The Duke of Aquitaine was silent for some while, staring at the men in turn. ‘All right. I can accept their departure. But only on one condition. When I call for their help, they will come to my aid. Is that clear? I wish you all to swear it.’
Second Thursday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Road to Beauvais
He was utterly exhausted. The last two days had really taken it out of him. Bishop Walter was inured to travel: a man who must regularly ride from one side of his diocese to another, and who was so involved in national politics that he must ride to London often, could hardly be otherwise. But this panicky flight was a different thing.
The road here was a rock-strewn track with grass in the middle and low hedges on either side, not unlike the roads in Wiltshire. There had been some very straight sections, but this part was as curving as a rope thrown upon the floor. It meant that they could not be seen from afar, but it also meant that they were unaware of other travellers until they were almost upon them.
There was a need for haste, that much was certain. They had to march fast, and yet avoid the appearance of urgency. If any should notice them and their hurry, any pursuit would find it too easy to track them down and capture them – if capture was the worst that could happen. It was more likely that they would be taken and executed on the spot, with outlaws accused of the heinous crime. It is what he himself would have done in the King of France’s position.
All the while on the road, while his staff tap-tap-tapped the way, and his clerks and servants followed with quiet anxiety, he was aware of the pressing fear that drove them all. The French could appear at any time, swords waving. There was nothing that he and the others could do about it. And Mortimer and the Queen would be delighted to see him dead.
Not that the Queen had actually threatened him. Not directly, anyway, so far as he could remember. It was merely the hints. And the fact of that man gripping him by the throat. That incident had set the fear of death in his heart. It was not something he had ever been aware of before, this terror of being slain like a dog. He supposed it was how many peasants lived, with the constant awareness that the slightest infraction or error could lead to a dagger in the back or a sudden overwhelming assault from a group of men in armour. For the first time he felt an appreciation for the grinding, numbing terror that was a part of so many lives.
They had stopped for a late breakfast of porridge and some bread a few miles back, and now they had full bellies after chewing on some pease pudding which they had secreted in their purses that morning. But Bishop Walter would not give them much time to rest. They must continue. He only prayed that the rain would hold off for a few more days. He dared not ask for rooms at an inn, in case they were followed and their passage reported, so although they could halt and ask for bread or pudding, he would not allow them to use a bed. Their mattresses were the fields and the hollows under hedges.
‘Bishop? My Lord?’
He turned with a scowl as the clerk called out. The road was clear of tranters and carters just now, but he had ordered them all not to shout too loudly in case their voices were recognised as English.
‘What?’
‘Riders!’
The group huddled closer together as the sound of horses came to them. Bishop Walter was in the middle like a general with his troops about him, and he peered back the way they had come with trepidation. This was not the usual route from Paris, he reckoned, which was partly why they had come this way. Also, it was a popular pilgrim route, so they should have been safe enough. This sounded like two large horses, maybe more. But they were hidden by a bend in the road.
And then he felt a lightening of his spirits as he recognised three riders on great rounseys.
‘Sir Baldwin! Sir Richard! And Simon, too! This is good news beyond all hope. You are all most welcome!’
Second Friday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael*
Furnshill
Jeanne woke to a grey morning in which the rain splattered against the shutters and the wind howled around the doorframes. Autumn was almost over, and winter was battling to take over. It made her shudder. Raised in the French territories, her blood was too thin for these colder climates, especially during the worst of the wintry weather.
Margaret was not in the bed beside her, which was a surprise, and she quickly climbed out of the bed and walked downstairs.
Meg had set the fire, and sat beside it, huddled with her arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees. She didn’t look up as Jeanne entered.
‘Margaret? Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘I don’t believe we will ever find peace in our house again, Jeanne. I’ll always fear that someone is going to come and take it away.’
‘Did you wake early?’
‘I don’t know that I slept. I just keep thinking of that man Wattere. He makes my skin creep, like looking at a snake. I am so scared that if we go back, he’ll come again and kill Simon and Peterkin.’ She burst into tears.
Jeanne sat beside her and put her arms around her old friend. ‘I know it’s terrifying, but you have to believe in the justice of your case, Margaret. It’s wrong that he should try to take your house from you. No one can do that. When Simon and Baldwin are back, all will be well again. Trust me.’
But even as she spoke her soothing words, she could feel Margaret shudder with silent sobs.
Paris
Jacquot had worked until late last night, sorting out some details of a deal with a smith for gold stolen from a house near the Seine, and when the goldsmith had tried to take a little more than he deserved, Jacquot had used his menacing stare to make the man back down in a hurry. Yes, life was good, and looking better every day now.
In the morning, he packed a small selection of clothes into a shirt and tied it together into a bundle. At his hip was a leather wallet, and into it he placed a little hard cheese, a thick slab of cured meat, and a loaf of bread. Enough for two days, if treated sparingly. He took up a staff and went down the stairs.
Years ago he had come here to this town, unknown, with no family left, nothing. All he now had, he had taken – much of it from the still-warm bodies of those he had killed. There was a wineskin on the floor near his door, and he slipped the thong over his neck as he passed, allowing the skin to dangle over his breast.
Yes, years ago he had come here, seeking an extension to a life that had grown over-burdensome in his home country. But it had taken a whore and the King of Thieves to show him how empty life could become. And since their deaths, he had grown more and more aware of the void in his own life. In the countryside there was abundance. Wildlife, grains, fruit, vegetables – all provided a man with everything he needed, so long as the man himself would merely put in a little effort to till the soil, spread the seed, and cultivate the plants. Here in the city, the only creatures that survived were the human weeds that fed on the dead bodies of other men, that strangled and slew all in their paths. He could exist here, but without pleasure.
He left the house for the last time and took a deep breath in the lane outside. The air today smelled cleaner, purer. This was the day he would leave Paris and make his way to his old home – the little hamlet in the south. The place where his family had lived with him until they all died. Perhaps there were some neighbours still alive?
If there were, he would find them.
As Jacquot left the door, Michel turned to the others and nodded. Quiet as rats, keeping low, they scurried forward, and when Michel raised his cudgel, they moved in for the kill.
‘Hey, King! I’ve a message from Hélias: remember Jean le Procureur!’ Michel hissed, and his cudgel swung. Jacquot felt the club slam into him, but there was no pain. His mind was so fixed on memories of his village that the blow caused only a dull incomprehension. He had no rage to defend himself, because he was not Jacquot the Parisian assassin, he was Jacquot, father of three, husband to his darling Maria. In his mind he saw his lovely Maria, and Louisa, Jacques and little Fro
u-Frou. All his family, his woman and children, those whom he had loved, those who had been his life. He had left the Parisian killer behind him in the house as he had slammed the door, and he felt only shock as the club thudded heavily into his shoulder, spinning him.
He could probably have saved himself even then, if he had been prepared. But as Michel and the others thrust forward, shoving him against the wall, his mind could not quite respond. The first prick of a blade at his breast almost woke him to his danger, almost stirred him to the anger that had protected him for so long, but it failed. He was too surprised.
The blade pierced his chemise, the point striking a rib, and he felt the wash of fluid all over his belly, knowing that this must be the end. For such an effusion, his death must follow swiftly. But there was no regret. Because to die must mean that he would meet his children again, that he would find Maria once more, that this miserable existence was at last over. At last he could hope for a better life to come, as the priests had always promised. So, Jacquot wore an expression of ineffable relief as he met the gaze of Michel, and behind him, Hélias.
But then he realised that the dampness was not blood, it was wine from his skin. He felt the hot despair return. Would he never die? Was he doomed to a long, solitary life? Must he continue to exist without the solace of any woman he could trust? Life without his Maria was nothing.
The red, raw wrathful frenzy took him over at last, and he lifted his fist.
Hélias watched as the man stared at his breast. She thought he looked strangely magnificent. True, he was small and scrawny, like so many who had starved, but he had some dignity. Even her men seemed a little overawed by him as he slowly stared down his body, and then his head snapped up again, suddenly gaving a hoarse bellow of pure ferocity, like a bear baited by the hounds.
Jacquot tried to punch, but he was too late. Michel moved in, his club swinging, and she saw little Petit André lift his hatchet, saw the flashing of blades rising and falling, then the boots swinging as Jacquot collapsed. A few moments later there was nothing except the pattering of boots along the cobbles, as her men fled. That, and the soft, liquid soughing of the last breaths of the man who lay bleeding to death.
She walked to him. Not out of sympathy. She wanted to spit in his face as he expired, to tell him that this was all because he had killed a man she had respected – a man she had loved. But she couldn’t.
Because as she looked down at him, all she could see in his eyes was a kind of gratitude as his soul left his body to go and greet his family.
It was a look that made her envious.
* Saturday, 7 September 1303
* Monday, 9 September 1303
* Monday, 15 July 1325
* Thursday, 15 August 1325
* Thursday, 29 August 1325
* Wednesday, 17 July 1325
* Thursday, 18 July 1325
* Saturday, 20 July 1325
* Wednesday, 24 July 1325
* Saturday, 3 August 1325
* Tuesday, 13 August 1325
* Thursday, 29 August 1325
* Saturday, 31 August 1325
* See Prophecy of Death by Michael Jecks
* Monday, 2 September 1325
* Wednesday, 4 September 1325
* Thursday, 5 September 1325
* Saturday, 7 September 1325
* Monday, 9 September 1325
* Tuesday, 10 September 1325
* Thursday, 12 September 1325
* Visitation – 2 July
* Tuesday, 17 September 1325
* Wednesday, 18 September 1325
* Tuesday, 24 September 1325
* Wednesday, 25 September 1325
* Thursday, 26 September 1325
* Friday, 27 September 1325
* Saturday, 28 September 1325
* Sunday, 29 September 1325
* Monday, 30 September 1325
* Wednesday, 2 October 1325
* Thursday, 3 October 1325
* Friday, 4 October 1325
* Saturday, 5 October 1325
* Monday, 7 October 1325
* Tuesday, 8 October 1325
* Tuesday, 8 October 1325
* Wednesday, 9 October 1325
* Thursday, 10 October 1325
* Friday, 11 October 1325
The King of Thieves: Page 39
