Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘Sir Hugh le Despenser is a close friend of his father’s, though,’ Baldwin said lightly.

‘Let us not mince words, Sir Knight,’ Richard said, his voice dropping. ‘Despenser is an evil cancer in the heart of the realm. You two are known to be hated by him. Yes, even here people can receive messages of such a sort. And yes, the Earl is happy to have men with him who will be less devoted to Despenser.’

‘What do you want from us?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Just this: that you keep an eye on the Bishop. He is dedicated to the destruction of the Earl’s mother, and Earl Edward will not allow that. It is your task to …’

Simon turned back, eyes narrowed. ‘Are you suggesting that we should spy upon him? Bishop Walter has been a friend to me for longer than I can remember.’

‘I am glad for you. To others, the good Bishop may not appear so kindly. One such person will become your King. Remember that, Master Bailiff!’

‘Richard, we are grateful to you,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘We will do all in our power to protect your student.’

He watched as the clerk nodded and walked away. ‘I think, Simon,’ he sighed, turning to his old friend, ‘this could become a strangely dangerous mission.’

‘May he swyve a goat!’

Gate of the Grand Châtelet

The body lay at the rear of a small, dark alleyway.

Jean stood with the Sergent while a physician studied her, concluding his examination with a grimace and a muttered, ‘Whoever did this was in real earnest.’

Jean could see what he meant. Despite the lack of light, he could see that the girl had been stabbed many times. Her torso was punctured with lots of little wounds, each about an inch in length, one even penetrating a nipple.

For that was the other thing: this young girl, and she could scarcely have been fifteen, was entirely naked. It was a sight that made old Godeaul’s breath rasp in his throat. As Jean knew, the Sergent had three daughters of his own. The man was gripping his staff with whitened knuckles.

‘Who did this, Godeaul?’

‘If I knew that, Procureur, his body would already be in the river!’ the old fellow said hoarsely. ‘I would not allow a man who could do this to a young girl to live.’

Jean nodded and peered closer, crouching down at her side. The bones of her right hand were crushed; blood was clotted all over her, and smeared across her belly in two lengthy sweeps. That was, he thought, where her murderer had wiped his blade clean after thrusting it into her. And it had been a frenzied attack — he could count twenty stab wounds quite easily, but there would be more, all over her upper body: her breasts, belly, shoulders, throat and head. One had ripped through her right cheek and laid the teeth open to view.

He felt ashamed of himself for subjecting her poor naked body to this close study, but he knew that he must make sense of her position, her wounds, even the choice of this alley for her resting place, if he was to find her killer.

And find her killer he must . As Sergent Godeaul had said, the man who was capable of this sort of attack should be found and slain like a rabid dog before he could kill again.

Langdon, Kent

They had left the bar, and were making their way back to their beds when Simon heard a quiet call. Wolf turned and growled, a low, deep rumble.

‘ Baldwin! ’ Simon hissed, his hand going to his sword.

‘There is no need for that, Bailiff,’ said the Bishop as he approached.

‘Bishop Walter, I am sorry,’ Simon said.

‘Walk with me, both of you. I have need of a little contemplation, and your heads will aid me.’

They followed him as he paced along the grassed lawns, his head bent.

‘Bishop, is there something you wish to ask of us?’ Baldwin said after some minutes.

The Bishop sighed. ‘Yes, there is. It grieves me to say it, but we have too many men on this journey. I am content with Sir Richard de Welles. He is a stout-hearted man, and has experience of reading how other men will react, from his position as Coroner. And I believe he will stick true to his oath.’

‘Of course.’

‘You will, too, I know. There is nothing you would do to harm me,’ the Bishop continued, as though he had not heard Baldwin. ‘It is the others. You know, I am wary even of Sir Henry de Beaumont.’

‘Why? Sir Henry is a man of good reputation.’

‘Yes, he is. But a good reputation is only as good as the last man who reported it.’

‘What do you fear, Bishop?’ Simon asked bluntly.

‘It is not my fear,’ Bishop Walter said quietly, ‘but I am anxious, that if I die, then the Earl’s life could be in danger, and the realm with him.’

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

Paris

The Procureur had three mysteries to consider now, where one alone had taxed him before. There were the two corpses, and the matter of the thefts, as the King called it. The only positive aspect was that at least the second death had nothing to do with the King. The first, the death of the young lad, must take precedence, because it was an embarrassment to the Crown. Jean had spent all the previous day trying to find out more. But without success.

On the day that the man had arrived, he had been taken to the chamber where he was presumably murdered by a servant. This same servant was no longer at the Louvre, Jean had discovered. He had been despatched to the King’s special hunting ground at Vincennes, one of the servants sent ahead to prepare the little palace for the vast numbers of guests shortly due to arrive. Meanwhile, three others stated that they had seen the man in conversation with the castellan, Hugues — but he had denied all but a fleeting contact with him.

This morning he had made a decision, and sent a messenger to Philippe at the Louvre. The boy was rebelling against these constant investigations, but Jean had demanded, and received, the support of the head cook, and now Philippe was seconded to his service. Jean had ordered the lad to watch the castellan and report any visitors to him. It was likely that the castellan was merely involved in some form of corruption and trying to conceal that, rather than being a murderer — but at this stage of the investigation, anything was possible. And yet the witnesses were all convinced that Hugues and the stranger had greeted each other like old companions.

Anyway, to Jean the dead woman was a worry of a more immediate sort. He was not at all happy to have a madman walking the streets of Paris who could slash and stab a defenceless young girl so viciously. Once she had been cleaned up, he had counted sixty-three wounds on her. An appalling number. Her hand was crushed, too. But not by a single massive injury; there had been several different blows: one to each knuckle, one to each finger, one to the bones of the hand, and so on. The blows had been rained down on her to inflict maximum damage or pain.

He was walking from the Grand Châtelet’s chapel, in which he had viewed the corpse again where it lay before the altar, and now, recalling that poor little body, he stopped and wiped a hand over his eyes. She was so pretty, so young and innocent looking. He could feel hot tears rising at the memory of how she had been forced to suffer.

But tears wouldn’t bring her back, nor erase the memory of her suffering.

If only there was something, anything , which could give a hint as to who she was, and who her killer might be.

There was a natural assumption that an unknown girl like her, found dead in an alleyway, was more than likely a prostitute. Women like that were five to a sou in Paris. They came in from miles around to the city here: girls who had argued with their parents and fled the home; girls who were threatened with rape by local men of influence, and needed to escape; girls who met persuasive young men who told them of the life they could enjoy together in the city, and who then sold the girls … So many young women, so many victims. There were few indeed who would survive here to make a life for themselves.