Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘Ha! So you think he may do the same to his own son in his turn?’ Sir Richard enquired.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Baldwin said thoughtfully. ‘I think our King was a more turbulent youth. He was forward and headstrong, while this Duke of ours is much more aware of his responsibilities than his father ever was. The latter sought only the trappings of power so that he might enjoy his leisure in whatever manner he wished. Our Duke seems much more thoughtful, and considerate of other people’s feelings and desires.’

Sir Richard grunted, but then his mood lightened. ‘Well, now, since we’re free for the morning, what do you two say to a walk to the kitchen to see if they’ve got a honeyed lark or two for us? I could happily eat a snack.’

Simon reflected warily that the way to the kitchen also took them past two very good wine shops and a tavern, but the idea of a slab of meat and a hunk of bread was most appealing. And a quart of ale to wash it down would be pleasant, too.

Baldwin was behind the other two when they reached the kitchen. He had enjoyed a dream of his wife the night before — just a fleeting gallery of little memories, a snap of her smile, the impression of her body, her hair in a breeze — and it had left him feeling vaguely melancholic and unsettled. Thus it was that when Sir Richard and Simon blundered their way into the kitchen, Baldwin himself waited outside.

There was a curious weeping noise coming from somewhere, he noted, and he wondered where.

Like all kitchens, this was built close to the main hall where any feasts would be held, but was a completely separate building in case of fire. All castles, all halls, had separate kitchens for this reason.

This was a large rectangular block, which was clearly quite old. Built of stone, it had a tiled roof against the risk of sparks erupting from the chimney and setting fire to a thatch. The weeping seemed to be coming from behind it, so Baldwin, frowning slightly, peered around the corner.

And there slumped on his backside, head bowed, was a boy who could not have been more than eight years old. He was dressed in old linen, with a blue stripe of some cheap dyestuff which had already begun to fade.

‘Are you well, boy?’ Baldwin asked.

With a squeak the lad sprang to his feet and backed away, farther into the gap between the kitchen and the castle wall.

‘Don’t worry, I am not here to harm you,’ Baldwin said soothingly.

‘I should bloody hope not!’ came a voice from behind him. It was the cook. The big man stood looking suspiciously at Baldwin, his hand close to his knife.

‘Master cook, there is nothing for you to fear,’ Baldwin told him. ‘I heard this knave weeping, and sought to help him.’

‘He’s fine.’

‘Is he?’ In some circumstances, Baldwin might have thought that the cook had been bullying the boy, but now, seeing how the knave ran to the man and hid behind him, gripping his shirt tightly, and how the cook himself ruffled his hair fondly, he grinned. ‘That lad looks as though he’ll be a sore trial before he’s a grown man.’

‘He already is,’ the cook admitted. He looked down and jerked his head. ‘Go on, Raff! Get back inside. I’ve been hunting for you.’ He sighed with exasperation when the lad had disappeared. ‘I am sorry, sir, I thought you might be …’

‘Yes?’ Baldwin enquired. And then he flushed a little as he realised. ‘You thought I could have been seeking to hurt that boy?’

‘Well, we have had a lad from the kitchen taken and murdered,’ the cook said bleakly. ‘I wish I could learn who did that. Whoever it was has no soul and no humanity. That bastard took a little boy with the sweetest nature in this city, and slaughtered him like a pig.’

Baldwin unbent a little. ‘I saw the body. I was here when the Procureur was taking the child from your chest. I had forgotten, may God forgive me. There has been so much happening, with the Procureur being killed as well. So, tell me, the murderer was never found?’

‘No. Little Jehanin died without justice. Now he’s in his grave, and no one will bother to learn who did that to him. Who cares about a fellow like him when he’s not the son of a baron?’ His voice thickened, and he looked away.

‘Friend cook, I am truly sorry. Perhaps it was merely an accident, as I first said?’

‘His throat was stopped by a cord, you remember? How could that be an accident?’ the cook sneered.

‘I have known such accidents. In my own lands I investigate deaths and try to make sense of them,’ Baldwin said. ‘Was the cord a type that you use in the kitchen?’

‘No. I have several cords which I use to bind carcasses — small for poultry, larger ones for venison and the bigger animals. There are ropes too. But this was none of them.’

‘You are sure?’

The cook looked at him. ‘The cords in the kitchen are all good quality, fine linens and the like. That which killed the boy was a rough one, made out of hemp or flax, I think. It was unlike anything I have in my kitchen, I can swear. And what sort of accident would lead to a boy being throttled like that?’

‘At home, I found a miller’s boy who’d been playing with a rope, and it became snagged on the hoist without his realising. When his father used the hoist, it lifted the boy as well, and there was nothing the father could do. A terrible accident. Then I saw a boy who was playing at swinging on a tree’s bough with some string. Not high, he had to bend down to the rope, but he slipped, and his neck fell on to the rope, and he swung about, the rope tightening, and as he panicked, the rope choked his life away.’

‘Jehanin was not playing on a tree, though. And there is no hoist in my kitchen.’

‘I merely demonstrate that accidents can happen. Was he unpopular?’

‘No, he was a lovely lad. All liked him.’

‘I know you did, for I saw your distress at his death. But could one or two others among the staff have been jealous of your affection?’

‘No. He was not a favourite, if that’s what you mean. I merely liked him. But I like all my charges. I would be a poor master to them if I hated them all,’ the cook said with asperity.

‘You speak truly,’ Baldwin agreed. Then, ‘So could this have been someone who had a reason to detest you , and sought an easy means of upsetting you through the boy? I have known weakly men try to do just that.’ Into his mind there sprang a picture of Sir Hugh le Despenser. It made Baldwin wonder whether he had taken Simon’s house in order to get back at Baldwin.

‘I am only a cook! Who would hate me ? All I do is make people’s lives more pleasant by cooking for them. I could not have offended anybody like that.’

‘Is it possible that you might have had something valuable in your kitchen? Perhaps someone tried to steal something and was seen by the boy, so he killed the witness?’

‘The only items of value in my kitchen are my meat and spices, and I’d swear that nothing’s been stolen.’

‘And you are convinced that Jean could find no reason for the lad’s death? The Procureur was a most competent-looking man.’

‘He gave no reason. I think it was that very day that he died, though. Perhaps he would have learned more, had he not been murdered.’

Louvre

Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou left his little chapel and returned to his own room. A clerk followed after him, and, knowing his habits, brought a small tray on which were a bowl and a goblet. D’Anjou washed his hands, dried them on the towel which the thoughtful clerk had provided, and then took the goblet.

It was one of his favourite pieces, this. A delightful cup of pewter on a solid stand, and with gilt to highlight the scene engraved around it. Faultlessly executed, it depicted the story of St Francis, from his early years rejecting his inheritance from his cloth-merchant father, to his preaching to the birds and his taming of the wolf of Gubbio, and the appearance of the stigmata.