Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘You think he was worse than others who had similar jobs?’

Hélias looked at him. ‘There are many who will kill for money or power — not so many will do it for simple pleasure.’

Jean left the little house with much to consider. There was a lot of sense in Hélias’s words. He now believed that the deaths of husband and wife were too coincidental to be separate, random events. It was plain that they must be connected, and that connection meant that there was someone who was keen to make use of some information which they had.

The crucial problem, of course, was that he had no idea what the information could be, nor how to glean it. Unless he could find someone who knew the killer of the de Nogarets, and persuade him to talk.

There were many judicial methods for opening a man’s mouth. Foolishly, many thought they could withstand the terror of the wheel, or the agony of flames. No man could. The only effective means of preventing massive anguish or death, was to get over the shameful confession early in the process. Far better to do that, than be left to suffer unnecessarily. The outcome would probably be the same, for most criminals, but the sensible man would hasten the end and welcome death sooner rather than later.

Yes. He was content that there were plenty of ways of acquiring the knowledge he needed, provided that he could first capture the right person.

Deep in thought, the Procureur walked with his head down, aware only of the conundrum of the deaths, and a hollow sensation in his throat. It was deeply unpleasant to be strolling along here, convinced that he was being followed by a murderer, but there was little else he might do. When a man sought an assassin, he was best served to leave himself open to attack, but with enough protection that, were an attacker to try to kill him, the fellow would soon learn the error of his ways.

He could hear them now. The steady pattering of feet growing nearer, the firm plodding of another — unhurried, resolute and calm.

Christ in a box, the man was going to be late! Jean thought, and turned, his hand going to his sword.

There was a lad. Almost on him, teeth bared in a grimace of desperation and determination, a small figure, with thin, pinched features and gleaming brown eyes in a foul, smeared face. It was not his face that Jean saw, though, but the sharp knife in his hand. It was held up in his fist, and suddenly the Procureur felt powerless. The point began to fall towards his chest, and he felt like a mouse catching sight of the owl swooping down. He could not even groan, so great was his terror. The knife was all. He could see its edge catching the light and glinting, as it plunged down towards him. All was slow, all was hideously clear. The knife held his destruction. He would die now, and all because his servant-

There was a clanging tone, and he saw a metal-studded pole appear. It stopped the blade a foot from Jean’s face, and he felt as though he must faint at any moment.

The staff rose, and Jean watched his impassive guard heft it up and away, before slamming a fist the size of a ham into the side of the attacker’s head. Jean saw the lad’s head jerk, then swing back, into the fist once more. His eyes rolled up into his head as his mouth fell wide, and suddenly his entire body wavered like a ripple on water. It lurched to one side, then the other, and then gracefully collapsed.

‘Where in God’s name were you?’ Jean demanded, and then felt the bile hot and acid in his throat as he thought of the knife thrusting into his body.

Turning, he vomited on to the roadside.

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

Bois de Vincennes, near Paris

Simon was almost prepared to believe in the superiority of the French race as he approached the great manor of Vincennes.

It wasn’t the size and the wealth that struck him here. Rather it was the extreme elegance of all he saw. Ever since they had landed at the coast, the people all over the country had turned out in their hundreds to see the young Duke who would become King of England. There was an immense proprietorial pride in him, as though he was actually a Prince of France, not of England. All knew that his mother had been a Princess of France, after all, before she became Queen of England. Perhaps it made sense.

The country was rich. There were little vills spread all over, and he knew that the churches were filled with precious plates, jewels and cloths. No matter that the peasants looked more cowed than those whom he knew in England, their religious houses waxed rich.

It was noticeable, though. In England, the peasants were shifty, untrustworthy churls for the large part. He would never have wandered alone in darkness in England, and even in daylight there were many places which a man would be sensible to avoid. Here in France he had a different impression. It seemed safer, somehow. Perhaps it was just the tension he felt because of the threat to his home and his wife, but there was definitely something about this land which made him feel comfortable.

And the people were so welcoming. Women came and gazed at Duke Edward, some spreading flowers beneath the hooves of the knights as they passed by, others calling and waving as though they fully expected him to become their own King before long. It was very peculiar.

Perhaps it was partly the presence of Queen Isabella. She was a pretty little thing, sitting on her horse in such a gracious manner.

She had looked a little surprised when she saw all the men with her son on the ships. Simon was not the most observant man in the world, as he would happily admit, but even he saw how her smile became glassy and brittle when she saw Bishop Walter Stapledon stand at the gangplank. She had been waiting there patiently, Simon could easily imagine, without any outward display of fretting, all the long wait until the ships came into view. And then, when she saw them she must have been overwhelmed with excitement, but all would have been concealed behind that firm, reserved exterior. Until her son was in her arms, naturally. And then the others appeared and strode up to greet her. All welcomed with a polite nod of the head, all bar Stapledon.

The Queen detested Stapledon. Simon had been aware of it before, but never before had he realised just how deep that hatred ran. And it was a shock to him to see that her feelings were reciprocated. It was all Stapledon could do to nod to her, and even then he didn’t so much as smile. Nor did he bow in the manner that was customary when a subject met his Queen. Simon noticed that, and more. But he wasn’t alone.

‘Did you see that?’ Baldwin whispered.

‘He should be careful!’ Sir Richard said. ‘A Bishop is still a man, and a man who insults his Queen is insulting his King as well.’

Baldwin gave Simon a brief but significant look. They were both of the same mind: a man might insult this Queen with relative impunity. The King had no love for her any more.

But if there was safety from the King, Simon soon realised that others were less inclined to tolerance. The English men-at-arms were unbothered, watching as the stevedores began offloading horses, boxes and trunks, together with bales of cloth and gifts, but the French warriors felt that their King’s sister had been snubbed, and there were mutterings among them, and many dark scowls passed over towards the Bishop.

Their journey to the south and east from Boulogne had been slow, but only because there was no need to hurry. All was planned meticulously. In fact, as soon as the ship was docked and all were on land again, Simon and Baldwin were asked to attend the Queen in a conference to discuss just that.