Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘What else?’ Jacquot said.

‘A quick man might be able to learn much …’

Jacquot disliked the man, but he was undeniably useful at giving out information. Wearily, he tugged a livre Parisis from his purse and held it up.

‘Very good. Even a small hound must eat, hein ?’ Little Hound said with a grin of discoloured teeth. ‘Well, it seems the officers were seeking the murderer of the city Procureur. Somehow they had gained the impression that it was the King himself who had arranged Jean de Poissy’s death, so they went there to arrest him. But he was elsewhere. All they discovered was a dead man in the river.’

‘How did they know to go there?’

‘How do they learn anything? They found a man and threatened to break all the bones in his body. He soon agreed to help them.’

‘What else?’

‘What else should there be? Isn’t that enough?’

Jacquot said nothing, but stood very still and silent, watching him.

‘Oh, very well. From what I’ve heard, the instruction to attack the King came from within the Louvre.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know, but everyone knows that the King’s latest whore visits the castle as well.’

‘Does she?’ Jacquot murmured. That was interesting.

After paying him another livre, Jacquot left him a short while later.

So, someone was selling the King, he mused as he walked. That would make life easier. Now he had an idea that could work to his advantage. His only problem was the next person he must visit.

Amélie was not someone he had ever wanted to see again, but just now she might well be useful. After all, it seemed she had better contacts than he had realised.

Louvre

Baldwin entered the room with an awareness of danger. It was only slightly less pronounced than the time he had walked in on Despenser in his new home, the Temple in London.

In the case of Despenser there was no concealment of his nature and the danger to all who crossed him; in the Cardinal’s the threat was much more subtle. Baldwin knew that this room belonged to one of the most powerful men in the French King’s realm and that meant, by extension, in the whole of Christendom.

He was not an intimidating man, though. Almost as tall as Baldwin, he was not stooped, and gave the impression of having all his faculties unimpaired, which was itself surprising, in Baldwin’s experience. He held out his hand with his ring, and Baldwin obediently bent to kiss it, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the Cardinal’s.

In them he could discern only friendliness, which was itself reassuring.

‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad that you could come to see me, especially at such short notice.’

‘I am happy to be of service.’

‘Good. Because I would like you to listen to a few words. It concerns your King.’

Baldwin felt his breath stop in his throat. ‘I think that any matter concerning him could be better put to another.’

‘Sir Baldwin, you are an intelligent man. Of this on all sides I am assured.’

The contraction of the sentence was almost enough to make Baldwin smile, but he kept his face straight. ‘I would hope not to be considered a complete fool.’

‘Your King is a wise and good monarch, you think?’

‘He is my King.’

The Cardinal gave a dry smile. It was as brittle as a dried leaf. ‘I would expect a knight to say nothing foul about his liege-lord. However, you must be aware that your loyalty is not being rewarded. Excuse me one moment.’ He strode quickly over the floor of the chamber and left by a door in the farther wall.

Baldwin felt his hackles rise. He stepped away from the middle of the room, his hand reaching for his sword, his eyes casting about for danger. It was impossible not to feel the malice in this room, he thought. It would be best to walk from the place, go back to his Bishop and continue his vigil there, but if he were to do that, he would not only have snubbed the Cardinal, but also demonstrated that he truly believed the man was capable of attempting to harm him — and that would be a grave insult to the French King.

Backed to the wall, he stood a while, listening. From here the noises of the courtyard were muted. The hammering of the smiths, the cries and shrieks of all the servants, the bellows of the stewards, the agonised squealing of the pigs being slaughtered, all were far off, as though in a different building altogether, and that fact alone made him feel more anxious. What he would have given for his sergeant, Edgar, or Simon to be at his side. For he was sure that he was about to be attacked.

There was a slight waft of air. He felt it on the right-hand side of his beard, and saw the tapestry near his shoulder ripple. There was a secret door behind it.

Moving with elaborate slowness, he began to draw his sword. It was half out of the scabbard when the tapestries parted and he saw a familiar figure.

‘Ah, Sir Baldwin. I know already that you are a loyal servant of my husband. Do you intend to slay me?’ the Queen asked.

Slums east and north, Paris

André was no novice to the art of watching a house. Any man who had been in the service of Pons would soon learn that his post was usually to stand in the rain and the chill wind without cover of any sort, and normally in the dead of night.

In his time André had watched suspected thieves, murderers and traitors as well as those who were thought to be at risk, but this was the first time he had been told to watch someone who potentially fulfilled all the criteria.

Le Boeuf was not a pleasant character. André had already been asking a few of the people nearby about him, while Pons was originally watching their quarry. Sending André was as clear as pinning a notice to the door announcing that the King’s men were investigating little Le Boeuf. Pons wanted him to realise that he was being watched.

The doorway where he was standing was dark enough, he thought. There wasn’t much likelihood that he’d be seen. His dark cloak and tan clothing would help, too, as would his swarthy features and beard. He only hoped and prayed that no inquisitive Sergent would come along and ask what he was doing there, loitering with such obvious contempt for the laws of the city.

There was little to watch, in truth. The chamber in which Le Boeuf lived remained dark. It had been so since the early morning when Pons had set him here. There was nothing happening, no one to see. André was here, freezing off both ballocks, and all for no purpose. It already felt as though the whole of his left hand had frozen solid, and he wasn’t so sure that his face was safe. If only it was still summer. At least in the summer he didn’t freeze.

Nor did he die. He felt the thread around his throat rather than seeing it slip over his head, and felt it tighten about his skin before he even had time to raise a hand to try to stop it. He tried to scrabble with his fingers to reach under it, but it was already beneath his flesh, cutting into it. There was nothing he could do to pull at it; nothing on which to gain purchase. All he could do was scrape at his throat ineffectually, while the hideous cord crushed his windpipe and stopped the breath in his neck. And then there was a sensation of collapse, and the madness rose in his mind as he felt his life draining away, because his mind was working normally, and rationally it knew that he was going to die, and die now — slowly, painfully, his lungs screaming, his mouth gaping.

He fell back, his heels striking frantically at the ground, while his eyes bulged and his tongue thickened in his mouth, blocking what little airway there was. His hands reached behind him at last, trying in desperation to claw at his killer’s face, eyes, throat.