Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Yet in France there were some who looked beyond the position of a man’s parents. In Thomas’s life, that guardian angel had been the kindly priest of his tiny parish church. Some priests had so little learning themselves that they were not merely unwilling, they were unable to spot the brighter children, but not Père Hugo. He had noticed the young Thomas’s facility with numbers and with a pen, but rather than pick him out and thus ostracise him from his circle of friends, the priest made a point of speaking with all the boys, and occasionally holding small parties for them, at which he would let them play with slates and chalk.

But it was Thomas who had the ability. There was no doubt about that. And when he was praised for his efforts, he began to want to continue, to learn more. Reading he found difficult, but writing was a joy. He loved to make curling letters spread over a tablet or sheet of parchment, the patterns a delight to the eye. To elevate his work to a higher level he would add pictures: dragons breathing fire, boars snorting steam in the winter, horses rearing with a knight in the saddle. Later, when his tutor saw these works, he had scowled and beaten Thomas for inventing things which would be unpleasing to God.

‘He has made this marvel of a world for us, His people, and you spend your time inventing new worlds? Make yourself more complete, boy, by studying His works, by copying His creatures.’

The beatings were regular, of course. All boys learned how to cope with the pain. But it did not dissuade the young Thomas, and as soon as he could, he had announced to his Vicar that he would like to be educated as a priest himself. And a priest he became after some little while, but he did not remain a priest for very long. Soon he was studying again in the Vatican. And he came to the notice of the Pope.

In those days, the Papacy was a shoddy organisation. Not enough piety, too much avarice. And yet to be there, to be living with the Pope, that was an enormous honour, and one which he was unwilling to give up lightly. He rose through the ranks, crowning his career with this position of Cardinal, here at the court of the French King, as adviser to King Charles, diplomat, and spy on behalf of the Pope.

It had been a good life. And now, with all fortune, perhaps he could see a long-hoped-for peace. The bitter rivalry between the two Crowns of England and France would be set aside at last, and maybe a new Crusade could be launched, against the heretics who’d stolen the Holy Land. That was an aim devoutly to be desired.

The Queen of England’s position was difficult, though. Her being here could prove to be an embarrassment before long. There was enmity between herself and her husband, the kind of bitter dispute that could end a marriage. And while her presence in France could be a thorn in the side of the English King, it was infinitely worse for the King of France, for it was a constant reminder of the matter of the silken purses. The last thing which the King wished for was any reminder of that horrible affair …

Thursday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Paris

It was a cool morning when Jean the Procureur woke, and he clad himself in thick clothing in a hurry, bellowing for his servants to prepare his fire and some hot water with wine as well as food.

He hated the winter. The cold seeped into his bones, and the feeling of darkness all around made him anxious. There were plenty who felt the same, he knew, but that was little consolation to him.

It was the lack of daylight which really oppressed him and brought his spirits low. The fact was, he enjoyed warm sunshine on his face, and the winter meant little if any. So much of the day was spent in darkness: rising in the dark, leaving for work in the dark, returning in the dark, sitting at home with only the firelight and perhaps a candle or two for illumination … all was misery and black fear. Ghosts and witches abounded, so they said. It was easier to believe those stories in wintertime.

Stephen, his servant, the burly man who had been following around after him and who assisted in the arrest of Nicholas the Stammerer, was a devoted fellow. He stood about now, helping his master into his jacket, tugging the old cloak over his shoulders, and standing back to consider the effect before hurrying down the steep staircase to the ground level, where he stirred the thin porridge and warmed some spiced wine.

‘At least the sun is abroad,’ the Procureur said, once he was sitting before his fire.

It was throwing out a feeble warmth, he thought to himself. The faggots of twigs had burned through already, and it seemed that there was little heat in the remaining embers. He kicked at the coals, then threw a last faggot on top and enjoyed the sudden crackling rush of hot air that left his face feeling scorched and shining.

‘Are you going back to the Louvre?’ Stephen asked.

‘Yes. I have had a new idea about the death of the man de Nogaret,’ he said. It was a matter of pride to him that he should have had the thought, and he did not mind demonstrating his cleverness. ‘You remember that he arrived, and was murdered before the Cardinal could reach him?’

‘I have been considering it with anticipation ever since you divulged your conundrum to me.’

‘Don’t talk ballocks to me, Stephen,’ the Procureur rasped. His servant might have the appearance of a churl from the gutters of Bordeaux, but there were few cleverer men in Paris, he knew. And sadly, Stephen knew this too. ‘The lad was killed, I think, because the period between his arrival and the appearance of the Cardinal was greater than people thought beforehand. Consider: if another led the visitor to the room, and then asked a second messenger to go to the Cardinal, that might leave more time. The first messenger could have been the killer, for all I know. He slew de Nogaret, and then hurried off to ask someone to fetch the Cardinal.’

‘Possible, certainly,’ Stephen considered. ‘But who would want to kill de Nogaret?’

‘There are many who remember his father, I would imagine. Was there some ancient debt to be paid? Someone may have been happy to slip a blade into him.’

Stephen nodded, but not with enormous conviction. There were, the Procureur knew, too many possible failings in his logic. Because that was all it was: a string of logic. There was nothing substantial on which to hang an allegation.

Still, it was a starting point, and when he marched to the Louvre, with Stephen in his wake, he paid less attention to the people around him as he considered the day’s work ahead. At least the King was still away at his hunting lodge. That was a relief. It meant that Jean would have a little peace before he must present his findings.

The porter at the main gate to the castle was a burly man in his late thirties called Arnaud. He had a thick beard, which he grew partly to conceal a jagged wound he’d won in the battle of the Golden Spurs at Courtrai twenty-odd years before. Where some men prized their scars, Arnaud seemed to find it only a source of shame.

When Jean arrived at the gates, Arnaud was standing with two of his men, waving the morning’s rush into the castle grounds.

‘Ha! You again, Procureur? Haven’t you finished your inquest yet?’

‘Perhaps you yourself can assist me with my enquiry? I have to know what would have happened to the visitor when he arrived here at the gate.’

‘We’d have sent him on his way, of course!’ Arnaud said. He showed his teeth for a moment in a grin. ‘You mean something else, of course?’

‘Of course.’

Arnaud glanced behind him, then jerked his head, and the two men stepped forward and took his place, herding the people through. ‘So?’ he asked again, once they were inside his little chamber in the gate’s tower. ‘What do you want now?’