The King of Thieves:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘No,’ the Bishop agreed quietly. ‘Neither do I. Yet I do know that she is a friend of the Cardinal.’

  ‘You speak his title as if it’s poison in your mouth, me Lord.’

  Walter Stapledon glanced over at the honest-faced knight. ‘I do not like that Cardinal. He strikes me as the kind of man who is too keen to provide for himself, and less likely to invest in the general good. Do you know, some years ago I had the duty of attending to the Pope. Clement was not the most rigorous man in his works, and I was occasionally forced to wonder about his motives in constantly acquiring new assets. Such jewels, such quantities of gold and silver … and one item I adored: a set of goblets which were quite extraordinary. Lovely workmanship. Pewter, but with delightful gilding.’

  ‘Aye.’ Sir Richard nodded politely, trying to concentrate.

  ‘And I saw the mate of those goblets in the Cardinal’s room. You see, I think he is as avaricious as any other. It is partly that which makes me fear him, for if the Queen were to offer him money, or Mortimer – God save us! – we would be entirely at the mercy of a man who would not scruple to remove obstacles.’

  ‘Hmm. You think he might attempt to kill you?’

  ‘I greatly fear it, yes. And if it would suit him, he would be happy to remove me by allowing rumours of my guilt in the death of the Procureur to flourish. Ah, me! What can I do?’

  ‘Sit and have some wine, me Lord. It’s very good.’

  The Bishop smiled wearily. ‘I think my need is greater for spiritual support. And right now, I must leave and emulate Simon. Excuse me.’

  ‘D’you wish me to walk with you? After all you’ve said, surely it’s not safe for you to be alone? What if that man from the corridor should meet you again?’

  ‘I should be safe enough in broad daylight,’ the Bishop said with a grateful smile. ‘Even the Cardinal would not dare to attack me in the King’s castle in the sun.’

  Outside, a little of his bleak mood left him. In truth, it was hard to be miserable while in a marvellous place like this. The Louvre was one of the most magnificent castles in the whole of Christendom, with the white stone making it shine in the afternoon light. Approaching it in broad sunlight was quite dazzling, because the white stonework mingled with the water of the immense moat to blind a man. Lovely, quite lovely.

  After relieving himself, he wandered a little while, his mind running on the work he must yet complete before he could go home. It was the first time in a long time that he had been able to leave matters of state alone. Perhaps, he reflected, it was the result of the discussion with God in the chapel. He had seen fit to calm Bishop Walter’s fears and lend him a little ease.

  ‘Bishop? Are you all right?’

  He turned to see Simon Puttock hurrying towards him, a look of concern twisting his features. ‘You are an extraordinary guard, Master Puttock,’ he smiled. ‘You leave me in my chapel, and then make the effort to seek me out while I’m enjoying the sun.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Would you like to come back now?’

  ‘No, it is good to take the air for a little.’

  ‘The air here is not so wholesome as that in your chamber, Bishop,’ Simon said firmly.

  ‘You wish me to be inside, where you may protect me more easily, and there is logic in that. But the cool air here seems to make my mind function more effectively.’

  ‘Yes, I have no doubt. However, I would like you to come with me right now.’

  There was an edge to his voice that made Bishop Walter stop and look at him with a sudden alarm. ‘What is it, Simon? Is there another disaster to mar this lovely morning?’

  ‘Only one thing, Bishop. Sir Roger Mortimer is here.’

  Upper chamber near St Jacques la Boucherie

  He woke with acid in his belly, and Le Boeuf began to puke before he knew where he was, before he remembered anything about the evening.

  ‘Christ’s boils!’ he muttered, spitting and cursing.

  There was a pain that began right behind his eyeballs and spread from there to encompass his entire skull. He must have been beaten up badly for his body and head to feel like this, he told himself. And then there was the soreness about his belly. He must have been drinking too, then.

  There was light now, but he daren’t open his eyes yet. The pain was going to be too intense, sod it, so he rolled himself over, avoiding the direct sun. But something was very wrong. He wasn’t on his palliasse. Maybe he’d fallen from it, and was just on the planks of the bedchamber, then. There was rough timber under his cheek, and he experimented with his good eye, opening it to glance down.

  Where was he? This wasn’t his floor. It wasn’t his home. Where had he got to? In a mild panic, he sat upright, and then he realised his wrists were bound. ‘God’s ballocks! What the …’

  ‘Awake, are you? Good. I like to have someone awake when I consider what to do with him. Although in your case I don’t feel the need to worry myself. Can you understand that?’

  Le Boeuf closed his eye and shook his head, hoping that this might be a mere bad dream, but the dream didn’t go away. He felt an ungentle prod against his back, and then a pain that seemed to slam into his kidney and made his eyes jerk wide. A whimper left his drooling mouth.

  ‘Aha, Le Boeuf, so you do know who I am, eh?’

  The King of Thieves crouched down to smile at him. Behind him, Le Boeuf could see a woman, a dark beauty with a look of interest on her face as she watched the King draw a dagger. He allowed it to rest against Le Boeuf’s cheek, the point down on his skin. It made his flesh creep. He could feel the sharpness, sense the ease with which it could be thrust down, where it would jar against his teeth, then slip softly into his mouth, through his tongue, through even the other cheek, until it pierced the wooden floor, where it would hold him entirely; he’d be unable to move without slicing through the whole of both cheeks, losing his tongue in the process. This was torture of a sort King Charles’s own executioners could not have dreamed of. He had heard of the King of Thieves using it against many of his own men.

  ‘Who did you speak to when you decided to sell me and my men?’ the King asked in a mild, soft tone.

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone …’

  The knife was pressed down. There was a spurt in his mouth, and he screamed into his closed lips, eyes wide and panicked. Blood in his mouth. A chip of tooth where the dagger’s blade had connected. ‘No! No!’

  ‘You’ll tell me, of course,’ the King said. ‘Because it’s easy. And if you don’t, I’ll have your body cut into tiny pieces, one by one, even as you watch. You’ll be able to see it all. So you need to answer.’

  ‘The King’s Sergent. I had to! I had to tell him. And he brought two officers of the King, a man called Pons and another called Vital. They were going to …’

  ‘Yes, they were going to kill you, weren’t they? Well, it doesn’t really matter now, because you will die for what you have told them. You have put me to a lot of trouble, you see. So I think I shall kill you – but not yet. No, I think you need to consider your crimes first, and so I shall wait until later. But to make sure you don’t try to escape, I shall need a hammer, please.’

  He wanted to shake his head, to plead, but the King had no compassion. There was nothing in his eyes except the desire to inflict as much pain as possible on the man before him. Le Boeuf saw the heavy leaden hammer being passed, and only just had time to open his jaw before the dagger’s hilt was struck. His horrified screams were almost muted by the dull thudding of the hammer against the dagger as it was pounded through Le Boeuf’s mouth and into the floor.

  ‘There,’ the King said, when he was done. He eyed the sobbing, bleeding thing on the floor before him, and drew back his boot to slam it with all his malice into Le Boeuf’s belly, making the man spew again, the vomit pooling near his mouth, the acid burning at the fresh wounds in his cheeks, the blood mingling with the greenish-yellow swirls. ‘Feel free to rise, if you
want,’ the King said quietly.

  He kicked again, and Le Boeuf felt it hammer at his upper belly, his body convulsing to eject all the fluid left in his stomach, desperate not to move his mouth and slash all to pieces.

  But it wasn’t the King’s ferocity towards him that scared him most. It was the look in the woman’s eyes as she watched, licking her lips as though contemplating a sexual encounter, rather than the destruction of a poor beggar.

  Bruised, his kidney ruined, his face pinned to the wooden plank of the floor, Le Boeuf sobbed for his life and for his approaching death.

  Louvre

  Baldwin was leaving the Cardinal’s chamber, when the Cardinal himself approached him from the corridor. ‘Sir Baldwin? Would you object to my walking with you?’

  ‘By all means,’ Baldwin said with an entirely false smile.

  ‘The Queen is a most determined lady.’

  ‘Yes. I was growing aware of that,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘She would have the King relinquish his unnatural obsession with this man Despenser and return to her marital bed. Is that such a dreadful desire?’

  ‘Of course not. However, it is her methodology which I question. She has been commanded to go to her husband, and that rightful order she is refusing to obey. That itself is petit treason. No woman has the right to deny her husband’s command. But this is worse – her husband is the King. That makes her refusal an act of genuine treason. It is impossible to condone such behaviour.’

  ‘You would have her go to a home which is repugnant to her? You would have her throw herself at her husband, no matter how undeserving?’

  ‘Yes. She is married to him. It may be painful, but better that than the inevitable shame and humiliation of being forced to go back.’

  The Cardinal looked at him from under frowning brows. ‘You think someone could force her?’

  ‘Your King will have to in the end. The Pope will not wish for any further enmity between your King and ours.’

  ‘The Pope will be keen to see the issue resolved, it is true.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll demand that she returns to her husband?’

  ‘The Pope? No. I know his mind, I think, as well as anyone does.’

  ‘Why not?’ Baldwin asked, genuinely confused by the man’s arrogant conviction.

  The Cardinal looked at him. ‘Do you understand much about the workings of power?’ he asked, pointedly looking at Baldwin’s patched and threadbare tunic. ‘I used to be a poor man, but I managed to achieve some prominence by application and taking some risks. Some years ago I helped the French King to capture the treacherous Pope Boniface. I was soon afterwards able to advance myself. It is how all do so, Sir Knight. The Pope is another such self-made man who managed to win an election. God did His part – but who is to say that men themselves did not influence His choice? The Pope, when all is said and done, is only a man. He wants his life to be eased, not complicated. Now, from his perspective, how safe will it be for Queen Isabella to return to her husband? It will lead to strife in their relationships. It may even lead to her being chastised.

  ‘And now consider this. If she were to be publicly rebuked, how would the King of France view such treatment of his sister? Would you be happy, were she your sister, and you the King of such a land as this? It may well lead to a war, and one which could only have dire consequences for the rest of the Christian world, and which must also delay the possible expeditionary force to the Holy Land to begin a new Crusade. If you were Pope, would you wish for such an eventuality? Or would you prefer to keep the couple separate, perhaps even until the King himself died and his son could take the throne. Then the mother could return.’

  Baldwin stopped now and gaped. ‘You do not mean to suggest that the Queen could keep her son here with her, against the express command of her husband?’

  ‘Why not? Good Christ, man!’ The Cardinal drew away, but then turned back, hissing, ‘Do you think every life is as easy as yours? There are responsibilities. You worry about your Queen and the feelings of your King, but we are talking about the lives of thousands, the souls of perhaps millions. We have more to worry about than merely the strict application of the laws of domestic bliss. If the Queen stays here, she may well persuade her son to remain with her. And then the father becomes really rather irrelevant.’

  ‘Cardinal, it is your duty to uphold God’s laws, surely.’

  ‘I have many duties. I have served four Popes now. They each were different men, but the main thing was, they were practical men.’

  Baldwin nodded, a curious empty feeling in his belly at the thought of the man’s words.

  ‘It may be best for you personally if you accepted the realities and remained here with the Queen. That is all I wished to say,’ the Cardinal concluded.

  ‘I cannot, in all conscience.’

  ‘That is a great pity. For, remember this: the Queen is the younger. She will live longer than the King. It is her largesse which a man should consider.’

  ‘I seek nothing. Only to serve my liege lord as I should.’

  The Cardinal eyed him doubtfully. ‘In truth? Then I am surprised. You are that rare thing, a knight who is truly chivalric. I have not known many. You are a dangerous man.’

  Baldwin ignored that. ‘You have served four Popes, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you say that Boniface VIII was a practical man?’

  The Cardinal smiled thinly. ‘He was practical in the things he sought to achieve … although he did not quite know how to apply himself.’

  ‘I disagree,’ Baldwin said, but without smiling in response. ‘He knew how to apply himself perfectly. He sought wealth. That was why he deposed Celestine V, for the pursuit of his own profit. Celestine was entirely devoted to the Kingdom of Heaven, not to this poor, fractured world. And Boniface had him killed as payment. So you were part of the army that had Boniface killed in his turn?’

  ‘You are correct about the piety of Celestine, I suppose, but he had little idea of how to achieve anything. He was no manager. The Church is a large organisation, Sir Baldwin. It requires a firm hand on the reins. His successors have all been more . . . single-minded. Boniface did have the failings you mention, but he was removed when those failings became clear.’

  ‘Of course. And so those whom God has seen elected can be removed, deposed, or merely murdered when expedient? You say the others have been more single-minded. I would prefer to call them more ruthless,’ Baldwin said, thinking of Clement V, who had destroyed the Templars. ‘Some of them sought their own reward without concern for those upon whom they might trample.’

  ‘You accuse the Pope of corruption?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Baldwin evaded the suggestion. ‘I accuse no one. I am only a rural knight, with no ambition to be anything else.’

  ‘Well, Sir Rural Knight, you should understand that the world looks a different place when considered from a position of authority.’

  ‘And you are the adviser to King Charles?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And his confessor?’

  Cardinal Thomas halted. ‘I am confessor to many, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘And you have interests in the French monarchy. You will excuse me, Cardinal. I have interests only in the affairs of my own King. Not yours.’

  ‘I see. Then I think we know each other’s position, Sir Baldwin. I am sad, though. You would have been a most useful addition to the Queen’s circle of friends.’

  ‘Does she need another?’ Baldwin said lightly.

  ‘No,’ the Cardinal said flatly. ‘She needs no one more.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tavern at eastern wall near the Seine

  Jacquot found Amélie in the same small tavern where he had been before.

  ‘He has a man there. Did you hear?’ she asked.

  ‘I had heard that he suffered an embarrassment,’ Jacquot said. He leaned back on his stool and eyed the room behind her.

  ‘You think I have brought th
e King’s men with me? That I want to see you dead?’

  He kept his eyes on the men in the room. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Jacquot, I want to see you in the King’s place. And I can help you take it.’

  ‘Oh, really,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve already begun the process,’ she said, and smiled.

  Jacquot looked at her, and slowly an answering smile spread over his own features. He understood her now.

  And trusted her not at all.

  Bishop’s chamber, Louvre

  Simon pulled the door open and almost pushed the Bishop of Exeter inside.

  The Bishop turned to protest. ‘Master Puttock, what are you doing?’

  Simon ignored him, but spoke directly to Sir Richard, who sat back on a seat, his hands comfortably behind his head, his feet on a stool before him. ‘Sir Richard, has anyone tried to come in here?’

  ‘No – why?’

  ‘Never mind that now. Can you please go and see if you can find Baldwin?’

  ‘I am here, Simon,’ Baldwin said, closing the door behind him and looking about him wearily. The meeting with the Queen, followed by what had felt like a dreadfully intimidating talk with the Cardinal, had left him exhausted. ‘What is the matter?’

  ‘I have learned why there is so much activity from the Queen and her friends, Baldwin. The Mortimer is here.’

  Sir Richard’s feet left the bench where they had been resting, to clatter to the ground. ‘That treacherous dog?’

  Baldwin held up his hand. ‘You are sure of this, Simon?’

  ‘You think I could forget him?’

  It was only earlier that year that Sir Roger Mortimer had had Simon captured in Paris and taken to a house so that Baldwin could be persuaded to go there for a talk with Mortimer, the King’s enemy.

  ‘Of course,’ Baldwin said. Then a thought struck him. ‘My Lord Bishop, do you think that the man who grasped your throat might have been Sir Roger? Do you know Mortimer?’

  ‘Of course I know him,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘He was the King’s most important military leader for years, and until his fall, I must have met him many times.’ And suddenly his mind was taken back to the figure in the dark, the hissed words that had seemed so familiar. Sir Roger Mortimer … could it have been he who grasped his throat, who threatened his life?