Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

The King had led Edward, while he was a mere Earl, out to the walls of the Tower of London, and they went to a guard standing lonely in the corner of the wall where it met a tower.

‘Are you well?’ the King asked the guard. He had a strangely gentle voice when he wanted it. At times his harshness and crudeness could appal, but if he wished to please or cajole, his manner was much softer. He used it now.

‘Yes, my Liege. I am very well,’ the man replied.

‘It is a lovely evening,’ the King commented.

‘Yes.’

‘With a full moon.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you can see for miles as though it was torchlit.’

‘Yes.’

‘So perhaps you should keep looking out there, you fool, and stop staring in towards the castle’s keep! ’ the King bellowed suddenly. ‘Because, you cretin, the enemy will attack from out there, not in here, won’t they?’

The Prince was tempted at the time to bolt, his father’s behaviour seemed so extreme. He wanted to run and hide, but his father had given a twisted grin and a slight wink. ‘No, boy, you stay with me,’ he said quietly a moment or two later. First, he pointed out along the guard-walks. ‘Look! All the men here heard me with that man. Do you see a single man idling? Is one of them peering inside? No. Now, come with me.’

They descended into the court, and from there walked to the tower in which the jewels were stored. Outside were two more guards, both alert, presumably because they had heard the King’s roar earlier from the walls. They allowed the King and the Earl inside, and the King led his son along the shelves, opening the chests and displaying the proudest possessions of the Kingdom.

In a chamber inside the treasure house sat a pair of clerks, writing by candlelight at a table.

‘I hope I find you well?’ the King asked when the two had upset their inks and a candle in their haste to rise in his presence.

‘Very, your Royal Highness,’ one said nervously.

‘And you have all your works finished? The hour is late.’

‘No, we are completing our inventory for Sir Hugh le Despenser,’ one said.

The King’s face registered nothing, but for a heart’s beat there was no sound, and Earl Edward shot a look at him. The King had not known that Despenser had set these two here, he realised.

‘You are not finished? Then how can you feel so well? You still have work to do,’ the King muttered, and left them to their labours.

‘I had thought to spring myself upon them and make them jump, but see how they repaid me? They did not even realise they shook me!’ he murmured to himself.

‘Your Highness?’

‘It is nothing.’

The Earl had been surprised to see his father like that. It was an odd occasion. The King at one moment so supremely confident that he had destroyed the comfort of one guard’s mind, and then, while trying to repeat the experience, he had himself been embarrassed. And perhaps it was little surprise. Because the man in whom he had placed so much trust was the same one who had ordered the cataloguing of the Crown Jewels. It was a small enough matter, Earl Edward knew that. And yet, he wondered then, as he did again now, whether his father had ever seen that inventory, or whether he waited, hoping against hope that the Despenser had not made use of the inventory to appropriate a few of the choicer jewels for himself.

But the incident on the guard-walk had taught him about the impact of the voice of a man in power, and that lesson Earl Edward had not forgotten. What’s more, this was the man who had shamed his mother.

‘My Lord Bishop, are you quite well?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Your mind is not disordered?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘And you have no upset of the humours?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘And yet you rail at this poor man as though you consider him a felon. What was his crime?’

‘He committed no crime, my Lord,’ the Bishop said, and turned bitterly angry eyes upon him.

‘You bellow and rant and for no reason, you say? And you also say you are not unwell?’

‘No.’

‘Then, Bishop, I think you should make a fulsome apology to him.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘So, Bishop? Have you anything to say?’

Baldwin had watched from behind the Duke, and now he spurred his mount onward. ‘I shall take care of my Lord Bishop, your Highness,’ he said.

‘Good. Please do take care of him,’ Duke Edward said. ‘After all, he has not yet supplied my mother with the money which she requires while she remains here.’

‘I may not,’ the Bishop said.

‘You may not? Or will not?’

‘The King made me swear only to release the funds after your mother the Queen agreed to return home, as I have said.’

‘I think you should reconsider your priorities, my Lord Bishop. Some may take unkindly to your attitude,’ the Duke said. ‘I think you should go indoors and rest and reflect. After all, one day you may find that you depend more upon me and my mother, my Lord Bishop.’

‘Thank you, Duke. I shall.’

‘And remove all those wet things. We do not want you to have a coldness about your humours, do we? I need you fit.’

The Bishop watched as the Duke and two of his guards trotted away to hand their mounts to the ostlers.

Baldwin slipped from his saddle and bowed to the man who had sparked the little scene. ‘Sieur, I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. I apologise if my Lord Bishop upset you. It is only that we are tired and wet after our ride. I beg that you forgive us.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Please do not trouble yourself,’ said Jean with a grave, deep bow in return. ‘Sieur Jean de Poissy at your service.’

He nodded to the Bishop politely enough, and then strode away.

‘Bishop, are you sure you are quite well?’ Baldwin asked when Jean was out of earshot. He saw the gate-keeper watching, and when he caught his eye, the fellow shuffled away.

‘The man was staring at me as though he … no. No, you are right, Sir Baldwin. It is nothing to do with him. It is my concern. The Queen will make my life here as difficult as possible. And yet I must remain, for I have a duty to the King’s son.’

Bishop Stapledon clambered tiredly from his horse and began to wander towards the guest rooms, a bent man, suddenly showing his age.

It made Baldwin sad to see him so downcast.

Vigil of the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Louvre, Paris

All through the night and for much of the morning it had rained solidly, and Baldwin, as he walked from the small chamber in which he and Simon had been installed, felt glad that the weather had warmed a little with the rain. Yesterday, when they had been riding here from Vincennes, it had been cold enough, so Sir Richard said, to freeze the teeth in a man’s mouth.

He had appeared to be a little out of sorts recently. Certainly he had been a great deal quieter for the last few days, and if he had been unknown to Baldwin, the latter might have uncharitably assumed that the man was hung-over. The knight was usually such a loud, rumbustious soul, but he had to Baldwin’s knowledge told only four jokes during the ride to Paris. It was clearly the effect of the news about Sir Henry de Beaumont. If that knight was now in the Queen’s purse, it would make their positions more difficult. All of them were aware that the Queen was gathering about her a group of loyal men, and the little group charged with the defence of the Earl was growing so tiny in comparison with the hosts at the command of the French King and his sister, Queen Isabella, that at any time an attack against the Bishop must succeed, just as an assault against the Earl of Chester to take him into the protection of the French King, for example, could not fail. Baldwin, Richard and Simon could not on their own protect either of their charges.