Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

It was a proof to Jean de Poissy that no matter how cultured and civilised the city, there was always an edge of cruelty about the place. He loved and despised it in equal measure most days, for while there was much to stimulate the mind and inspire a man to greatness, there was also much to cause revulsion. A city in which a babe could die in such miserable loneliness was not one in which to bring up children.

But since he had no wife and no children, it was not a concern for him at the moment. He would marry sometime. Not this year, though. He enjoyed his life too much to be tied by a woman. Better to be free.

Just then, he spotted a group of men huddled in a corner, and he automatically became wary. They appeared well-off, from the look of their clothes, but that was no sign of honour. It was all too easy to disguise an evil soul in silks like those of a gentleman.

They were paying him no mind, however. Their attention was fixed on another man. Thinking briefly that they might be felons looking to waylay another wanderer down this lane, Jean glanced around at the man they watched.

To his surprise, he saw that the latter was staring at him — and only then did he recognise the man who had been loitering outside his home the other day. In that same second, he saw the glint at the man’s side, and put his hand to his own sword, half-drawing it. It was enough to set the fellow to flight. One of the richly-dressed young men attempted to catch him, setting a foot to trip him, but the stranger was up and away before any more could be done.

Langdon, Kent

Taking up a crust of bread and dipping it into his mess, Simon winced as a stab of pain lanced through his shoulder. The wound would take a long time to heal completely. Despenser’s man had cut him well. *

‘Simon? Are you all right?’ the Bishop asked.

‘It’s that scratch I got from the bastard Wattere,’ he said. ‘Despenser’s man.’

‘I am sorry,’ the Bishop said, a little shamefaced. He had held William atte Wattere for a while, and then released him, even though he could have kept him a little longer.

‘You know that Despenser has bought Simon’s house?’ Baldwin asked pointedly.

‘He is a very greedy man,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘But surely that means he will not harm the house now, Simon?’

‘I think it means he will evict us at the first opportunity,’ Simon grunted.

Baldwin added, ‘It is why Simon did not wish to come with us. He feels sure that his wife is not safe.’

‘Could I help? I could have a man check on her for you.’

‘I would be glad of it,’ Simon said shortly. ‘So, tell us what has happened.’

‘It takes little enough time,’ the Bishop said. ‘The King had decided to make his way to Paris, and there to pay his homage to the French King, as is his duty. But there were some of us who were nervous that to do so would endanger his life. There are stories that if the King sets foot on French soil, he will be attacked. Some fear that he will be captured and treated as a prisoner of war, ransomed like a knight taken on the battlefield. It would be an appalling situation.’

‘So a group of advisers told him he should be anxious? And he immediately gave up his honourable commitment to go to King Charles?’ Baldwin said.

‘It would be better to keep your voice low if you are to make such comments, Sir Baldwin,’ the Bishop said harshly. ‘Those of us who argued in all good faith to protect the King may not meet with your approval, but do me the honour of believing I argued from conviction, not evil intention.’

‘He sent to apologise to the French?’ Baldwin said after a moment or two.

‘Yes. Two men have gone — Bishop Stratford and John de Bruton, one of the canons from Exeter. I think you may know him?’

Baldwin recalled a thin, pale man with a sallow complexion who looked as though he might benefit from a visit to a warmer city than Exeter. ‘What now, then?’ he asked. ‘Why are we here?’

‘That’s what I want to know, too. Surely this wasn’t so sudden that we couldn’t have been told before we left our wives and our lands?’ Simon blurted out.

‘If you were not to go, you would have been warned. However, you will still be needed.’

‘We were sent for to guard the King on his way to Paris,’ Simon pointed out. ‘If he’s not going, there’s not much for us to do.’

‘The King is not going, but someone must go to pay homage. And the King’s representative has asked for you to be his guards — as have I.’

Baldwin frowned. ‘You mean the Earl?’

‘Yes. The Earl of Chester must go, if the King won’t. And after this latest prevarication, the King would certainly be in danger. In fact, his ambassadors should already be with the French King now, and with any good fortune they will have made their offer.’

Monday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Louvre

Jean had not enjoyed a restful weekend. His sleep had been shaken by the memory of the flash of steel, and now, although he had been to church and prayed all the previous morning, he still felt sore-eyed and rough.

The attack had shocked him. It was not the first time he had been attacked in the streets, nor would it be the last, of that he had no doubt, but the suddenness of it had made him fear for his life, and like some slow-moving dream, he could still see the huddled figure with its hidden weapon … then the man bounding away, like some strange apparition. It was enough to set his teeth chattering when he woke for the third time in the watches of the night. It was times like these, he thought, when the presence of a woman in his bed would have been a comfort.

Today, he would take his servant with him. Stephen had the appearance of a bullock, but the mind of a tax-collector.

‘You’re coming with me today,’ Jean told him.

‘Very well, Sieur. Who will prepare your food while I am with you?’

‘You will. Your duty is to follow me to work and see that I am safe, and then to return for me when I walk home again.’

‘And the rest of the day you will be unprotected?’

‘There is no need for sarcasm, Stephen. You will be content to know that I shall have the whole of the King’s household within shouting distance. But they are not on hand when I walk to and from the castle. You understand?’

‘Of course, Sieur. That makes perfect sense.’

The Procureur looked at him suspiciously. ‘Good. Prepare yourself, then.’

There were many times like that, when he was not sure whether his servant was mocking him or not. Usually it was safer to assume that he was, but make no comment. Today, Jean did not feel up to arguing logic with the fellow.

But what he did want was to think through this notion that the murdered man had been lured to a quiet chamber where the foul deed would be easy to accomplish.

Who had taken him there?

After a morning’s assiduous questioning, the Procureur learned from Philippe that a stranger had been seen in the main hall on the day of the murder.

‘Master Castellan?’ he called quietly.

The castellan, a tall, aristocratic man with the dark face and beard of a Breton, crossed the floor to join him. ‘M’Sieur le Procureur — how may I help you?’

It was hard when speaking to someone like this to remember that he was just a man like any other. Jean was intimidated by rank. He was too aware of his own lowly background. Even when a clerk in his cups had told him that the easiest way to remember a man’s true position in the world was to imagine what he looked like sat on a privy, his robes hitched up about his waist, he still found himself feeling awed by men like this castellan.