Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘That’s what I thought, Hélias. If he isn’t found, he may do this again. That is what worries me.’

‘I’ll let the girls know. All of them. Meanwhile, where is this chit? I’ll go and see her.’

‘Why?’

‘To see if I know her, of course. And to pay for a Mass too. No one should die without a decent send-off. Don’t care if she’s one of mine or someone else’s, she ought to have a service.’

‘Good, Hélias. You do that. And I should be off.’

She looked up at him, and there was that deliberate set to her head again, an evaluation in her eyes. ‘Do you need to go?’

‘What are you offering me? A second-rate trainee, or the real thing?’

‘You wouldn’t be satisfied with a student, would you?’

‘And you’d see to me for free?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Get away, you villein! The day I offer my arse for free is the day you leave the city to live in the countryside.’

Lydford, Devon

Margaret, Simon’s wife, was out with the milkmaid when the sound of hoofbeats reached her ears. She set the maid to work with the butter churning, and then hurried out to where Hugh, Simon’s servant, stood with a staff close to hand, scowling at a pair of riders. The priest had not yet arrived to take over, and she had not packed or prepared for the move to Furnshill. She had wanted to finish all the main tasks about the house and farm first, like seeing to the harvest of the fruit and nuts, the slaughter of the pigs and the careful threshing of grain and its storage. All was nearly complete now, but there were still many jobs to be finished, and her back was breaking under the effort.

She recognised one of the men at once. It was tempting to run back into the house and gather up her son to protect him. Instead she stood her ground, her face set.

‘Wattere,’ she said steadily. ‘What do you want?’

William atte Wattere grinned without humour. ‘I have a message for you from my Lord Despenser. He wishes that this house be emptied.’

‘I cannot do that. My husband is not here.’

‘Yes. We know that.’

Margaret swallowed back her fear. ‘You threaten a woman when she is all alone? What courage !’

Wattere smiled. His left forearm was still wrapped in a linen cloth from where Simon had slashed at him earlier in the year, and the pain had not left him. It was little satisfaction to know that Simon’s hand and shoulder were both injured from Wattere’s sword.

‘Lady, I don’t threaten. I’m making a promise. You go, or your house will be taken from you by force. And I will take whatever payment I want,’ he added, eyeing her body lasciviously.

She felt her skin crawl at the thought of his hands on her.

Vigil of the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Dover

Baldwin and Simon had not slept well after the Bishop’s comments about the Earl’s life and the realm being in danger if he himself, were killed. Neither wanted to talk about it the next day until, much later, Baldwin gave Simon a look and the two left their stools and went outside.

‘If you want to talk about Walter’s words yesterday,’ Simon began, ‘ don’t ! I have no desire to contemplate someone killing him.’

‘And yet it is a natural fear on his part,’ Baldwin said. ‘The Bishop is no friend to the French, and the King of France knows that. More, he is still less a friend to the Queen. It has been largely by his efforts that she has been deprived of lands and wealth. The French King would be entirely within his rights to deprecate the treatment meted out to his sister on the advice of the Bishop.’

‘Perhaps so, but I don’t want to think about such matters. They’re not for me,’ Simon said. ‘Our job is to guard the Earl, and that is all.’

‘Simon, I do not disagree. However, how would it look to the King if we permitted someone to kill his most respected churchman? We shall need to take care.’

‘I find it hard to imagine that anyone could try to kill Bishop Walter, in any case,’ Simon grunted.

‘And I too,’ Baldwin said, crouching to rub the ears of his dog. Wolf sat and stared up at him, panting slightly. ‘But we should be wary nonetheless.’

‘I am likely to be wary the whole time I am away,’ Simon said glumly.

Louvre, Paris

It was nearly dark when Jean had finally finished his work. The light was dim in his chamber with only three cheap candles, and he was relieved to be able to snuff them and rise, rubbing at his eyes. The scrolls he could leave there. No one was likely to try to break into his room to steal them, in his opinion. No, better to leave now and make his way homewards.

Since the second attempt on his life, he tended to avoid the smaller alleys, sticking to the larger thoroughfares where there were more people. Yet he was aware still of a certain anxiety. There was something about knowing that a man had set his heart upon your death that took the lustre away from even the best and brightest day.

Today he and his man walked quickly from the castle gates and into the city. And it was as he passed the great city gate that he saw a small shape dart under a guard’s polearm, and rush towards him.

For an instant he was tempted to reach for his sword and sweep it out, until he realised with a closer look that this was a young girl, and if she was armed, her weapons were very well concealed, since she only wore a thin linen shift, with no sleeves, belted about her waist with a cord.

‘Sieur Procureur?’

‘I am,’ he answered, lifting a hand to tell the guard to hold back.

‘I come from Hélias. She asked me to tell you this: the girl was not a whore. She was a recent visitor to the city with her husband. They were called de Nogaret, I think.’

‘Sweet Jesus!’ Jean blurted.

So that was it! The two corpses were those of de Nogaret and his wife.

Furnshill, Devon

Madame Jeanne de Furnshill was entirely engaged in the careful selection of the apples and pears that were to be stored, seeing to their careful wiping so that any dirty ones wouldn’t pollute the others, and taking out all those which were bruised or damaged in any way. They would be eaten now, or used to make cider for the farmers on the demesne. She had just set the last from the present basket in the rack in the roof, when she heard the clopping hooves and rattle and squeak of harness and chains. Frowning slightly, she put the damaged apples into the basket, and carried it down the old ladder with some caution. A new ladder would be needed for next year, for this one was rotted with worm holes.

Outside, she was still wiping her hands on her apron when Margaret Puttock appeared around the corner. ‘Margaret! You are sooner than I expected — were you not going to come in another couple of weeks?’ Jeanne was surprised. Then, remembering her manners, she said hastily, ‘You are most welcome! Come here, come here!’

She could see the weariness on Margaret’s face as she hurried to the horse to greet her. The miserable old devil of hers, Hugh, was grumbling at the cart behind, with her son Peterkin at his side, but all were clearly glad to be here in Furnshill. Jeanne sensed Baldwin’s servant Edgar behind her, but before she could ask, he had taken Margaret’s horse’s bridle, and was holding the beast steady for her.

‘Jeanne, I am so happy to be here. I feel safe at last,’ Margaret managed, before bursting into tears.

Jean le Procureur’s house

Later, as he sat in his chamber, rubbing at his eyes to clear them, he could recall the story of the late Guillaume de Nogaret. Born of a family which had been denounced as heretics, the young Guillaume was removed from them and placed in the care of the Church. Naturally, both parents were executed.