King’s affection, and all the more powerful.

  The Lords Marcher were crushed at the Battle of Boroughbridge, and afterwards began the slaughter. Men-at-arms, squires, even knights and lords, were rounded up and executed as an example to others. The first to die was the King’s own cousin, Earl Thomas of Lancaster. It was as though all the King’s rage at the way his ‘dear brother’ Piers had been slain was guiding his mind now. All those who now stood against his new favourite were his enemies, and he would destroy them all. The bodies of his enemies decorated the gates of every town and city in the realm.

  It was a hideous shock. Isabella could see the change in every aspect of her own life.

  All was the fault of that snake, Despenser, and the foul Bishop of Exeter, the untruthful, greedy thief who set such stock on probity in public, and who enriched himself at the expense of all while he was Lord High Treasurer to the King. It was those two together who caused her such terrible trouble.

  Despenser hated her. There was no hiding his feelings. They both knew and understood each other. There might be occasional flashes of mutual respect, but little more than that. Despenser had lured her husband from her, and she would never forgive him. Her ease of spirit was all gone, stolen away by this … this pharisee. Any joy she had once experienced in her marriage was now nothing but a fading memory.

  The Bishop was equally evil, in her mind. It was he who had spoken to the King after the War of Saint-Sardos last year, he who had murmured soft words of deceit. He said that it was unsafe for the French to have an ally in the easily invaded lands of Devon and Cornwall. Perhaps it would be best if they were taken out of the control of the Lady who was sister to the French King, and who was yet the Queen of England. Not because she was herself disloyal, of course … but she had a huge familia to support her. And almost all were French themselves.

  Her household was broken up shortly afterwards. All her properties were taken into the King’s hands, all her income confiscated, her servants, guards and even ladies-in-waiting dismissed, all bar a tiny number. Even her children were taken from her. No doubt, in order that she might not pollute their minds against the lawful commands of their father. That was how effective the Bishop’s sly mutters had been. She had not even the solace of her daughters. And then she was herself given a new household of ladies; now nothing could be written or sent in private apart from some few, carefully concealed notes which the Queen managed to secrete about herself. There were still one or two men upon whom she could rely. Even the woman responsible for her household was installed at the insistence of Despenser. Isabella’s most senior lady-in-waiting was his wife, Eleanor. And Eleanor held that most potent proof of Isabella’s independence: her personal seal. There was nothing remaining of Isabella’s regal position, in truth. It was utterly humiliating.

  With the pittance her husband had allowed for this journey, there was little for any form of extravagance. That was why she was forced to leave Paris and find cheaper accommodation elsewhere. Soon, perhaps, she would be forced into returning to her husband. There was no alternative, when all was said and done. At least for now she was only to move a little outside the city, to the Château du Bois.

  Meanwhile, there were compensations. Life here in France was far less austere than her existence had been in recent months. Although she could not afford distractions of her own, there were many invitations from others, to parties, hunts, diversions of all kinds.

  All she hoped was that the truce should hold a little longer, and that the negotiations should continue. Here she felt free once more.

  She would not return to England to be insulted and slighted, to be gaoled in a gilded cage.

  Chapter Two

  Louvre, Paris

  Arnaud, the porter at the south gate to the castle, heard the cries before the messenger appeared, panting and anxious.

  ‘What is it, man?’ he demanded. He was seated on a bench behind his makeshift desk, booted feet up on it, his back resting against the wall behind him. Without a candle, the servant could only see a low blur in the gloomy room after the bright sunshine outside.

  ‘A man came to speak with the Cardinal d’Anjou, and he’s been murdered.’

  Arnaud closed his eyes and shook his head, then said, ‘Go and find the guard, tell him to see to the body, and then fetch the city’s prosecutor. The Procureur should be present as the matter is investigated. He will take charge. Go!’

  But when the boy had fled from him, Arnaud suddenly gaped with a distracted air. ‘Which man has been murdered?’ Then, with a stern expression on his face, he slapped the pommel of his sword in a gesture of decision, called to one of his officers and left the gate in his hands while he himself strode off towards the hall to visit the castellan, Sieur Hugues de Toulouse.

  The Louvre had a magnificent hall, as befitted the King of France, and the castellan’s little room was attached to the eastern end. It was a small square chamber, with a large table and a stool, and a bed area behind. A fireplace and chimney had been added, and a cheery fire hissed and spluttered, making the porter jealous when he thought of his own chilly and comfortless little room.

  Today, though, when he entered, the ca
stellan was busy. A slim, dark-haired beauty was sitting astride him as he lay on the bed behind the desk, and she turned and met Arnaud’s appraising gaze with a tilt of her head. He smiled at her. He’d seen her earlier when she had entered the castle. You didn’t forget a face and body like hers.

  ‘You want something? Eh? Hurry up!’

  ‘Sieur Hugues, I …’

  ‘You waiting for a formal introduction? This is Amélie. Amélie, this is Arnaud, the porter. Arnaud is the man who should be guarding our gate, but instead he’s here in my chamber staring at your bubbies.’

  The castellan’s words and tone proved that he had no desire to discuss matters at the moment, and Arnaud quietly stepped from the room and closed the door.

  He would have to come and see him later, when the castellan was less ‘busy’.

  Procureur Jean de Poissy eyed the messenger without comment for a moment, chewing a hunk of bread with some hard cheese. A tall man, with a long face surprisingly unmarked by scars for a knight who had spent so much of his life fighting in his King’s causes, he was elegant and urbane. Unlike many warriors, he was also intelligent.

  ‘Who is the dead man?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t give his name.’

  ‘Who killed him?’

  ‘I don’t know!’

  ‘Why was he killed?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘… don’t know. No, nor do I, but these are the questions we must ask, heh? So, take me to the unfortunate fellow, and we shall see what may be discerned.’