Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘The man de Nogaret. When he entered the castle, I assumed that a servant who happened to be here at the gate, would have taken him to a room, and then fetched the Cardinal himself?’

‘It is perfectly possible.’

‘Do you have any servants waiting here right now, in case a visitor turns up? If a man came here at this very minute, what would you do?’

Arnaud considered him and a slight frown passed over his face. ‘What are you suggesting, old friend, eh? That I or one of my men took this fellow to the chamber and killed him?’

‘No,’ Jean said. He paused. The porter was a useful contact, but not a friend, no matter what he might call Jean. To upset him would make life and entry to the castle more difficult in future, and was best avoided. He needed to placate the man’s feelings. ‘The thing is, you see, I need your help to understand this. The servant who brought de Nogaret to the room: what was his name?’

‘Raoulet, I think. He works under the steward in the hall.’

‘That’s him. Do you remember him being here when de Nogaret arrived?’

In answer the porter jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the queue of people walking into the castle. ‘Do I remember Raoulet being here? No. Do I remember de Nogaret? No. Do you expect me to remember all these faces tomorrow? You can, if you wish, Procureur, but I doubt I’ll remember more than a dozen. There are too many.’

‘Very well — do you remember any who might have been on the other side, then? Inside the castle’s court? So that a man walking in might see him and ask directions? I saw a fellow doing just that the other day. He asked me where he should go, and I regret to say I was unable to help him.’

‘You should ask Raoulet himself. He would know. I see all sorts here. Christ’s teeth, I even saw a whore directing a man the other day. People will ask directions of anyone.’

‘I will do. Can you fetch Raoulet now?’

‘He’ll be in the buttery, I expect. Would you be waiting outdoors on a cold morning like this?’ Arnaud said bitterly. The gatekeeper was obviously proud of his grievances, and any opportunity to air them would never be missed.

Jean smiled. ‘I think he has the best idea. That is good, then, master Porter. I will go and ask him. I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I was only seeking to learn what could have happened.’

‘That’s all right,’ the porter said gruffly.

‘For your help, I’ll have some wine sent to you later. The cold! A man needs wine to keep it out, eh?’

‘That is kind. Very kind. You know, there was one … I can’t be certain it was the same day, you understand, but there was one kitchen knave waiting out there one day. It’s such a while ago now, but I did notice the lad out there, loitering.’

‘Loitering?’

‘He was a young lad. Eight or nine years old, I’d guess. Not that it’s easy to tell nowadays. But he reminded me of one of my own boys. Little devil! He was out there kicking stones about like there was nothing better for him to do.’

‘And he could have offered to take a man somewhere?’

‘He could have — but I didn’t see it. And he’s only a kitchen knave, you understand.’

‘I fully comprehend. And this boy — do you know his name?’

‘Aye — the devil himself! He was out there that morning because he was waiting to be thrashed by the cook for leaving the spit to turn on its own instead of being there to keep the meat cooked evenly. He is that sort of boy, little Jehanin. And I heard the cook bellowing for him later.’ He frowned quickly. ‘Haven’t seen him since, though.’

The cook ruled supreme. He stood, a large, rotund man, with a thick towel tied to his waist by a cord of rope that also held a large knife, and a shirt of linen all besmottered with gravies and blood. Sandy-haired, with blue eyes that were so faded they were nearer grey, his flesh was pale and unhealthy, while his lips were the rosy red of a maid’s. Still, he had the voice of a herald at war; arms on his hips, roaring and cursing all who came near.

Seeing Jean enter, he glowered truculently. ‘What do you want?’

‘I was hoping to see the chief cook.’

‘Congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Now, piss off! We’re busy.’

‘So I see.’

It was, in truth, a scene from hell. All about the cook, young boys ran, some carrying joints of meat, some bags of beans, one or two staggering under the weight of yokes which held buckets filled with water on either branch. The fires were roaring, four of them all in a row, and there were massive cauldrons on two, while enormous viands were set to rotate gently about a third. The fourth appeared to have been lighted for no purpose, but the heat from it reminded Jean of a tale he once heard the priest tell of Hades. All was mad bustle, with a sudden gust of feathers which flew into the air from a table at the middle of the room, where three boys were plucking and drawing geese next to four men who were washing, cutting and slicing vegetables. Steel racks were poised like instruments of torture, and among all the youngsters, older boys and men hurried to carry out the cook’s instructions.

‘I would like to speak with you.’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘It is about a murder.’

‘And this is about breakfast, you fool! Can’t you see that? Now clear off out of it, before I call the Sergent!’

‘I am the Procureur, and the King has ordered me to investigate this case. If you wish, I can go to him and tell him that you have deliberately obstructed me. After all, it will not harm you — a new cook is hard to find.’

‘You pissy little prickle! Do you think you can scare me? Eh?’ He turned and caught sight of a man listening with interest. ‘Jacques, get back to your work! If you think I’m going yet, you’ll have a nasty shock!’ Turning back to Jean, he snarled, ‘It is easy to find a man who says he can do this job, but much harder, to find someone who can actually do it!’

‘All I want is to speak to the kitchen knave called Jehanin.’

‘Do you? Well, so do I, man. When you find the little shit, you can tan his arse for me. That’ll warm him up for when I thrash him and take all the flesh from his backside for running away.’

In the porter’s room, Arnaud poured himself a large cup of wine and drank it reflectively. And then, while he still had the resolve, he set the cup down, and left the gate. He muttered a few words to the men left to guard it, and then crossed the court to the main castle building.

The great hall had been a source of wonder to him when he first saw it. It towered up, and its white stone gleamed when the sun shone on it. Today, though, he was not thinking about the building. Instead he walked inside and looked about him until he saw the face he was seeking.

‘Hey, old friend. A word.’

Hugues looked up with quick interest at the tone of his voice. ‘What?’

‘I’ve just been talking with the Procureur. He wanted to know about a kitchen boy. The lad had helped fetch Raoulet on the day that man was killed.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, I saw your girl with the kitchen knave.’

‘What?’

‘That raven-haired beauty. She was with him. And now he’s missing.’

‘He was a boy. They disappear all the time. You saying she killed the dead man? No? Then don’t be so stupid!’

Friday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

On the road from Vincennes

It was wet, and miserable, and the Bishop could feel the steady trickle of rainwater running down the back of his neck.

‘I am too old for this,’ he muttered to himself.