Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Simon had not come to this conception early. It had taken the death of his first-born son to make him realise that there was more to life than merely walking through it easily. Sometimes a man needed hardship, but dear Christ, Simon did not want to have any more. He couldn’t bear to lose another child.

The loss of his boy, the original Peterkin, had left him befuddled and sad, and it was only the exercise of his intellect in different investigations, he now realised, which had given him a fresh purpose. He needed the excitement of seeking a killer, a robber, a draw-latch. But most of all, he needed to find the killers.

Sir Richard was formed of similar clay, although he was far less bothered by any personal, emotional motivations. In essence he was a simple soul. He had a firm belief that those who broke the King’s Peace should be hunted down. A man who was prepared to break the rules was a man who was a threat to all others, so far as he was concerned, and he would do all he might to challenge and punish them.

Of them all, Simon knew that Baldwin had the strongest urge to find murderers. Having been Knight Templar, Baldwin had an abhorrence of any form of injustice, and that worked as strongly in him for those who were the victims of crime as for those who were innocent, but found themselves convicted of crimes they did not, indeed, often could not have committed. Baldwin hated to think that an innocent man could be punished.

‘Hah! Damn strange to be starin’ at a body like this without a clerk to hold my hand,’ Sir Richard commented. ‘Most of the time they’re less use than a tarse at a convent, but just every so often there’s something handy they come up with.’

Baldwin nodded his understanding. ‘That is why it is often so useful to study a body with another man. Two pairs of eyes see more than one alone.’

‘And I see that this fellow was stabbed bloody efficiently. God’s ballocks, will you look at that? A very fine, narrow blade, that was. But long, to reach down to the man’s heart, wouldn’t ye say?’

Baldwin peered closer. The wound itself lay atop the shoulder, a small, diamond-shaped cut, perhaps a half-inch in length, that had entered the triangular hollow between neck, collarbone and shoulder blade. But the depth would have to be some nine inches, he guessed, to puncture the heart. ‘The one blow. It was deep, clearly. You can see the blue beginning of a bruise where the cross struck the man’s shoulder. For a man to use such a point for his attack is surprising, though. Most would merely slip the knife up from the front, or under the shoulder blade … the risk of missing the heart and having the victim struggle and fight would put most men off delivering the killing blow this way.’

‘It was done by a man well-used to such attacks, then.’

‘I would think so.’

Baldwin remained staring at that stark body, the wound standing out so clear on the pale flesh. ‘It’s tempting to find a twig, or a glass rod, if there is such a thing to be had, just to measure the depth of the wound.’

‘But the age …’

‘Yes. It’s been such a long while since the man was killed, the clots will be deep in the wound already. It’s one thing to test a dagger thrust in a man’s belly, but another to look at this kind of stabbing. Still, we’re looking at a narrow blade, not much more than a half-inch in breadth, and long enough to puncture a heart from above. It gives us an idea of the type of knife that was used.’

They remained a little longer, making sure there was nothing of importance they had missed, before leaving the little chamber with its grisly inhabitant.

Outside, Wolf lay happily panting, tongue lolling, great forepaws widely spaced. Seeing the three return, he lumbered slowly to his feet, shook himself, and padded softly to Baldwin.

‘Look at this fellow. Gentle, mild-mannered, loyal, even though he scarcely knows me … and then consider the men who infest our world. Men who will kill for money or lust, for the sake of an argument or a wager. Yet we’re told that this poor beast is the failed creature.’

‘What do you mean?’ Simon asked, pulling the door to behind him.

‘Man is made in the image of God, Simon. That is what we are told. And yet think of it. No dog would murder because it coveted another’s blanket or bone. It would fight to defend its master without reneging just because some other offered it money. Some dogs will guard their master’s body even though he has been dead for an age, and the dogs will die trying to continue to defend it. Such loyalty, such devotion. But the vicars would have you believe that a beast like Wolf here can never pass the gates of heaven because he is only a dog. They would say that he can have no soul. And yet the meanest of men with the lust of a demon, and the greed of Despenser, can get to heaven if he will only ensure that he dies in a state of grace. I tell you, it makes no sense to me. If God is so committed to accepting only humans to His gardens of paradise, and will not let dogs in, I am not sure I want to go there. I would prefer to remain in purgatory with the soul of a brute like Wolf here, and my old Uther, may he rest in peace, and all the other hounds, mastiffs, alaunts and raches which I have known and loved in my life, for all eternity. Better that than risk meeting with some of those I have known who walked on two legs,’ he added. The thought of Guillaume de Nogaret had not left him. The idea that de Nogaret might be in heaven was so appalling, it almost made him want to reject his soul’s salvation.

‘Baldwin,’ Simon said, eyeing him with perplexity, ‘what has brought all this on?’

Sir Richard was also watching him askance, although in his case, it involved looking at Baldwin from the corner of his eye, tilting his chin upwards, and drawing the corners of his mouth down. Catching sight of him, Baldwin gave a weakly smile.

‘It is nothing, only that the poor man inside there is dead, and appears to have been a kindly soul. There was nothing about him to cause offence except to the law-breakers. He was good, by my measure. And yet he is dead now, and if his killer is shrived and dies in a state of grace, the two may well meet in heaven, while this good soul Wolf will not. Well, a pox on that!’

Simon exchanged a look with Sir Richard. He was nonplussed. He had never heard Baldwin swear, to his knowledge. That was his own preserve. And it was most unlike the knight to complain about anything, especially not any religious matters. For Baldwin, although the memory of the Popes was dubious at best, and the behaviour of the French King Philip IV was painful in the extreme, he had never made a negative comment about God, so far as Simon was aware.

It was a hard time, to be sure. Others Simon had known had lost their faith in God, as they buried their children or wives after watching them gradually fade away and die after the atrocious weather a decade ago, that brought crop failure and famine. Towns and cities lost hundreds or thousands of inhabitants. Simon had learned that there was a city in the far north of the French kingdom called Ypres that had lost one tenth of its people to the famine in one month alone. The famine had continued to ravage the lands of all Christians for two years and more. How could men not lose faith? Simon’s own beliefs had been staggered and bruised when his little boy died, for it was hard to understand how a kindly God could take away a little angel like that.

Sir Richard cleared his throat. ‘Did I ever tell you about my wife, my Hannah? No? She was my love from my earliest years. Met her when I was seven, when I was just being shown how to fight with a sword two-handed. She was daughter to a local cowman. I thought then, I would marry her. Eh? And you know what? I did. Happily married we were, for twelve years. Never had children. Just never happened for us. A sadness, but we had enough pleasure.