‘Your mother has proposed another idea. It wasn’t her own, of course. Her brother, that shite Charles, thought this up a few months ago. No doubt he managed to persuade her to his will. You will see that, Edward. Women are invariably weak and suggestible. It is always easier to deal with men, I assure you.’
‘What is this, Father?’
‘The proposal is, that I invest you with all my territories in France. Make you a Duke of Guyenne. Then you can yourself go to France, meet with your mother, and pay homage.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘I am King, boy!’
Earl Edward bit back a hasty reply. This was a time to think. Think! ‘You do not wish to go because it would be demeaning?’ he confirmed.
‘Yes. But if you go in my place, it will serve to protect dear Hugh.’
‘How so?’
‘Do you go about with your ears covered?’ his father snapped. ‘There are many who resent any friend of mine, and I must protect Sir Hugh. He would come with me to France, but I cannot acquire a safe passage for him. The French have an unreasoning hatred for him.’
The Earl forbore to mention the period when Despenser had been exiled and, rather than seek a safe home, had set about raiding shipping from his own great vessel. In one encounter, he stole a wealthy French ship and her cargo. Since then, he had been threatened with torture and death, as befitted a pirate, should he ever set foot on French soil.
‘So I cannot go with him. Yet, if I leave him alone here, defenceless and unprotected, he may be captured and destroyed like poor Piers.’
‘Poor Piers’ Gaveston had been the King’s previous adviser, before Despenser. While away from the King and without protection, he had been grabbed and executed after a brief trial organised by some of his many enemies. King Edward would not leave Sir Hugh le Despenser to suffer the same fate.
‘So you will remain here, then?’ Earl Edward said.
‘If I elevate you to a Dukedom, you will have the authority to pay homage on behalf of the whole of Guyenne. That will satisfy the King of France, and it will satisfy me.’
‘So you are decided?’
‘I think so,’ the King said, but then he tilted his head in that curiously undecided way he had. ‘I do not see any other path. I cannot risk losing Sir Hugh, and your mother and your uncle have both urged that I settle Guyenne on you and that you go and pay homage. I trust neither, so will not!’
‘I do not understand …’
‘Do you think I am a fool? If I sent you to them, your mother would have you under her control. I cannot do that. So I will comply with their wishes. I will go myself. But while I am there in France, I shall leave Sir Hugh as your responsibility. He will advise you in my place, and you will obey all his commands, and see that he is protected.’
He had been talking musingly, as though to himself, but now he appeared to remember his son was present, and span round on his heel. ‘You will look after him, yes?’
Earl Edward nodded, but internally he was sickened. Not by the vacillation of his father, but by his weakness. By the tone of pleading.
Wednesday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen*
Chapelle de Saint Pierre, near the Louvre, Paris
Jean de Poissy stood at the back of the chamber as the priest intoned the prayers, trying to ignore the thick fumes from the censer as they wafted past him. The odour was thick and cloying, and caught in his throat like a pungent woodsmoke.
There was little enough for him to see here, but he felt as though he owed it to the dead man to come and witness his funeral. There were all too few others who would come for an unknown man.
He waited as the body was taken out, watching the priest and the peasants who carried it, his mind on the identity of the poor soul. He was keen to find the man’s murderer, and yet there was nothing to show who the man was, nor why he would have come to the castle. No one had admitted to knowing him.
All Jean knew was that the fellow had come there to see the Cardinal. That was something to mull over, certainly.
The body was gone, and at last the little chapel was quiet again. Jean leaned back against the wall, staring down the empty space to the altar. This close to the royal castle of the Louvre, it benefited from the wealthy men who came to pray. Gilt shone on the woodwork, the floor was neatly paved and tiled, and the altar itself held enough decorative and valuable metalwork to tempt a saint to theft.
It was the delight of Paris, he thought. And Paris was surely the world’s most magnificent city, resting here in the world’s greatest nation. Paris, the jewel of Christianity. All the world’s people envied Paris. They sought her learning in the university, they sought her culture, her beauty. They came from all over the world to enrich themselves, to find a better life. Hardly surprising they came only to Paris, in Jean’s view, bearing in mind how intellectually impoverished so much of the nation remained. The people of the soggy lands north were a bickering, unruly mob; those in the east were merely unmanageable, while those to the south, in the too-dry lands – their people were noted for their feuding. Only here in Paris was there order and calm, the centre of the French nation created by Charles Martel.
‘Mon Sieur Procureur?’ It was a flustered-looking youth clad in a threadbare tunic and bare feet. He had a tousled mop of pale brown hair, and grey eyes with a slight squint, so Jean was unsure whether he was looking at him or not. ‘I have been sent to ask whether you have learned any more about the dead man?’
‘How did you know I would be here?’ Jean asked softly. He stood studying the church without turning to the boy.
‘I think … I was told you would be here.’
‘Ah … I see. By whom?’
‘The bottler to Cardinal Thomas. He told me to find you to learn whether you have any news of this man’s death?’
‘You see, this is most interesting. I have this body, the body of a young fellow who wished to see the Cardinal, and yet the Cardinal says he knew nothing of him. And meanwhile, of course, nobody else appears to have any knowledge of him whatever. It is peculiar, do you not think?’
‘Me?’
The church was certainly not as richly decorated as the cathedral of Notre-Dame, but for a smaller place, which existed mainly to serve the souls of a community of merchants, it had done very well. It was more modest, but still beautiful. A wide, clean space with all the decoration that man’s skill and money could achieve.
There was a thought there, he knew. The thought that the Cardinal was only a more lowly version of the Pope, perhaps. He was as beautifully clothed and bejewelled, just on a smaller scale.
But why had the dead man come to meet the Cardinal?
‘Take me to him.’
Chapter Four
Furnshill, Devon
It was early afternoon when Baldwin heard the clattering and squeaking of a large number of men on horseback. His attention snapped to the road, and Wolf followed his gaze, a low rumble in his throat.
There were few noises which Baldwin found so irritating as these. His little estate was a source of calmness and peace for him. Sir Baldwin had been born here, in this little manor, but when the call to arms came from the Kingdom of Jerusalem, demanding aid from Christians the world over, he had gladly taken up a sword. There wasn’t much for him in England, after all. His older brother would inherit their father’s lands, and for Baldwin there was the possibility of a post in the Church if he wanted, but his martial spirit quailed at the thought of spending the whole of the rest of his life in a convent.
Thus it was that in the Year of Our Lord 1291, Baldwin de Furnshill arrived in Acre, the last city to be encircled by the Saracens. He endured the horror of that siege with fortitude for much of the time, only beginning to sink into despair at the very end. Then, when the heathens exploited a breach, Baldwin and Edgar, the man who was to become Baldwin’s comrade and companion, were rescued by a ship owned by the Knights Templar. The warrior-monks saved their lives and gave them peace to rest themselves in a pr
eceptory until they were whole and hale again, and when they were, Baldwin and Edgar together joined the Order to repay the debt.
For more than a decade they served their Order, until the day when an avaricious French King and detestable Pope conspired to destroy the Order whose only guilt was to have served their God with honour and distinction. Baldwin and Edgar returned to England finally, seeking the sort of peace that could be found only in a quiet rural community.
This noise was a reminder to Baldwin of war and death. It was the sound of armour rattling and chinking, the rumble and thud of a cart passing over rutted roads, the laughter and coarse joking of men-at-arms all together.
‘What is it?’ Jeanne asked, walking to his side as Baldwin stood in the doorway, watching.
‘Quiet, Wolf! I am not sure. I cannot see their flags from here. I would guess that they are men called to fight.’
‘For whom, though?’
Baldwin shook his head. The cavalcade continued on its way, heading southwards and west, towards Crediton, or maybe Exeter. They could have been from Tiverton, from Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s castle, or perhaps they were from some further manor. All told there were seven-and-twenty, by his count. A fair-sized entourage for a minor lord.
It left him feeling unsettled.
‘They’re gone, Baldwin,’ Jeanne said soothingly. She could see that he was distracted by the sight.
‘It worries me, Jeanne. There are so many men riding about the land now, and many have no care for the law.’
‘We are safe enough here,’ she countered.
‘Are we? If Despenser took it into his head to crush us, he could do so in a moment. There are many thousands at his command.’
‘You fear for us, I know, husband, but there is no need to. Remain here with us, and all will be well.’
Baldwin nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the small cloud of dust that enclosed the men-at-arms until they were out of sight between the trees. There was a clutching fear in his belly.
Louvre, Paris
Jean de Poissy was allowed in before the Cardinal had arrived, and he stood in the great room studying his surroundings.
It was the room of a man of power and authority, that was clear. There was the large desk, with books and parchments scattered all about it. A pair of spectacles lay folded on top of one large book, which Jean assumed was a Bible. The fireplace was made ready, although there were no flames. Today was so warm, it was good to enter a room like this and feel the soothing coolness. A large sideboard stood at one wall, and upon it were many silver plates and some goblets which adequately demonstrated the wealth of the man. Large tapestries covered the bare walls on two sides, while on a third there were many paintings of scenes from the Gospels. All designed, so Jean felt, to demonstrate the man’s position in the world, like the large goblet with gilding all about it. Interested, Jean walked over and picked it up.
‘You wish for wine?’
The door had been thrust wide, and the Cardinal marched in like a General. He was pulling off gloves as he strode past Jean, throwing them on the table and calling loudly for his steward. Soon the servant appeared with a large pewter jug, from which he swiftly dispensed wine and brought it to the two men, Jean’s in a smaller, pewter cup rather than the fine goblet he had admired. That was given to the Cardinal. Equally swiftly, the servant walked backwards to the wall, where he stood, jug still in his hands, head bowed.
‘This is a fine goblet, is it not? One of a group I once found. I gave the rest to the Pope himself, Pope Clement of blessed memory.’
‘The gift was appreciated?’
‘It brought me the position I hold today,’ the Cardinal said without boastfulness. ‘It often helps to achieve things when you have the ability to smooth the way with money, don’t you find?’
‘Not in my world,’ Jean said.
‘No. I suppose not.’
‘You wished to see me?’ Jean said.
‘Yes. I wanted to know whether you had managed to proceed with the investigation?’
Jean studied him. The Cardinal was clad in a Cardinal’s clothes, but they had been cut from fine velvets and silks, their colours somehow brighter and more expensive-looking than Jean was used to seeing. The Cardinal was a tall man, with a face that had a certain severity about it. He had the deep brown hair of a man from the far south, and the olive complexion to go with it. He peered at Jean now from narrowed eyes.
‘Yes, my Lord Cardinal,’ Jean responded coolly.
‘And?’
‘I am attempting all I may.’
‘Also, this theft – I trust you have heard of it?’
‘My apologies, what theft?’
The Cardinal made a dismissive gesture. ‘There has been a purse stolen from one of my clerks. Any place this size must have its share of thieves, I suppose, but to think that a man would dare take a purse within the walls of the Louvre … you must admit, that is alarming.’
‘I fear I have not been made aware of this crime, Cardinal. If you are concerned about it, you should report it to the castellan, not me. Now, I know you told me all you could about the man whom you discovered dead, but I hoped that you might have a little more information for me.’
‘Such as?’
‘Perhaps you can remember something about this man. Were you expecting to hear from somebody about treasure?’
‘Did I mention treasure?’
‘No, but the servant who came to seek you and brought you to the dead man, told me that the fellow had asked to see you on a matter of extreme urgency – about some treasure. Perhaps you had forgotten this?’
‘I do not recall it. Perhaps he did say something, but the sight of the dead man drove all other thoughts from my mind.’
‘I see.’
‘You seem to believe I know something about this man,’ the Cardinal said with a trace of testiness.
‘I would expect you to, yes. The man came here from some distance away. He was not from the local garrison, nor, so far as we can discover, was he from any of the households nearby. A foreigner, and yet he could ask for you by name. He plainly knew of you, if nothing more.’
‘Mon Sieur, many, many people know me. They know me by sight, they know of me by name. I am a man of God, and high in the Church’s establishment. All know me, and yet you surely do not think I know them in return?’
‘You are of course quite right. Now, this treasure. What could he refer to?’
‘I have no idea. As I said, I do not know the man, I do not know where he came from, nor why he asked to see me. Plainly, I also do not know what he spoke about.’
‘Naturally. So you cannot help me in any way about this fellow.’ Jean nodded to himself. ‘Tell me, do you often have men come here to speak with you like this?’
‘No.’
‘Very strange that he should have come, then,’ Jean noted. He glanced about him at the tapestries. ‘Very pleasant chamber you have, Cardinal.’
‘Thank you. I find it pleasant.’
‘Fortunate the man didn’t come straight here, isn’t it? If he’d been killed here, there’d be blood all over the place.’
‘Yes? Well, perhaps it is a good thing, as you say. There was much blood?’
Jean nodded. ‘Enough.’
‘Oh. I truly did not notice.’
Outside, Jean stopped and looked up at the walls behind him. On the second storey, where he had just been talking to the Cardinal, he was sure that there was a shadow in the window, a shadow that swiftly moved out of sight.
The servant who had escorted him here from the chapel was lounging at a wall, and Jean beckoned him.
‘Boy? You look like the sort of fellow who’d be happy to earn a few sous.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It involves nothing too strenuous. What is your name?’
‘Philippe.’
‘Very well, Philippe. I require your help. You will be aiding me in learning all we may about this dead man.’
‘No one
knows anything about him, though.’
‘No. So anything we learn will be an improvement, will it not?’
‘But I have my duties!’
‘And so do I. Mine have just been altered, as have yours. In God’s name, boy, I am seeking a murderer. And now, so are you.’
‘They won’t like it in the kitchen. They’re short-staffed as it is.’
‘Less sulking, boy. The staffing levels in the Louvre are not our concern. The fact that a man has been killed in the King’s castle is more important to us. Especially since we have no idea who he was. That is the first question: who may know him?’
Furnshill, Devon
There were more men passing that day, but nothing on the same scale as the men-at-arms, and Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief as he walked out later in the afternoon and lifted his tunic to relieve himself into the small barrel that sat over to the western wall of the house, near his row of storerooms. The urine would be used later, fermented, to clean clothes, and any excess would be thrown on to the compost heaps. There was nothing allowed to go to waste on his estate.
As he hitched up his hosen once more, letting loose his tunic to cover himself more decently, he heard another horse.
Peering up the road, he saw a mount riding at a steady pace, a young man with fair hair wild in the wind on its back. The man appeared to take stock of the area, staring at Baldwin’s house, and then aimed for it, over Baldwin’s small field.
Baldwin felt the lack of his sword at that moment, but he was close to his door, and the risk was limited at this time of day. Besides, he had fought and trained for more years than he cared to remember, and he felt sure that he could beat a young fellow such as this one.
‘The road to Bickleigh goes up there,’ he said as the horse drew up some few yards away. No one would ride right up to a man unless he wished to alarm them. This fellow was polite enough. Perhaps one-and-twenty, he looked as though he had ridden several miles already.
‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill? I have come from my Lord Walter, Bishop of Exeter.’
Thursday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen*
The King of Thieves: Page 5
