Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

And then his fury knew no bounds. He slammed the blade away with his ruined hand, the spray flying across Pons’s face, and hurtled forward.

Pons stepped back, then to his side, grasped the King’s wrist as he moved forward, stamped on his foot, and as he fell to the ground, slammed his pommel into the felon’s head, hard.

Bishop’s chamber, Louvre

Bishop Walter took a deep breath and walked to his great chair.

‘If you are right, then there is need to get news of this to the King,’ he said with conviction. ‘He will wish to see Mortimer found and destroyed.’

‘I expect the King will already know he’s here,’ Sir Richard said.

‘Alas, likely not,’ the Bishop disagreed. ‘Earlier this year, the French had a success in the diplomatic arena and managed to capture all the King’s spies. It was appallingly embarrassing. Just at the time that His Majesty needed all his spies operating at their most effective, so that he might know how to negotiate the truce, they had all been discovered. In truth, the King relies on Prior Eastry at Canterbury for his news these days, for the Prior hears from all travellers as they pass through. Some of that can be useful to the King, and is sent on to him.’

‘He relies on a Prior to keep him informed?’ Baldwin said disbelievingly. ‘Then it will be necessary to send to the King to let him know.’

‘I will put my mind to it.’ The Bishop sat down at his great table with two of his clerks to write the letter and look into his correspondence. There was much for him to study, the more so now that he had a new view of it. Sir Roger’s appearance on the scene was enough to throw much of the rest of his information into a different focus.

‘Sir Baldwin,’ he said heavily, looking up from the documents, ‘you know my political career has given me a most exciting life. I do not regret any of it. But there is little doubt that it does force a man to hold a different perspective on matters which associates may often not appreciate. Such as the destruction of the Lords Marcher and the arrest of Sir Roger Mortimer.’

‘I am sure that is true, my Lord Bishop.’

‘He was a good warrior, it’s true. And he did perhaps deserve more from a grateful sovereign. But he would have been a disruptive influence, I fear.’

‘I could not say. I didn’t know him, really,’ Baldwin said. He had met Mortimer after Simon had been captured by him, and in his opinion, the man had not appeared to be a menace to the realm.

‘He is another rather similar to Despenser in many ways. Too avaricious — both for money and for power. Such greed is always dangerous. A man who demands too much will inevitably fall.’

Baldwin smiled but forbore to mention the Bishop’s own wealth. ‘I suppose you mean that there was not enough space for two men of such greed in the King’s household at the same time?’

‘I do not think so, no,’ the Bishop said. He was sitting, peering out of the window with a slight frown on his face.

‘My Lord Bishop?’

‘I was reflecting on the nature of Mortimer. The King has declared him a traitor and enemy of the realm — I just wonder how dangerous he is. If he is so confident of his welcome here in Paris, has he been plotting something new? If he has, it must surely be to the detriment of the King.’

‘What could he do, that could harm the King?’ Baldwin shrugged. And his judgement was that Mortimer could indeed do little. The man was broken: his lands confiscated, his treasure taken, his men scattered.

‘I have no doubt you are right,’ the Bishop agreed, but Baldwin could see that a little frown remained on his brow.

Alley near St Jacques la Boucherie

Jacquot tapped Little Hound on the shoulder and took a delight in the sight of the man springing about, startled as a faun when the dogs appear. ‘Oh, it’s you!’

‘I want to know what you have learned,’ Jacquot said softly.

The Hound looked up briefly at the darkening sky, then nodded and led the way to a small tavern. It was quiet in there, and the only light came from stinking tallow candles and a few thin rushlights set about the walls.

‘She is a hard worker, that Amélie. And she knows a great deal.’

‘Such as?’

‘She has some pillow-talk from the castellan, you know? And she isn’t above boasting about what he lets on. Did you know he made his money by robbing a Pope? Yes, thought that would surprise you. Our Sieur Hugues was one of a small force King Philippe sent to some town near Rome to capture a Pope, but instead he found the Pope’s treasure, and stole it away. Enterprising fellow, that. And he has much to lose, if news of that robbery ever comes to the ear of our King, who might think it would be a good idea to take all that money for himself.’

‘What of it?’

‘Well, Guillaume de Nogaret, the dead man’s name, was also the name of the man in charge of the force sent to Rome, or wherever it was. This is going back some twenty odd years, mind. Perhaps this fellow who was killed in the Louvre was his son, come to blackmail Sieur Hugues. The castellan would have good cause to remove and silence him then, wouldn’t he?’

Jacquot whistled. Then he reached into his purse and slid a coin over the table. ‘Well done.’

The Hound sat back and eyed Jacquot speculatively, as though assessing what he would think of the next piece of information. ‘There is more. This same Amélie had met the young de Nogaret when he first arrived here in the city. I wouldn’t mind betting she gave the castellan warning about the man’s appearance, and-’

‘And gave him time to plan to kill the lad,’ Jacquot said. ‘Yes, that makes much sense!’

Saturday after the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Tavern near Grand Châtelet

Pons lifted his tankard in a toast, and Vital did the same in return. There was a celebratory air to their meal as they broke their thick loaves and soaked up the juices from the pottage that morning. It was satisfying enough merely to have captured the man who had killed Jean the Procureur, but at the same time they were both content that their efforts had seen to the destruction of a larger force of criminals. The King of Thieves was a man who had controlled much of the crime in Paris, and without him, it was likely that the city would grow more peaceful.

After a leisurely breakfast, they strolled together northwards, until they came to the wall. From here they carried on to the bleak fortress of the Temple, where they entered and made their way to the gaols.

‘Fetch them,’ Pons ordered.

Two gaolers hurried about their business, bringing one after the other of the men and latching their irons to rings in the walls. The last to be brought was the King.

In this darkened chamber, his ribs stood out more, and the hollows at his cheeks looked deeper, the lines at brow and mouth more heavily engraved, perhaps, but the night in the cold and damp of the gaol had not served to break his spirit.

‘You have never been found guilty of a crime here in the King’s demesne,’ Pons said, walking about the King. ‘You have not been branded, or had your nose, lips or ears clipped. How can that be, I wonder?’

There was no answer. The King spent his time staring into the distance as though listening to another conversation.

‘There are many like you,’ Pons said contemptuously, ‘who prefer to pay someone else to do their dirty work for them. No need for you to risk your own precious skin, is there?’

‘He’s not listening, Pons,’ Vital said, walking over to the King and eyeing him. ‘Now, that’s not very respectful, is it?’ All of a sudden, he slammed his fist into the King’s belly. ‘André was a friend of mine,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I want to know who killed him, you scum.’