Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Jacquot said nothing, but showed his second purse, a bloated little pouch. The man took it, then turned to his companion and showed him the contents. ‘This for us?’ he asked Jacquot.

‘If you give me a few minutes with him, yes.’

‘A few minutes, then. But we’ll be listening, mind.’

The two walked out from the room, leaving Jacquot with Nicholas the Stammerer. They had not yet released him from his hook, and he swung gently, his head loose, a ball of exquisite agony.

Seeing he did not have the lad’s undivided attention, Jacquot took a large ladle of water from the barrel near the door, and dashed it into Nicholas’s face.

In the past such an insult would have merited an enraged response, but now Nicholas had sunk so far into despair that he could only mumble and avert his head.

‘So, Nicholas the Stammerer. How are you today?’ Jacquot said with mild enquiry. He looked at the wreckage of the man and shook his head. ‘You should not have tried to take my prize, little man. It was not a sensible course. I do not like to destroy, but when there is money at stake, and such money … well.’

He already had his long, thin knife in his hand, and he weighed it in his palm for a moment. ‘You are dead, Nicholas, already. There is nothing anyone can do for you. But the King and I do not want our names mentioned. So I will stop your mouth.’

‘No!’

The knife slipped down from above his shoulder, gently sliding in between the collarbone and the shoulder blade. Nicholas lurched to draw away, but that put strain on his hands. He screamed wildly, and thrust his body upwards. His mouth opened, madly, his neck muscles thickened and strained, his veins stood out like ropes, and his head swung from side to side in maddened denial, as his heart thudded with thunderous irregularity, working against all reason, as though his soul could contain the damage done by the skewer-like blade that had sheared through muscle and lungs to puncture it.

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

Louvre

Hugues was tempted to go and see the ‘King’ and throttle the bastard. It was all very well, him being so cocksure about the danger posed by Nicholas the Stammerer, as Amélie had intimated, but that didn’t make the castellan any calmer. He had too much to lose, damn the man’s soul!

Although he had not been so lucky as some. Hugues thought back to the sack of Anagni, the capture of Pope Boniface VIII. When the others had found the man Toscanello, and taken the key from him, there had been no one about at Anagni. No one at all, and although Toscanello had denied finding anything, the shifty little shite had been unable to stop himself sweating. Anyway, Paolo had always hated him. That was why he’d wanted to search for himself. And found the chest.

Most money chests were made of steel with more steel bands to enclose and protect them, and a great locking mechanism that was designed to keep all safe inside. Not this. It was a simple wooden box, not much larger than the chest a man might keep in his bedchamber. Perhaps two feet tall, two more deep, and a yard and a half wide. No decoration, just the enormous hole for the key.

‘See? It’s just an old chest,’ Toscanello had said, and had made as though to leave the room. But he was shaking.

Paolo had stopped and stared though, less sure. Just because this was lying in an undercroft didn’t mean it was empty. He was keen to open it up. So he did. The great key fitted the lock, and they could all hear the mechanism moving four enormous lugs out of their slots. And then he lifted the lid.

Hugues had never seen so much money. It actually hurt. There was a desire like a knife in his groin. He’d never known avarice like this, not since he’d craved another’s wife, and then he’d had to kill her man and rape her before killing her too. But this, this was different. It was so pure, this gold coinage, so shiny and bright, he could hardly bear the thought of touching it.

In the chest itself there was the coin, but then as they searched further in the storage room, they came across other chests, other boxes. One contained a set of plates, all gilded and valuable as diamonds. Another contained goblets, another held jewels. All the wealth of a Pope was in here. All the money Boniface VIII had accrued from selling indulgences and promotions at the turn of the century, taking advantage of the centennial fever that struck Christendom, it was all here.

And in the chamber, there were only the four of them: Paolo the leader, Hugues, Thomas and Toscanello. That much money was enormous, even split four ways.

But all knew the risks. And any who was unaware would have realised the danger as soon as the detestable de Nogaret began demanding to know where all the booty was. He wasn’t here just for the better glory of the King of France; he was here at Anagni to make himself fabulously rich. And he would have the head and heart of any man who tried to prevent him.

It was some while before they had reached Paris afterwards. De Nogaret was disappointed with his rewards, still fuming over his inability to find much of the Pope’s fabled wealth. He couldn’t. Hugues and Thomas had concealed it well. He soon learned to seek other means of gaining the money he craved. Hugues and Thomas later returned to the place where the money was hidden, and rescued their shares — which they were able to put to good use.

It was twenty-two years since that fateful meeting at Anagni, and Hugues was damned if he would see all he had built up destroyed by a drunken sot who fancied himself ‘King of Thieves’ and dropped others in the shit from incompetence.

Temple, Paris

Jean stood in the room and gaped. ‘Who let the assassin into the chamber?’

The executioner shook his head. ‘There are always people who try to get inside. Some are legitimate — they want to go and provide some food for the prisoners. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, but no one should have been allowed in there. Not there , where the King’s prisoner was being questioned. You know that, in Christ’s name! So how did this happen?’

‘As I told you, we found the prisoner dead in there this morning. Someone had stabbed his heart with a long, thin blade. It was only a matter of a spot of blood at his shoulder. I would have missed it myself, but one of the guards saw it there. There was nothing we could do.’

Jean dismissed him angrily. All too often prisoners could suddenly die, he knew. Sometimes it was an angry guard who went over the mark when a man was complaining. Guards were not hired for their sense or kindness. If a weeping man carried on for too long, he could be given something to weep about. Occasionally prisoners could die for no other reason than disease. Or malnutrition, or the cold or wetness. All were natural enough in a dungeon. These deaths weren’t the result of particularly bad treatment.

But this man’s death left Jean with more work.

First he must find out more about the Stammerer, and then see if he could do the same about this man called the ‘King’.

But first, perhaps, he should see if he could learn a little more about de Nogaret and his wife.

Tuesday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Bois de Vincennes

Baldwin took his place at the edge of the dais with an eye on the crowds all about. They were all in the courtyard of the great hunting lodge, and the arms of the French manor house reached out on either side, the fourth side being blocked by a large wall. Flags drooped in the still air; it was unseasonally warm for late September, and Baldwin could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back.