The King of Thieves: Page 29

  Amélie was not someone he had ever wanted to see again, but just now she might well be useful. After all, it seemed she had better contacts than he had realised.

  Louvre

  Baldwin entered the room with an awareness of danger. It was only slightly less pronounced than the time he had walked in on Despenser in his new home, the Temple in London.

  In the case of Despenser there was no concealment of his nature and the danger to all who crossed him; in the Cardinal’s the threat was much more subtle. Baldwin knew that this room belonged to one of the most powerful men in the French King’s realm and that meant, by extension, in the whole of Christendom.

  He was not an intimidating man, though. Almost as tall as Baldwin, he was not stooped, and gave the impression of having all his faculties unimpaired, which was itself surprising, in Baldwin’s experience. He held out his hand with his ring, and Baldwin obediently bent to kiss it, all the while keeping his eyes fixed on the Cardinal’s.

  In them he could discern only friendliness, which was itself reassuring.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad that you could come to see me, especially at such short notice.’

  ‘I am happy to be of service.’

  ‘Good. Because I would like you to listen to a few words. It concerns your King.’

  Baldwin felt his breath stop in his throat. ‘I think that any matter concerning him could be better put to another.’

  ‘Sir Baldwin, you are an intelligent man. Of this on all sides I am assured.’

  The contraction of the sentence was almost enough to make Baldwin smile, but he kept his face straight. ‘I would hope not to be considered a complete fool.’

  ‘Your King is a wise and good monarch, you think?’

  ‘He is my King.’

  The Cardinal gave a dry smile. It was as brittle as a dried leaf. ‘I would expect a knight to say nothing foul about his liege-lord. However, you must be aware that your loyalty is not being rewarded. Excuse me one moment.’ He strode quickly over the floor of the chamber and left by a door in the farther wall.

  Baldwin felt his hackles rise. He stepped away from the middle of the room, his hand reaching for his sword, his eyes casting about for danger. It was impossible not to feel the malice in this room, he thought. It would be best to walk from the place, go back to his Bishop and continue his vigil there, but if he were to do that, he would not only have snubbed the Cardinal, but also demonstrated that he truly believed the man was capable of attempting to harm him – and that would be a grave insult to the French King.

  Backed to the wall, he stood a while, listening. From here the noises of the courtyard were muted. The hammering of the smiths, the cries and shrieks of all the servants, the bellows of the stewards, the agonised squealing of the pigs being slaughtered, all were far off, as though in a different building altogether, and that fact alone made him feel more anxious. What he would have given for his sergeant, Edgar, or Simon to be at his side. For he was sure that he was about to be attacked.

  There was a slight waft of air. He felt it on the right-hand side of his beard, and saw the tapestry near his shoulder ripple. There was a secret door behind it.

  Moving with elaborate slowness, he began to draw his sword. It was half out of the scabbard when the tapestries parted and he saw a familiar figure.

  ‘Ah, Sir Baldwin. I know already that you are a loyal servant of my husband. Do you intend to slay me?’ the Queen asked.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Slums east and north, Paris

  André was no novice to the art of watching a house. Any man who had been in the service of Pons would soon learn that his post was usually to stand in the rain and the chill wind without cover of any sort, and normally in the dead of night.

  In his time André had watched suspected thieves, murderers and traitors as well as those who were thought to be at risk, but this was the first time he had been told to watch someone who potentially fulfilled all the criteria.

  Le Boeuf was not a pleasant character. André had already been asking a few of the people nearby about him, while Pons was originally watching their quarry. Sending André was as clear as pinning a notice to the door announcing that the King’s men were investigating little Le Boeuf. Pons wanted him to realise that he was being watched.

  The doorway where he was standing was dark enough, he thought. There wasn’t much likelihood that he’d be seen. His dark cloak and tan clothing would help, too, as would his swarthy features and beard. He only hoped and prayed that no inquisitive Sergent would come along and ask what he was doing there, loitering with such obvious contempt for the laws of the city.

  There was little to watch, in truth. The chamber in which Le Boeuf lived remained dark. It had been so since the early morning when Pons had set him here. There was nothing happening, no one to see. André was here, freezing off both ballocks, and all for no purpose. It already felt as though the whole of his left hand had frozen solid, and he wasn’t so sure that his face was safe. If only it was still summer. At least in the summer he didn’t freeze.

  Nor did he die. He felt the thread around his throat rather than seeing it slip over his head, and felt it tighten about his skin before he even had time to raise a hand to try to stop it. He tried to scrabble with his fingers to reach under it, but it was already beneath his flesh, cutting into it. There was nothing he could do to pull at it; nothing on which to gain purchase. All he could do was scrape at his throat ineffectually, while the hideous cord crushed his windpipe and stopped the breath in his neck. And then there was a sensation of collapse, and the madness rose in his mind as he felt his life draining away, because his mind was working normally, and rationally it knew that he was going to die, and die now – slowly, painfully, his lungs screaming, his mouth gaping.

  He fell back, his heels striking frantically at the ground, while his eyes bulged and his tongue thickened in his mouth, blocking what little airway there was. His hands reached behind him at last, trying in desperation to claw at his killer’s face, eyes, throat.

  And he failed. The man waited a little longer as the heels stilled, the fingers relaxed, the shoulders eased and the breast stopped its mad jerking. He let the cord go, and very gently stroked André’s face, his hair, stroking down to his neck, which he took suddenly in both hands, and twisted while pulling, until there was an audible crunching of bone.

  Then Hugues the castellan stood again and looked over the road towards the house where Le Boeuf lived.

  Le Boeuf would have to die. He was a problem, and problems were there to be resolved.

  Louvre

  ‘Sit, Sir Baldwin.’

  He rose from his bow, and backed himself to a stool. ‘Your Highness, I am terribly sorry. I had no idea …’

  ‘… that the good Cardinal could have brought you here for some ulterior motive of your Queen? I am not surprised. But there is much which may surprise you.’

  ‘I am sure you are right.’

  ‘You know my husband has ordered my return, but you are not surprised that I am still here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you have enemies in England.’

  ‘Despenser, naturally. And Bishop Walter. He is a particular enemy of mine. He hates me.’

  ‘I would not say …’ Baldwin was silenced by a look. Shame-facedly, he grinned. ‘Well, just now, with you refusing his King’s command, perhaps yes, he does dislike you a little.’

  ‘Or a lot. But thank you for not lying to me, Sir Baldwin. Tell me – what would you do in my position?’

  ‘Me? Either return immediately and beg forgiveness, or petition the Pope to annul your marriage and remain here.’

  She looked at him quickly. ‘Did you know that the Despenser has already attempted that? Ah, but almost everyone knows. Why should I delude myself that I have any secrets any more?’

  ‘Your Royal Highness, you have many friends. Could you not merely go home and discuss this with the King, and petition you
r friends to help you?’

  ‘Which friends do you think would help me? The King has disbanded my own household. In England I am as free as a caged lark. I may sing, but only because if I do not, I will starve. And no one dares to speak up for me. Not while the King and Despenser reject me. Do you think I am stupid?’

  ‘No, my Lady. Never. But I do hope that you do not intend to harm so many people in our country. If you wait over here, that is one thing. It will delight the King’s enemies, and serve only to weaken him. That may mean that your son’s inheritance is endangered.’

  ‘What else might I do?’

  ‘You know that as well as I. There are rumours of Mortimer.’

  ‘There are?’

  ‘Sir Roger Mortimer is already the King’s most detested enemy, my Lady. If you go to him, you will cause a great deal of anger and resentment. Again, that must put your son’s future at risk.’

  ‘You think that the King would dare to suggest that I was a whore? That he would say our son was a bastard?’

  Her voice had risen with her rage, and now she stood, quivering with fury before him.

  He bowed his head. ‘My Lady, I do not accuse, I merely say what others will. The King will have poison poured into his ears by the Despenser. You know that already. And the realm will be riven with anger, with mistrust and disloyalty. For some will follow you, and others will follow the King. But at the end, when all the men in your host and in the King’s are dead, the people will still follow the King. Because they trust in him. He is anointed by God.’

  ‘My son could be, too. If the King were persuaded to leave his throne, if he could be pensioned off, to a monastery, perhaps, then my boy could be crowned in his stead.’

  ‘Lady, do you really believe that the men of England would suffer a child on the throne? Your son is old enough to be wedded, I know, but he is not old enough yet to be able to defend himself from the barons. What would the Marcher Lords make of him? If you disrupt the kingdom, if you show people that the King is able to be deposed, they will take the message that the throne may be taken by any with authority and power. And your son will not find his way to a monastery, I would wager.’

  ‘So I have no choice? Yours is the counsel of despair, Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘No, it is the counsel of honour, your Royal Highness. You do not wish to throw the kingdom into war and decline. Better to return and accept your place. You will be honoured for it.’

  She said nothing for a moment, and then she spoke, musingly eyeing the hallings before her. ‘You know, I did all in my power to have him love me, Sir Baldwin. I made no complaint when I arrived in England, all alone, and found that my own jewels had been taken and given to that primping cretin, Piers Gaveston. I did not mind, because I was so young, I only sought to win his approval. At twelve years, all I knew was that my place was at the side of my husband, to comfort him. But he wanted nothing of my company. He did not care for my comforts, only those of his friend Piers.

  ‘And when I grew older, when Gaveston was dead, and I gave Edward a son, at last, I thought, I had the love of my husband. But then, that despicable excrescence Despenser came and inveigled his way into my husband’s affections. You know how that snake works. My husband took a little longer to throw me aside, and at least I have had the comfort of a number of children, but then at last Despenser won, and I lost all. Position, trust, wealth, friends, even my children. And if I return to England, what exactly will be returned to me?’

  ‘My Lady—’

  ‘Nothing, Sir Baldwin. Nothing! You ask me not to go home to husband and lover, but to gaol. You tell me I have to do this, or that, and yet what you offer to me in return is the bars of a cell. Tell me honestly – why should I go there? If I was your daughter, would you in faith order me to go back to a husband who is despised by all? I am nine-and-twenty years. You are older. You could be my father! What would you have me do?’

  ‘My Queen, you torment me. I am a loyal subject, I cannot in conscience say aught else but that you should go to your husband.’

  ‘Yes. You are loyal. But fools may be loyal. And if I were to be so loyal that I would put my life once more in the Despenser’s hands, I would be a fool. A complete fool. I cannot do that, Sir Baldwin. And more, I most certainly cannot allow my son to be taken back. Despenser wants total power. Would you have me, a mother, place my own son’s life in danger? I will not. I cannot.’

  ‘Then what, Lady?’

  ‘My course is set, I think. I do not wish it, but I see no choice. That is what the good Bishop said, was it not? That my husband had left me no choice? He meant that I should go back with him, immediately. But when a man tries to force one course, sometimes God will show another.’

  ‘What will it be?’

  ‘For now, I will remain here. Sir Roger Mortimer has been most kind to me, in the absence of my own money or the support of my husband. I shall remain here with him.’

  ‘Your Royal Highness, I am deeply sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Perhaps you are. Can you not understand the appalling hurt I have suffered at my husband’s hands?’

  ‘Yes, I can comprehend the hideous injustice you feel. I detest injustice as much as any man.’

  ‘But you do not think that I should protect myself?’

  ‘You are in a most difficult position. As Queen you are the embodiment of all the womanly virtues. How could I advise you to do other than return to your position as Queen?’

  ‘That is most sad, Sir Baldwin. You see, I wish to ask you to remain here with me. To serve and guard me.’

  Tavern near Grand Châtelet

  Vital had just demanded a fresh jug of wine when the portly Sergent from Le Boeuf’s street appeared in the road outside. He was out of breath and wheezing with the unaccustomed exercise, but he did not halt until he was at the table beside Pons, and then he stood, head hanging, as he composed himself.

  ‘Come, man! What is the matter with you?’

  ‘André – he is dead. A man has killed him!’

  The two gaped for an instant, but then they were on their feet, bellowing for the tavern-keeper, thrusting the table from their paths as they rushed towards the door.

  André lay in a doorway, his neck broken, his eyes staring, his tongue swollen and protruding a little. A gaggle of people had gathered nearby, a woman holding a little boy as though she could protect him from the memory of the sight – although it was more likely that she wanted to be saved from the sight herself. ‘It was my little Henri who found him, Master,’ she said.

  ‘When?’

  The boy had been playing with a top, apparently, and found the dead man only a matter of moments after he had come from the church at the end of the Mass. They had sent for the Sergent immediately, and he had arrived very soon because he too had been at church.

  ‘What of Le Boeuf?’ Pons asked the Sergent.

  He shrugged. ‘I came to fetch you as soon as this body was found.’

  Pons had a feeling of dread as he glanced across the road, but would not admit to such feelings before these others. ‘Come!’ he said, and set off to Le Boeuf’s house.

  The door was open, and Pons felt his shoulders droop. He made no pretence of caution. There was no point. He knew that the man was dead already. It was a small house, with only one large chamber below, and a ladder to climb to a smaller room up in the eaves. Pons went up, filled with dread at what he would find in the bedchamber, but when he reached it, there was nothing to be seen. Only rumpled clothing which reeked, and a rotten palliasse with straw so ancient, most was turned to dust.

  ‘Well?’ Vital called up to him.

  ‘Nothing. He’s not here.’

  ‘Shit of a witch!’ Vital swore.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Louvre

  The Bishop of Exeter returned to his chamber with little sense of his alarm and concern being allayed. All that his prayers appeared to have achieved was a conviction that his position here was intolerable.

  It w
as all the Queen’s fault! The woman should have agreed to go back to her husband without argument or delay, but no! She had to remain here and try to seek some additional damned concessions. Well, there would be none. And meanwhile, the Bishop’s own life was in danger, as he had predicted before coming here. Dear God, what he would give now for that prediction to be proved false!

  ‘Sir Richard, where is Sir Baldwin?’ he asked as he entered his chamber.

  ‘He’s been called to speak with the Cardinal, me Lord.’

  ‘Perhaps the Cardinal is to persuade him to go to the Queen’s side, then,’ Bishop Walter said musingly. ‘I should not be surprised. She is tempting all others here in France.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry. With Simon and Baldwin and me, you’ll be secure enough,’ the imperturbable knight declared, peering with interest at a plate piled high with different dried meats.

  ‘Yes, Simon – where is he?’

  ‘He went out to the privy a little while ago.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’ The Bishop nodded, and walked to a chair, in which he sat and brooded a while.

  ‘You look worried still, me Lord Bishop,’ Sir Richard said, chewing at a sausage with an expression of distrust on his face. ‘Pah! Too little salt in that.’

  ‘I am concerned for the kingdom. The Queen’s irrational behaviour could bring untold damage to the King.’

  ‘What harm can she do? She’s here, the King’s there. Unless she tried to marry their son off to some princess, there’s not much she can achieve. She’s a woman, when all’s said and done.’

  ‘Women can be most capable at deceit and dissembling, don’t forget, Sir Richard … and this one is French,’ the Bishop added.

  ‘And alone.’

  The Bishop clenched his fist and held it in the air. ‘Alone? She has persuaded many to rally to her. It was bad enough with a few contrary men who could not remain in the King’s realm at peace, but now I am convinced that she has succeeded in calling Lord John Cromwell to her side, and I believe de Beaumont will remain here with her. In England she has managed to convince many that she has been wronged – and yet look at her! Does she appear to be a woman who’s distressed?’