Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘Do not think to lecture me, Sir Henry!’ Baldwin spat. ‘I was fighting for Christianity against heathens in the Holy Land while you were yet in training with wooden swords! I learned my catechism in the Siege of Acre. I have seen what happens when a kingdom collapses, I have received the buffets of fate already. And you dare to accuse me? I am older than you, and if there is one thing I have learned in my life, it is that it is better to support the ruler, no matter what. As soon as the ruler is toppled, all suffer. And I will not be a part of any alliance which seeks to overthrow the man to whom I have given my oath.’

‘Then may God forgive you, Sir Baldwin. Because I do not think that many others will.’

Later, when the Duke and his tutor and Sir Henry had returned to speak with the Queen, and Simon and Sir Richard had rejoined Baldwin, Simon was surprised to see how sombre he was.

‘Do you feel all right?’

‘I am quite well. But I am fearful.’

‘I thought that was my province,’ Simon said with dry sarcasm.

‘Perhaps today I feel the need of some anxiety of my own.’

‘Was it the whippersnapper?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘I saw him havin’ a word all quiet, like, and wondered what that was about.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said quietly. He glanced about him. ‘If the King sought to protect himself and his son by having Sir Henry and others here to serve him, I fear that the ploy has failed.’

There was no need to explain. All three understood the dangers. ‘What does this mean for us?’ Simon asked after a moment.

‘That we may well be entering very dangerous territory, Simon. If there is to be some form of assault on the Crown, all those who have proved loyal to it must inevitably be endangered. And that means you, me, and our families.’

Simon closed his eyes for a moment, lost in his own private fear. He saw in his mind’s eye his home, emptied and desolate, his wife and son on the road with a handcart holding their few possessions … and he saw himself. His head on a spike at London Bridge, along with all those of other men considered traitors. There would be no life of honour for his son. His wife, his lovely Meg, would die in poverty, bemoaning her fate, perhaps blaming her husband for the misery to which she was subjected. There was nothing else for his family, he knew, if he was labelled as a traitor by some new administration.

‘Aye?’ Sir Richard belched. ‘And so what? Eh? Come, Sir Baldwin. You’re old enough to have lived through worse times than this, eh? If some lyin’ bastards try to steal the kingdom, they may succeed, and they may fail, but they won’t bother with the likes of us. They’ll be worrying about all the rich fellows first. Don’t you worry, Bailiff. You’ll be all right too. You’re little better than a churl so far as these mighty lordings are concerned. And you know what they do respect? Loyal service, man. Anyone who tries to take the Crown will want all those like you to be on their side in the future. So, me friends, don’t worry yourselves, but drink up! And let’s have a toast to the stability of government, eh?’

But even as Sir Richard hefted his great quart pot and urged them to do the same, Baldwin saw his true feelings in his eyes. Sir Richard, for all his protestations of ease, was more worried than Simon and Baldwin.

Outside north-west Paris

Hélias had a client who had stayed with her all night, one of her long-standing men, as she liked to call him, and she had just bade him farewell at the door when the whisper on the street reached her ears.

‘What’s all this?’ she demanded. Bernadette, one of her girls, a buxom brunette with eyes of startling emerald, stopped talking to her cully and turned, ashen-faced, to Hélias.

‘The Procureur, Hélias. He’s dead.’

‘Don’t talk stupid, wench. Who’d kill him?’ she scoffed.

‘There are a few who’d like to remove a man like him,’ the client said. He was a flash fellow, with bright yellow and scarlet clothing, apart from an old cowl of faded green. He had been digging in his purse, and now he lifted a coin with the demeanour of a man who had performed a magnificent conjuring trick. ‘Ah! An hour of your time, girl!’

Hélias rudely shoved him from her path. ‘Be still! Tell me, who could have done this? Has anyone confessed?’ She was torn between scorn and the dawning horror that Jean might actually be dead.

‘No, of course not. What, you think someone would kill Poissy and then rush to the officers and roar, “It’s me! I did it!”’

‘You, Bernadette, get inside and fetch the other girls. She can do you later, man. For now, you want to have her for free?’

The man’s eyes were fixed on the girl’s bouncing figure as she hurried inside to get the other girls. ‘Is this a trick?’

‘No. I want to know who killed my friend.’ Hélias took a shuddering breath. ‘Anyone who can bring me information about him will be rewarded — and you will be first. If you go to all the taverns in the city — start with those nearest to where he died, and then go to the farther ones — you can have her for free, and any of her friends you like. You understand me?’

The man nodded wildly.

‘Good, then go ! Now, Bernadette, where the hell are you?’ Hélias bawled.

Louvre

The Bishop had slept well, but upon waking he felt as unrefreshed as ever. He rolled in his bed, grunting and grumbling until he rose from the mattress and made his way over the floor. There was a jug and bowl on the table at the window, and he threw open the shutters, staring out into the castle’s courtyard.

For all his life, he had been a servant. At first he was merely a servant of the Church, and as a student, he had proved adequately to himself how important learning was to the youthful mind. Later, when he became a Bishop, he had decided to take more interest in other spheres of public life, and especially the government of the realm.

There were many who decided to go into politics in order to enhance their own position or to enrich themselves. In Christ’s name, he had known many of them himself: from the slovenly, dull-witted fools who thought themselves so grand if they could but earn a few pounds without work, to those myriads who were callow, corrupt and venal. It was an astonishment that the realm ever succeeded in anything. And a miracle that its enemies had thus far failed to destroy it.

He knew that he had acquired an unenviable reputation. Many loathed him because they thought he was a thief who had stolen taxes in order to endow himself with wines and fine foods. In London he was especially detested for the Eyre which he had been instructed to hold into all the customs of the city. It had been held at the King’s order, but that was no consolation to the folk there. They hated him, and made it clear enough to him that, were he without the King’s protection, his life would be worth little.

The irony was, his motives were pure. He had been a loyal servant of the Crown, seeking to increase the efficiency of the system of taxes so that less was wasted, less was stolen, and less was merely misplaced. Instituting a new system of records had made a vast difference to the King’s ability to collect his revenues, and thereby had helped to protect the kingdom. The King could now fight wars which required large investment. There was always a need for money, and now the King had it. All that, Bishop Stapledon knew, was because of his hard efforts — no one else’s.

And he had not used one single penny to feather his own nest. That was an easy allegation to make, he knew. Standing at the basin, he filled it with water, washing his face and armpits, round the back of his neck, and then peered into the water as it smoothed over, the ripples and distortions fading. In the makeshift mirror he saw his face. Older than it should appear, he thought, longer and more haggard. He had none of the colour he used to have; all was washed away with the worry and trials of journeying and negotiating — or trying to.