Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘I begin to wonder whether he would not be a better agent for us. He has some dedication — but I have begun to doubt your strengths, you see. He is a young lion. You … you are more of a boar, I think. Wily, powerful, but brutish and slow.’

Jacquot smiled. ‘And you think Nicholas is faster? Then try him, King. Try him. And when he fails and dies, ask me again. But next time I will need more money, I fear. Much more.’

Louvre, Paris

The castellan was a short, heavy man called Hugues de Toulouse, who was the proud owner of a goodly paunch. All men aspired to such a belly: it proved that the owner was a rich man, that his family was well-provided for. Jean le Procureur eyed it with a degree of jealousy.

‘Mon Sieur,’ the castellan said as he marched into his little chamber and found Jean waiting. ‘You have something you need?’

‘For my investigations, you mean? No, not really. There were just a few questions I had about the man who died. Did you know who he was? I have learned that his name was Guillaume de Nogaret.’

‘Shit! In truth? But he was young!’

‘He was not the old man who served our King’s father, but perhaps that Guillaume’s son?’

The castellan puffed out his lips, shaking his head, and then made his way to the shelf behind his table, where a jug of beer stood. He filled a horn and drank it off, before refilling it, his back to the Procureur.

This was a huge embarrassment, were it to come out. The castellan knew that the son of the old King’s chief lawyer might not be considered important himself, but the mere fact that he was related to a servant of the old King’s would make his death more suspicious, were anyone to learn about it.

‘I knew his father,’ he said at length. ‘He was an arrogant bastard at the best of times — like all those who get too much education and get pushed up the ladder when they’ve not the sense to make good use of it all. Bloody fools. Got to give him that: Guillaume was a bright lad. He picked things up. And when he went after the Jews, or the Templars or the Pope at Anagni, he made sure of his position first, and then he was as sodding relentless as a mastiff. If he got his teeth in, there was nothing would shake him loose. Complete bastard for that, he was.’

‘You liked him?’

The castellan eyed him sourly. ‘You mad? You trust anyone in the King’s closest circle? Of course I didn’t trust him or like him. No, he’d have shoved a knife in my back as soon as he heard I had something he fancied.’

‘Did you know him here at the court?’

‘After Anagni, yes. I wasn’t here before that.’

‘You were there, then?’

‘Why do you say that?’ the castellan asked suspiciously.

Jean smiled. It was natural for any man to grow alarmed when he was asked about dead men whom they had known. ‘You mentioned Anagni, and it was as though that was an event in your life, not merely something that happened to de Nogaret. You were there, I infer?’

‘Yes. I was one of the King’s men. There were many of us there. And there was so much booty, all of us became richer for our efforts.’

‘Booty from the campaign?’

‘From the Pope’s palace. He was a thieving old scrote, Pope Boniface. Had the best collection of cash, gold, plates, goblets — you name it — of any Lord I’ve ever seen. Didn’t save him, though, murdering old bastard. We found him and raped the place! Happy times, they were.’

‘Did you know de Nogaret had a son?’

The castellan shrugged. ‘Should I? I last saw de Nogaret some while after the arrest of the Templars, a long time after Anagni, but by then I was already fairly wealthy myself. Didn’t have to ingratiate myself with him.’

‘His son was already a boy by then,’ Jean said pensively.

‘What of it?’ the castellan demanded. ‘You suggesting I had something to do with the lad’s death? Because I was here, and there are witnesses to it. The morning he was killed, I was here in the hall with the King.’

‘Sieur Hugues, please, do not upset yourself,’ Jean said soothingly. ‘I was thinking aloud, that is all. Is there anything else you can tell me about the boy or his father?’

‘Nothing. I hardly knew them.’

‘Very good. And now I must leave you. You will have much to do, I have no doubt.’

‘Why are you asking me all this about de Nogaret? Has someone said I was there?’

‘No, I merely wanted to learn all I could about the man, so I could try to understand what he was doing here.’

‘Hah! Trying to get money, I expect. What else? That’s all petitioners ever do, isn’t it? He was probably coming here to ask to see the King to explain how, sadly, his father had fallen into poverty, and ask could he have a hand-out.’

‘Perhaps. But why would he then go to the Cardinal?’

‘Thomas knew his father too, just as I did.’

‘He did?’

‘Before he was a Cardinal, Thomas was a priest, and knew the court as well as any other chaplain about here.’

‘Interesting!’

Back outside, Jean stood in contemplation. There was much to consider, not least the fact that the castellan appeared anxious about something to do with the matter.

As he thought about all he had heard, he saw a dark-haired beauty enter the passage and walk down towards him. She was not well-dressed, but the graceful measured pacing of her feet made her look more elegant than many a lady of the castle. She looked at him without recognition or interest as she passed, and then made her way into the castellan’s room. It made Jean’s brows lift to see her confidence — and the fact that she was not evicted from Castellan Hugues’s chamber made them rise even higher.

If he had to guess, he would have said that she was a prostitute, from a certain hardness about her, and the swagger of her hips, and he found it a little disconcerting, not to say shocking, that the castellan should entertain such a woman in the King’s castle.

Tuesday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary *

Dover

Baldwin stood and watched, chewing slowly at a long strand of hair from his moustache as the King rose and held up his hand. In his clear voice he made his declaration, sounding firm and resolute. He was in every way the symbol of perfection. The ideal King.

‘Made a miraculous recovery, eh, Sir Baldwin?’

‘I think we should listen to his words, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin answered. He was thinking that never had a tyrant looked so kindly.

‘Maybe so. But he don’t look like a man who had to miss an important meeting with the French King, eh?’ grinned Sir Richard de Welles.

De Welles was a tall man, some six feet one inch in height. He stood with his legs set a shoulder’s width apart, as stolidly planted there as any tree. He had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a gorget. His eyes were dark brown, amiable yet shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles, making him appear older than he really was, for Baldwin knew he was actually younger than his own age of two-and-fifty. Sir Richard’s flesh had the toughened look of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air would acquire.

He also had the endearing conviction that his booming voice was inaudible to the rest of the men standing about.

‘The Bailiff didn’t look too well, did he?’

Baldwin allowed a faint smile to pass over his lips. ‘I rather think that was your fault again, Sir Richard.’

‘Me? What did I do?’

‘He is not quite so well accustomed to strong wines as you, perhaps?’ suggested Baldwin, happy in the knowledge that his own moderation the previous night had prevented any liverishness on his part.