Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

If not Jacquot, someone else must have sent the men to the courthouse. In the last few days all had heard of the arrests and the numbers of men who’d been swept up from the streets. Any of them could have known of the King’s courthouse. It was a building of ill-repute because of the stories of screams which emanated from it late into the night.

He clenched his fist and set it on the wall, glowering as the men lifted the body from the mud and began to drag it laboriously towards the shoreline. He might never find out who had tried to inform on him. However, there was one man he could force to pay. He hadn’t even begun to think about Jacquot yet. Finding someone to destroy his best killer would be immensely hard. Ideally, it should be a man-at-arms who wore the tabard of the King of France. Someone like that would be able to command respect, and even the true King’s men could be attracted to money, the same as any other.

There was one man, of course. Up at the castle … Perhaps he could be persuaded, for a good fee.

And then killed, of course.

As an afterthought, he beckoned one of his men. ‘Follow them, Mal, and see where they go. I want to know where they came from — and where they take the body. Report to me at Saint Jacques.’

Pons and Vital eyed the mud-sodden body in silence. The wound at his throat proved that he had been killed in a professional manner.

‘Executed, certainly,’ Pons said.

‘Are there any other wounds? Was this the last of many, or the first?’ Vital wondered.

‘It shows that this building has been used for some killings,’ Pons said, looking about him again.

‘Likely, yes.’

They had seen that this body had been close to the trap-door which led to the river waters and then they had been called upstairs, where they found a large-sized room. There had been fights in here. Blood lay upon the rough-hewn planks in several places, but it was not fresh. The odour was that dull, dry smell which spoke of old death. A bench with a small trestle sat in one corner of the room, and there was a hook in the middle, while to one side stood a small chest. In that they had found some scraps of cloth, six red, one blue. They were baffled.

‘Have him cleaned,’ Vital said to the Sergent who stood guard over the dead man. ‘At least he has not been here for too long.’

‘And not in the water,’ Pons observed. ‘If he had, his hands would have turned to gloves.’

‘Yes. I have seen the bodies too.’

They both had. Murdered men often turned up in the river, where their flesh became so engorged with water that it could slip from the meat beneath. It was one of the more revolting kinds of death.

‘Can I go free? You see I wasn’t lying. They were here.’

The two turned back to their captive. His milky eye made him look still more beseeching, and he held out his wrists like a supplicant. ‘Please?’

Pons considered. ‘Very well, you can go free when we get back and can unshackle you. But first, what can you tell us about these cloth strips?’

The man looked wary, but then he nodded. Perhaps the thought of his imminent release gave him courage, Pons thought.

‘It is for the voting. When a man is accused of a crime against the King of Thieves, they hold a court here. When the jury votes, one of them is made executioner for the guilty. That is why there is one odd colour. The man who picks that is the one who must kill the guilty party. Not that they use the cloths much. Usually it’s a matter of letting the accuser meet the accused man, and they fight it out.’

‘You seem to know a lot about them?’

Le Boeuf gave a wry little grin. ‘There are few in Paris who don’t, other than those who work for the other King.’

‘How so?’

‘There is little that the King of Thieves doesn’t know about. If a man takes your purse, or sells you a woman, or if you buy a loaf of bread that is light, it is certain that the King will make money from you.’

‘In that case,’ Pons said, ‘I’d like you to have a bargain with me. You find out where he is now, and we’ll not only release you, we’ll pay you too.’

‘You can’t pay me enough. He would kill me.’

‘He is so powerful he can kill you without difficulty?’

‘If he heard I had taken you to him, my life would be worth nothing.’

‘In that case, you should stay in chains, Le Boeuf. Because it is sure that he will learn you brought us here today, if he is so powerful as you say. You had best ensure that we find him very quickly, before he finds you.’

Louvre

It was late in the afternoon that Hugues heard the knock at his door. ‘Yes?’

Amélie wandered in, a faint smile at her mouth. She crossed the floor to his table, and hitched a hip on to it.

‘I haven’t time, woman. Go and find another suitor,’ he muttered dismissively, but his eyes were fixed on her inner thigh. That glorious, soft sweep of perfect white flesh was so close to him, he could lean forward and lick it, bite it …

There was a rattle of coins, and he stared at the little leather purse she placed before him.

‘I’m here for the King,’ she said with amusement as he drew back from her and pulled at the drawstrings.

‘What is this for?’ Hugues demanded. ‘Twenty livres Parisis?’

‘There is a man he would like removed, Sieur Hugues,’ she replied, and began to explain.

Friday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Louvre, Paris

Baldwin knew that the last day had been tiresome for all three of them, but there was no doubt that the Bishop lived in fear of his life.

There was no telling who it was who had given the Bishop such a fright. Baldwin had looked at all of the English knights who were present in the Louvre, but none showed any sign of guilt. That was no surprise, though. The sad truth was, all of them appeared to look with disfavour upon the Bishop now. Even Lord John, who was the commander of the knights and men-at-arms set to protect the Queen, appeared to have taken more to the Queen’s side.

It was that which was most alarming to Baldwin. In England all these men had been chosen specifically for their loyalty to the King, and yet now, after only a matter of days for some, they were fallen into the Queen’s camp. Could the same thing happen in England itself? If the Queen could so easily sway the men over here in France, could she not take them with her to England and persuade others to her cause? If that were so, and if she could raise a small number of men to go with her, she would be invincible.

Naturally there were attractions to such an expedition. Few indeed would complain to hear that Sir Hugh le Despenser had been deposed, and ideally executed for his many crimes, and yet Baldwin was most anxious, for if the Queen were to become so all-powerful, it would mean that the King himself could lose his throne, and Baldwin was not happy at the thought of another civil war. The land had suffered too much from such strife before.

Sir Richard was sitting on a throne-like seat in the Bishop’s chamber when Baldwin arrived there that morning. Wolf immediately lumbered across the floor and set a great paw on Sir Richard’s lap.

‘Geddoffit, ye brute!’ he roared, and put a hand on the dog’s head to tickle behind Wolf’s ears, the action giving the lie to his bellow. Wolf sat and shuffled his arse around until he could sit gazing up soulfully into Sir Richard’s face.

‘Where is the Bishop?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Bishop’s gone off praying,’ the Coroner said, biting into a chicken’s leg and waving the bone in the direction of the Bishop’s chapel. Wolf eyed the leg with anticipation.