Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘I see. That’s good, then.’

‘It is?’

‘I was fearful that, if he had a debt to settle with you, your life might have been at risk. But so long as you are sure that is not the case, nothing has changed,’ Baldwin breathed.

‘Nothing has changed,’ the Bishop repeated.

But it had, although he did not realise by how much.

Upper chamber near St Jacques la Boucherie

It was the afternoon. The sun had passed over the rear of the house and now was lighting the window hole on the other side, in front of Le Boeuf.

His entire body was a mass of bruises and lacerations. The thought of food made his belly rebel, but he could have killed for a mouthful of water. Or two mouthfuls, the first just to wash the vomit and blood away, the second to sip and swallow. Cold, clear water.

His mouth was a mass of soreness. The taste of blood and bile was unbearable, and Le Boeuf wept with despair at the agony of the acid eating away at the wounds.

It was growing dark, and his trepidation increased with every moment. There were sounds from below him, of men arriving. He knew how the meeting would be conducted: the men would all gather, and when they were ready, the King would call them upstairs to take their places. Le Boeuf would be entitled to defend himself against any accusations, and then the votes would be cast. And his life would end.

There was no sympathy in a meeting like this. The men were all perfectly aware of his agonies, and they would enjoy witnessing his terror. And he would be terrified. He wanted to pray that it was quick, but he didn’t want to die. A man with so much life left in him still, it was cruel, unfair.

His life was not so wretched that he would willingly cast it aside.

Looking about him again, he saw that there was no one in the room yet. He could just pull away from the knife, allow it to cut through his cheeks, tug himself free, and then cut his bonds with it before fleeing. The alternative was death. But the idea of pulling his head away, feeling the knife slice, was so hideous that he couldn’t. At one point he had been close. Very close. The house had been silent for a while, and he had sobbed silently, closed his eye, and tried. God, how he had tried. All he needed to do was jerk his head back. There would be a short, sharp pain, no doubt, but then peace. An escape. He could go to the white monks, who were happy to cleanse a man’s wounds and help him on his way. And after that, when he was healed again, he could run. He would never be able to stop running, of course. There could be no escape for a man like him. If the King ever heard where he had gone, he would be dead. Death would, however, come quickly. A knife in the back, or a sudden clubbing at night. Better that than this long, drawn-out hell.

Yes, so he had opened his mouth, clenched his fists, and prepared to jerk his head away. Only to find that the flesh would not yield up the blade. It was left intentionally blunt, with only the point sharpened, so that a man would only be able to escape the knife if he was prepared to slowly rip himself wide open.

He couldn’t do it.

He could remember now, hearing of a wolf that had been trapped, caught with one paw in a snare. In terror and despair, it had chewed through its own foreleg and escaped. The paw remained. If only he too had that sort of courage.

But it was too late. He could already hear the men coming. Setting his hands on the hilt of the dagger, he tried for the very last time to withdraw the knife, but the leaden hammer had done its job well. The blade had penetrated the plank by more than an inch. Try as he might, he could not shift it.

The door opened. There was a giggle, high and scary, and then more boots marched in.

‘Is your name Le Boeuf?’ the giggling voice demanded. It was the King.

‘Yes.’

‘You have to speak up, fellow. We can’t understand you,’ the King said. For good measure, he kicked Le Boeuf in the spine again.

‘I ang Le Boeuf,’ he said as clearly as he could.

‘You betrayed my home, didn’t you?’ the King said. His voice had gone very quiet, suddenly. It was somehow even more alarming than his giggling.

‘I didn’t mean to, it was-’

‘Just “yes” will do.’

‘I …’

‘That’s a yes, then,’ the King said. ‘So you see, my friends — that is the sort of man we have here. A coward, who chose to go and sell us to his friends. I think that is a shame, because he has cost us our home. We’ve had to move to this dump. And it’s not so pleasant, is it?’

He kicked Le Boeuf again, and this time the knife tore at his mouth, a fresh eruption of blood making him gag.

‘He sold us to his friends , my comrades. Us! ’ With each emphasis, he kicked again, and Le Boeuf wept as the dagger ripped at his cheeks. There was nothing he could do to defend himself, nothing he could do to save himself from the pain.

‘Look at him. Who can doubt he deserves death? But how: that is the question.’

Le Boeuf stared across the room. All the men were behind him, and he could imagine them drawing their knives, all preparing to stab at the same time, each participating in the killing, a bonding of the gang. And it made him want to close his eyes.

But he kept them open a little longer. Long enough to see the woman. She walked into his field of view with a curious look in her eyes, as though she was intrigued to see his reaction to the pain. Seeing him, she gave a little smile, with half-lidded eyes, like a woman making love, but then she looked away, and left the room.

It made him feel still more lonely.

Pons saw the light as the door opened, the flash of the candle before it was snuffed and clouted his neighbour on the back. ‘ Now! ’

They ran low along the road, clubs and maces muffled with strips of linen to prevent rattling or clattering against walls and pillars, and then they were at the door. Amélie slipped out, muttered, ‘Top floor. Room at the very top,’ and they were off, at first trying to be silent as they hurried up, but gradually the need for silence was overruled by the need for speed. They all felt it, the mad, urgent demand of action.

Their boots pounded on up the stairs, Pons in the front, and when he came to the uppermost chamber, he found himself surrounded by a group of nine or ten. Three had lost ears, one had a lip split, and Pons felt a grim delight to know that these were indeed the felons he’d sought. One man was directing the others — he must be the King! He was crouched at the side of a huddle on the floor, screaming at the others, his mouth moving, a foam forming in the corners, but Pons could hear not a word. The blood was rushing in his ears, deafening him.

He launched himself inside, his thighs complaining at the effort, and his sword was in his right hand, a club in his left. He was aware of the others entering behind him, was aware of clubs falling, boots kicking, fists flying, daggers stabbing and the fine mist of blood spraying from a dozen wounds; he was aware of all, but his concentration was fixed on the man before him. The King was too great a prize to risk losing him.

The fellow was scrawny as an old chicken. He was bare-chested, even in this weather, up in this unheated room, and Pons guessed that he was keen to be undressed so that the blood wouldn’t show when he left to go into the street again. A man with blood all over his shirt would be a target for the interest of the Sergents and other officers. There was already blood on him, but now he reached down to the huddle and pulled free a dagger that lay stabbed in it.

‘Put down the knife,’ Pons snarled, and launched himself at him, his sword flicking up to the right and, catching the dagger and cutting through the King’s fingers. His forefinger and second finger were swept off, and Pons sensed them both flying up and away, even as his attention remained on the face of the man in front of him. There was an expression of utter shock on it. Never before had he suffered the pain and indignity of punishment. He stood now, frozen in impotent rage as Pons’s point rested on his throat.