Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Oddly, Hélias had not been able to help him over that death. Sweet Mother of Christ! It had made the Procureur furious to learn that the security up at the Temple was so lax that a man might walk in off the street and commit murder with impunity. The two executioners must have been bribed, but it was not so easy to punish them, as men with their lack of scruples and their minute moral flexibility were hard to find.

Still, the death of Nicholas the Stammerer had been clean and tidy: a simple thrust down with a terrible, thin blade. It would have to be a long blade, too. There were some who said that to break open a man’s heart it would take only an inch and a half of metal from the front. More, apparently, from the back — but from above? He wondered how long the blade would have to be: six inches? Ten? But all men carried blades as a matter of course. There was little point attempting to look at the methodology, except to consider the manner of death. The two men killed cleanly with a single blow: the woman slaughtered in a frenzied welter of blows.

‘Are you sure you know no more about the married couple?’ he had pressed Hélias. He would ignore Nicholas the Stammerer for now.

‘What can I tell you? The pair of them seemed pleasant enough, although desperately hard up. They did keep talking about how much easier their lives would be soon, but never told anyone why, nor how much they would be improved.’

‘No mention of gaining money directly, then,’ Jean mused. ‘But who would, in a tavern in a strange city? That would be to invite death.’

‘Then perhaps they did confide in someone, eh?’ Hélias had said shrewdly.

‘Yes,’ he said now. ‘Someone was told. Someone knew what was going on.’

He frowned up at the ceiling, considering all the different aspects of the matter, and it was only when he thought again about the footsteps of de Nogaret, that the frown deepened.

If he had arrived here in the castle, he would have requested some help to find the chamber where the Cardinal would meet him. And Jean had already decided that the chamber was perhaps selected for de Nogaret by his assassin, because it was far enough away from everything and everybody.

The first person he had considered for the murder was the messenger who brought the Cardinal to the body. First the man took de Nogaret to the chamber, and then he slew him, before going to fetch the Cardinal.

Except there would have been blood. The messenger was seen by many, and all admitted that he was clean. So that was the first mark against him.

‘Second,’ he murmured, closing his eyes, ‘we have the problem of the servant killing him for no reason. Why do that? The man appears to be perfectly normal, so far as I can see.’

If he had wished it, the boy could already have been dangling from the meat hook in the Temple, but there was little to be gained by harming a lad of decent birth. It wasn’t the same as torturing a fool and knave like the Stammerer. And at the present, he had no reason to suspect the servant of anything other than working correctly in his post.

‘So, servant finds visitor at gate; servant takes visitor to a remote chamber; servant fetches the Cardinal; Cardinal and servant return to the room and find de Nogaret dead. Why? And why in that particular room? And slain by whom?’

It was a foul, confusing mess, and the more he considered it, the less confident he felt about learning the truth.

There was no point in remaining here. The dark was beginning to fall. He must leave the castle and find his way home. Perhaps while he slept, a partial solution might occur to him; some little detail he had missed.

He closed his door behind him, locked it, and crossed the court to the gate — and then, as a man entered, he stood a little aside.

‘Friend, do you know where I can find the exchequer of the Duke of Brabant?’

Jean was tempted to snarl, ‘Do I look like a servant?’ but then he spotted a young knave from the stables. ‘I think you will find this boy an excellent guide,’ he said, and was about to turn away, when he realised what he had just done. The visitor thanked him and walked away, casting a curious look at him, as though wondering whether he was moon-struck.

It was his own foolishness that made Jean swear quietly and lengthily. He had seen it only a few days ago. When a visitor arrived, if he knew little about the castle and the people in it, he would automatically ask a mere boy to show him the way. A knave from the stables, or one from the kitchens, either would suffice.

Surely that was what de Nogaret had done. A newcomer to Paris, overawed by the city itself, then by the great palace of the Kings of France, he would have gazed about him with fear, anxious that he might make himself appear foolish. And so he would have turned to someone who was lower in the social scale at the castle: a knave.

Jean cast a look about him as the dusk began to settle. He would hurry homewards, and then consider this. Perhaps, he thought, the solution was approaching him after all.

Bois de Vincennes

‘Are you sure of this?’ Baldwin asked.

Sir Richard set his head to one side and didn’t respond.

‘I am sorry, Sir Richard. I forget you too are a Justice.’

‘I am used to questioning men, and I know when they are lying to me, Sir Baldwin. Trust my judgement here. Sir Henry de Beaumont is no more an independent guard of the Duke than I’m a tailor. The man is up to his eyes in something.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as plotting to support the Queen while she’s here, I should think, Sir Baldwin. The woman’s as cunning as a fox, and will use her wiles to protect herself and her son. Now, this means that it’s only you, me, the Bailiff here, and the Bishop who are independent of the Queen. It’s not enough to serve the Duke as he should be served. I think we ought to warn him. Maybe leave France.’

‘I do not think so. We have no need to fear the King,’ Baldwin objected. ‘He will not harm his sister or his nephew. No, we are safe.’ Then a thought occurred to him: it was one thing for them all to be safe, but quite another for the Bishop of Exeter. He was hated throughout France for the stand he took against Isabella. And she would be unlikely to do much to help him.

Simon was nodding to himself, but his expression was glum. ‘If we cannot trust to Sir Henry, we have to look to ourselves. But perhaps that is the Queen’s ambition, to force each of us to take her part, and then leave no one here independent to protect the Duke. Perhaps keep him here, away from his father.’

‘At least the King’s traitor, Mortimer, is not here,’ Baldwin said. ‘But no matter. I suggest we should remain together, all three of us, as much as possible — just to ensure that our own lives are not threatened. And we must tell the Bishop as soon as is possible.’

‘Yes. That makes perfect sense,’ Sir Richard said. He cast an innocent look upon Simon. ‘Perhaps we should visit the castle’s bar and take a little wine to settle us after this unpleasant shock, eh, Bailiff?’

Simon threw a look of mingled horror and disgust at Baldwin. His belly was only recently recovered after his last visit to a tavern with the iron-gutted Sir Richard.

‘I think that would be an excellent idea,’ Baldwin said, and left the chamber with a fixed grin on his face.

Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou was enjoying his visit to the Bois de Vincennes since his discussion with the King about the Queen of England and Bishop Stapledon. It was not always the case. He had been one of those who struggled to get on with King Charles and his companions. Not surprising, perhaps, bearing in mind the fact that the King’s friends were all of exalted rank, and his own family were little better than peasants.