Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

Queen’s chambers, Louvre

Bishop Walter received the invitation to the Queen’s chambers for a meal with distinct reluctance. It was impossible to refuse, naturally, but he would have preferred to have waited for Baldwin and the others, and then rested more quietly, content in the knowledge that all three were outside his door.

But it was not to be, and with any fortune, perhaps the woman had begun to see reason. Yes, that must be it. She was going to agree to return with him. Her resolve had waned after seeing how futile her petty rebellion was, and she had grown to understand that her place was naturally at the side of her husband.

So it was with a degree of confidence that he commanded his clerks to join him, and set off along the corridors to find the Queen’s chambers.

‘Her Royal Highness is expecting me,’ he said pompously to the door-guards, and they stood back to allow him to pass.

‘My Lady,’ he said as he entered, bowing his head in the briefest display of respect he could manage. ‘You commanded me to come?’

‘Please, my Lord Bishop, take a seat,’ the Queen said graciously, waving a hand at the table ready set for their meal.

The Bishop took his seat at the head, and gazed about him. ‘There is another place set here?’

‘Yes. And I think the Cardinal is here already. Such a punctual man,’ she murmured.

As she greeted her second guest, Bishop Walter looked around him. The table was gleaming with fresh, clean linen. No trenchers and bowls for the Queen and her guests: instead her best silver plates were ready to be filled. Spoons of a delicate pattern were set out beside them — lovely things, the craftsmanship excellent. It was actually hard to see where the tail of the handle was affixed to the spoon’s bowl.

About the room were the Queen’s guards, most of them originally entirely safe and honourable. All had been picked by the King and Lord Cromwell — but now there were rumours, strong rumours, that more than half had been won over by Isabella’s charming manner, her largesse and her delicate femininity. True, she was the greatest beauty in all France and England together.

Her ladies were standing at the rear of the room. There was no sign of Lord Cromwell, which was a surprise, but the Bishop assumed that this was to be a farewell meal for the Cardinal, so it made good sense to have as few people present as possible, so that any … delicate matters could be discussed safe in the knowledge that there were few ears to listen.

The food was as excellent as he had hoped. He remembered that as a fact afterwards: as he took the first mouthfuls, he felt a warm glow fill his soul. The dishes were superb, the wine still better, and yet afterwards he could not recall what he had eaten or drunk.

‘An excellent meal,’ he said as he fell back from the table, sated.

‘I am glad.’

He looked over the tablecloths at the array of gold, silver and heavy pewter lying on it. ‘You have a table fit for a King, your Highness.’

‘The Cardinal has such expensive tastes, Bishop.’

‘Not always, my Lady,’ Cardinal Thomas said respectfully. ‘And never on this level.’

‘You are too modest.’

The Cardinal smiled in reply. ‘I was born to humble surroundings, and could never aspire to such magnificence.’

Bishop Walter took a sip of wine. Humility was not a trait he would have associated with the Cardinal.

‘So, Bishop. How much longer do you intend to make me wait?’ the Queen suddenly asked.

The Bishop glanced up at her. Even in her widow’s weeds she was a stunningly beautiful creature. For a woman in such a situation, she was dressed fabulously well. Her clothing might be all in black, but for a woman with her perfect features, pale skin and wonderful, almost luminous eyes, it set off her looks to best effect. ‘Well, we can be off as soon as you decide, my Lady. It will take little time to prepare all my books and goods.’

She set her head on one side. ‘You mean to tell me you think that I shall join you on your journey?’

‘But of course … is that not why we are all here?’ the Bishop smiled, and then he felt the first stirrings of concern as she exchanged a look with the Cardinal.

‘My Lord Bishop,’ the Cardinal began, sitting back and steepling his fingers ‘I think you have missed the point of the meeting here. The Queen had considered that your position had become clear to you, and a sensible end to this impasse was now at hand.’

Bishop Walter smiled still, but behind his smile was a growing rage. That he should be so brow-beaten was intolerable ! He was the Bishop of a large diocese. He was the King’s trusted emissary, his special adviser on so many matters, especially financial, and now he was here to be persuaded to submit? He would not.

‘I have clearly been the unwitting cause of embarrassment,’ he said. ‘Excuse me, but I must return to my own rooms.’

‘No, Bishop. I am a Cardinal, and I order you to remain here and listen.’ Thomas d’Anjou’s voice did not rise, but there was no need for it to. ‘You see,’ he went on, ‘many of us are coming to the conclusion that the Queen’s situation here is quite unacceptable. It is you who prevent her from gaining access to the funds which she reasonably demands. It is a gross insult to the people of France, to the realm, and to the Crown itself. It will not continue.’

‘What do you propose?’ the Bishop asked, his jaw clenched.

‘Just this: you came here with authority to release monies to the Queen. I suggest you do so.’

‘I may not. I was told only to do so when she agreed to return to England, to her husband, her King, as he has ordered. Will she do so?’

‘No!’ Queen Isabella stated, and her eyes flashed with anger.

‘Then there is nothing more to discuss,’ the Bishop said.

‘There is one thing, Bishop,’ Thomas d’Anjou said. ‘You insult our Lady at your own peril. We are a proud race, we French. We do not tolerate foreign ambassadors, no matter how senior, arriving here and insulting her.’

‘I have letters of safe conduct.’

‘So you may do. And yet, I think you would find that they would aid you not one whit!’

It was now that the Cardinal dropped his hands to his lap and stared at Bishop Walter. His face was blank. There was no sympathy written on it, for felons deserve none; there was no understanding of the impossible position in which the Bishop found himself, only a firm resolve.

‘You suggest I pass the Queen such funds as I hold under my hand, and then what? I return to England, a disgraced and dispossessed man ready to be flung into gaol on arrival? Or perhaps you would have me remain here as an exile. To be reviled and despised by all who cross my path, neither French, nor English, merely a soulless, unwanted fool who gave up his life for the promise of extending it. Do you think me a fool?’

‘I have always been persuaded that there are compensations for the worst insults,’ the Cardinal told him. ‘In my time, I have been persuaded to leave the side of one Pope for another, I’ve been persuaded to join the service of the French Crown, and the Pope, and I’ve been able to rise. Look at me! I have the best-filled coffers outside the Vatican. And I live well — yet I was born a poor fellow with a father who had barely two sous to rub together. You could do the same.’

‘Not with honour,’ Bishop Walter said flatly. He turned from the Cardinal and stared directly at the Queen. ‘This is your last word on the matter?’

‘No, not quite. I say this too,’ the Queen said, thoughtfully running a finger about the rim of her goblet. ‘If you refuse my reasonable demands, I shall leave you to the wolves, Bishop Walter. The truth is, your life is not your own any more. I can control it. If you do not join me, you may thwart me. I will not have that.’