Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

He wore a plain linen shirt and hosen made of good quality wool. His belt had an enamelled buckle, and there were gold rings on each finger of his left hand. At his side was a girl, clearly a new one, recently brought here to the brothel. Jacquot didn’t know where she came from. She was only very young, from the look of her, and while the King mused and spoke, his hand played over her breast and stomach, then lower, while she stared fixedly away from him, watching Jacquot or the wall; anything other than the man who fiddled with her body as another might play with a quill or a knife. She would not complain. Not if she knew the kind of man he was.

‘You didn’t kill him when you were asked,’ the King said.

‘I couldn’t. There were too many others about.’

‘What do they matter? We’ve been paid.’

Jacquot was not about to contest the money, although he had seen nothing of it as yet. There was a firm belief in the company that all money was to be shared sensibly. For an important commission like this assassination, the money was paid to the King, and when the job was done, Jacquot would receive his share. Not the full amount, for the larger part would remain with the King, but he would take some livres, and with them he could enjoy himself for a while, gambling, drinking and whoring.

‘I will kill him within the week,’ he stated softly.

‘Good. I look on you as my barber. You shave the unnecessary from Paris, as a barber shaves my chin. He removes my hair, you remove the people who aren’t needed. I don’t want another failure.’

Jacquot nodded. He looked at the girl. The King had set his hand on her groin, and Jacquot saw a little shudder of revulsion run through her frame, as though she had felt a man walking over her grave. Perhaps fourteen summers old, she already had tracks of pain and hardship etched into her soft cheeks and brow.

Fourteen summers. That was the age of his little girl, when he buried her nine years ago.

Suddenly disgusted by his life, he turned and stumbled out. It took three large mazers of wine to help him recover his equanimity.

Furnshill, Devon

The letter was almost apologetic in its tone, but there was neither comfort nor sympathy in the brief text.

It was an order which had come to him from the Sheriff’s offices at Rougemont Castle in Exeter. There were many words on the paper, declaring the King’s position, his authority over the British, his overlordship of Guyenne and all the other territories, but these were irrelevant to Baldwin just now. All he saw was the simple command at the bottom: The King would have you travel with him to Paris as a member of his guard of household knights. Meet him at Langdon, near Dover .

Jeanne saw the scrawl at the bottom and blanched. ‘I can’t come with you, Baldwin. I’d like to, but not with young Baldwin and Richalda. They wouldn’t be able to cope with such a long journey, not at their ages. Not at the speed the King will wish to travel. It’s just not possible.’

‘My love,’ Baldwin said, scrunching up the parchment and pulling her towards him. ‘I don’t want to go, but I cannot refuse the King without good reason.’

‘I understand that, husband, but I cannot come too. What else does it say?’

‘Only that he wants me to bring Simon too.’ Baldwin sighed. ‘This is too cruel! Simon will not want to leave while this new matter of Despenser’s ownership of his home is troubling him and Margaret.’

‘Leave that for him and his wife to sort out, Baldwin. You need to arrange matters for yourself. You cannot worry about everyone else, my love.’

‘Very well. But I have to send a messenger to Simon to warn him.’

‘Yes.’ Jeanne’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Perhaps there is one thing which you might do to protect him, then.’

Morrow of the Feast of St Augustine of Hippo *

Langdon, Kent

Neither of the two men were happy as they rode into the yard of the great Premonstratensian house, Wolf trotting happily behind them.

Simon was grim of visage in the face of this latest enforced departure. He had sworn so often, to Baldwin’s knowledge, that he would never again leave England’s shores on a ship, and yet here he was, set to travel again to France, and at a time when his wife was being cruelly threatened by Despenser. The last time Simon had been away from home, he had installed a lodger who was more than capable of protecting himself — another Bailiff from the moors who had a need of a home. Margaret, meanwhile, had gone to visit Jeanne and taken their son with her.

This time, Jeanne had suggested he should put the local priest in as their lodger. The man would be very glad of a home so near to the church, and Margaret could once more travel to stay at Baldwin’s house.

This arrangement did not, however, leave Simon with any sense of comfort. He was here, many miles away from his home, and his wife and family were undefended.

‘Despenser promised us that he’d leave me alone,’ he said again.

‘Simon, I think this only proves that it is not possible to trust anything that he says,’ Baldwin replied. ‘He is not an honourable man, but a felon who dresses well. He just has so much power that he thinks he can behave with complete impunity. And with the King’s support and tolerance, he is quite right.’

‘Damn him. Damn his soul to hell,’ Simon muttered. He had never felt such an overwhelming detestation of any man before in his life. All those whom he had hunted down for murder, for treachery, for crimes of all sorts, had not inspired this sense of utter loathing. To think that the man could have done such a thing to him, for no genuine reason. Simon had done nothing to harm Despenser intentionally. Oh, possibly he and Baldwin had together ruined some of his plans, but that was not their fault directly. They were both officers of the law, and when they discovered acts that were illegal, they were bound to apply the law.

‘You must try to forget his actions against you while we are here, Simon,’ Baldwin advised, glancing about him. The abbey was filled to bursting with the King’s men and they mingled with those who wore the Despenser insignia. ‘Do not lose your temper, old friend.’

‘I will try not to, Baldwin, but if that self-satisfied cretin shows up and insults me, I will find it difficult not to push my fist through his face.’

‘Simon!’ Baldwin said urgently. ‘Bear this in mind, old friend — Despenser is inviolate. He is the King’s closest friend. Any man who makes Despenser an enemy is also an enemy of your King. You want to be an outcast in your own land? Then keep hold of your tongue. Despenser is foul and his acts repugnant, but that is no reason for you to die. Remember that! You do not wish to leave Meg and little Peter destitute, do you?’

‘I am sure I recall saying almost the same thing to you, the last time we were leaving the King’s presence,’ Simon said with a dry grin.

‘And you were right then, just as I am now. You reminded me of my duty to my family — now I do the same for you. Do not forget them, old friend.’

‘I will try not to,’ Simon promised. But there was little conviction in his tone.

Saturday after the Feast of St Augustine of Hippo *

Langdon, Kent

The years after the invasion of the Normans had seen a flourishing development of religious houses in the country. First were the Benedictines, then Cistercians too, but as time passed on, the Premonstratensians became more and more popular with those who could afford the best protection for their souls. Investing a little money in a house for these white-clad monks was a good long-term prospect.