Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

A drip ran from his chin and splashed in the middle of his reflection, and it was gone. Suddenly he had a premonition that this was how his own life would be. One day he would still be here, hale, hearty — maybe even happy. And the next, he would be gone. Eradicated so effectively that he might never have existed. Who would remember him a month after his death? A year? Nobody after a few tens of years, surely. The Canons of his cathedral would recognise his name, presumably, and perhaps the work he had undertaken at the Exchequer would ensure that he was not instantly forgotten in government, but beyond that, there would be little enough to show that he had ever lived. That he had breathed the air, that he had worked so hard to make other lives better. Nor that he had come on this latest perilous mission, risking his life in service to his King.

Drying his face on the towel by the basin, Walter Stapledon felt an unaccountable sadness washing over him. He was very lonely here in France. Everyone hated him for his support of his King against their Isabella. But what else was a man to do, other than support his King? It was every subject’s duty to do as he had. He knew that, and he could not regret it. He would not.

Pulling his robe on, and shrugging the heavy material to drape more evenly over his shoulders, he mused a little about the state of his own life.

The matter of the little man the day before rankled. There had been no excuse for his ridiculous display of petty arrogance. He decided he would have to pray for some humility and a little calmness. It was quite wrong, to jump at a man merely because he was watching him.

Yet his mood would not go away. He had been anxious ever since the harridan Isabella had responded to him so rudely in front of the French King’s entire court. It had been shocking to find her speaking to him in that manner. Shocking and unreasonable. And disquieting.

He was still aware of that feeling of anxiety as he walked down the stairs and along the passageway to the courtyard at midday with two of his clerics. Morning Mass had taken the edge off his sense of unhappiness, but not the feeling of being a stranger in an enemy’s camp. Today it would have been enough for him to see only one friendly face to make him throw off his grim presentiment of evil, but there was nobody he recognised. He searched among the men standing about — and then he saw Sir Henry de Beaumont.

‘Come,’ he said to his clerks and servants, his familia , and crossed the yard to Sir Henry, a smile on his face.

To his surprise there was no reciprocal joy on the face of the knight when he saw the Bishop approach.

‘Sir Henry. I hope I see you well?’

‘Well enough, Bishop.’

There was a curtness in his manner which was unlike the suave knight whom Stapledon had met in England. Sir Henry was an ally of some months, and had always been polite. Now, he was short to the point of rudeness, and the Bishop could feel his hackles rise. However, before he could make any further comment or enquire as to the reasons for his changed attitude, there was a series of cries from the gateway, and some new visitors arrived.

One was a short, black-haired man with the build of a church’s column. His thighs alone were the size of a small tree-trunk, and the width of his shoulders was proof of great strength. He had blue eyes, permanently lazily lidded, that peered about him, and looked as though he had a smile that was always ready to intrude.

The second man was taller, with the long, gangly arms and legs of a youth. His face was darker, but not swarthy, and he had a mild expression, rather like so many young men the Bishop had seen in different villages over the years. He looked like one of those who suffered from less brainpower than he deserved.

A tall fellow went to speak with them, a grizzled old veteran of many of the French King’s wars, from the look of him. He spoke briefly to them, and then cast an eye about the place, beckoning two guards and a messenger.

‘What is this?’ Baldwin asked, appearing behind the Bishop’s shoulder.

‘I have no idea,’ Bishop Walter said, shooting him a look. Behind him Stapledon saw Simon and Sir Richard de Welles. Simon gave him a grin, which was so comforting, the Bishop felt suddenly almost weak with gratitude after the rudeness displayed by Sir Henry.

The old fellow had been seen by the gatekeeper, who was talking to him and the other two now. All four appeared to be speaking very swiftly, and the gatekeeper held up both hands suddenly, stopping all further discussion, before jerking his chin and then pointing, shouting one word as he did so. ‘ Là! Là! ’

He was pointing at the Bishop and Baldwin.

There was an inevitability about the progress of such an investigation, as they both knew. Simon was not articulate in colloquial French, although he had not found it difficult to make his desires known, but Baldwin was entirely fluent and comfortable with the language.

The Bishop, as befitted a man who had spent so much time abroad from his earliest years as the chaplain to Pope Clement V, and later on diplomatic service for the King, spoke French like a native, as he was able to demonstrate now with some gusto.

‘You suggest what ! You dare to accuse me, the Bishop of Exeter, of a murder? You say that I would waylay an innocent on some road I have never travelled, and for what? In order to repay some perceived slight? Do you think a man of God has no scruple? Is that how you view your clergymen in France today? When I was last here, man, I was viewed with respect, and now you tell me I am the suspect in a murder inquest?’

‘I think, my Lord Bishop …’ Baldwin began, but the furious Bishop held up a hand peremptorily and he subsided.

‘This is not merely a gross insult to me, it is a shameful insult to my liege Lord, the King of England. It is also an insult to Queen Isabella, whose servant and guardian I am while I am here, and to the Holy Mother Church, and a deliberate insult to the Pope himself. I am shocked and appalled that this kind of accusation could be considered, let alone that it could be actually posed to me.’

The two men were standing before him. The shorter was still grinning, and Baldwin kept his gaze fixed upon him, because in his experience, men who wore that kind of look were usually smiling with their mouths only; however, this one appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself. He could, of course, be that rarity among officials, Baldwin thought, a man who could conceal his true motives and aims even from his own eyes. That sort of man was exceedingly rare — and enormously dangerous.

‘My Lord Bishop, we have made no accusations. I would obviously not wish to suggest that you could be guilty of anything so foul as this simple waylaying of a pair of men on their way home. And yet, we have already heard from Arnaud and others of your argument with the Procureur — and yesterday he died. What was it that you accused him of?’

‘I accused him of nothing. I was tired and irritable after a very long ride, and I was surprised to find myself being observed when I arrived here to the Louvre.’

They were in the great hall now. The only aspect which gave Baldwin some satisfaction was the fact that the King of France and Isabella were not present. However, both must have their own spies here in the chamber. In truth, Baldwin was not sure any longer who was loyal to King Edward, and who was more devoted to Isabella. Those whom the King had selected to travel with the Queen and their son were all, so far as Baldwin could tell, becoming increasingly devoted to the Queen, at the expense of any commitment to the King himself.

The Bishop was almost spitting with rage. ‘You dare to accuse me, then? This is what diplomatic protection means, is it? That I can be dragged here against my will and forced to answer these ridiculous questions? I shall not! If you wish to speak to me, you will need the sanction of the Pope himself, and I will write to him myself explaining the ludicrous position into which you have cast me. To think that I, a Bishop, could be accused of such dishonour, is a disgrace!’