The King of Thieves: Page 19

  Jean was still hanging around, gormlessly staring, and Arnaud grinned to himself when the Bishop took offence.

  ‘Well? What do you see that is so fascinating, man?’

  Jean looked startled. ‘Pardon?’ he asked.

  ‘You are staring at me. I assume you have some reason for doing so?’

  ‘My apologies, my Lord Bishop. My mind was a thousand miles away. I did not observe you.’

  ‘Do not lie to me, man! I saw you staring at me! What was your reason? Eh? Come on out with it, you cretin!’

  Jean held out his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘I do not understand your concern, my Lord.’

  He glanced about him as though calling upon all those present to witness this curious outburst, but then a younger lad rode up to the side of the Bishop. With a shock Arnaud realised by the coat-of-arms as well as the three men who followed him as a guard, that this was the fellow all had been discussing: the Duke of Aquitaine, the boy who would be the King of England when his father died.

  It was the Duke who spoke first. ‘Is there a difficulty here, my Lord Bishop?’

  ‘No, no. I am deeply sorry if I led you to be concerned, your Highness.’

  The little scene was intriguing. Arnaud stepped outside to listen.

  Jean was speaking, ‘I do not know how I have offended, my Lords. I am a mere officer standing here watching guests arrive.’

  ‘It is well. I am sorry for any upset the Bishop may have given you. I am sure he would be more than happy to apologise very fully.’

  The Duke stared at the Bishop with a steadiness he had learned from his father. The latter had said once, that none of his men should be too comfortable in his presence.

  The King had led Edward, while he was a mere Earl, out to the walls of the Tower of London, and they went to a guard standing lonely in the corner of the wall where it met a tower.

  ‘Are you well?’ the King asked the guard. He had a strangely gentle voice when he wanted it. At times his harshness and crudeness could appal, but if he wished to please or cajole, his manner was much softer. He used it now.

  ‘Yes, my Liege. I am very well,’ the man replied.

  ‘It is a lovely evening,’ the King commented.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With a full moon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you can see for miles as though it was torchlit.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So perhaps you should keep looking out there, you fool, and stop staring in towards the castle’s keep!’ the King bellowed suddenly. ‘Because, you cretin, the enemy will attack from out there, not in here, won’t they?’

  The Prince was tempted at the time to bolt, his father’s behaviour seemed so extreme. He wanted to run and hide, but his father had given a twisted grin and a slight wink. ‘No, boy, you stay with me,’ he said quietly a moment or two later. First, he pointed out along the guard-walks. ‘Look! All the men here heard me with that man. Do you see a single man idling? Is one of them peering inside? No. Now, come with me.’

  They descended into the court, and from there walked to the tower in which the jewels were stored. Outside were two more guards, both alert, presumably because they had heard the King’s roar earlier from the walls. They allowed the King and the Earl inside, and the King led his son along the shelves, opening the chests and displaying the proudest possessions of the Kingdom.

  In a chamber inside the treasure house sat a pair of clerks, writing by candlelight at a table.

  ‘I hope I find you well?’ the King asked when the two had upset their inks and a candle in their haste to rise in his presence.

  ‘Very, your Royal Highness,’ one said nervously.

  ‘And you have all your works finished? The hour is late.’

  ‘No, we are completing our inventory for Sir Hugh le Despenser,’ one said.

  The King’s face registered nothing, but for a heart’s beat there was no sound, and Earl Edward shot a look at him. The King had not known that Despenser had set these two here, he realised.

  ‘You are not finished? Then how can you feel so well? You still have work to do,’ the King muttered, and left them to their labours.

  ‘I had thought to spring myself upon them and make them jump, but see how they repaid me? They did not even realise they shook me!’ he murmured to himself.

  ‘Your Highness?’

  ‘It is nothing.’

  The Earl had been surprised to see his father like that. It was an odd occasion. The King at one moment so supremely confident that he had destroyed the comfort of one guard’s mind, and then, while trying to repeat the experience, he had himself been embarrassed. And perhaps it was little surprise. Because the man in whom he had placed so much trust was the same one who had ordered the cataloguing of the Crown Jewels. It was a small enough matter, Earl Edward knew that. And yet, he wondered then, as he did again now, whether his father had ever seen that inventory, or whether he waited, hoping against hope that the Despenser had not made use of the inventory to appropriate a few of the choicer jewels for himself.

  But the incident on the guard-walk had taught him about the impact of the voice of a man in power, and that lesson Earl Edward had not forgotten. What’s more, this was the man who had shamed his mother.

  ‘My Lord Bishop, are you quite well?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Your mind is not disordered?’

  ‘No, my Lord.’

  ‘And you have no upset of the humours?’

  ‘No, my Lord.’

  ‘And yet you rail at this poor man as though you consider him a felon. What was his crime?’

  ‘He committed no crime, my Lord,’ the Bishop said, and turned bitterly angry eyes upon him.

  ‘You bellow and rant and for no reason, you say? And you also say you are not unwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then, Bishop, I think you should make a fulsome apology to him.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘So, Bishop? Have you anything to say?’

  Baldwin had watched from behind the Duke, and now he spurred his mount onward. ‘I shall take care of my Lord Bishop, your Highness,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Please do take care of him,’ Duke Edward said. ‘After all, he has not yet supplied my mother with the money which she requires while she remains here.’

  ‘I may not,’ the Bishop said.

  ‘You may not? Or will not?’

  ‘The King made me swear only to release the funds after your mother the Queen agreed to return home, as I have said.’

  ‘I think you should reconsider your priorities, my Lord Bishop. Some may take unkindly to your attitude,’ the Duke said. ‘I think you should go indoors and rest and reflect. After all, one day you may find that you depend more upon me and my mother, my Lord Bishop.’

  ‘Thank you, Duke. I shall.’

  ‘And remove all those wet things. We do not want you to have a coldness about your humours, do we? I need you fit.’

  The Bishop watched as the Duke and two of his guards trotted away to hand their mounts to the ostlers.

  Baldwin slipped from his saddle and bowed to the man who had sparked the little scene. ‘Sieur, I am called Sir Baldwin de Furnshill. I apologise if my Lord Bishop upset you. It is only that we are tired and wet after our ride. I beg that you forgive us.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive. Please do not trouble yourself,’ said Jean with a grave, deep bow in return. ‘Sieur Jean de Poissy at your service.’

  He nodded to the Bishop politely enough, and then strode away.

  ‘Bishop, are you sure you are quite well?’ Baldwin asked when Jean was out of earshot. He saw the gate-keeper watching, and when he caught his eye, the fellow shuffled away.

  ‘The man was staring at me as though he … no. No, you are right, Sir Baldwin. It is nothing to do with him. It is my concern. The Queen will make my life here as difficult as possible. And yet I must remain, for I have a duty to the King’s son.’

 
Bishop Stapledon clambered tiredly from his horse and began to wander towards the guest rooms, a bent man, suddenly showing his age.

  It made Baldwin sad to see him so downcast.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Vigil of the Feast of the Archangel Michael*

  Louvre, Paris

  All through the night and for much of the morning it had rained solidly, and Baldwin, as he walked from the small chamber in which he and Simon had been installed, felt glad that the weather had warmed a little with the rain. Yesterday, when they had been riding here from Vincennes, it had been cold enough, so Sir Richard said, to freeze the teeth in a man’s mouth.

  He had appeared to be a little out of sorts recently. Certainly he had been a great deal quieter for the last few days, and if he had been unknown to Baldwin, the latter might have uncharitably assumed that the man was hung-over. The knight was usually such a loud, rumbustious soul, but he had to Baldwin’s knowledge told only four jokes during the ride to Paris. It was clearly the effect of the news about Sir Henry de Beaumont. If that knight was now in the Queen’s purse, it would make their positions more difficult. All of them were aware that the Queen was gathering about her a group of loyal men, and the little group charged with the defence of the Earl was growing so tiny in comparison with the hosts at the command of the French King and his sister, Queen Isabella, that at any time an attack against the Bishop must succeed, just as an assault against the Earl of Chester to take him into the protection of the French King, for example, could not fail. Baldwin, Richard and Simon could not on their own protect either of their charges.

  There was a fine spitting rain again, and Baldwin began to hurry his steps towards the hall, where he hoped to find Simon and the Bishop. They were to meet there.

  On the way, he saw a dapper man of about his own age, standing staring at the gateway with a perplexed frown. It took Baldwin a moment to recognise Jean de Poissy. Jean looked as though he was concentrating so hard, he would not have heard the thunder of a cannon shot.

  Baldwin walked past him, debating whether to reintroduce himself, but finally decided against it.

  He had been to the French castles many times when he was younger, because as a Templar, and one who was at a moderate level in the hierarchy, he had often travelled to deliver messages or join in diplomatic discussions, but he had still not lost that sense of awe at the great entrance to this castle. He passed under the massive archway, and into the broad open space within.

  The castle had, so he recalled, been built as a bastion against the English and Normans under King Richard. Perhaps it was a memory of the perpetual warfare that was conducted in those days which had led the French King to seek to obliterate all the English territories held by him. In future, King Charles IV could hope to reign over a single, united country. Not that it would last for long. The kingdom was so riven by disputes between rival barons, that it must inevitably collapse. The more the French King sought to enforce his will on his powerful magnates, the more likely it was that France would suffer from a similar fate as England, where King Edward had recently crushed resistance. But to attempt such a bold move here in France carried more risks. In England the rebels knew that internecine warfare was illegal, and all hesitated to raise a banner against the King. In France, Baldwin was less certain that a rebellious mob would be so easily quashed.

  For now, though, he could revel in the beauty of this great white giant just outside the greatest French city.

  He was making his way to the hall, when he heard a shout go up from a large building in front of him. There was a shriek, then a series of shouts, and a pair of young boys came pelting out, rushing past Baldwin and out through the main gate. He had little time to wonder whether their rapid disappearance was due to an errand, or whether it was a proof of some infraction, but the expression in their eyes had seemed to speak of terror.

  A moment or two later, they were back, this time with Jean panting slightly in their wake. The three ran on to the hall, which Baldwin now recalled was the kitchen.

  Intrigued, he followed them.

  The kitchens gave out a blast of heat like no other. Four enormous fires roared, and it was only the height of the ceiling, and the pointed roof with its own chimney in the centre, which saved all the kitchen staff from suffocation. The hole at the top allowed the worst of the heat to escape.

  All the staff were at the back of the room, surrounding the figure of Jean, who was crouching down and peering at something on the floor. Nearer Baldwin, a large, pink man stood wiping his hands on his apron mechanically. He had a long knife in his belt of cord, which led Baldwin to assume he was the master cook, and now he drew it out and began to systematically cut up some fruit, muttering to himself the while.

  ‘It is not my fault. How can I be blamed for something like this? What did I do? All I did was threaten the little brute. Yes, I threatened him – so what? We all have to chivy and chide. It is the way of things.’

  ‘Friend, is there some problem here?’ Baldwin asked, as Wolf entered behind him and expressed an enthusiasm to get to know the carcasses of meat rather better. Baldwin prodded him away with a toe.

  ‘Who’re you?’ the cook demanded, his knife gripped tightly, the point turned slightly in Baldwin’s direction.

  ‘Just a man who is worried that you may need some help in here,’ Baldwin said, craning his neck to see what was happening behind.

  ‘Why should we need help? I already have the city’s Procureur with me!’

  Hearing the voices, Jean looked up, frowning, and then recognised Sir Baldwin. ‘Ah! The knight from the journey yesterday. I am glad for your offer of help, but this is nothing, merely a kitchen knave who has died.’

  The man was firm in his speech, but his eyes told the lie. He was desperately sad at the death of the boy. It was endearing. Baldwin had seen too many dead bodies in his time, and he thought that this Jean looked like a man who felt much the same. Then Jean’s eyes moved away from Baldwin and down to the small figure at his feet.

  In front of Baldwin the cook’s knife had not wavered. Baldwin said, ‘I am sorry, my friend. Even knaves can be affectionate and all too greatly missed.’

  ‘You think I miss one of my knaves?’ the cook said. He looked up at Baldwin, and Baldwin saw the tears in his reddened eyes.

  ‘When an accident happens and a young friend dies, it is not wrong to mourn.’

  ‘This was no accident, knight. You want to see what happened to poor little Jehanin? My little Jo? Come!’ He threw his knife down on the board in front of him.

  The cook took Baldwin to the space in front of Jean and pointed down. The other kitchen workers were all about there, some few with their aprons held up to their mouths, some openly weeping.

  In front of them was a large chest, and inside it lay a young boy. He was dead – Baldwin could see that at a glance. It was the colour, the greenish paleness of the face, the darkened flesh where the blood had sunk, the swollen belly and body where decomposition had set it. All this he took in and noted. Yet it was the sight of the leather thong about the boy’s throat that shocked him. And the way that the man had to prise it away, where it had sunk into the flesh of the neck.

  ‘In my land I have been known to seek murderers,’ Baldwin said. ‘I am what we call a Keeper of the King’s Peace. I have the responsibility to hunt down those who threaten the realm and the rule of the law.’

  ‘My name is Jean, as you know, and I am the Procureur here, the prosecutor. I investigate crimes and seek those responsible, and then challenge them in court,’ Jean replied. He stood, feeling his old legs protesting. ‘This is a terrible thing. Such a shame, to see so young a life snuffed like a candle.’

  ‘But a candle may be relighted,’ Baldwin agreed, staring down at the boy. ‘He has lain here some while.’

  ‘Yes. You may tell from the degree of swelling of the body. I had to work hard to remove this thong from where the flesh had engulfed it. Also there is the odour. It is sweet, non? Like o
ld pork that has not been salted correctly.’

  ‘Yes. What was he doing in the chest?’

  ‘That is something the chef and his boys must tell us,’ Jean said with determination. He looked up at Baldwin, and there was a degree of challenge in his eyes now. ‘I shall go and enquire of them.’

  Baldwin found himself quickly removed from the kitchen, dismissed. It was a novel experience.

  Later, walking through the darkened streets, Jean ruminated on all he had seen. There was no one apparently who could tell him when the chest had been last opened. It was used to keep certain expensive spices locked away, but they had not been used in some while. The chest had only been opened today because the King had returned. In the days before his arrival, it had remained locked.

  Jehanin had been a conscientious little fellow for the most part. A gullible lad, he was keen enough most of the time, and a danger to all at others, for he would go into a daydream about his old home or his mother at regular intervals, and then he would be perfectly capable of making a gravy with arsenic, or a jelly from red lead, without thinking. There was no malice in him, and whenever the cook had seen others trying to lead him into misbehaviour or fighting, he had robustly refused. If Jean had not known the cook to be a more than usually forthright man with maids in the area – for he had checked on his inclinations after meeting him that first time – he might have believed him capable of pederasty, but there was no evidence to support this.

  And so, it would appear that a man had managed to kill the boy, and then threw him into the chest in the kitchen when no one was there. It would be easy enough, the cook had said. Any time of the night up until the later watches when the bread-makers arrived, the kitchen would be empty.

  ‘And the chest? Would it have been locked?’

  ‘Why, yes. But I sleep in the side room there, and someone could have come and removed my keys from beside my bed without waking me.’