Thursday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Paris
It was a cool morning when Jean the Procureur woke, and he clad himself in thick clothing in a hurry, bellowing for his servants to prepare his fire and some hot water with wine as well as food.
He hated the winter. The cold seeped into his bones, and the feeling of darkness all around made him anxious. There were plenty who felt the same, he knew, but that was little consolation to him.
It was the lack of daylight which really oppressed him and brought his spirits low. The fact was, he enjoyed warm sunshine on his face, and the winter meant little if any. So much of the day was spent in darkness: rising in the dark, leaving for work in the dark, returning in the dark, sitting at home with only the firelight and perhaps a candle or two for illumination … all was misery and black fear. Ghosts and witches abounded, so they said. It was easier to believe those stories in wintertime.
Stephen, his servant, the burly man who had been following around after him and who assisted in the arrest of Nicholas the Stammerer, was a devoted fellow. He stood about now, helping his master into his jacket, tugging the old cloak over his shoulders, and standing back to consider the effect before hurrying down the steep staircase to the ground level, where he stirred the thin porridge and warmed some spiced wine.
‘At least the sun is abroad,’ the Procureur said, once he was sitting before his fire.
It was throwing out a feeble warmth, he thought to himself. The faggots of twigs had burned through already, and it seemed that there was little heat in the remaining embers. He kicked at the coals, then threw a last faggot on top and enjoyed the sudden crackling rush of hot air that left his face feeling scorched and shining.
‘Are you going back to the Louvre?’ Stephen asked.
‘Yes. I have had a new idea about the death of the man de Nogaret,’ he said. It was a matter of pride to him that he should have had the thought, and he did not mind demonstrating his cleverness. ‘You remember that he arrived, and was murdered before the Cardinal could reach him?’
‘I have been considering it with anticipation ever since you divulged your conundrum to me.’
‘Don’t talk ballocks to me, Stephen,’ the Procureur rasped. His servant might have the appearance of a churl from the gutters of Bordeaux, but there were few cleverer men in Paris, he knew. And sadly, Stephen knew this too. ‘The lad was killed, I think, because the period between his arrival and the appearance of the Cardinal was greater than people thought beforehand. Consider: if another led the visitor to the room, and then asked a second messenger to go to the Cardinal, that might leave more time. The first messenger could have been the killer, for all I know. He slew de Nogaret, and then hurried off to ask someone to fetch the Cardinal.’
‘Possible, certainly,’ Stephen considered. ‘But who would want to kill de Nogaret?’
‘There are many who remember his father, I would imagine. Was there some ancient debt to be paid? Someone may have been happy to slip a blade into him.’
Stephen nodded, but not with enormous conviction. There were, the Procureur knew, too many possible failings in his logic. Because that was all it was: a string of logic. There was nothing substantial on which to hang an allegation.
Still, it was a starting point, and when he marched to the Louvre, with Stephen in his wake, he paid less attention to the people around him as he considered the day’s work ahead. At least the King was still away at his hunting lodge. That was a relief. It meant that Jean would have a little peace before he must present his findings.
The porter at the main gate to the castle was a burly man in his late thirties called Arnaud. He had a thick beard, which he grew partly to conceal a jagged wound he’d won in the battle of the Golden Spurs at Courtrai twenty-odd years before. Where some men prized their scars, Arnaud seemed to find it only a source of shame.
When Jean arrived at the gates, Arnaud was standing with two of his men, waving the morning’s rush into the castle grounds.
‘Ha! You again, Procureur? Haven’t you finished your inquest yet?’
‘Perhaps you yourself can assist me with my enquiry? I have to know what would have happened to the visitor when he arrived here at the gate.’
‘We’d have sent him on his way, of course!’ Arnaud said. He showed his teeth for a moment in a grin. ‘You mean something else, of course?’
‘Of course.’
Arnaud glanced behind him, then jerked his head, and the two men stepped forward and took his place, herding the people through. ‘So?’ he asked again, once they were inside his little chamber in the gate’s tower. ‘What do you want now?’
‘The man de Nogaret. When he entered the castle, I assumed that a servant who happened to be here at the gate, would have taken him to a room, and then fetched the Cardinal himself?’
‘It is perfectly possible.’
‘Do you have any servants waiting here right now, in case a visitor turns up? If a man came here at this very minute, what would you do?’
Arnaud considered him and a slight frown passed over his face. ‘What are you suggesting, old friend, eh? That I or one of my men took this fellow to the chamber and killed him?’
‘No,’ Jean said. He paused. The porter was a useful contact, but not a friend, no matter what he might call Jean. To upset him would make life and entry to the castle more difficult in future, and was best avoided. He needed to placate the man’s feelings. ‘The thing is, you see, I need your help to understand this. The servant who brought de Nogaret to the room: what was his name?’
‘Raoulet, I think. He works under the steward in the hall.’
‘That’s him. Do you remember him being here when de Nogaret arrived?’
In answer the porter jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the queue of people walking into the castle. ‘Do I remember Raoulet being here? No. Do I remember de Nogaret? No. Do you expect me to remember all these faces tomorrow? You can, if you wish, Procureur, but I doubt I’ll remember more than a dozen. There are too many.’
‘Very well – do you remember any who might have been on the other side, then? Inside the castle’s court? So that a man walking in might see him and ask directions? I saw a fellow doing just that the other day. He asked me where he should go, and I regret to say I was unable to help him.’
‘You should ask Raoulet himself. He would know. I see all sorts here. Christ’s teeth, I even saw a whore directing a man the other day. People will ask directions of anyone.’
‘I will do. Can you fetch Raoulet now?’
‘He’ll be in the buttery, I expect. Would you be waiting outdoors on a cold morning like this?’ Arnaud said bitterly. The gatekeeper was obviously proud of his grievances, and any opportunity to air them would never be missed.
Jean smiled. ‘I think he has the best idea. That is good, then, master Porter. I will go and ask him. I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I was only seeking to learn what could have happened.’
‘That’s all right,’ the porter said gruffly.
‘For your help, I’ll have some wine sent to you later. The cold! A man needs wine to keep it out, eh?’
‘That is kind. Very kind. You know, there was one … I can’t be certain it was the same day, you understand, but there was one kitchen knave waiting out there one day. It’s such a while ago now, but I did notice the lad out there, loitering.’
‘Loitering?’
‘He was a young lad. Eight or nine years old, I’d guess. Not that it’s easy to tell nowadays. But he reminded me of one of my own boys. Little devil! He was out there kicking stones about like there was nothing better for him to do.’
‘And he could have offered to take a man somewhere?’
‘He could have – but I didn’t see it. And he’s only a kitchen knave, you understand.’
‘I fully comprehend. And this boy – do you know his name?’
‘Aye – the devil himself! He was out there that morning because he was waiting
to be thrashed by the cook for leaving the spit to turn on its own instead of being there to keep the meat cooked evenly. He is that sort of boy, little Jehanin. And I heard the cook bellowing for him later.’ He frowned quickly. ‘Haven’t seen him since, though.’
The cook ruled supreme. He stood, a large, rotund man, with a thick towel tied to his waist by a cord of rope that also held a large knife, and a shirt of linen all besmottered with gravies and blood. Sandy-haired, with blue eyes that were so faded they were nearer grey, his flesh was pale and unhealthy, while his lips were the rosy red of a maid’s. Still, he had the voice of a herald at war; arms on his hips, roaring and cursing all who came near.
Seeing Jean enter, he glowered truculently. ‘What do you want?’
‘I was hoping to see the chief cook.’
‘Congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Now, piss off! We’re busy.’
‘So I see.’
It was, in truth, a scene from hell. All about the cook, young boys ran, some carrying joints of meat, some bags of beans, one or two staggering under the weight of yokes which held buckets filled with water on either branch. The fires were roaring, four of them all in a row, and there were massive cauldrons on two, while enormous viands were set to rotate gently about a third. The fourth appeared to have been lighted for no purpose, but the heat from it reminded Jean of a tale he once heard the priest tell of Hades. All was mad bustle, with a sudden gust of feathers which flew into the air from a table at the middle of the room, where three boys were plucking and drawing geese next to four men who were washing, cutting and slicing vegetables. Steel racks were poised like instruments of torture, and among all the youngsters, older boys and men hurried to carry out the cook’s instructions.
‘I would like to speak with you.’
‘I don’t have time.’
‘It is about a murder.’
‘And this is about breakfast, you fool! Can’t you see that? Now clear off out of it, before I call the Sergent!’
‘I am the Procureur, and the King has ordered me to investigate this case. If you wish, I can go to him and tell him that you have deliberately obstructed me. After all, it will not harm you – a new cook is hard to find.’
‘You pissy little prickle! Do you think you can scare me? Eh?’ He turned and caught sight of a man listening with interest. ‘Jacques, get back to your work! If you think I’m going yet, you’ll have a nasty shock!’ Turning back to Jean, he snarled, ‘It is easy to find a man who says he can do this job, but much harder, to find someone who can actually do it!’
‘All I want is to speak to the kitchen knave called Jehanin.’
‘Do you? Well, so do I, man. When you find the little shit, you can tan his arse for me. That’ll warm him up for when I thrash him and take all the flesh from his backside for running away.’
In the porter’s room, Arnaud poured himself a large cup of wine and drank it reflectively. And then, while he still had the resolve, he set the cup down, and left the gate. He muttered a few words to the men left to guard it, and then crossed the court to the main castle building.
The great hall had been a source of wonder to him when he first saw it. It towered up, and its white stone gleamed when the sun shone on it. Today, though, he was not thinking about the building. Instead he walked inside and looked about him until he saw the face he was seeking.
‘Hey, old friend. A word.’
Hugues looked up with quick interest at the tone of his voice. ‘What?’
‘I’ve just been talking with the Procureur. He wanted to know about a kitchen boy. The lad had helped fetch Raoulet on the day that man was killed.’
‘What about it?’
‘Well, I saw your girl with the kitchen knave.’
‘What?’
‘That raven-haired beauty. She was with him. And now he’s missing.’
‘He was a boy. They disappear all the time. You saying she killed the dead man? No? Then don’t be so stupid!’
Chapter Eighteen
Friday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
On the road from Vincennes
It was wet, and miserable, and the Bishop could feel the steady trickle of rainwater running down the back of his neck.
‘I am too old for this,’ he muttered to himself.
It was nothing more than the simple truth. He was in his sixties, and most men by his age were either dead, stupid, or cosseted at home, enwrapped in blankets, while doting wives and children, not to mention grandchildren, fetched and carried all that was needful.
Not him, though. Early on he had chosen the path of mental and spiritual toil, and forsaking the comforts and ease of the secular life, had embraced the world of an ascetic.
It had been hard. When he was first elected Bishop, he was so hard up for money that he was forced to borrow from the good Bishop Reynolds, who was consecrated on the same day. But he had done his best in the years since. He had endowed schools and a college in Oxford, and he was proud of his reputation of being a hard-working Bishop who knew every parish in his diocese. And the rewards had come. Especially while he was the Lord High Treasurer.
This, though, this was his worst ever experience. He was hated in France, as he knew all too well; the Queen detested him, a sentiment with which he was entirely comfortable, bearing in mind he reciprocated it wholeheartedly. In his opinion, she was a vain, unpleasant example of an untrustworthy species. Women were, as all knew, a flawed and failed version of the male sex, and the Queen, being half-French, was doubly so.
All the way from the Bois de Vincennes they’d been watching him. Hooded eyes, narrow and suspicious, were on him as he walked around the court, as he mounted his horse, as he trotted from the hunting lodge, and now, on the road, they were on him still. There was none in the French court in whom he could place his trust. This was a mission in which all depended upon him and only a very few men – Sir Henry, Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard … and Simon Puttock, of course. The Bailiff had always been very dear to him.
They rode due west, the rain gusting, the pitter-patter of raindrops tapping at his hat making him hunch still lower, while the drips that touched his flesh made him want to recoil, they were so icy. It felt as though it might begin to snow at any moment. His boots were already spattered with mud, his hose sodden and shapeless under his robes, and he felt as miserable as a man could, but at least there was the promise of a fire and spiced wine when they reached their journey’s end. And he had the protection of safe-conducts from two Kings and the clothing of a man of God to promise the Pope’s own vengeance on any who dared to think of an offence against him. Yet still he felt worried.
There was something going on here that escaped him. The Queen seemed supremely confident – more than was warranted by her situation. It was only to be expected that she would be feeling happier, of course. She was back with her own folk, away from the court of her husband which she did not understand. How could she? A spendthrift and feckless woman could never appreciate the constant battle which her poor husband fought every day with income and tight restrictions on his budget, nor the worries which assailed King Edward every day.
Yet her buoyant mood appeared to be more than simple confidence brought on by her return to this country. Something else must be going on. Her life had been a steady, trotting journey, and suddenly she was bucketing off into the woods at the side, and the Bishop did not understand it. Not at all.
Clearly she could not remain here. Queen Isabella might be a dreadful person, but she was, even Bishop Stapledon had to admit, a devoted mother. She would never agree to leaving her children behind in England. She had one – and that the most expensive bargaining counter of all, naturally, being the King’s own heir – but that did not mean she could happily concede the others.
She was still guarded by Lord John Cromwell; her ladies-in-waiting were still the women installed by the King and Despenser to keep a wary eye upon her, and she still must depend upon her husband for her money. Without his goodwill, s
he had nothing. And Stapledon had strict instructions: she must agree to return before a single farthing was advanced to her.
So why did she look so pleased with herself?
Ah! Thank God! Ahead at last, he saw the city in all its glory, the walls, the great towers, the stain on the sky that spoke of a thousand, thousand fires, the noise of men shouting, and of all the other activities of a busy, thronging city. And beyond it all, he could see the bright, white towers of the Louvre.
He had never thought he would be so pleased to see any city in the whole of France, but today, he was so deadly keen to see a fire, he was almost ready to shake hands with the Devil himself.
Louvre, Paris
The weather was miserable, and Arnaud was happy to remain in his little chamber for most of the day, although when the entourage appeared and the King’s outriders swept in through the main gates, he had to shift himself to make sure that all his guards were ready on the doors.
There were so many, and all with their finery sodden and dripping. What weather to be travelling! He wouldn’t have gone out in this, not for all the King’s money from Normandy. It was one of those fine rains that blew straight at a man horizontally and cut through his clothing like a dagger piercing oil.
He saw Jean, and tutted to himself. The Procureur was standing, a small frown on his face, as though he was assessing the incomers, trying to work out whether they were capable of the murder of the man in the chamber at the rear, or whether they were dangerous in some other way.
Jean often had that sort of appearance. He looked like a man who would stare at a problem for hours, in the hope that it would explain itself to him. A dowdy little fellow, Arnaud thought. He should have got married. Let a woman have a go at him. Then he would have looked a little more presentable – although the poor fool probably thought he looked the picture of elegance.
A Bishop rode in, and sat upon his horse shivering, while three clerks busied themselves about him, one fetching a little stool, one a fresh cloak, the last hurrying into the castle itself, probably, so Arnaud thought, to bring out a jug of warmed wine or something similar. The Bishop looked ancient, after all. He was probably near to exhaustion.
The King of Thieves: Page 18
