Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘That is good,’ Baldwin said. Not many men would dare to attack a Bishop at prayer.

‘Heard something. Could explain some of the mutterin’s among the other English here,’ Sir Richard said. He sucked the last juices from the chicken bone, then methodically licked each finger before wiping them on his breast. ‘Mortimer’s said to be in Hainault plannin’ an invasion. You heard that? There’s talk that the Queen is like to support him. She’s hardly enamoured of her old man, is she? Eh?’

He belched and set a booted foot on the table in front of him. ‘Makes it difficult for a man to see the best way forward for himself.’

Baldwin nodded. ‘A man must think of his own position with care.’

‘I mean, what if there was an invasion? The King’s ships could destroy any fleet, I’m sure — but there’s always the risk that the Queen and her men might land. And that worries me.’

It was a great pity, Baldwin thought, that a man like this, a decent, loyal man, should feel the urge to contemplate forswearing his vows of allegiance. For that was what he was saying: that if the Queen were to invade, that he must turn his coat and become her ally. And up and down the realm, others would think the same.

‘I mean,’ Sir Richard carried on, ‘when the men have been slaughtered, as they will be, I’d hate to see her captured. The Queen herself held in gaol? A terrible thought.’

‘You mean …’ Baldwin gaped, although he quickly recovered. There were times when he felt that his ability to understand his fellow man was sorely damaged. ‘You would remain loyal to the King, then?’

Sir Richard’s eyes narrowed with humour. ‘And what else would you expect a man to say in these times, me old friend?’

Baldwin was about to laugh aloud, when there came a knock at the door. He crossed the floor and opened it to find Simon outside. ‘Hello, Simon.’

‘I’ve just been asked by the Cardinal, Thomas of Anjou, to send you to meet him,’ Simon said. ‘He was most insistent.’

‘I’d best go, then,’ Baldwin sighed. He eyed his dog and said, ‘Look after him, would you?’

‘I will,’ said Sir Richard.

‘I was not talking to you, old friend,’ Baldwin chuckled.

Tavern near Grand Châtelet

Pons sat at the tavern’s one table on a bench that felt as though it had been carved from stone and peered across the street, waiting. There was a howling gale coming through the unglazed window, or so it felt, and he was forced to pull his cotte closer about his breast. The weather certainly had changed in the last days, he thought. There was a fire in the room behind him, but he preferred to remain here where he could see who was walking up and down the street. At last he saw three men marching, his friend Vital in their midst.

‘I hope I see you well?’ he said when Vital had sat and the tavern-keeper had been sent to fetch a jug of hot wine.

‘Yes — not that you’d guess it after the night I’ve had,’ Vital replied, pulling his cloak about him. ‘It is damned cold in those gaols, you know.’

‘How was it?’

Vital reached for the jug as it arrived. His normally sombre mood had turned positively melancholic in the last few hours.

They had agreed that one of them must go to the gaols where the different men had been installed after their arrests, and try to learn more about this elusive ‘King of Thieves’. Both knew that Pons was the more competent at interrogation, but this time they had another duty — to follow after Le Boeuf and ensure that he didn’t make a run for it, or go straight to this ‘King’ and tell him all. It was Pons again who was best at concealing himself and following their man without being observed, so this was what he had done.

‘I learned that there is a King of the Seine who lives deep in the water, but he only comes out once in a while. Oh, and there is a man in the Temple who believes that his arm is being slowly eaten by pink lions the size of a man’s thumb. He kept pulling them off to show me.’

‘That is the sum of your news?’

‘Oh, no. There is a great deal more. I haven’t begun yet. Did you know that Paris is sinking into the mud? Or that the Royal Family is dead? The King was apparently murdered some years ago, with his wife, and there is no heir. We are waiting for the happy time when the anti-Christ appears and slays us all in his period of misrule, apparently. And one man told me, in all seriousness, that the stars are all the souls of the dead. I asked him why it was that the number didn’t jump and leave us in bright starlight after the Famine when so many died, and he muttered that they were sent far away. Ach! I am exhausted and have nothing to show for it.’

‘And I have little better,’ Pons said regretfully. ‘Our Le Boeuf wandered off to his lodging and remained there. There was no way in or out without him being seen, and we kept a close watch on him. This morning I left André there.’

‘So we have learned nothing, then.’

‘There is one thing. I am still perplexed as to why this King might have ordered the death of Jean. The Procureur was a most determined man. Surely he was killed because of the way that one of his investigations affected the King — or a man who paid the King.’

‘And that helps us?’ Vital demanded lugubriously.

‘No, perhaps not. But it is a thought to be kept.’

‘We did learn that Jean was investigating the deaths of the man at the Louvre and his wife.’

‘Quite so. De Nogaret and his wife. Perhaps this King of Thieves was responsible for one or both murders?’

Vital nodded slowly. ‘In that case, we need to see what we may learn of them, too. De Poissy’s servant should have any relevant information, surely?’

‘And meanwhile we have to hope that our man brings us some news, too.’

His hopes were quickly to be dashed.

Paris

Jacquot wandered apparently idly as he sought food. The place was full this morning, and he was bumped and shoved as he went, but the blows scarcely registered.

With a thick pottage and hunk of bread inside him, he felt more rational, but his mind was still racing. There were men who would kill him now, for the money which the King had offered. He had the choice of going to the King and attempting to make some peace, but he knew that the door was barred to him before he could even test the way. The King had been humiliated by him. It was, in truth, astonishing that he was not yet dead.

So his earlier resolution, to fight it out, was the only way to get through this.

There were many in the city who lived like rats, scavenging, thieving, killing. Not all were in the pay of the King, and it was one of these whom Jacquot sought now, a churl who knew neither mother nor father, but who scraped a living on the streets. ‘Little Hound’ he was named, for his skill at sniffing out targets. He would invariably win a purse or trinket from a walker without their realising his knife had liberated them of their wealth. A skilled and practised thief, Little Hound was one of that rare number who preferred a life of obscurity to one in the King’s ranks.

‘You are alive, then?’ Little Hound said.

‘Last time I looked,’ Jacquot agreed.

‘Sounds like your master’s in trouble, though.’

‘How so?’

‘Hadn’t you heard? His rooms were stormed yesterday. The law is on to him, it seems.’ The man picked his nose, eyed the residue on his finger with disgust, and wiped it on the wall beside him. He was a short, skinny man of perhaps four and twenty years, and dirt was ingrained in each wrinkle of his flesh, making him appear more dark-skinned than he truly was. One eye was whitened, where a man had stabbed him in a bar fight, but the other was bright blue, and very shrewd.