Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

There was a quiet soughing at the back of the room, Baldwin noticed. He peered over the heads of the men encircling the Bishop, and saw a group of people passing through the crowds.

‘Make way for Queen Isabella!’ was suddenly bellowed, and Baldwin saw Lord John Cromwell appear, a staff of office in his hands. Immediately behind him was the Queen, and Cromwell stood aside as the Queen arrived in the open space. Whether by design or fortune, she had appeared at the side of the two officers of the city, staring in a confrontational manner at the Bishop.

‘My Lord Bishop, what is this?’

‘I am the victim of a dreadful injustice, my Lady. These men have heard of a minor altercation I had with a man the day we came from Vincennes, and now seek to accuse me of that man’s murder.’

‘Is this true?’ she demanded.

‘No, my Lady. The Bishop here is upset that we have sought to ask him about the dead man. He was, you see …’ and here the man hesitated, clearing his throat. Baldwin, studying him closely, was sure that he saw a tear or two in his eye. ‘He was a good man, diligent in all he did, and widely respected. And now he is dead — only one day after a small dispute with you, my Lord Bishop. It seems a coincidence, you see?’

Baldwin saw the Bishop’s perturbation in the way that he chewed at his lip. It was unlike Walter Stapledon to be at all distraught, and Baldwin began to understand the pressure he felt.

In the last months Baldwin had been let down by the Bishop. The man had proved himself to be unreliable, untrustworthy, and more a vassal to Despenser than friend to Simon and himself. And yet there were strong bonds which united them.

The Bishop looked to Baldwin, and there was a mute appeal in his eyes. Baldwin felt his heart begin to pound rather painfully, but he could not refuse that plea.

‘Let the good Bishop leave, friends,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘I have some experience in seeking murderers. Let me help you.’

Paris

Jacquot walked into the chamber and was surprised to see that the King had the same wench as before draped over his arm. This one must be more durable than most, he thought to himself. As he eyed her, she rolled over slightly, and her dark eyes were on him from beneath a tumbled mess of black hair.

However, at that moment his attention was concentrated more on the mood of the men in the room than on her. The atmosphere was edgy. He could see that one in particular — perhaps a friend of the Stammerer? — was staring at him angrily. The King himself was mild in manner, but there was something in his eye that put Jacquot on his guard. Not that he allowed it to show in his face or his actions.

‘You owe me for the two jobs,’ Jacquot announced.

‘Ah, so the Procureur is dead?’

‘You know he is. All Paris is talking of it,’ Jacquot said flatly.

‘And the second?’

‘The Stammerer. The one you sent to do my work.’

He was right. The man at the edge of the room was practically foaming at the mouth. It was quite amusing, really.

‘I see. So you want me to pay you for the removal of one of my friends?’

‘You commanded his execution. You owe me for it.’

‘And what would an executioner demand for the death of his friend — the same fee as usual? Poor young Nicholas hardly deserved his end, did he?’

‘I gave him the fastest ending a man could hope for,’ Jacquot said with silky calmness. There was a serenity about him as he settled on his legs, waiting.

‘Perhaps you would like the same?’ the King sneered.

Jacquot saw it coming. There was a shadow in the corner of his eye, and he ducked to avoid it. It was a mace, only a smallish, tubular one, perhaps an inch in diameter, and six inches long, with nail-like spikes protruding, but set on a shaft of beech two feet long, there was enough momentum in it to crush his head like an apple. It swept over him, one spike catching his shoulder as the man tried to change his point of aim, and the pain burned.

He was up, turning as he rose, his dagger already out and thrusting. It plunged into the man’s gut, and he ripped it upwards, his left hand grabbing the man’s mace-hand as it crashed into the wall. Then the mace was his, and the attacker was on the ground.

Whirling, he brought the mace around, clenched in his left hand, the dagger slick and slippery in his right, and a man shrieked with pain as the iron spikes tore into his forearm, the massive weight shattering the slender bones, ripping through the flesh and peeling it away, from his elbow to his wrist.

Another was at his side. He could not swing the mace in time. Instead he dropped his stance, his right knee bending, and thrust with all his body’s mass behind the dagger’s point, straight at the fellow’s groin. The blade skidded on the man’s thigh-bone, and a gush of blood proved he had hit the artery, before there was a snap like a small cannon-shot hitting a wall, and the man’s tendon was gone. He slumped, sobbing, his hands over his wrecked body, and the blood pumped in a steady flow from between his fingers.

Jacquot continued the whirl, and rose slowly from his crouch, the dagger held up at his breast, the mace high, in the overhand guard. Two more men stood at the walls, but they did not challenge him. The King himself was still lying on his cushions, the wench at his side breathing a little faster, her little pink tongue touching her upper lip, her eyes bright with excitement. So that was how she survived, Jacquot thought to himself. He had never liked women with a taste for violence, but it explained the woman’s longevity.

‘My money,’ he said again.

The King glanced at him, and now there was a chilly dispassion in his gaze. ‘What do you think, Amélie? Should he have it or not?’

‘No,’ she said. She rolled a little to study him more closely. He could look along the length of her body, and she saw his gaze, lifting an arm to make her breast tighten, an invitation. She was breathing faster, but it was not fear, he saw. No, rather it was a sexual excitement. She had been thrilled to see the men fighting. Women like that made Jacquot feel sick.

‘She says I should keep my money,’ the King said.

Jacquot glanced about him, then gripped his knife more tightly, and stepped on the King’s foot. ‘Then I’ll cut off each toe. That will be payment enough for now.’

He set the blade at the first, the little toe of the right foot, and began to press.

‘All right, you bastard! Yes, you can have it, but let me go!’

He pointed to the man furthest from the door out. This was not one of his protectors, but one of his counting-men. The King maintained several who were escaped clerics, renegades who sought to avoid a life of boredom by joining his little group. The sad fact was, few if any realised what a life of excitement might entail. This fellow was a youth of only some two-and-twenty summers. He was about the age Jacquot’s son would have been, had he lived.

Dropping his foot and walking to the lad, Jacquot held out his hand. It still held the dagger, and he realised it made him look intimidating. He did not care. The mace was a dead weight in his hand, so he tossed that to the wall, and reached out with his left hand for the purse the boy held.

He saw the movement in the boy’s eye. It was tiny, just a fleeting glimpse of a reflection, but it was enough to send him diving to his left, and the weapon missed him completely.

At the floor, he rolled swiftly, and just missed the second blow. It was a war-hammer, an evil tool, with a great square lump of steel on one side, a four-inch spike on the reverse, and a sharpened blade protruding from the head for a good six-inches which held a razor-edge. The man wielding it was, short, but heavy, and his eyes were quick and alert. This wasn’t one of the King’s young drunks, but a wary and competent opponent.