Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘No, now he has seen us here.’

It was true enough. The man had asked a passerby for directions and now he had kicked his scraggy old mare into an amble and was riding towards them.

From the look of him, he was a lowly lawyer’s clerk. Simon had seen enough of that sort when he was a Bailiff, listening to cases in the gaol at Lydford. All kinds of pleaders would turn up there, trying to make a living from the miserable felons who mouldered in the dank prison underground. This shabby-looking man reminded Simon of those who would loiter down in the cells, hoping to find someone who would accept them. Few prisoners, however, were that desperate.

‘You lost, friend?’ Simon called as he went out from his door.

‘I was hoping to find a man called Puttock — Simon the Bailiff.’

‘You’ve found him.’

‘I have a message from Master William atte Wattere,’ the man said, holding up a small parchment, sealed with red wax.

Simon clenched his teeth and would have left the man sitting on his horse there, but Margaret was at his side, and he could tell by the way her grip stiffened on his arm that she was terrified. He had to show he was not alarmed, and he stepped forward to take the proffered message.

‘You want to reply?’ the messenger asked.

‘No,’ Simon said. He did not open the message, but stood silently, waiting. The man shrugged and pulled his horse’s head round, departing at a gentle trot.

‘Simon!’ Margaret hissed. ‘What does that man want with us now?’

He bent and kissed her, but there was no passion now; this was a means of steeling himself, he reflected, as he drew Margaret back into their hall.

‘Well?’ she demanded as he peered at the tiny characters. Simon had been taught to read by the canons at Crediton when he was a lad, but this script was very hard to decipher. It was not the simple Latin of the Church, nor the flowing French of the courts, but a mingling of the two. Knowing Wattere, Simon suspected he had tried to make his note sound more legalistic by the use of florid expressions. It didn’t work — but the basic message was clear enough.

‘Meg, it’s not good news,’ he said slowly, as his world fell about his ears.

Wednesday following the Feast of Mary Magdalen *

Furnshill, Devon

Baldwin had been relieved to be able to wave the Bishop away. The latter’s manner, his paleness and anxiety, had all been so entirely unlike him that Baldwin was worried that the nation was truly beginning to suffer from the collapse of the King’s Peace, as he had feared.

When he saw his old friend Simon riding up the grass track to his house, he was relieved to see a friendly face, but his joy was to be short-lived.

‘What is it, old friend? Your wife? Margaret is well? And …’

‘I think, Baldwin, you may find that you have me living near you again,’ Simon said with a taut smile, reaching into his breast and pulling out a sweat-dampened letter. ‘Read it for yourself.’

Baldwin led the way into the hall, reading as he went, and once there, he bawled for Wat to serve them with wine, before dropping into his chair with a grunt. ‘And is this correct?’

‘I have been to Exeter to find out. I was there all day yesterday, but yes, it seems so. I had bought my house on a lease, and it is renewable every seven years. I had no idea I had missed the last payment. It was due while we were in France, and I forgot about it. If you remember, it was only a short while after we moved to Lydford that our son died, and there were many things that slipped my mind …’

‘This says that Despenser has bought the house. How did he do so?’

‘It was owned by old Harold Uppacott. He died a few months ago, and his son was offered a better sum for it than he would have expected. I don’t blame him. But Christ’s ballocks, I do blame Despenser. It’s just the same as before.’

‘I am astonished that Wattere dares to do this, though,’ Baldwin grated. His anger was increasing, the more he thought about it.

It was only two or three months ago that Wattere had become known to them. Early in May, when Simon and Baldwin returned to their homes after guarding the Queen during her journey to Paris, Simon had learned that William Wattere, a servant to Sir Hugh le Despenser, had threatened to steal his house from him. It was no empty threat from a brigand, either. Despenser had become accustomed to taking what he wished, and with his position as the King’s favourite, there was no means of controlling his intolerable greed. Simon had almost given up his home, but he and Baldwin had managed to have Wattere arrested. Afterwards, they had come to an accommodation with Despenser — or so they had thought.

‘What does Despenser wish to do?’ Simon said.

Baldwin waved the letter thoughtfully. ‘He does not say that you are to be evicted, Simon. Rather, it merely tells you that the house has been sold beneath you. Of course, now you could be thrown out whenever he desired to do so.’

‘And you can imagine how that makes Meg feel,’ Simon said.

Baldwin nodded. ‘What do you want to do about it?’

It was the question Simon had been asking himself all the way here from Exeter. Now he looked away from his old friend and stared out through the great unglazed but barred window. ‘I can only think I should remain there for now, and wait and see what happens. There is no point in the disruption of clearing out.’

‘You can always return to your farm near Sandford,’ Baldwin said.

‘Aye,’ Simon agreed. ‘And if Despenser decides he wants that too, he’ll not even go to the bother of buying it. He’ll just kill me and throw Meg and Peter out.’

Saturday following Lammas Day *

Gatehouse to Louvre, Paris

Arnaud, the porter to the Louvre, was jealous as he watched her crossing the courtyard. It wasn’t enough that Sieur Hugues had money, power, and all the trappings of a lord, he had the best-looking courtesan in the castle too.

She was a leggy, black-haired woman, with the interesting looks of a woman of nearer five-and-twenty than a mere girl. Her expression was bold and appraising, challenging to a man like Arnaud. He adored the sight of her, but Christ in a bucket, she was daunting. Such confidence, such poise.

‘You wish for a little wine?’ he called shyly as she approached the gate.

To his surprise, she gave him a slow, considering stare, eyeing his boots, his tunic, even his scarred face, and then a smile gradually dawned. ‘Why not?’ she said.

Westminster, Thorney Island

Sir Hugh le Despenser felt good as he marched to the King’s Painted Chamber. The confirmation from William Wattere was welcome news. It gave Sir Hugh some leverage over the Bailiff. If Simon Puttock dared became a thorn in his side again, the cretin would soon find himself out on the moors, without a roof over his head. And this time, Despenser would be acting within the law. It was a novel experience.

The King was waiting for him, sitting on a comfortable chair amidst a large group of men. His expression, when he saw Despenser enter, was that of a man who saw his only ally among uncounted enemies.

‘And what do we have here?’ Despenser murmured as he entered. He pulled off his gloves and dropped them, then allowed his cloak to fall to the floor behind him. As he walked forward, servants rushed to take them up. ‘A glorious collection of bishops, to be sure. What should this be called, I wonder? A “mass” of bishops? A “celebration”? Or perhaps a “noise”?’

‘Your sense of humour has not left you, then,’ Bishop Hethe said. Hethe was always very favourably disposed towards the King, and that made Despenser mistrust him. Either the man was dishonest, or, worse, he was in earnest. If the latter was the case, there was always the possibility that he would do all in his power to harm Despenser so that he might serve the King more honourably.