Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Her behaviour was intolerable , he told himself. How the woman could think that she …

He was at a narrower part of the corridor when a hand reached about his throat, yanking him off his feet and drawing his body over a large chest. The man had been hiding in the shadows beyond the chest, and by pushing the Bishop over it, Stapledon could not defend himself in any way whatever. His legs were taken away by the chest’s lid, and his head fell back to crash against the wall behind, giving him a sickening sensation.

‘Bishop Walter, I am so glad to see you,’ a voice hissed.

The Bishop looked up, but it might have been a demon who gripped him for all he could see. All he was aware of was a blackness, as of the cowl of a hood with nothing inside. It was a terrifying sight. He grabbed for his crucifix, preparing to jab it upwards, when suddenly he felt a prick at his throat. A knife!

Strangely enough, this made him less fearful. He was petrified at the thought of a devil, or any minion of hell, but a man was a different matter. Now, he could see the glitter of reflected candlelight in his attacker’s eyes. They looked familiar — but from where?

‘Release me, churl,’ Bishop Walter said.

‘Silence! Call me churl? You’ll be buried here in a pauper’s grave if you are not careful, Bishop. The Queen just wants her money, but there are plenty of others here in Paris who would like nothing better than to skin you alive and feed your body to the crows. You have dispossessed so many, robbed so many — you have enemies everywhere.’

‘It is a lie!’

The dagger pressed upwards a little. ‘You dare to contradict me? Before God, you craven, quaking thing! You will die here unless you unbend. Perhaps it is too late already. You should fly from France. Remain here, and you will soon be dead.’

Bishop Walter felt the hand gripping his throat thrust forward, and it was only by flinging his arms wide and latching his fingers on to the lid of the chest that he stopped himself from falling. Sitting up shakily, he kissed his crucifix as he gazed first one way, then the other. The corridor appeared empty.

It was some moments before he could stand. His legs were unharmed, but he was uncertain whether they might support his weight or not. When he put his hand on the chest lid, his arms began shaking and he sat there, looking down, nausea washing over him, until a servant hurried past, checking the candles.

‘Are you all right, Bishop?’ he asked.

‘I am perfectly well, I thank you,’ Bishop Walter said.

The boy tutted to himself. ‘Someone’s snuffed all these candles. They will keep doing that. I’ll soon have them ready again.’

With a spill, he brought a flame from another set of candles further along the corridor, and relit those in the candelabra nearest the chest. ‘Are you sure you are all right, Bishop?’

‘Yes. I am fine,’ Bishop Walter said, and now his voice was fully under control. ‘You came from that direction?’ he asked, pointing back towards the Cardinal’s rooms.

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Tell me — did you pass a man as you came this way? A tall man, strong, with a hood over his head?’

The boy considered. ‘There’s no one about at this time of day,’ he said after a moment. ‘Was there someone you wanted to see?’

‘No. That is well, I thank you,’ Bishop Walter said. If the man had not gone that way, he must be along this corridor — but if he was, there was only the Bishop’s own chamber at the end. The man must have gone the other way, surely.

His voice … it had sounded more English than French, he realised suddenly. Conversing had been easy. And the voice had been oddly familiar.

He stood, gripping his crucifix again, and made his way to his rooms.

And then his legs began to shiver and wobble as though they could no longer support him. He had never before felt so fearful. Someone had been here, in this corridor, an Englishman, someone who had cause to detest him, and someone who had been able to fly away like a wisp of smoke, and just as silently. He might have been a ghost, were it not for the sore bruising the Bishop felt at his neck.

Bishop Walter stood at his door, and then shot a glance behind him, almost scared of what be might there. He half-expected to see that looming shape again.

Thursday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Louvre

Baldwin was still considering the sad tale of the cook the next morning when the summons came for him to hurry to the Bishop’s chamber.

‘What ails him now?’ he muttered.

‘He is prey to fears of a natural kind,’ Simon said more graciously.

‘Aye, well, if he is that keen to see us, we would be churlish indeed not to go. And then, on the return, the bar may be open,’ Sir Richard said hopefully.

They found the Bishop sitting on a large chair facing them as they walked into his room. There was a clerk at his side holding a slate board, while two others sat at a desk behind.

‘Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard, Simon, I am very grateful that you could come so swiftly.’

‘It was our pleasure, my Lord Bishop. The Duke is being entertained by his tutor for a little, and then will go to his mother. Sir Henry is with him, so we have our morning free,’ Baldwin said.

‘That is good,’ the Bishop said. He then stood and paced before turning and facing them. ‘I am very anxious,’ he blurted out. ‘I fear an attempt may be made upon my life.’

‘My Lord Bishop, I am sure you need have no such alarms. There is no one here who could wish you harm,’ Baldwin said, and he felt irritation that the Bishop had called them to him for such a foolish reason.

‘Look at this, Sir Baldwin,’ the Bishop said, and drew down the collar of his robe.

There, at his thin neck, the flesh somewhat pale, rather like a plucked chicken, there were four large bruises on his right side, one on the left.

‘Dear Jesus!’ Baldwin hissed. ‘Sir Richard?’

The Coroner joined him. ‘A goodly-sized fist, that man’ll have, if I’m any judge. A good, great paw to mangle you in that manner, me Lord. Who was it?’

‘I have no idea,’ the Bishop said. ‘I was attacked in the dark. And yet there was something familiar about the man’s voice. He was English, I think.’

‘Has anyone else tried to warn you away from here?’ Baldwin asked.

Almost everyone, the Bishop thought to himself sadly. ‘No one for certain, no. But I think that all would prefer to see me gone. I am an embarrassment to the Duke, an irritant to the Queen, and a shameful beggar in the eyes of King Charles. No one wishes me here, and yet I may not go home. All I want is to return to Exeter and rest my weary bones, but I must remain here until the Queen concedes that her place is with her husband. What may I do?’

‘First, you should be better guarded,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘We do not want you harmed, my Lord Bishop. Second, I think that King Charles should be informed that your life has been threatened. The King has accepted you as his guest, and safe-conducts have been issued. If you are harmed here, it will reflect most disastrously upon the French King.’

‘That is true,’ the Bishop murmured.

‘But that fact alone makes me wonder who’d be stupid enough to try to threaten Bishop Walter,’ Sir Richard said.

Simon shrugged. ‘There are any number of Frenchmen who dislike the Bishop for his diplomatic efforts.’

‘Aye, and some English, too,’ the knight grunted.

Baldwin smiled. ‘We know where the threat may lie, but the important thing just now is to make sure that the Bishop is protected. We will have to mount guard ourselves, and also see whomsoever else we may enlist to help us.’