Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

A fine drizzle began to fall, and he hoped that this might be the onset of a heavier downpour. A man could hide in a really heavy storm. He tried to urge his legs on faster, but there was a problem. They seemed unwilling to obey his brain. Already he had hurried halfway across the city; there was a feeling of burning in his lungs, and he felt sure that if he didn’t get away soon, they would be on him.

There was a shout from behind him, and when he turned, he saw the men begin to hurry, urged on by the larger man of the three. He was a hulking figure, his cloak blowing behind him. He was pounding along the road now, each step throwing up mud or worse, on his face a grim snarl.

He looked familiar, Jacquot thought. Where the devil had he seen the bastard before?

Jacquot made to flee, but suddenly two men darted into the street ahead of him. One had a club, which he weighed in his hands, while the other, a much older man, nervously handled a long staff.

Jacquot ran at the younger, ignoring the old man; he was no threat. He shoved out with his hands, thrust the cudgel-man from his path without halting, took a deep breath, and would have continued, but something struck his shin, and he was flying. The ground seemed to gradually rise up to meet him, as though in some form of delayed reality, and he could see a stone directly in his path that must surely break his jaw when he struck it. He tried to lift a hand to protect his chin, but it was too late, and as he hit the roadway, the shock of the impact jarred his entire frame.

A hand grabbed his right wrist and yanked it down and round behind his back. About it was wrapped a thong, then his left was pulled back too, and although he wanted to struggle and fight, there was an odd lightheadedness in his bones and his head. He could make no defence.

It was as they hauled him to his feet and he tottered like a new-born foal, that he recognised the man at last.

He had been a thief-taker. One of the old King of Thieves’ contacts. This was a man who could be hired by any to seek out and arrest or murder an enemy.

‘Oh, shit!’ he murmured through slackened lips. ‘The bastard got me in the end!’

Louvre

The commotion outside the gate made all the men stop and stare, and then Simon was running with Sir Richard and Baldwin for the entrance.

A group of men had gathered about the dying woman, and the three, with Pons puffing behind them, had to push them away.

‘Dear God!’ Pons muttered under his breath, and crossed himself.

‘Do you know her?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘She used to be the wench of the King of Thieves,’ Pons said.

She was still moving, but it was obvious that there was nothing anyone could do for her now. A priest knelt by her, his features pinched and blanched by the reality of the woman’s death, and he was doing the best he could, muttering his prayers, trying to get her to utter the words that would save her soul.

‘Did anyone see who did this? Eh? Anyone here see who killed this girl?’ Pons roared.

‘He went off up there, with three men chasing after him,’ a voice said from the crowd.

Pons nodded and set off at a trot. After glancing at each other, Baldwin and the others followed.

Baldwin called, ‘You seem very angered by this. Was she known to you?’

‘You recall we arrested the King of Thieves? It was her took us to him. Looks like he’s had his revenge already.’

‘What makes you think he has done this?’ Baldwin asked, puffing slightly.

‘Who else would?’

Baldwin made no answer to that. Already they were past the castle, and now only a few tens of yards away, they could see a huddle of men outside a little house further up the road.

Pons had seen it too. Now he gave a great roar and redoubled his speed. Clattering and splashing, the three Englishmen raced after him as quickly as they could.

‘Leave him alone!’ Pons bellowed.

Hélias motioned to Bernadette and the young girl went to the thief-taker and took his arm, murmuring in his ear. He nodded, bent and kissed her on the mouth, and then stood back, snapping an order to the two with him.

In the roadway in front of her little tavern, Jacquot lay rolling in the filth, gripping his belly. His face was already swelling from the beating he had taken, and as she looked over, she saw old Michel preparing to whack him again with his long staff. She gave a hissed order, and he looked around with surprise. Seeing Pons, he stepped back, and soon Jacquot was alone.

‘What is this, Hélias? You taken to waylaying men as they pass? You need the business that much?’ Pons demanded. Jacquot tried to shift himself to a sitting position, and Pons nudged him hard with an ungentle foot, knocking him down again, where he remained, groaning gently.

‘I want to help the law, Pons. This one, he should have been arrested an age ago.’

‘I will be the judge of that. I do know he’s likely to be taken soon anyway. He’s just murdered a young woman.’

‘Well, you should listen more carefully to people who know your business, like me.’

Pons spat. ‘Really? Why?’

‘Because this fellow lying at your side is the murderer of Jean le Procureur.’

‘How do you know?’

Hélias looked at him. ‘We have our own means of finding answers.’

Jacquot held up a hand weakly. ‘Can I have a say in this? I’m innocent!’

‘No! Shut up!’ Pons said. ‘Hélias?’

‘I had customers ask around. They led me to him.’

Jacquot tried again. ‘You want to know who really killed le Procureur? Who killed the de Nogarets? Who also killed the man watching the fellow who was taken and murdered by …’

‘You mean my watchman, André?’ Pons snapped.

‘Yes. All were the result of the scheming bitch back there. I killed her, I confess it! I killed her to save people.’

Baldwin was shaking his head. ‘What do you know of this, fellow? Who are you?’

‘My name is Jacquot, and I have nothing to lose by confessing all. Will you hear me out?’

Pons scowled at the name. ‘I have heard of you, Jacquot. You are a killer.’

‘Only in my own defence. That woman was called Amélie. She was the lover of the King of Thieves, as well as of the castellan in the Louvre. Some weeks ago she met the man de Nogaret and his wife, and she heard them say that they were coming to the Louvre. De Nogaret’s father was a man high in the King’s esteem, and he wanted to plead for a little of the King’s largesse. But he made a terrible mistake. He told her — and Amélie was always in search of money. She decided to kill them both, I think, and take their money when they had some. But then she learned from them that de Nogaret’s father had mentioned a pair of men who stole a large sum from the Pope years ago. Two men called Hugues and Thomas d’Anjou.’

‘The Cardinal and the castellan,’ Baldwin said, looking at Pons.

‘Yes. And it gave her an idea — to take the money herself. To get the two to pay her to keep her silent about their past.’

Simon was frowning. ‘Why? What would it matter what they did to the Pope all those years ago?’

‘Not much,’ Baldwin responded thoughtfully. ‘Unless the King felt that the money rightfully belonged to him. And that might lead to his taking it for himself.’

‘Which is what she reasoned,’ Jacquot agreed. He eased himself up to a sitting position, ruefully eyeing the old man with the staff. ‘That stick has hurt my head, old man.’

‘What then? Do you have anything other than speculation to support this tale?’ Pons rasped. ‘I tell you now, I believe little of what you say. You are an assassin, a man who relies on night for your evil.’

‘I don’t know who told you all that. I am just a peasant and beggar in this city,’ Jacquot said. ‘All I’m doing is trying to help you!’