The King of Thieves:

by Michael Jecks

  The advantage of the courthouse was that it was far enough away from any freeman’s habitation. Those who lived down here at the side of the river were the poorest and meanest. They would not go to the Sergent to report a murder or screams. And that meant that his courts could be held in safety, and that the bodies afterwards could be usefully slipped into the Seine, to be taken downriver, far away from the place of their death.

  If not Jacquot, someone else must have sent the men to the courthouse. In the last few days all had heard of the arrests and the numbers of men who’d been swept up from the streets. Any of them could have known of the King’s courthouse. It was a building of ill-repute because of the stories of screams which emanated from it late into the night.

  He clenched his fist and set it on the wall, glowering as the men lifted the body from the mud and began to drag it laboriously towards the shoreline. He might never find out who had tried to inform on him. However, there was one man he could force to pay. He hadn’t even begun to think about Jacquot yet. Finding someone to destroy his best killer would be immensely hard. Ideally, it should be a man-at-arms who wore the tabard of the King of France. Someone like that would be able to command respect, and even the true King’s men could be attracted to money, the same as any other.

  There was one man, of course. Up at the castle … Perhaps he could be persuaded, for a good fee.

  And then killed, of course.

  As an afterthought, he beckoned one of his men. ‘Follow them, Mal, and see where they go. I want to know where they came from – and where they take the body. Report to me at Saint Jacques.’

  Pons and Vital eyed the mud-sodden body in silence. The wound at his throat proved that he had been killed in a professional manner.

  ‘Executed, certainly,’ Pons said.

  ‘Are there any other wounds? Was this the last of many, or the first?’ Vital wondered.

  ‘It shows that this building has been used for some killings,’ Pons said, looking about him again.

  ‘Likely, yes.’

  They had seen that this body had been close to the trap-door which led to the river waters and then they had been called upstairs, where they found a large-sized room. There had been fights in here. Blood lay upon the rough-hewn planks in several places, but it was not fresh. The odour was that dull, dry smell which spoke of old death. A bench with a small trestle sat in one corner of the room, and there was a hook in the middle, while to one side stood a small chest. In that they had found some scraps of cloth, six red, one blue. They were baffled.

  ‘Have him cleaned,’ Vital said to the Sergent who stood guard over the dead man. ‘At least he has not been here for too long.’

  ‘And not in the water,’ Pons observed. ‘If he had, his hands would have turned to gloves.’

  ‘Yes. I have seen the bodies too.’

  They both had. Murdered men often turned up in the river, where their flesh became so engorged with water that it could slip from the meat beneath. It was one of the more revolting kinds of death.

  ‘Can I go free? You see I wasn’t lying. They were here.’

  The two turned back to their captive. His milky eye made him look still more beseeching, and he held out his wrists like a supplicant. ‘Please?’

  Pons considered. ‘Very well, you can go free when we get back and can unshackle you. But first, what can you tell us about these cloth strips?’

  The man looked wary, but then he nodded. Perhaps the thought of his imminent release gave him courage, Pons thought.

  ‘It is for the voting. When a man is accused of a crime against the King of Thieves, they hold a court here. When the jury votes, one of them is made executioner for the guilty. That is why there is one odd colour. The man who picks that is the one who must kill the guilty party. Not that they use the cloths much. Usually it’s a matter of letting the accuser meet the accused man, and they fight it out.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about them?’

  Le Boeuf gave a wry little grin. ‘There are few in Paris who don’t, other than those who work for the other King.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There is little that the King of Thieves doesn’t know about. If a man takes your purse, or sells you a woman, or if you buy a loaf of bread that is light, it is certain that the King will make money from you.’

  ‘In that case,’ Pons said, ‘I’d like you to have a bargain with me. You find out where he is now, and we’ll not only release you, we’ll pay you too.’

  ‘You can’t pay me enough. He would kill me.’

  ‘He is so powerful he can kill you without difficulty?’

  ‘If he heard I had taken you to him, my life would be worth nothing.’

  ‘In that case, you should stay in chains, Le Boeuf. Because it is sure that he will learn you brought us here today, if he is so powerful as you say. You had best ensure that we find him very quickly, before he finds you.’

  Louvre

  It was late in the afternoon that Hugues heard the knock at his door. ‘Yes?’

  Amélie wandered in, a faint smile at her mouth. She crossed the floor to his table, and hitched a hip on to it.

  ‘I haven’t time, woman. Go and find another suitor,’ he muttered dismissively, but his eyes were fixed on her inner thigh. That glorious, soft sweep of perfect white flesh was so close to him, he could lean forward and lick it, bite it …

  There was a rattle of coins, and he stared at the little leather purse she placed before him.

  ‘I’m here for the King,’ she said with amusement as he drew back from her and pulled at the drawstrings.

  ‘What is this for?’ Hugues demanded. ‘Twenty livres Parisis?’

  ‘There is a man he would like removed, Sieur Hugues,’ she replied, and began to explain.

  Chapter Thirty

  Friday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael*

  Louvre, Paris

  Baldwin knew that the last day had been tiresome for all three of them, but there was no doubt that the Bishop lived in fear of his life.

  There was no telling who it was who had given the Bishop such a fright. Baldwin had looked at all of the English knights who were present in the Louvre, but none showed any sign of guilt. That was no surprise, though. The sad truth was, all of them appeared to look with disfavour upon the Bishop now. Even Lord John, who was the commander of the knights and men-at-arms set to protect the Queen, appeared to have taken more to the Queen’s side.

  It was that which was most alarming to Baldwin. In England all these men had been chosen specifically for their loyalty to the King, and yet now, after only a matter of days for some, they were fallen into the Queen’s camp. Could the same thing happen in England itself? If the Queen could so easily sway the men over here in France, could she not take them with her to England and persuade others to her cause? If that were so, and if she could raise a small number of men to go with her, she would be invincible.

  Naturally there were attractions to such an expedition. Few indeed would complain to hear that Sir Hugh le Despenser had been deposed, and ideally executed for his many crimes, and yet Baldwin was most anxious, for if the Queen were to become so all-powerful, it would mean that the King himself could lose his throne, and Baldwin was not happy at the thought of another civil war. The land had suffered too much from such strife before.

  Sir Richard was sitting on a throne-like seat in the Bishop’s chamber when Baldwin arrived there that morning. Wolf immediately lumbered across the floor and set a great paw on Sir Richard’s lap.

  ‘Geddoffit, ye brute!’ he roared, and put a hand on the dog’s head to tickle behind Wolf’s ears, the action giving the lie to his bellow. Wolf sat and shuffled his arse around until he could sit gazing up soulfully into Sir Richard’s face.

  ‘Where is the Bishop?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Bishop’s gone off praying,’ the Coroner said, biting into a chicken’s leg and waving the bone in the direction of the Bishop’s chapel. Wolf eyed the leg with anticip
ation.

  ‘That is good,’ Baldwin said. Not many men would dare to attack a Bishop at prayer.

  ‘Heard something. Could explain some of the mutterin’s among the other English here,’ Sir Richard said. He sucked the last juices from the chicken bone, then methodically licked each finger before wiping them on his breast. ‘Mortimer’s said to be in Hainault plannin’ an invasion. You heard that? There’s talk that the Queen is like to support him. She’s hardly enamoured of her old man, is she? Eh?’

  He belched and set a booted foot on the table in front of him. ‘Makes it difficult for a man to see the best way forward for himself.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘A man must think of his own position with care.’

  ‘I mean, what if there was an invasion? The King’s ships could destroy any fleet, I’m sure – but there’s always the risk that the Queen and her men might land. And that worries me.’

  It was a great pity, Baldwin thought, that a man like this, a decent, loyal man, should feel the urge to contemplate forswearing his vows of allegiance. For that was what he was saying: that if the Queen were to invade, that he must turn his coat and become her ally. And up and down the realm, others would think the same.

  ‘I mean,’ Sir Richard carried on, ‘when the men have been slaughtered, as they will be, I’d hate to see her captured. The Queen herself held in gaol? A terrible thought.’

  ‘You mean …’ Baldwin gaped, although he quickly recovered. There were times when he felt that his ability to understand his fellow man was sorely damaged. ‘You would remain loyal to the King, then?’

  Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed with humour. ‘And what else would you expect a man to say in these times, me old friend?’

  Baldwin was about to laugh aloud, when there came a knock at the door. He crossed the floor and opened it to find Simon outside. ‘Hello, Simon.’

  ‘I’ve just been asked by the Cardinal, Thomas of Anjou, to send you to meet him,’ Simon said. ‘He was most insistent.’

  ‘I’d best go, then,’ Baldwin sighed. He eyed his dog and said, ‘Look after him, would you?’

  ‘I will,’ said Sir Richard.

  ‘I was not talking to you, old friend,’ Baldwin chuckled.

  Tavern near Grand Châtelet

  Pons sat at the tavern’s one table on a bench that felt as though it had been carved from stone and peered across the street, waiting. There was a howling gale coming through the unglazed window, or so it felt, and he was forced to pull his cotte closer about his breast. The weather certainly had changed in the last days, he thought. There was a fire in the room behind him, but he preferred to remain here where he could see who was walking up and down the street. At last he saw three men marching, his friend Vital in their midst.

  ‘I hope I see you well?’ he said when Vital had sat and the tavern-keeper had been sent to fetch a jug of hot wine.

  ‘Yes – not that you’d guess it after the night I’ve had,’ Vital replied, pulling his cloak about him. ‘It is damned cold in those gaols, you know.’

  ‘How was it?’

  Vital reached for the jug as it arrived. His normally sombre mood had turned positively melancholic in the last few hours.

  They had agreed that one of them must go to the gaols where the different men had been installed after their arrests, and try to learn more about this elusive ‘King of Thieves’. Both knew that Pons was the more competent at interrogation, but this time they had another duty – to follow after Le Boeuf and ensure that he didn’t make a run for it, or go straight to this ‘King’ and tell him all. It was Pons again who was best at concealing himself and following their man without being observed, so this was what he had done.

  ‘I learned that there is a King of the Seine who lives deep in the water, but he only comes out once in a while. Oh, and there is a man in the Temple who believes that his arm is being slowly eaten by pink lions the size of a man’s thumb. He kept pulling them off to show me.’

  ‘That is the sum of your news?’

  ‘Oh, no. There is a great deal more. I haven’t begun yet. Did you know that Paris is sinking into the mud? Or that the Royal Family is dead? The King was apparently murdered some years ago, with his wife, and there is no heir. We are waiting for the happy time when the anti-Christ appears and slays us all in his period of misrule, apparently. And one man told me, in all seriousness, that the stars are all the souls of the dead. I asked him why it was that the number didn’t jump and leave us in bright starlight after the Famine when so many died, and he muttered that they were sent far away. Ach! I am exhausted and have nothing to show for it.’

  ‘And I have little better,’ Pons said regretfully. ‘Our Le Boeuf wandered off to his lodging and remained there. There was no way in or out without him being seen, and we kept a close watch on him. This morning I left André there.’

  ‘So we have learned nothing, then.’

  ‘There is one thing. I am still perplexed as to why this King might have ordered the death of Jean. The Procureur was a most determined man. Surely he was killed because of the way that one of his investigations affected the King – or a man who paid the King.’

  ‘And that helps us?’ Vital demanded lugubriously.

  ‘No, perhaps not. But it is a thought to be kept.’

  ‘We did learn that Jean was investigating the deaths of the man at the Louvre and his wife.’

  ‘Quite so. De Nogaret and his wife. Perhaps this King of Thieves was responsible for one or both murders?’

  Vital nodded slowly. ‘In that case, we need to see what we may learn of them, too. De Poissy’s servant should have any relevant information, surely?’

  ‘And meanwhile we have to hope that our man brings us some news, too.’

  His hopes were quickly to be dashed.

  Paris

  Jacquot wandered apparently idly as he sought food. The place was full this morning, and he was bumped and shoved as he went, but the blows scarcely registered.

  With a thick pottage and hunk of bread inside him, he felt more rational, but his mind was still racing. There were men who would kill him now, for the money which the King had offered. He had the choice of going to the King and attempting to make some peace, but he knew that the door was barred to him before he could even test the way. The King had been humiliated by him. It was, in truth, astonishing that he was not yet dead.

  So his earlier resolution, to fight it out, was the only way to get through this.

  There were many in the city who lived like rats, scavenging, thieving, killing. Not all were in the pay of the King, and it was one of these whom Jacquot sought now, a churl who knew neither mother nor father, but who scraped a living on the streets. ‘Little Hound’ he was named, for his skill at sniffing out targets. He would invariably win a purse or trinket from a walker without their realising his knife had liberated them of their wealth. A skilled and practised thief, Little Hound was one of that rare number who preferred a life of obscurity to one in the King’s ranks.

  ‘You are alive, then?’ Little Hound said.

  ‘Last time I looked,’ Jacquot agreed.

  ‘Sounds like your master’s in trouble, though.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Hadn’t you heard? His rooms were stormed yesterday. The law is on to him, it seems.’ The man picked his nose, eyed the residue on his finger with disgust, and wiped it on the wall beside him. He was a short, skinny man of perhaps four and twenty years, and dirt was ingrained in each wrinkle of his flesh, making him appear more dark-skinned than he truly was. One eye was whitened, where a man had stabbed him in a bar fight, but the other was bright blue, and very shrewd.

  ‘What else?’ Jacquot said.

  ‘A quick man might be able to learn much …’

  Jacquot disliked the man, but he was undeniably useful at giving out information. Wearily, he tugged a livre Parisis from his purse and held it up.

  ‘Very good. Even a small hound must eat, hein?’ Little Hound said with a grin of d
iscoloured teeth. ‘Well, it seems the officers were seeking the murderer of the city Procureur. Somehow they had gained the impression that it was the King himself who had arranged Jean de Poissy’s death, so they went there to arrest him. But he was elsewhere. All they discovered was a dead man in the river.’

  ‘How did they know to go there?’

  ‘How do they learn anything? They found a man and threatened to break all the bones in his body. He soon agreed to help them.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘What else should there be? Isn’t that enough?’

  Jacquot said nothing, but stood very still and silent, watching him.

  ‘Oh, very well. From what I’ve heard, the instruction to attack the King came from within the Louvre.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know, but everyone knows that the King’s latest whore visits the castle as well.’

  ‘Does she?’ Jacquot murmured. That was interesting.

  After paying him another livre, Jacquot left him a short while later.

  So, someone was selling the King, he mused as he walked. That would make life easier. Now he had an idea that could work to his advantage. His only problem was the next person he must visit.