Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

There was a fine spitting rain again, and Baldwin began to hurry his steps towards the hall, where he hoped to find Simon and the Bishop. They were to meet there.

On the way, he saw a dapper man of about his own age, standing staring at the gateway with a perplexed frown. It took Baldwin a moment to recognise Jean de Poissy. Jean looked as though he was concentrating so hard, he would not have heard the thunder of a cannon shot.

Baldwin walked past him, debating whether to reintroduce himself, but finally decided against it.

He had been to the French castles many times when he was younger, because as a Templar, and one who was at a moderate level in the hierarchy, he had often travelled to deliver messages or join in diplomatic discussions, but he had still not lost that sense of awe at the great entrance to this castle. He passed under the massive archway, and into the broad open space within.

The castle had, so he recalled, been built as a bastion against the English and Normans under King Richard. Perhaps it was a memory of the perpetual warfare that was conducted in those days which had led the French King to seek to obliterate all the English territories held by him. In future, King Charles IV could hope to reign over a single, united country. Not that it would last for long. The kingdom was so riven by disputes between rival barons, that it must inevitably collapse. The more the French King sought to enforce his will on his powerful magnates, the more likely it was that France would suffer from a similar fate as England, where King Edward had recently crushed resistance. But to attempt such a bold move here in France carried more risks. In England the rebels knew that internecine warfare was illegal, and all hesitated to raise a banner against the King. In France, Baldwin was less certain that a rebellious mob would be so easily quashed.

For now, though, he could revel in the beauty of this great white giant just outside the greatest French city.

He was making his way to the hall, when he heard a shout go up from a large building in front of him. There was a shriek, then a series of shouts, and a pair of young boys came pelting out, rushing past Baldwin and out through the main gate. He had little time to wonder whether their rapid disappearance was due to an errand, or whether it was a proof of some infraction, but the expression in their eyes had seemed to speak of terror.

A moment or two later, they were back, this time with Jean panting slightly in their wake. The three ran on to the hall, which Baldwin now recalled was the kitchen.

Intrigued, he followed them.

The kitchens gave out a blast of heat like no other. Four enormous fires roared, and it was only the height of the ceiling, and the pointed roof with its own chimney in the centre, which saved all the kitchen staff from suffocation. The hole at the top allowed the worst of the heat to escape.

All the staff were at the back of the room, surrounding the figure of Jean, who was crouching down and peering at something on the floor. Nearer Baldwin, a large, pink man stood wiping his hands on his apron mechanically. He had a long knife in his belt of cord, which led Baldwin to assume he was the master cook, and now he drew it out and began to systematically cut up some fruit, muttering to himself the while.

‘It is not my fault. How can I be blamed for something like this? What did I do? All I did was threaten the little brute. Yes, I threatened him — so what? We all have to chivy and chide. It is the way of things.’

‘Friend, is there some problem here?’ Baldwin asked, as Wolf entered behind him and expressed an enthusiasm to get to know the carcasses of meat rather better. Baldwin prodded him away with a toe.

‘Who’re you?’ the cook demanded, his knife gripped tightly, the point turned slightly in Baldwin’s direction.

‘Just a man who is worried that you may need some help in here,’ Baldwin said, craning his neck to see what was happening behind.

‘Why should we need help? I already have the city’s Procureur with me!’

Hearing the voices, Jean looked up, frowning, and then recognised Sir Baldwin. ‘Ah! The knight from the journey yesterday. I am glad for your offer of help, but this is nothing, merely a kitchen knave who has died.’

The man was firm in his speech, but his eyes told the lie. He was desperately sad at the death of the boy. It was endearing. Baldwin had seen too many dead bodies in his time, and he thought that this Jean looked like a man who felt much the same. Then Jean’s eyes moved away from Baldwin and down to the small figure at his feet.

In front of Baldwin the cook’s knife had not wavered. Baldwin said, ‘I am sorry, my friend. Even knaves can be affectionate and all too greatly missed.’

‘You think I miss one of my knaves?’ the cook said. He looked up at Baldwin, and Baldwin saw the tears in his reddened eyes.

‘When an accident happens and a young friend dies, it is not wrong to mourn.’

‘This was no accident , knight. You want to see what happened to poor little Jehanin? My little Jo? Come!’ He threw his knife down on the board in front of him.

The cook took Baldwin to the space in front of Jean and pointed down. The other kitchen workers were all about there, some few with their aprons held up to their mouths, some openly weeping.

In front of them was a large chest, and inside it lay a young boy. He was dead — Baldwin could see that at a glance. It was the colour, the greenish paleness of the face, the darkened flesh where the blood had sunk, the swollen belly and body where decomposition had set it. All this he took in and noted. Yet it was the sight of the leather thong about the boy’s throat that shocked him. And the way that the man had to prise it away, where it had sunk into the flesh of the neck.

‘In my land I have been known to seek murderers,’ Baldwin said. ‘I am what we call a Keeper of the King’s Peace. I have the responsibility to hunt down those who threaten the realm and the rule of the law.’

‘My name is Jean, as you know, and I am the Procureur here, the prosecutor. I investigate crimes and seek those responsible, and then challenge them in court,’ Jean replied. He stood, feeling his old legs protesting. ‘This is a terrible thing. Such a shame, to see so young a life snuffed like a candle.’

‘But a candle may be relighted,’ Baldwin agreed, staring down at the boy. ‘He has lain here some while.’

‘Yes. You may tell from the degree of swelling of the body. I had to work hard to remove this thong from where the flesh had engulfed it. Also there is the odour. It is sweet, non ? Like old pork that has not been salted correctly.’

‘Yes. What was he doing in the chest?’

‘That is something the chef and his boys must tell us,’ Jean said with determination. He looked up at Baldwin, and there was a degree of challenge in his eyes now. ‘I shall go and enquire of them.’

Baldwin found himself quickly removed from the kitchen, dismissed. It was a novel experience.

Later, walking through the darkened streets, Jean ruminated on all he had seen. There was no one apparently who could tell him when the chest had been last opened. It was used to keep certain expensive spices locked away, but they had not been used in some while. The chest had only been opened today because the King had returned. In the days before his arrival, it had remained locked.

Jehanin had been a conscientious little fellow for the most part. A gullible lad, he was keen enough most of the time, and a danger to all at others, for he would go into a daydream about his old home or his mother at regular intervals, and then he would be perfectly capable of making a gravy with arsenic, or a jelly from red lead, without thinking. There was no malice in him, and whenever the cook had seen others trying to lead him into misbehaviour or fighting, he had robustly refused. If Jean had not known the cook to be a more than usually forthright man with maids in the area — for he had checked on his inclinations after meeting him that first time — he might have believed him capable of pederasty, but there was no evidence to support this.