Michael Jecks - The King of Thieves

‘Bishop? My Lord?’

He turned with a scowl as the clerk called out. The road was clear of tranters and carters just now, but he had ordered them all not to shout too loudly in case their voices were recognised as English.

‘What?’

‘Riders!’

The group huddled closer together as the sound of horses came to them. Bishop Walter was in the middle like a general with his troops about him, and he peered back the way they had come with trepidation. This was not the usual route from Paris, he reckoned, which was partly why they had come this way. Also, it was a popular pilgrim route, so they should have been safe enough. This sounded like two large horses, maybe more. But they were hidden by a bend in the road.

And then he felt a lightening of his spirits as he recognised three riders on great rounseys.

‘Sir Baldwin! Sir Richard! And Simon, too! This is good news beyond all hope. You are all most welcome!’

Second Friday following the Feast of the Archangel Michael *

Furnshill

Jeanne woke to a grey morning in which the rain splattered against the shutters and the wind howled around the doorframes. Autumn was almost over, and winter was battling to take over. It made her shudder. Raised in the French territories, her blood was too thin for these colder climates, especially during the worst of the wintry weather.

Margaret was not in the bed beside her, which was a surprise, and she quickly climbed out of the bed and walked downstairs.

Meg had set the fire, and sat beside it, huddled with her arms around her legs, chin resting on her knees. She didn’t look up as Jeanne entered.

‘Margaret? Couldn’t you sleep?’

‘I don’t believe we will ever find peace in our house again, Jeanne. I’ll always fear that someone is going to come and take it away.’

‘Did you wake early?’

‘I don’t know that I slept. I just keep thinking of that man Wattere. He makes my skin creep, like looking at a snake. I am so scared that if we go back, he’ll come again and kill Simon and Peterkin.’ She burst into tears.

Jeanne sat beside her and put her arms around her old friend. ‘I know it’s terrifying, but you have to believe in the justice of your case, Margaret. It’s wrong that he should try to take your house from you. No one can do that. When Simon and Baldwin are back, all will be well again. Trust me.’

But even as she spoke her soothing words, she could feel Margaret shudder with silent sobs.

Paris

Jacquot had worked until late last night, sorting out some details of a deal with a smith for gold stolen from a house near the Seine, and when the goldsmith had tried to take a little more than he deserved, Jacquot had used his menacing stare to make the man back down in a hurry. Yes, life was good, and looking better every day now.

In the morning, he packed a small selection of clothes into a shirt and tied it together into a bundle. At his hip was a leather wallet, and into it he placed a little hard cheese, a thick slab of cured meat, and a loaf of bread. Enough for two days, if treated sparingly. He took up a staff and went down the stairs.

Years ago he had come here to this town, unknown, with no family left, nothing. All he now had, he had taken — much of it from the still-warm bodies of those he had killed. There was a wineskin on the floor near his door, and he slipped the thong over his neck as he passed, allowing the skin to dangle over his breast.

Yes, years ago he had come here, seeking an extension to a life that had grown over-burdensome in his home country. But it had taken a whore and the King of Thieves to show him how empty life could become. And since their deaths, he had grown more and more aware of the void in his own life. In the countryside there was abundance. Wildlife, grains, fruit, vegetables — all provided a man with everything he needed, so long as the man himself would merely put in a little effort to till the soil, spread the seed, and cultivate the plants. Here in the city, the only creatures that survived were the human weeds that fed on the dead bodies of other men, that strangled and slew all in their paths. He could exist here, but without pleasure.

He left the house for the last time and took a deep breath in the lane outside. The air today smelled cleaner, purer. This was the day he would leave Paris and make his way to his old home — the little hamlet in the south. The place where his family had lived with him until they all died. Perhaps there were some neighbours still alive?

If there were, he would find them.

As Jacquot left the door, Michel turned to the others and nodded. Quiet as rats, keeping low, they scurried forward, and when Michel raised his cudgel, they moved in for the kill.

‘Hey, King! I’ve a message from Hélias: remember Jean le Procureur !’ Michel hissed, and his cudgel swung. Jacquot felt the club slam into him, but there was no pain. His mind was so fixed on memories of his village that the blow caused only a dull incomprehension. He had no rage to defend himself, because he was not Jacquot the Parisian assassin, he was Jacquot, father of three, husband to his darling Maria. In his mind he saw his lovely Maria, and Louisa, Jacques and little Frou-Frou. All his family, his woman and children, those whom he had loved, those who had been his life. He had left the Parisian killer behind him in the house as he had slammed the door, and he felt only shock as the club thudded heavily into his shoulder, spinning him.

He could probably have saved himself even then, if he had been prepared. But as Michel and the others thrust forward, shoving him against the wall, his mind could not quite respond. The first prick of a blade at his breast almost woke him to his danger, almost stirred him to the anger that had protected him for so long, but it failed. He was too surprised.

The blade pierced his chemise, the point striking a rib, and he felt the wash of fluid all over his belly, knowing that this must be the end. For such an effusion, his death must follow swiftly. But there was no regret. Because to die must mean that he would meet his children again, that he would find Maria once more, that this miserable existence was at last over. At last he could hope for a better life to come, as the priests had always promised. So, Jacquot wore an expression of ineffable relief as he met the gaze of Michel, and behind him, Hélias.

But then he realised that the dampness was not blood, it was wine from his skin. He felt the hot despair return. Would he never die ? Was he doomed to a long, solitary life? Must he continue to exist without the solace of any woman he could trust? Life without his Maria was nothing.

The red, raw wrathful frenzy took him over at last, and he lifted his fist.

Hélias watched as the man stared at his breast. She thought he looked strangely magnificent. True, he was small and scrawny, like so many who had starved, but he had some dignity. Even her men seemed a little overawed by him as he slowly stared down his body, and then his head snapped up again, suddenly gaving a hoarse bellow of pure ferocity, like a bear baited by the hounds.

Jacquot tried to punch, but he was too late. Michel moved in, his club swinging, and she saw little Petit André lift his hatchet, saw the flashing of blades rising and falling, then the boots swinging as Jacquot collapsed. A few moments later there was nothing except the pattering of boots along the cobbles, as her men fled. That, and the soft, liquid soughing of the last breaths of the man who lay bleeding to death.

She walked to him. Not out of sympathy. She wanted to spit in his face as he expired, to tell him that this was all because he had killed a man she had respected — a man she had loved. But she couldn’t.