The King of Thieves:

by Michael Jecks

  ‘How did you get along with him?’

  ‘With Sir Roger? I would say generally quite well. We were never close companions, but we neither of us had a cause to be angry with each other.’

  ‘No? Not even when his assets were taken apart?’

  Sir Roger Mortimer had been one of those who had been arrested and imprisoned in the Tower after the Marcher Lords were squashed by the King. His lands and belongings were all forfeit to the Crown.

  The Bishop looked at him with a haughtily raised chin. ‘I benefited not a whit by his destruction.’

  ‘I see. That’s good, then.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘I was fearful that, if he had a debt to settle with you, your life might have been at risk. But so long as you are sure that is not the case, nothing has changed,’ Baldwin breathed.

  ‘Nothing has changed,’ the Bishop repeated.

  But it had, although he did not realise by how much.

  Upper chamber near St Jacques la Boucherie

  It was the afternoon. The sun had passed over the rear of the house and now was lighting the window hole on the other side, in front of Le Boeuf.

  His entire body was a mass of bruises and lacerations. The thought of food made his belly rebel, but he could have killed for a mouthful of water. Or two mouthfuls, the first just to wash the vomit and blood away, the second to sip and swallow. Cold, clear water.

  His mouth was a mass of soreness. The taste of blood and bile was unbearable, and Le Boeuf wept with despair at the agony of the acid eating away at the wounds.

  It was growing dark, and his trepidation increased with every moment. There were sounds from below him, of men arriving. He knew how the meeting would be conducted: the men would all gather, and when they were ready, the King would call them upstairs to take their places. Le Boeuf would be entitled to defend himself against any accusations, and then the votes would be cast. And his life would end.

  There was no sympathy in a meeting like this. The men were all perfectly aware of his agonies, and they would enjoy witnessing his terror. And he would be terrified. He wanted to pray that it was quick, but he didn’t want to die. A man with so much life left in him still, it was cruel, unfair.

  His life was not so wretched that he would willingly cast it aside.

  Looking about him again, he saw that there was no one in the room yet. He could just pull away from the knife, allow it to cut through his cheeks, tug himself free, and then cut his bonds with it before fleeing. The alternative was death. But the idea of pulling his head away, feeling the knife slice, was so hideous that he couldn’t. At one point he had been close. Very close. The house had been silent for a while, and he had sobbed silently, closed his eye, and tried. God, how he had tried. All he needed to do was jerk his head back. There would be a short, sharp pain, no doubt, but then peace. An escape. He could go to the white monks, who were happy to cleanse a man’s wounds and help him on his way. And after that, when he was healed again, he could run. He would never be able to stop running, of course. There could be no escape for a man like him. If the King ever heard where he had gone, he would be dead. Death would, however, come quickly. A knife in the back, or a sudden clubbing at night. Better that than this long, drawn-out hell.

  Yes, so he had opened his mouth, clenched his fists, and prepared to jerk his head away. Only to find that the flesh would not yield up the blade. It was left intentionally blunt, with only the point sharpened, so that a man would only be able to escape the knife if he was prepared to slowly rip himself wide open.

  He couldn’t do it.

  He could remember now, hearing of a wolf that had been trapped, caught with one paw in a snare. In terror and despair, it had chewed through its own foreleg and escaped. The paw remained. If only he too had that sort of courage.

  But it was too late. He could already hear the men coming. Setting his hands on the hilt of the dagger, he tried for the very last time to withdraw the knife, but the leaden hammer had done its job well. The blade had penetrated the plank by more than an inch. Try as he might, he could not shift it.

  The door opened. There was a giggle, high and scary, and then more boots marched in.

  ‘Is your name Le Boeuf?’ the giggling voice demanded. It was the King.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have to speak up, fellow. We can’t understand you,’ the King said. For good measure, he kicked Le Boeuf in the spine again.

  ‘I ang Le Boeuf,’ he said as clearly as he could.

  ‘You betrayed my home, didn’t you?’ the King said. His voice had gone very quiet, suddenly. It was somehow even more alarming than his giggling.

  ‘I didn’t mean to, it was—’

  ‘Just “yes” will do.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘That’s a yes, then,’ the King said. ‘So you see, my friends – that is the sort of man we have here. A coward, who chose to go and sell us to his friends. I think that is a shame, because he has cost us our home. We’ve had to move to this dump. And it’s not so pleasant, is it?’

  He kicked Le Boeuf again, and this time the knife tore at his mouth, a fresh eruption of blood making him gag.

  ‘He sold us to his friends, my comrades. Us!’ With each emphasis, he kicked again, and Le Boeuf wept as the dagger ripped at his cheeks. There was nothing he could do to defend himself, nothing he could do to save himself from the pain.

  ‘Look at him. Who can doubt he deserves death? But how: that is the question.’

  Le Boeuf stared across the room. All the men were behind him, and he could imagine them drawing their knives, all preparing to stab at the same time, each participating in the killing, a bonding of the gang. And it made him want to close his eyes.

  But he kept them open a little longer. Long enough to see the woman. She walked into his field of view with a curious look in her eyes, as though she was intrigued to see his reaction to the pain. Seeing him, she gave a little smile, with half-lidded eyes, like a woman making love, but then she looked away, and left the room.

  It made him feel still more lonely.

  Pons saw the light as the door opened, the flash of the candle before it was snuffed and clouted his neighbour on the back. ‘Now!’

  They ran low along the road, clubs and maces muffled with strips of linen to prevent rattling or clattering against walls and pillars, and then they were at the door. Amélie slipped out, muttered, ‘Top floor. Room at the very top,’ and they were off, at first trying to be silent as they hurried up, but gradually the need for silence was overruled by the need for speed. They all felt it, the mad, urgent demand of action.

  Their boots pounded on up the stairs, Pons in the front, and when he came to the uppermost chamber, he found himself surrounded by a group of nine or ten. Three had lost ears, one had a lip split, and Pons felt a grim delight to know that these were indeed the felons he’d sought. One man was directing the others – he must be the King! He was crouched at the side of a huddle on the floor, screaming at the others, his mouth moving, a foam forming in the corners, but Pons could hear not a word. The blood was rushing in his ears, deafening him.

  He launched himself inside, his thighs complaining at the effort, and his sword was in his right hand, a club in his left. He was aware of the others entering behind him, was aware of clubs falling, boots kicking, fists flying, daggers stabbing and the fine mist of blood spraying from a dozen wounds; he was aware of all, but his concentration was fixed on the man before him. The King was too great a prize to risk losing him.

  The fellow was scrawny as an old chicken. He was bare-chested, even in this weather, up in this unheated room, and Pons guessed that he was keen to be undressed so that the blood wouldn’t show when he left to go into the street again. A man with blood all over his shirt would be a target for the interest of the Sergents and other officers. There was already blood on him, but now he reached down to the huddle and pulled free a dagger that lay stabbed in it.

  ‘Put down the knife,’ Pons snarled,
and launched himself at him, his sword flicking up to the right and, catching the dagger and cutting through the King’s fingers. His forefinger and second finger were swept off, and Pons sensed them both flying up and away, even as his attention remained on the face of the man in front of him. There was an expression of utter shock on it. Never before had he suffered the pain and indignity of punishment. He stood now, frozen in impotent rage as Pons’s point rested on his throat.

  And then his fury knew no bounds. He slammed the blade away with his ruined hand, the spray flying across Pons’s face, and hurtled forward.

  Pons stepped back, then to his side, grasped the King’s wrist as he moved forward, stamped on his foot, and as he fell to the ground, slammed his pommel into the felon’s head, hard.

  Bishop’s chamber, Louvre

  Bishop Walter took a deep breath and walked to his great chair.

  ‘If you are right, then there is need to get news of this to the King,’ he said with conviction. ‘He will wish to see Mortimer found and destroyed.’

  ‘I expect the King will already know he’s here,’ Sir Richard said.

  ‘Alas, likely not,’ the Bishop disagreed. ‘Earlier this year, the French had a success in the diplomatic arena and managed to capture all the King’s spies. It was appallingly embarrassing. Just at the time that His Majesty needed all his spies operating at their most effective, so that he might know how to negotiate the truce, they had all been discovered. In truth, the King relies on Prior Eastry at Canterbury for his news these days, for the Prior hears from all travellers as they pass through. Some of that can be useful to the King, and is sent on to him.’

  ‘He relies on a Prior to keep him informed?’ Baldwin said disbelievingly. ‘Then it will be necessary to send to the King to let him know.’

  ‘I will put my mind to it.’ The Bishop sat down at his great table with two of his clerks to write the letter and look into his correspondence. There was much for him to study, the more so now that he had a new view of it. Sir Roger’s appearance on the scene was enough to throw much of the rest of his information into a different focus.

  ‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said heavily, looking up from the documents, ‘you know my political career has given me a most exciting life. I do not regret any of it. But there is little doubt that it does force a man to hold a different perspective on matters which associates may often not appreciate. Such as the destruction of the Lords Marcher and the arrest of Sir Roger Mortimer.’

  ‘I am sure that is true, my Lord Bishop.’

  ‘He was a good warrior, it’s true. And he did perhaps deserve more from a grateful sovereign. But he would have been a disruptive influence, I fear.’

  ‘I could not say. I didn’t know him, really,’ Baldwin said. He had met Mortimer after Simon had been captured by him, and in his opinion, the man had not appeared to be a menace to the realm.

  ‘He is another rather similar to Despenser in many ways. Too avaricious – both for money and for power. Such greed is always dangerous. A man who demands too much will inevitably fall.’

  Baldwin smiled but forbore to mention the Bishop’s own wealth. ‘I suppose you mean that there was not enough space for two men of such greed in the King’s household at the same time?’

  ‘I do not think so, no,’ the Bishop said. He was sitting, peering out of the window with a slight frown on his face.

  ‘My Lord Bishop?’

  ‘I was reflecting on the nature of Mortimer. The King has declared him a traitor and enemy of the realm – I just wonder how dangerous he is. If he is so confident of his welcome here in Paris, has he been plotting something new? If he has, it must surely be to the detriment of the King.’

  ‘What could he do, that could harm the King?’ Baldwin shrugged. And his judgement was that Mortimer could indeed do little. The man was broken: his lands confiscated, his treasure taken, his men scattered.

  ‘I have no doubt you are right,’ the Bishop agreed, but Baldwin could see that a little frown remained on his brow.

  Alley near St Jacques la Boucherie

  Jacquot tapped Little Hound on the shoulder and took a delight in the sight of the man springing about, startled as a faun when the dogs appear. ‘Oh, it’s you!’

  ‘I want to know what you have learned,’ Jacquot said softly.

  The Hound looked up briefly at the darkening sky, then nodded and led the way to a small tavern. It was quiet in there, and the only light came from stinking tallow candles and a few thin rushlights set about the walls.

  ‘She is a hard worker, that Amélie. And she knows a great deal.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘She has some pillow-talk from the castellan, you know? And she isn’t above boasting about what he lets on. Did you know he made his money by robbing a Pope? Yes, thought that would surprise you. Our Sieur Hugues was one of a small force King Philippe sent to some town near Rome to capture a Pope, but instead he found the Pope’s treasure, and stole it away. Enterprising fellow, that. And he has much to lose, if news of that robbery ever comes to the ear of our King, who might think it would be a good idea to take all that money for himself.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘Well, Guillaume de Nogaret, the dead man’s name, was also the name of the man in charge of the force sent to Rome, or wherever it was. This is going back some twenty odd years, mind. Perhaps this fellow who was killed in the Louvre was his son, come to blackmail Sieur Hugues. The castellan would have good cause to remove and silence him then, wouldn’t he?’

  Jacquot whistled. Then he reached into his purse and slid a coin over the table. ‘Well done.’

  The Hound sat back and eyed Jacquot speculatively, as though assessing what he would think of the next piece of information. ‘There is more. This same Amélie had met the young de Nogaret when he first arrived here in the city. I wouldn’t mind betting she gave the castellan warning about the man’s appearance, and—’

  ‘And gave him time to plan to kill the lad,’ Jacquot said. ‘Yes, that makes much sense!’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Saturday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael*

  Tavern near Grand Châtelet

  Pons lifted his tankard in a toast, and Vital did the same in return. There was a celebratory air to their meal as they broke their thick loaves and soaked up the juices from the pottage that morning. It was satisfying enough merely to have captured the man who had killed Jean the Procureur, but at the same time they were both content that their efforts had seen to the destruction of a larger force of criminals. The King of Thieves was a man who had controlled much of the crime in Paris, and without him, it was likely that the city would grow more peaceful.

  After a leisurely breakfast, they strolled together northwards, until they came to the wall. From here they carried on to the bleak fortress of the Temple, where they entered and made their way to the gaols.

  ‘Fetch them,’ Pons ordered.

  Two gaolers hurried about their business, bringing one after the other of the men and latching their irons to rings in the walls. The last to be brought was the King.

  In this darkened chamber, his ribs stood out more, and the hollows at his cheeks looked deeper, the lines at brow and mouth more heavily engraved, perhaps, but the night in the cold and damp of the gaol had not served to break his spirit.

  ‘You have never been found guilty of a crime here in the King’s demesne,’ Pons said, walking about the King. ‘You have not been branded, or had your nose, lips or ears clipped. How can that be, I wonder?’

  There was no answer. The King spent his time staring into the distance as though listening to another conversation.

  ‘There are many like you,’ Pons said contemptuously, ‘who prefer to pay someone else to do their dirty work for them. No need for you to risk your own precious skin, is there?’

  ‘He’s not listening, Pons,’ Vital said, walking over to the King and eyeing him. ‘Now, that’s not very respectful, is it?’ All of a sudden, he slammed
his fist into the King’s belly. ‘André was a friend of mine,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I want to know who killed him, you scum.’

  The gaolers heard a knock at the door, and one hurried to open it. Outside were two more men, one wearing a shirt that was filthy with stains, while the other had on a thick, smith’s leather apron. They walked in and began to make a fire at the pit. Metal tools were set about this, just as they would be at a smithy, but the tools were lighter. Their purpose was not to bend hot metal but to sear human flesh.

  ‘Do you know these two men?’ Pons asked politely. He waved a hand at the newcomers. ‘They are the King’s executioners. You have your own men, I am sure, Your Highness, but no one who is quite so expert at squeezing responses from the recalcitrant. And that is what they will do with you. You had our friend Jean the Procureur killed. I will know why, and who paid you for that.’

  For the first time, the King turned to him. There was a flickering rage in his eyes, and he gave the impression of danger still – no, Pons had to amend that. It wasn’t danger, exactly. It was more the aura of power and command. Like some General captured after a battle – bloody and beaten, perhaps, but still a man confident of his own position.

  ‘Someone betrayed me,’ he said. ‘The fool who gave away my house at the Seine, he was one.’

  ‘And you murdered him. That will cost you your life,’ Pons said affably.

  ‘And now there is another. Someone who told you where to find me yesterday. Few knew where I would be.’ His voice was cold, but rational as he mused on the problem.

  ‘It was her – the whore, Amélie. She led you to me, didn’t she?’ he said of a sudden. ‘No one else would have known where to go – only her. When I see her again, I shall show her her own entrails.’