The King of Thieves:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Merci, m’Sieur,’ she muttered.

  Madame Angeline had been here for as long as anyone could remember. In the past, a long time ago, she had been the leading attraction of the brothel which had stood here, but that was before her third babe and the infection in her womb which had all but killed her. It was said that after that baby she had felt so much agony in her belly that she could never service her men again. The brothel had turfed her out, and she had remained there on a little box, begging from all those who had once used her, never threatening to tell wives or lovers, but merely sitting mutely, hoping for money to support herself. Her babes died one by one as the famine struck the city, just as so many other youngsters did, but she seemed ever more determined to remain here where she had known happiness, laughter and fun in her youth. The brothel closed, reopened, closed again, and now was a tavern where some women offered themselves, but only on an unofficial level. They paid a commission to the tavern-keeper.

  He had to clamber down a steep staircase to the undercroft where the barrels of wine were racked. The place held that warm fug of sour wine, piss and smoke that was the odour of drinking to any man. He snuffed the burning applewood with appreciation, thinking again of the days of his youth. In those days, with a large orchard nearby, he had often taken old boughs for his own fire, and the scent was like the smell of his childhood.

  Here the wine was not the cultured flavour of the more expensive vines in the south and west, but the stronger, peasant wine of the small farms outside Paris. For some, they were too powerful, smelling so strongly that many would turn their noses up at it, but not Jacquot. The weaker wines and more cultivated grapes could be left to the rich, to the knights and merchants who liked to discuss the different tastes they said they could discern. For Jacquot, the purpose of drinking was to recall happier days.

  There were rushlights and a few foul-smelling tallow candles which added their own pungency to the reek, and he took a quart of wine to a barrel and leaned on it, while he supped the wine and felt its urgent heat slipping in through his veins. This was the best of times – the moments when blessed oblivion started to rush towards him, when pain and grief would slip away and he could feel the wonder of forgetfulness. Forget his intense loneliness.

  The King shouldn’t have tried that. It was a shameful act, to try to kill him for merely demanding the full reward for his efforts. Sure, he had been slow to achieve the original aim, but that was because he was a perfectionist. He had to know his target in extreme detail before he could think of launching any form of attack. And usually, of course, he was desperate for the money to allow him to return to a little hovel like this one, in which the bad memories could be erased and good ones revived by the use of suitable quantities of red wine. Now he had his money, he could remain here for a full week, he reckoned, sensing the weight of the purse at his belt.

  ‘Hello, Killer.’

  His reactions were a little blunted, but even if he was sober, he wouldn’t have immediately drawn a knife – not with a low, sultry voice like that. ‘What do you want with me?’ he asked.

  The King’s woman was taller than he’d realised. This was the first time he had seen her either fully clothed or standing. She was a better-looking wench than he had thought before. There was a feline elegance to her, in the way that she walked, in the way she gestured with her hands and arms while talking, and in the measuring gaze of her dark eyes. Her lips were full, soft and red, and he wondered what they would taste of, were he to crush them under his own. As he looked all over her, he saw her little tongue flick out and wet her upper lip in an unmistakeable invitation.

  ‘I want you, Jacquot the Killer. Amélie wants you.’

  He gave a dry chuckle. ‘So you can take me to the King’s men? The King sent you, did he?’

  ‘The King is the old King. There is always a new King waiting in the wings,’ she said, leaning forward and running a long forefinger down the side of his face, tracing a line from his temple to his jaw, and then down, under his chin.

  ‘I am no King.’

  ‘But you could be. With my brain, you would make an excellent King. All who opposed you could disappear, while you took over the King’s income.’

  ‘And then, when you found another more suited to you, you would leave me for him?’

  ‘I have no interest in others,’ she said, and licked her lips again before biting at her bottom lip and smiling.

  He drank off his horn of wine and poured himself more. ‘I have no need of you or of money or power. All I seek is here,’ he said, lifting the horn again.

  ‘Then you are a lucky man. Most men want something,’ she said.

  ‘I have already had all, and lost it,’ he snapped. ‘I know that the pain of loss is stronger than the pleasure of possession. Much stronger.’

  ‘So it’s better not to have anything? Just in case you lose all again? That is no recipe for happiness,’ she said slyly.

  ‘Go and lie with a goat, you whore. You want me for some sick passion based on blood.’

  ‘Yes – I want blood! You give me blood, and I’ll give you my body. But take me and you can have all Paris at your feet. You know it’s true. The King is stupid. He thinks he can hold everything together by the exercise of his will. He thinks, the fool, that if he wishes everything to remain the same, it will do so. But it will not! The world changes. The world moves on. Kings live … and then die.’

  ‘And you think this King is due for retirement?’

  She smiled lazily, and then dipped her finger in his wine, before bringing it to her lips and gently sucking it. ‘I think he is soon to lose his throne. Don’t you?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Simon and Baldwin’s chamber, the Louvre

  ‘Well?’ Simon asked at last.

  Baldwin was sitting in a window seat, making the best use of a pair of candles and the very last of the dying sun to read the fine writing, squinting to make sense of the small characters. ‘Eh?’

  ‘What does it tell you?’

  ‘That the man de Nogaret was found dead in a chamber where he ought not to have been. The Procureur postulated that the room was deliberately chosen, since it was far from all the daily work at the Louvre, so no one would hear the murder. Second, that Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou was brought there by the same servant who had led de Nogaret there. The Cardinal was in his chamber, but went straightway with the messenger to the room, where they found the body. The messenger was a man called Raoulet, apparently. And the Procureur was aided in his investigations by a kitchen boy called Philippe. Hmm.’

  ‘Not a lot there, then. Is that all?’

  ‘He mentions a woman helping him – someone called Hélias.’

  ‘Interesting, but hardly enough to help us to resolve that crime or to prove the Bishop’s innocence in the matter of the Procureur’s death.’

  ‘No. Clearly we shall have to search elsewhere for aid,’ Baldwin said.

  Morrow of the Feast of the Archangel Michael*

  Louvre, Paris

  The Cardinal was standing at his fire when Bishop Walter entered, warily.

  ‘I am most grateful for your time, my Lord Cardinal.’

  ‘Bishop Walter, please, take a seat and let me help you.’

  ‘It is a terrible position I find myself in, my Lord, in truth,’ Stapledon said as he sat, glancing about him.

  The room would have served for a King’s private solar. Decorated beautifully, with paintings on one wall depicting the Blessed Virgin Mary with her little baby, and thick, glorious hangings on the others to keep the cold at bay, it was a room in which a man could sit and relax. The cupboard held a wonderful display of plates, some gold, others no doubt gilt, and jugs with jewels and splendid engravings upon them – the rewards due to a man who had accomplished much.

  Stapledon was no failure himself, in worldly terms. His own palace at Exeter was also full of the trinkets and toys of a man who had succeeded in his chosen career. Not that his was a career, of co
urse. It was a vocation. Still, Bishop Walter had risen to be the prominent Church leader of the nation, and it was a role he held proudly.

  ‘You will know that I am experiencing grave problems,’ he began. ‘I have a crucial duty to the King to guard the young Duke. It was my task to bring him here safely, and then to travel with him home again. And meanwhile, I was given the letters for the Queen which would order her to return home too.’

  ‘It did not work very well, this part of your mission,’ the Cardinal observed.

  ‘In truth, it did not. You were there when she berated me? How the woman could be so insulting to a man of God, I do not know. I have never sought to harm her, only support her King and the realm.’

  The Cardinal nodded, eyes cast down as he listened. ‘You are sure that there is nothing you have done which could have incurred the lady’s wrath?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘All I have done, I have done to support the King. It is my duty as an English subject.’

  ‘There is a higher duty, of course, to God Himself.’

  ‘And I have ever sought guidance from Christ’s vicar on earth,’ Stapledon said.

  ‘The Pope has made comment?’

  ‘The Pope has tended to agree with me that there must be some easing of the relations between the French and English Kings. Christianity needs peace between two such powerful nations. How can we ever hope to launch another crusade with France and England at daggers drawn?’

  ‘Yes. But did the Pope suggest that you should remove, for example, all the lady’s French servants?’

  ‘That was a sad necessity. Cardinal, you would not expect us to agree to harbour potential spies and assassins in the household of our Queen?’

  ‘And the removal of her children?’

  ‘It was thought necessary, both to save her the embarrassment of having to edit her own thoughts before her children so as not to be seen to be treacherous to either her husband or her brother, and to protect the children from any malign influences.’

  The Cardinal looked at him with raised eyebrows. That, he thought, was a likely story. ‘For their protection, then. Good. And what of the sequestration of all her belongings? I heard that all her lands have been taken. All her income is removed, and now she travels where her husband permits, pauperised. Is it true that this too was your idea?’

  ‘Not entirely my idea, no. And yet, there is sense in it,’ the Bishop replied.

  ‘And yet after all these issues, which I have to admit the Queen does lay at your door – if not at that of Sir Hugh le Despenser – you now wish for me to intercede for you with her? Why now?’

  ‘The affair has grown greatly more dangerous. Not only is the matter of the Queen’s continued refusal to go home a source of grave concern, now I find,’ and here the Cardinal was delighted to see the Bishop hesitate, glance about him rather wildly, and swallow hard before daring to continue, ‘now, I say, I find myself accused of the murder of a man whom I did not know, and all because I happened to speak with him briefly on the day before his death.’

  ‘You shouted at him, I heard. Were you not shouting?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, I did shout – I confess it. I was anxious after the dreadful scene with the Queen accusing me so ferociously before King Charles. What else would make me snap so? I had suffered a sore interview with the Queen, and then rode here in the rain, and my humours were all unsettled. I think that any man looking into his heart would agree that my slight rudeness was understandable. But to suggest that I could murder a man like him is ludicrous! How could anyone suspect me of such a foul crime?’

  ‘With the greatest of ease,’ was the response tingling on the tip of his tongue, but the Cardinal merely shook his head sadly. ‘I am so sorry for your predicament, my friend. I shall pray for you, and in the meantime I shall try to use my good offices to secure a less precarious situation for you. I think that the best route would be for me to petition the Queen herself and ask her to see to it that your status is respected. The very last reaction we need is to see you arrested.’

  This was clearly one aspect of the matter which had not occurred to the Bishop. He blenched, and the Cardinal had a quick fear that he might vomit all over his floor-coverings, but the concern was short-lived. The Bishop swallowed, brought himself under control, and left a short while later.

  Cardinal Thomas stood up respectfully as he walked from the room. It was hard to imagine how a man usually so astute and shrewd in the affairs of state for a not-insignificant country like England, could have so marvellously failed in his latest endeavour.

  The Queen, of course, was a vital element of his problem. While she was at loggerheads with him, the Bishop could not hope to find peace. But the Bishop himself was the source of his own downfall. He had harried the poor woman all through her life in England. It was almost certainly true that he had intended to make the realm safer for all – but the Cardinal was no fool, and he knew too that the Bishop was an enormously wealthy man in his own right – although he had not been rich when he was first raised to his Bishopric. All his money had come from the different jobs he had undertaken for the King.

  There was the sound of the latch, and he turned and smiled as the door opened. ‘You heard all?’

  ‘Your Eminence, I am most grateful,’ Queen Isabella said as she entered.

  ‘I am glad to be of service,’ the Cardinal said, bowing low.

  ‘I shall be very pleased to compensate you for your trouble when I once again have some funds of my own,’ Isabella said. She beckoned her guard, and in a few moments the Cardinal was alone again.

  Foolish woman! Wearing widow’s weeds as though her husband was truly dead was merely an affectation to gain the hearts of strangers. It was a silly demonstration – and yet it might prove effective. It had most certainly proved successful to the French people. They had all taken her to their hearts, much more so than the Cardinal would normally have expected. The sight of a wonderfully attractive woman in her prime of life was always enough to make a Parisian man kiss his fingers in appreciation, but when she was clad all in black, raising her to that level of near-approachability, near-availability … that worked on a man’s heart like an aphrodisiac, the Cardinal thought cynically. Christ Himself alone knew what the English would make of it.

  He knew what the English King would make of it, of course!

  But that was not his concern right now. At this moment he must concentrate on the situation that was developing.

  All was in flux. All was danger. War was brewing – but he did not know between which parties.

  Sir Baldwin and Simon spent the morning with the Duke of Aquitaine, and it was some relief to them both when they were able to leave the Duke in the care of his mother, and seek a quiet corner.

  ‘Are you all right, Baldwin?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘It’s just that since yesterday, when we saw the dead man’s servant, you’ve been more than a bit withdrawn.’

  Baldwin eyed him closely. Then he sighed and said. ‘The fellow who was found dead here at the castle? It was Guillaume de Nogaret. A man of that name was the one who drew up all the accusations against the Templars. He was the King’s lawyer, the architect of the full terrible injustice of those times. Simon, I think he must have been the father of the dead man.’

  ‘Not the man himself?’

  ‘No. Guillaume senior died some years ago.’

  ‘So now the son and his wife have been slaughtered,’ Simon mused.

  ‘And it is nothing to do with us,’ Baldwin said with brutal certainty.

  ‘Because we are in France?’

  ‘No. Because the man was a liar and a perverter of the truth. I would have nothing to do with him, alive or dead, nor with his son. Why should I aid his descendant, after he caused the destruction of an Order which was so far above his comprehension?’

  ‘Hah! Thought I’d find you two here!’ Sir Richard bellowed, in what he optimistically considered to be a
quiet tone.

  Baldwin felt Simon stiffen at his side. ‘Would you care to join us, Sir Richard? We are taking a little wine.’

  ‘No such thing as “a little wine”. Wine should be drunk in profuse quantities, Sir Baldwin. Move over, Bailiff. Give a man a little space. Hey, did I tell you the joke about the young squire who was about to inherit? Eh? He was forced to think about marriage, and then met a lovely wench: you know the sort, eh, Bailiff? One with thighs that could crush a destrier between ’em. Bubbies like great soft puddings, and the sort of face that would tempt Saint Gabriel himself to come and—’

  ‘I think we get your drift, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin interrupted smoothly.

  ‘Eh? Oh, right. Well, he met this girl with lips that could suck the worms from an oaken beam, you see, and he said to her, he said …’ Sir Richard began to guffaw at the joke as he approached the end. ‘He said: “Maid, I may not look much now, but in a year or so, my father will be dead, and then I’ll be as rich as grease, so how about you marry me?” And you see, she was very taken with him, and she asked for his name, and all his details, and then, two weeks later, he learned she was his new stepmother. Eh? Eh?’

  Baldwin smiled in appreciation of the pain on Simon’s face. ‘You seem wonderfully recovered, Sir Richard. You were not content when we saw the chasm open between our Queen and Bishop Stapledon.’

  ‘No, but I reflected hard, Sir Baldwin. You see, there is nothing I can do about that. Ach, I’m no diplomatic man. To be good at that, you must be an expert at dissembling before others. And that’s not my way. No, I know what I am good at, though, and that is keeping the King’s Rolls on sudden deaths. Yes, I can investigate a murder without trouble. You know that. You and I, we’ve looked at a few corpses together, haven’t we? Well, that’s why I’m in better spirits now.’

  ‘Because of the murder?’

  ‘Aye. If there’s a dead man about, I can help to find the killer. And if it means I’m helping Bishop Walter at the same time, then I’m happy.’