Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Jacquot sprang to his feet, regretting his confidence in reaching for the money. He should have been more cautious. The blade waved in front of him, the two edges of steel catching the light as it moved. Each had a quarter inch of rebate where the man had whetted it, and it held Jacquot’s attention like a snake as it wove from side to side, in and out. And stabbed.

Close, so close. He had only just moved in time. And now he was running out of space to reverse further. The hammer was set on a long shaft, and gave the man an extra three feet of reach. Jacquot needed a weapon with similar length, or some other means of attacking. He was not near the door, and all about him were the bodies of the men he had beaten off. Their groans were dismal in his ears, making him wonder if his own would soon join theirs.

No. He was not ready to die. Not yet. He felt a foot slip, and could smell the odours of death about him. There was the tinny, metallic scent of blood, the foulness of faeces where death had relieved one of the contents of his bowels. Without glancing down, he knew that the floor was dangerous here.

Without considering, he took a couple of quick steps back, and allowed the hammer-man to chase him, and then reversed his dagger quickly, letting it flick up in the air, before catching it by the point. Then he drew his hand back and let it fly straight at the man’s groin.

Some would flinch to see a blade whirling towards his face. Many would duck or slip to the side — but there was no man who could prevent himself from trying to avoid a weapon aimed at his manhood. This fellow was no different. His hammer was pointing at Jacquot, but when the dagger was released, the hammer was withdrawn as he tried to knock it away with the shaft nearer his right hand. The hammer was away, and Jacquot did not wait to see where his dagger struck, or even if it did. He sprang at the man, grasping the shaft too. Their feet scrabbled on the bloody floor, and then the fellow was forced back, his legs flew away from him, and he landed badly on his back. His dagger was on the floor, but Jacquot still had his thin blade. Except he couldn’t reach it while also holding this shaft. And if he released it, he was sure the man would kill him in an instant. All he could do was fight. He head-butted the man, he kicked, kneed, bit and butted again. The man was not going to relinquish the hammer, but neither would Jacquot. In the dark, lying among the blood and the shit, the two scrambled for the better purchase, both desperate to win control, both knowing that the one to weaken must die.

And then his knee hit something. It was his dagger. With a last convulsion that felt as though it must tear all the muscles of his back and shoulders, Jacquot heaved at the hammer. The shaft moved up just slightly, enough, and Jacquot bent his legs, and then leaped with them as high as he could. He came down with both knees bent, pulling against the hammer’s shaft to bring himself as hard as possible into the man’s belly.

It worked. There was a foul gasp of agony as his knees hit the man’s lower gut and groin, and then he gave a keening shriek while trying to protect himself.

Jacquot didn’t care. He snatched up his blade, and now thrust it twice, thrice, four times, into the man’s upper chest. There was a long, rattling noise, a harsh hacking that seemed to tear at the man’s breast, and then nothing.

‘You seem to have destroyed all my guards,’ the King said.

Jacquot hefted the hammer in his hands. It would have been easy to kill him, but there was no point. It would prove nothing. It would not even make him any safer. As soon as the King was known to be dead, Jacquot would become one of those who would never be trusted in another gang, a man who was safer if eradicated. The King would not waste good money on killing him. There was no profit in it. But if the King was dead, others would likely decide to dispense with Jacquot as well as his services.

He walked to the cleric who watched him with eyes made luminous with terror. Gently he eased the purse from the boy’s fingers, and hefted it. ‘I hope it’s all there,’ he said grimly. He surveyed the floor. ‘You really should think about cleaning up this place. It stinks in here.’

‘Tell the lad on the door, Peter the peasant, to get in here and clean this lot away,’ the King said without interest. He was already fondling his wench, who writhed under his hands with a passion Jacquot had not seen her exhibit before.

Jacquot nodded. And then he kicked the King as hard as he could in the face. He heard the woman gasp, and it was not from horror.

‘Never try those tricks on me again, King. And never renege on a business arrangement again. Next time I will give you so much pain, you will wonder that the life has not left your body.’

The King tried to speak, but his mashed lips would not respond. He bent and spat out a shard of tooth. And then, as Jacquot stepped back to leave the room, he saw the wench gentling the King and licking at the blood on his lips with a smile on her face.

Louvre

‘Where did he die?’ Baldwin asked.

The short man was called Pons, he had learned, and now he and Simon were ensconced on a large bench while Pons and his companion, who turned out to be a quiet, self-effacing man called Vital, sat on stools at the other side of the table at the little tavern near the Louvre’s gates. Sir Richard had joined them as soon as he heard of the accusations against the Bishop, while Sir Henry de Beaumont had been asked to stay with the Duke and keep His Highness close to the Queen and her guards. The Bishop himself was remaining in self-imposed solitude in his chamber, away from the gaze of those who accused him with their eyes.

‘The Procureur was struck down a few streets north and a little east of here.’

‘His purse?’

‘Still on his belt.’

‘And witnesses?’

‘None whatever. At least, none who admit to seeing it.’

‘He was alone?’

‘No, he had his man with him, but the evil son of a Basque whore managed to have the man knocked on the head before killing poor Jean.’

‘His servant is alive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Perhaps he will remember something?’

‘When he can see straight and stop vomiting, perhaps,’ Pons said, permitting himself a faint smile.

Baldwin nodded. ‘This was no random attack, you think?’

‘No. It was premeditated. I am sure of it.’

Now Vital spoke up. He had a soft, singsong quality to his voice. ‘Jean was a most effective prosecutor. The city knew him well, and especially all those who live in the twilight. You know? The men who live and work and struggle in the alleys and cellars and rarely come up into the daylight.’

Baldwin looked at him briefly. There was a poetical turn to the man’s speech. ‘An assassination, then?’

‘It is how it looks,’ Pons said. He looked at his companion, then at Baldwin with a vague shrug. ‘There are few enough who’ll help us to seek out the killers.’

‘And yet you accuse a good Bishop whose sole offence is that he was in the same city?’

‘No. I will seek out and question all those who have ever shown any dislike for Jean. Any man who has had a dispute with him recently, any who has shown him disrespect, and any who has been arrested or found himself on the wrong side of Jean in recent years — all will be questioned.’

‘I wish to speak with his servant,’ Baldwin said.

‘That can be arranged,’ Pons said.

Jean le Procureur’s house

The rooms to which they brought Simon and Baldwin were set in a rougher part of the city, over towards the eastern gate.

Simon had never been to this part of Paris before. He was made to feel quite at home with the close-built dwellings, their jetties reaching out overhead just as they did in London. However, this was not an area of wealth and easiness. There were on every side the signs of people striving and failing to earn enough to live on. The doors were of timber that was rotting; hinges were rusted or bent; windows had broken shutters; the roadway itself was lacking many cobbles, and the path was puddled and filthy with shit and the stench of urine.