Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

It was nothing more than the simple truth. He was in his sixties, and most men by his age were either dead, stupid, or cosseted at home, enwrapped in blankets, while doting wives and children, not to mention grandchildren, fetched and carried all that was needful.

Not him, though. Early on he had chosen the path of mental and spiritual toil, and forsaking the comforts and ease of the secular life, had embraced the world of an ascetic.

It had been hard. When he was first elected Bishop, he was so hard up for money that he was forced to borrow from the good Bishop Reynolds, who was consecrated on the same day. But he had done his best in the years since. He had endowed schools and a college in Oxford, and he was proud of his reputation of being a hard-working Bishop who knew every parish in his diocese. And the rewards had come. Especially while he was the Lord High Treasurer.

This, though, this was his worst ever experience. He was hated in France, as he knew all too well; the Queen detested him, a sentiment with which he was entirely comfortable, bearing in mind he reciprocated it wholeheartedly. In his opinion, she was a vain, unpleasant example of an untrustworthy species. Women were, as all knew, a flawed and failed version of the male sex, and the Queen, being half-French, was doubly so.

All the way from the Bois de Vincennes they’d been watching him. Hooded eyes, narrow and suspicious, were on him as he walked around the court, as he mounted his horse, as he trotted from the hunting lodge, and now, on the road, they were on him still. There was none in the French court in whom he could place his trust. This was a mission in which all depended upon him and only a very few men — Sir Henry, Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard … and Simon Puttock, of course. The Bailiff had always been very dear to him.

They rode due west, the rain gusting, the pitter-patter of raindrops tapping at his hat making him hunch still lower, while the drips that touched his flesh made him want to recoil, they were so icy. It felt as though it might begin to snow at any moment. His boots were already spattered with mud, his hose sodden and shapeless under his robes, and he felt as miserable as a man could, but at least there was the promise of a fire and spiced wine when they reached their journey’s end. And he had the protection of safe-conducts from two Kings and the clothing of a man of God to promise the Pope’s own vengeance on any who dared to think of an offence against him. Yet still he felt worried.

There was something going on here that escaped him. The Queen seemed supremely confident — more than was warranted by her situation. It was only to be expected that she would be feeling happier, of course. She was back with her own folk, away from the court of her husband which she did not understand. How could she? A spendthrift and feckless woman could never appreciate the constant battle which her poor husband fought every day with income and tight restrictions on his budget, nor the worries which assailed King Edward every day.

Yet her buoyant mood appeared to be more than simple confidence brought on by her return to this country. Something else must be going on. Her life had been a steady, trotting journey, and suddenly she was bucketing off into the woods at the side, and the Bishop did not understand it. Not at all.

Clearly she could not remain here. Queen Isabella might be a dreadful person, but she was, even Bishop Stapledon had to admit, a devoted mother. She would never agree to leaving her children behind in England. She had one — and that the most expensive bargaining counter of all, naturally, being the King’s own heir — but that did not mean she could happily concede the others.

She was still guarded by Lord John Cromwell; her ladies-in-waiting were still the women installed by the King and Despenser to keep a wary eye upon her, and she still must depend upon her husband for her money. Without his goodwill, she had nothing. And Stapledon had strict instructions: she must agree to return before a single farthing was advanced to her.

So why did she look so pleased with herself?

Ah! Thank God! Ahead at last, he saw the city in all its glory, the walls, the great towers, the stain on the sky that spoke of a thousand, thousand fires, the noise of men shouting, and of all the other activities of a busy, thronging city. And beyond it all, he could see the bright, white towers of the Louvre.

He had never thought he would be so pleased to see any city in the whole of France, but today, he was so deadly keen to see a fire, he was almost ready to shake hands with the Devil himself.

Louvre, Paris

The weather was miserable, and Arnaud was happy to remain in his little chamber for most of the day, although when the entourage appeared and the King’s outriders swept in through the main gates, he had to shift himself to make sure that all his guards were ready on the doors.

There were so many, and all with their finery sodden and dripping. What weather to be travelling! He wouldn’t have gone out in this, not for all the King’s money from Normandy. It was one of those fine rains that blew straight at a man horizontally and cut through his clothing like a dagger piercing oil.

He saw Jean, and tutted to himself. The Procureur was standing, a small frown on his face, as though he was assessing the incomers, trying to work out whether they were capable of the murder of the man in the chamber at the rear, or whether they were dangerous in some other way.

Jean often had that sort of appearance. He looked like a man who would stare at a problem for hours, in the hope that it would explain itself to him. A dowdy little fellow, Arnaud thought. He should have got married. Let a woman have a go at him. Then he would have looked a little more presentable — although the poor fool probably thought he looked the picture of elegance.

A Bishop rode in, and sat upon his horse shivering, while three clerks busied themselves about him, one fetching a little stool, one a fresh cloak, the last hurrying into the castle itself, probably, so Arnaud thought, to bring out a jug of warmed wine or something similar. The Bishop looked ancient, after all. He was probably near to exhaustion.

Jean was still hanging around, gormlessly staring, and Arnaud grinned to himself when the Bishop took offence.

‘Well? What do you see that is so fascinating, man?’

Jean looked startled. ‘Pardon?’ he asked.

‘You are staring at me. I assume you have some reason for doing so?’

‘My apologies, my Lord Bishop. My mind was a thousand miles away. I did not observe you.’

‘Do not lie to me, man! I saw you staring at me! What was your reason? Eh? Come on out with it, you cretin!’

Jean held out his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘I do not understand your concern, my Lord.’

He glanced about him as though calling upon all those present to witness this curious outburst, but then a younger lad rode up to the side of the Bishop. With a shock Arnaud realised by the coat-of-arms as well as the three men who followed him as a guard, that this was the fellow all had been discussing: the Duke of Aquitaine, the boy who would be the King of England when his father died.

It was the Duke who spoke first. ‘Is there a difficulty here, my Lord Bishop?’

‘No, no. I am deeply sorry if I led you to be concerned, your Highness.’

The little scene was intriguing. Arnaud stepped outside to listen.

Jean was speaking, ‘I do not know how I have offended, my Lords. I am a mere officer standing here watching guests arrive.’

‘It is well. I am sorry for any upset the Bishop may have given you. I am sure he would be more than happy to apologise very fully.’

The Duke stared at the Bishop with a steadiness he had learned from his father. The latter had said once, that none of his men should be too comfortable in his presence.