The King of Thieves: Page 21

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Outside north-west Paris

  Hélias had a client who had stayed with her all night, one of her long-standing men, as she liked to call him, and she had just bade him farewell at the door when the whisper on the street reached her ears.

  ‘What’s all this?’ she demanded. Bernadette, one of her girls, a buxom brunette with eyes of startling emerald, stopped talking to her cully and turned, ashen-faced, to Hélias.

  ‘The Procureur, Hélias. He’s dead.’

  ‘Don’t talk stupid, wench. Who’d kill him?’ she scoffed.

  ‘There are a few who’d like to remove a man like him,’ the client said. He was a flash fellow, with bright yellow and scarlet clothing, apart from an old cowl of faded green. He had been digging in his purse, and now he lifted a coin with the demeanour of a man who had performed a magnificent conjuring trick. ‘Ah! An hour of your time, girl!’

  Hélias rudely shoved him from her path. ‘Be still! Tell me, who could have done this? Has anyone confessed?’ She was torn between scorn and the dawning horror that Jean might actually be dead.

  ‘No, of course not. What, you think someone would kill Poissy and then rush to the officers and roar, “It’s me! I did it!”’

  ‘You, Bernadette, get inside and fetch the other girls. She can do you later, man. For now, you want to have her for free?’

  The man’s eyes were fixed on the girl’s bouncing figure as she hurried inside to get the other girls. ‘Is this a trick?’

  ‘No. I want to know who killed my friend.’ Hélias took a shuddering breath. ‘Anyone who can bring me information about him will be rewarded – and you will be first. If you go to all the taverns in the city – start with those nearest to where he died, and then go to the farther ones – you can have her for free, and any of her friends you like. You understand me?’

  The man nodded wildly.

  ‘Good, then go! Now, Bernadette, where the hell are you?’ Hélias bawled.

  Louvre

  The Bishop had slept well, but upon waking he felt as unrefreshed as ever. He rolled in his bed, grunting and grumbling until he rose from the mattress and made his way over the floor. There was a jug and bowl on the table at the window, and he threw open the shutters, staring out into the castle’s courtyard.

  For all his life, he had been a servant. At first he was merely a servant of the Church, and as a student, he had proved adequately to himself how important learning was to the youthful mind. Later, when he became a Bishop, he had decided to take more interest in other spheres of public life, and especially the government of the realm.

  There were many who decided to go into politics in order to enhance their own position or to enrich themselves. In Christ’s name, he had known many of them himself: from the slovenly, dull-witted fools who thought themselves so grand if they could but earn a few pounds without work, to those myriads who were callow, corrupt and venal. It was an astonishment that the realm ever succeeded in anything. And a miracle that its enemies had thus far failed to destroy it.

  He knew that he had acquired an unenviable reputation. Many loathed him because they thought he was a thief who had stolen taxes in order to endow himself with wines and fine foods. In London he was especially detested for the Eyre which he had been instructed to hold into all the customs of the city. It had been held at the King’s order, but that was no consolation to the folk there. They hated him, and made it clear enough to him that, were he without the King’s protection, his life would be worth little.

  The irony was, his motives were pure. He had been a loyal servant of the Crown, seeking to increase the efficiency of the system of taxes so that less was wasted, less was stolen, and less was merely misplaced. Instituting a new system of records had made a vast difference to the King’s ability to collect his revenues, and thereby had helped to protect the kingdom. The King could now fight wars which required large investment. There was always a need for money, and now the King had it. All that, Bishop Stapledon knew, was because of his hard efforts – no one else’s.

  And he had not used one single penny to feather his own nest. That was an easy allegation to make, he knew. Standing at the basin, he filled it with water, washing his face and armpits, round the back of his neck, and then peered into the water as it smoothed over, the ripples and distortions fading. In the makeshift mirror he saw his face. Older than it should appear, he thought, longer and more haggard. He had none of the colour he used to have; all was washed away with the worry and trials of journeying and negotiating – or trying to.

  A drip ran from his chin and splashed in the middle of his reflection, and it was gone. Suddenly he had a premonition that this was how his own life would be. One day he would still be here, hale, hearty – maybe even happy. And the next, he would be gone. Eradicated so effectively that he might never have existed. Who would remember him a month after his death? A year? Nobody after a few tens of years, surely. The Canons of his cathedral would recognise his name, presumably, and perhaps the work he had undertaken at the Exchequer would ensure that he was not instantly forgotten in government, but beyond that, there would be little enough to show that he had ever lived. That he had breathed the air, that he had worked so hard to make other lives better. Nor that he had come on this latest perilous mission, risking his life in service to his King.

  Drying his face on the towel by the basin, Walter Stapledon felt an unaccountable sadness washing over him. He was very lonely here in France. Everyone hated him for his support of his King against their Isabella. But what else was a man to do, other than support his King? It was every subject’s duty to do as he had. He knew that, and he could not regret it. He would not.

  Pulling his robe on, and shrugging the heavy material to drape more evenly over his shoulders, he mused a little about the state of his own life.

  The matter of the little man the day before rankled. There had been no excuse for his ridiculous display of petty arrogance. He decided he would have to pray for some humility and a little calmness. It was quite wrong, to jump at a man merely because he was watching him.

  Yet his mood would not go away. He had been anxious ever since the harridan Isabella had responded to him so rudely in front of the French King’s entire court. It had been shocking to find her speaking to him in that manner. Shocking and unreasonable. And disquieting.

  He was still aware of that feeling of anxiety as he walked down the stairs and along the passageway to the courtyard at midday with two of his clerics. Morning Mass had taken the edge off his sense of unhappiness, but not the feeling of being a stranger in an enemy’s camp. Today it would have been enough for him to see only one friendly face to make him throw off his grim presentiment of evil, but there was nobody he recognised. He searched among the men standing about – and then he saw Sir Henry de Beaumont.

  ‘Come,’ he said to his clerks and servants, his familia, and crossed the yard to Sir Henry, a smile on his face.

  To his surprise there was no reciprocal joy on the face of the knight when he saw the Bishop approach.

  ‘Sir Henry. I hope I see you well?’

  ‘Well enough, Bishop.’

  There was a curtness in his manner which was unlike the suave knight whom Stapledon had met in England. Sir Henry was an ally of some months, and had always been polite. Now, he was short to the point of rudeness, and the Bishop could feel his hackles rise. However, before he could make any further comment or enquire as to the reasons for his changed attitude, there was a series of cries from the gateway, and some new visitors arrived.

  One was a short, black-haired man with the build of a church’s column. His thighs alone were the size of a small tree-trunk, and the width of his shoulders was proof of great strength. He had blue eyes, permanently lazily lidded, that peered about him, and looked as though he had a smile that was always ready to intrude.

  The second man was taller, with the long, gangly arms and legs of a youth. His face was darker, but not swarthy, and
he had a mild expression, rather like so many young men the Bishop had seen in different villages over the years. He looked like one of those who suffered from less brainpower than he deserved.

  A tall fellow went to speak with them, a grizzled old veteran of many of the French King’s wars, from the look of him. He spoke briefly to them, and then cast an eye about the place, beckoning two guards and a messenger.

  ‘What is this?’ Baldwin asked, appearing behind the Bishop’s shoulder.

  ‘I have no idea,’ Bishop Walter said, shooting him a look. Behind him Stapledon saw Simon and Sir Richard de Welles. Simon gave him a grin, which was so comforting, the Bishop felt suddenly almost weak with gratitude after the rudeness displayed by Sir Henry.

  The old fellow had been seen by the gatekeeper, who was talking to him and the other two now. All four appeared to be speaking very swiftly, and the gatekeeper held up both hands suddenly, stopping all further discussion, before jerking his chin and then pointing, shouting one word as he did so. ‘Là! Là!’

  He was pointing at the Bishop and Baldwin.

  There was an inevitability about the progress of such an investigation, as they both knew. Simon was not articulate in colloquial French, although he had not found it difficult to make his desires known, but Baldwin was entirely fluent and comfortable with the language.

  The Bishop, as befitted a man who had spent so much time abroad from his earliest years as the chaplain to Pope Clement V, and later on diplomatic service for the King, spoke French like a native, as he was able to demonstrate now with some gusto.

  ‘You suggest what! You dare to accuse me, the Bishop of Exeter, of a murder? You say that I would waylay an innocent on some road I have never travelled, and for what? In order to repay some perceived slight? Do you think a man of God has no scruple? Is that how you view your clergymen in France today? When I was last here, man, I was viewed with respect, and now you tell me I am the suspect in a murder inquest?’

  ‘I think, my Lord Bishop …’ Baldwin began, but the furious Bishop held up a hand peremptorily and he subsided.

  ‘This is not merely a gross insult to me, it is a shameful insult to my liege Lord, the King of England. It is also an insult to Queen Isabella, whose servant and guardian I am while I am here, and to the Holy Mother Church, and a deliberate insult to the Pope himself. I am shocked and appalled that this kind of accusation could be considered, let alone that it could be actually posed to me.’

  The two men were standing before him. The shorter was still grinning, and Baldwin kept his gaze fixed upon him, because in his experience, men who wore that kind of look were usually smiling with their mouths only; however, this one appeared to be genuinely enjoying himself. He could, of course, be that rarity among officials, Baldwin thought, a man who could conceal his true motives and aims even from his own eyes. That sort of man was exceedingly rare – and enormously dangerous.

  ‘My Lord Bishop, we have made no accusations. I would obviously not wish to suggest that you could be guilty of anything so foul as this simple waylaying of a pair of men on their way home. And yet, we have already heard from Arnaud and others of your argument with the Procureur – and yesterday he died. What was it that you accused him of?’

  ‘I accused him of nothing. I was tired and irritable after a very long ride, and I was surprised to find myself being observed when I arrived here to the Louvre.’

  They were in the great hall now. The only aspect which gave Baldwin some satisfaction was the fact that the King of France and Isabella were not present. However, both must have their own spies here in the chamber. In truth, Baldwin was not sure any longer who was loyal to King Edward, and who was more devoted to Isabella. Those whom the King had selected to travel with the Queen and their son were all, so far as Baldwin could tell, becoming increasingly devoted to the Queen, at the expense of any commitment to the King himself.

  The Bishop was almost spitting with rage. ‘You dare to accuse me, then? This is what diplomatic protection means, is it? That I can be dragged here against my will and forced to answer these ridiculous questions? I shall not! If you wish to speak to me, you will need the sanction of the Pope himself, and I will write to him myself explaining the ludicrous position into which you have cast me. To think that I, a Bishop, could be accused of such dishonour, is a disgrace!’

  There was a quiet soughing at the back of the room, Baldwin noticed. He peered over the heads of the men encircling the Bishop, and saw a group of people passing through the crowds.

  ‘Make way for Queen Isabella!’ was suddenly bellowed, and Baldwin saw Lord John Cromwell appear, a staff of office in his hands. Immediately behind him was the Queen, and Cromwell stood aside as the Queen arrived in the open space. Whether by design or fortune, she had appeared at the side of the two officers of the city, staring in a confrontational manner at the Bishop.

  ‘My Lord Bishop, what is this?’

  ‘I am the victim of a dreadful injustice, my Lady. These men have heard of a minor altercation I had with a man the day we came from Vincennes, and now seek to accuse me of that man’s murder.’

  ‘Is this true?’ she demanded.

  ‘No, my Lady. The Bishop here is upset that we have sought to ask him about the dead man. He was, you see …’ and here the man hesitated, clearing his throat. Baldwin, studying him closely, was sure that he saw a tear or two in his eye. ‘He was a good man, diligent in all he did, and widely respected. And now he is dead – only one day after a small dispute with you, my Lord Bishop. It seems a coincidence, you see?’

  Baldwin saw the Bishop’s perturbation in the way that he chewed at his lip. It was unlike Walter Stapledon to be at all distraught, and Baldwin began to understand the pressure he felt.

  In the last months Baldwin had been let down by the Bishop. The man had proved himself to be unreliable, untrustworthy, and more a vassal to Despenser than friend to Simon and himself. And yet there were strong bonds which united them.

  The Bishop looked to Baldwin, and there was a mute appeal in his eyes. Baldwin felt his heart begin to pound rather painfully, but he could not refuse that plea.

  ‘Let the good Bishop leave, friends,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘I have some experience in seeking murderers. Let me help you.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Paris

  Jacquot walked into the chamber and was surprised to see that the King had the same wench as before draped over his arm. This one must be more durable than most, he thought to himself. As he eyed her, she rolled over slightly, and her dark eyes were on him from beneath a tumbled mess of black hair.

  However, at that moment his attention was concentrated more on the mood of the men in the room than on her. The atmosphere was edgy. He could see that one in particular – perhaps a friend of the Stammerer? – was staring at him angrily. The King himself was mild in manner, but there was something in his eye that put Jacquot on his guard. Not that he allowed it to show in his face or his actions.

  ‘You owe me for the two jobs,’ Jacquot announced.

  ‘Ah, so the Procureur is dead?’

  ‘You know he is. All Paris is talking of it,’ Jacquot said flatly.

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘The Stammerer. The one you sent to do my work.’

  He was right. The man at the edge of the room was practically foaming at the mouth. It was quite amusing, really.

  ‘I see. So you want me to pay you for the removal of one of my friends?’

  ‘You commanded his execution. You owe me for it.’

  ‘And what would an executioner demand for the death of his friend – the same fee as usual? Poor young Nicholas hardly deserved his end, did he?’

  ‘I gave him the fastest ending a man could hope for,’ Jacquot said with silky calmness. There was a serenity about him as he settled on his legs, waiting.

  ‘Perhaps you would like the same?’ the King sneered.

  Jacquot saw it coming. There was a shadow in the corner of his eye, and h
e ducked to avoid it. It was a mace, only a smallish, tubular one, perhaps an inch in diameter, and six inches long, with nail-like spikes protruding, but set on a shaft of beech two feet long, there was enough momentum in it to crush his head like an apple. It swept over him, one spike catching his shoulder as the man tried to change his point of aim, and the pain burned.

  He was up, turning as he rose, his dagger already out and thrusting. It plunged into the man’s gut, and he ripped it upwards, his left hand grabbing the man’s mace-hand as it crashed into the wall. Then the mace was his, and the attacker was on the ground.

  Whirling, he brought the mace around, clenched in his left hand, the dagger slick and slippery in his right, and a man shrieked with pain as the iron spikes tore into his forearm, the massive weight shattering the slender bones, ripping through the flesh and peeling it away, from his elbow to his wrist.

  Another was at his side. He could not swing the mace in time. Instead he dropped his stance, his right knee bending, and thrust with all his body’s mass behind the dagger’s point, straight at the fellow’s groin. The blade skidded on the man’s thigh-bone, and a gush of blood proved he had hit the artery, before there was a snap like a small cannon-shot hitting a wall, and the man’s tendon was gone. He slumped, sobbing, his hands over his wrecked body, and the blood pumped in a steady flow from between his fingers.

  Jacquot continued the whirl, and rose slowly from his crouch, the dagger held up at his breast, the mace high, in the overhand guard. Two more men stood at the walls, but they did not challenge him. The King himself was still lying on his cushions, the wench at his side breathing a little faster, her little pink tongue touching her upper lip, her eyes bright with excitement. So that was how she survived, Jacquot thought to himself. He had never liked women with a taste for violence, but it explained the woman’s longevity.

  ‘My money,’ he said again.

  The King glanced at him, and now there was a chilly dispassion in his gaze. ‘What do you think, Amélie? Should he have it or not?’