The King of Thieves: Page 9

  Then he chided himself. That was stupid. There was no likelihood of that. No. Jeanne had Edgar, Baldwin’s Sergeant from his days in the Knights Templar, to guard her and mobilise their peasants against any assault. Meg had Hugh, Simon’s long-standing servant – and the bane of his life. Edgar and Hugh together would be plenty adequate, even without Baldwin and Simon.

  It did not make his day any the more comfortable, though, to have lain tossing and turning on a flattened palliasse while all about him, men gently snored.

  They were unlikely to hear much about their duties that day, they both knew, but the lack of direction was enough to make Simon peevish. The food was no good, the ale worse, and the people here should be making more effort to assist the King’s own guards, he thought grumpily.

  ‘Simon, we shall be here for some little while, I expect. Try to ration your ill-temper, rather than venting it all today, eh?’ Baldwin said at one point with a half-smile.

  ‘If I could keep it in, I’d be a deal happier,’ Simon said.

  They were able to find a clerk late in the morning, just before noon, who was apparently aware of the King’s movements.

  ‘To France? No, I’m afraid he’s not going,’ the man said.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ Simon burst out. ‘Who can tell us what is happening? We’ve come here at no notice to accompany him to France, and now we’re here, you say it’ll not be for days?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say he wouldn’t be going for days,’ the clerk said. He was a pedantic old soul with a thin fuzz of hair encircling his bald pate. Now he frowned at Simon with a meditative expression. ‘When I said he wouldn’t be going, I meant it. He’s unwell.’

  ‘How unwell?’ Baldwin snapped.

  ‘Unwell enough to send two ambassadors to explain how bad he is, and to swear to it on their oaths.’

  ‘Two, eh?’ Baldwin said without conviction.

  ‘So we’ll not be going, then?’ Simon said hopefully.

  ‘I don’t know. You need to ask the King, don’t you?’

  ‘Very well. So where is he?’ Simon asked.

  ‘He is with the Abbot in the Abbot’s chambers, I expect. But you aren’t allowed in there. It’s private.’

  ‘So who can we ask?’ Simon enquired with poisonous charm.

  And so it was that by the time they were needing their lunch, they found themselves sitting with Bishop Walter Stapledon of Exeter.

  Louvre, Paris

  The Procureur left his house and made his way gradually along the lane, heading towards the little shop where he customarily stopped to break his fast.

  Today he was late. He’d woken with a headache, the natural result of an evening out with his old companion Raoulet the Grey. They had known each other for many years, but those years had not taught them to be cautious of too much cheap wine. Therefore, this morning, his head was atrocious, but his bowels were even worse.

  As he walked gingerly along, one thought continued to whirl about in his mind. The man killed in the Louvre was almost certainly lured to that particular room in order to be slain. That little chamber was so quiet, so remote from the main thoroughfares, that it was ideal for an assassination. But why had he been killed? And whose idea was it that he should be taken to that room? Was it the messenger, or had someone else decided to bring him to that chamber? If the messenger, did it mean that the messenger himself had killed the man?

  It was making his headache worse.

  This lane was broad at first, and then it narrowed. Overhead, all light was excluded by the buildings which leaned towards each other like toppling cliff-faces. Jean often wondered why it was that they didn’t collapse more often. They must be almost half-eaten away by beetles where they weren’t rotted by the damp. Yet the ancient timbers seemed to survive, and the instance of fatal cave-ins was minimal. Only a few people died each year, so far as he could tell, and not many of them actually died in the building. All too often it was the fools who heard the rumble and creak of a house about to submit to the inevitable, and who rushed to watch it fall. It was easy to stare at the wrong house, expecting it to teeter, while the one behind them collapsed, with fatal consequences.

  Eventually, as he walked along this lane, the Procureur knew he would see a spark of white up ahead, which would gradually reveal itself as the massive block of the Louvre. A fortress fit for an emperor, it was enough to make any man gaze with pride and admiration.

  Admiration today, however, was overwhelmed by the sense of turbulence in his belly. As he glanced upwards, he was struck only with the immensity of timber, plaster, lathes, wattles and planks that loomed menacingly over him. The distant sight of blue sky was no help; it made him feel dizzy and sickly at the same time.

  No, best to keep his eyes on the ground.

  Men shouted, women bawled their wares, selling from baskets bound about their necks, and urchins pelted along the cobbles amid the filth in their bare feet. There was one little room up here, Jean knew, which had fallen in on itself one evening. There was no one else about, and no witnesses. In the evening there had been a hovel there; next morning there was a mess of wood. Took them three days to find the last of the bodies. It was the mother and the baby of the family, and when they got to them, they found that the mother had been killed in the first moments, a balk of timber crushing her skull. The baby, though, some said, had lived for a while. They found its head at the mother’s breast, as though still seeking milk from the corpse.

  It was a proof to Jean de Poissy that no matter how cultured and civilised the city, there was always an edge of cruelty about the place. He loved and despised it in equal measure most days, for while there was much to stimulate the mind and inspire a man to greatness, there was also much to cause revulsion. A city in which a babe could die in such miserable loneliness was not one in which to bring up children.

  But since he had no wife and no children, it was not a concern for him at the moment. He would marry sometime. Not this year, though. He enjoyed his life too much to be tied by a woman. Better to be free.

  Just then, he spotted a group of men huddled in a corner, and he automatically became wary. They appeared well-off, from the look of their clothes, but that was no sign of honour. It was all too easy to disguise an evil soul in silks like those of a gentleman.

  They were paying him no mind, however. Their attention was fixed on another man. Thinking briefly that they might be felons looking to waylay another wanderer down this lane, Jean glanced around at the man they watched.

  To his surprise, he saw that the latter was staring at him – and only then did he recognise the man who had been loitering outside his home the other day. In that same second, he saw the glint at the man’s side, and put his hand to his own sword, half-drawing it. It was enough to set the fellow to flight. One of the richly-dressed young men attempted to catch him, setting a foot to trip him, but the stranger was up and away before any more could be done.

  Langdon, Kent

  Taking up a crust of bread and dipping it into his mess, Simon winced as a stab of pain lanced through his shoulder. The wound would take a long time to heal completely. Despenser’s man had cut him well.*

  ‘Simon? Are you all right?’ the Bishop asked.

  ‘It’s that scratch I got from the bastard Wattere,’ he said. ‘Despenser’s man.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ the Bishop said, a little shamefaced. He had held William atte Wattere for a while, and then released him, even though he could have kept him a little longer.

  ‘You know that Despenser has bought Simon’s house?’ Baldwin asked pointedly.

  ‘He is a very greedy man,’ Bishop Walter said. ‘But surely that means he will not harm the house now, Simon?’

  ‘I think it means he will evict us at the first opportunity,’ Simon grunted.

  Baldwin added, ‘It is why Simon did not wish to come with us. He feels sure that his wife is not safe.’

  ‘Could I help? I could have a man check on her for you.’

  ‘I wou
ld be glad of it,’ Simon said shortly. ‘So, tell us what has happened.’

  ‘It takes little enough time,’ the Bishop said. ‘The King had decided to make his way to Paris, and there to pay his homage to the French King, as is his duty. But there were some of us who were nervous that to do so would endanger his life. There are stories that if the King sets foot on French soil, he will be attacked. Some fear that he will be captured and treated as a prisoner of war, ransomed like a knight taken on the battlefield. It would be an appalling situation.’

  ‘So a group of advisers told him he should be anxious? And he immediately gave up his honourable commitment to go to King Charles?’ Baldwin said.

  ‘It would be better to keep your voice low if you are to make such comments, Sir Baldwin,’ the Bishop said harshly. ‘Those of us who argued in all good faith to protect the King may not meet with your approval, but do me the honour of believing I argued from conviction, not evil intention.’

  ‘He sent to apologise to the French?’ Baldwin said after a moment or two.

  ‘Yes. Two men have gone – Bishop Stratford and John de Bruton, one of the canons from Exeter. I think you may know him?’

  Baldwin recalled a thin, pale man with a sallow complexion who looked as though he might benefit from a visit to a warmer city than Exeter. ‘What now, then?’ he asked. ‘Why are we here?’

  ‘That’s what I want to know, too. Surely this wasn’t so sudden that we couldn’t have been told before we left our wives and our lands?’ Simon blurted out.

  ‘If you were not to go, you would have been warned. However, you will still be needed.’

  ‘We were sent for to guard the King on his way to Paris,’ Simon pointed out. ‘If he’s not going, there’s not much for us to do.’

  ‘The King is not going, but someone must go to pay homage. And the King’s representative has asked for you to be his guards – as have I.’

  Baldwin frowned. ‘You mean the Earl?’

  ‘Yes. The Earl of Chester must go, if the King won’t. And after this latest prevarication, the King would certainly be in danger. In fact, his ambassadors should already be with the French King now, and with any good fortune they will have made their offer.’

  Chapter Nine

  Monday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*

  Louvre

  Jean had not enjoyed a restful weekend. His sleep had been shaken by the memory of the flash of steel, and now, although he had been to church and prayed all the previous morning, he still felt sore-eyed and rough.

  The attack had shocked him. It was not the first time he had been attacked in the streets, nor would it be the last, of that he had no doubt, but the suddenness of it had made him fear for his life, and like some slow-moving dream, he could still see the huddled figure with its hidden weapon … then the man bounding away, like some strange apparition. It was enough to set his teeth chattering when he woke for the third time in the watches of the night. It was times like these, he thought, when the presence of a woman in his bed would have been a comfort.

  Today, he would take his servant with him. Stephen had the appearance of a bullock, but the mind of a tax-collector.

  ‘You’re coming with me today,’ Jean told him.

  ‘Very well, Sieur. Who will prepare your food while I am with you?’

  ‘You will. Your duty is to follow me to work and see that I am safe, and then to return for me when I walk home again.’

  ‘And the rest of the day you will be unprotected?’

  ‘There is no need for sarcasm, Stephen. You will be content to know that I shall have the whole of the King’s household within shouting distance. But they are not on hand when I walk to and from the castle. You understand?’

  ‘Of course, Sieur. That makes perfect sense.’

  The Procureur looked at him suspiciously. ‘Good. Prepare yourself, then.’

  There were many times like that, when he was not sure whether his servant was mocking him or not. Usually it was safer to assume that he was, but make no comment. Today, Jean did not feel up to arguing logic with the fellow.

  But what he did want was to think through this notion that the murdered man had been lured to a quiet chamber where the foul deed would be easy to accomplish.

  Who had taken him there?

  After a morning’s assiduous questioning, the Procureur learned from Philippe that a stranger had been seen in the main hall on the day of the murder.

  ‘Master Castellan?’ he called quietly.

  The castellan, a tall, aristocratic man with the dark face and beard of a Breton, crossed the floor to join him. ‘M’Sieur le Procureur – how may I help you?’

  It was hard when speaking to someone like this to remember that he was just a man like any other. Jean was intimidated by rank. He was too aware of his own lowly background. Even when a clerk in his cups had told him that the easiest way to remember a man’s true position in the world was to imagine what he looked like sat on a privy, his robes hitched up about his waist, he still found himself feeling awed by men like this castellan.

  ‘My … my Lord, I would like to ask you about a man who was found dead while waiting to meet the Cardinal d’Anjou. I have heard he may have been seen here in the hall with you.’

  ‘With me? I don’t remember him.’

  ‘Are you sure? A couple of servants and a cook’s apprentice all agreed that they saw him talking to you that morning.’

  ‘Ah … you are correct. There was a stranger in here. He asked the way to the Cardinal’s rooms, and I sent him to the gate to ask for a servant who could direct him. But I didn’t know him. He was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Did he make an impression upon you?’

  ‘Only that he was quite well-informed. He seemed educated. Not a felon and bully, but a man of letters and some intellect.’

  ‘I see. Well, I thank you,’ Jean said with a little bow. He could not bow lower, because he saw no reason to honour a man who had lied to him. The servants and the apprentice had all been firm on the fact that the castellan had taken the man by the hand and led him away.

  ‘So, Mon Sieur, why would you lie to me about that?’ he wondered aloud, then turned back to look at the castellan. It was interesting for him to see that the castellan had chosen that same moment to turn and gaze back at him.

  Louvre, Paris

  The King, Charles IV of France, stood tall. Even without his boots, he was almost five feet eleven inches, so he towered over most of his knights, let alone the general populace.

  His eyes passed over the men who instantly dropped to their knees. The clique of cardinals and clerics all bowed their heads, but true to form wouldn’t bend their knees, and he stared at them stonily for a moment or two. They were unrepentant, he was sure, but that was a fact of life. He must try to accommodate them in public, while twisting their arms in private.

  His father had been more successful than he. At times he had fallen out with the Pope and the whole malign, meddling coterie of priests. The Church wanted to dominate every aspect of life. That was its primary aim. After Pope Boniface VIII had announced his Bull, Unam Sanctam, there was little else the King could do other than defy him. The meaning of the Bull was, that all men and women on the planet owed their loyalty and fealty to the Pope before any other. Even Princes, Kings and Emperors must bow to the Pope, because he was the primary representative of God on earth. All who wished for their soul’s salvation must submit to the will of the Pontiff.

  No other Pope had dared go so far. And few Kings worried themselves about it. After all, they had been anointed by God. All were chosen by God. The Pope did not intervene, and thus he had accepted tacitly that they were entitled to their positions, whether he now argued against them or not. So the secular Princes and Kings sat back and watched with interest.

  Not so Philippe IV, Charles’s father. The French would never submit to a Pope whose position he owed, in some measure, to French diplomacy. The King ordered his lead
ing lawyer, Guillaume de Nogaret, to make a case against the Pope, and he found it embarrassingly easy. The Pope, Boniface, had taken the position when the previous Pope was still alive. Celestine, the holy, the ever-pious, had fled the Papacy because he feared the corruption. Boniface had captured him and taken the Papacy as his own, and then had his predecessor murdered.

  Thus he was guilty of two hideous crimes. While Celestine had been formally wedded to the Church, Boniface had adulterously taken the Church from him; and second, Boniface had been responsible for the slaying of his predecessor.

  Infuriated, Boniface threatened dire consequences on the whole of France, but de Nogaret moved against him quickly, and neutralised the Pope.

  King Charles beckoned the Cardinal, and Thomas d’Anjou crossed the beautifully tiled floor to join him.

  ‘Your Royal Highness?’

  ‘I understand that there are two men here from England to see me. I would be grateful for your company while speaking with them.’

  ‘I would be delighted to aid you.’

  ‘I am sure you would, Cardinal. However, if you do not feel able to demonstrate the correct degree of respect to me and to the Throne, it may be difficult.’

  The Cardinal bowed low. ‘Your Highness, I apologise if my demeanour appeared to show too little respect. I honour you deeply, both as a man and as a King.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Where are these two?’

  The men were soon brought in, and the King stood eyeing them with a chilly expression for some while without speaking. Then, when he did open his mouth, it was to say in a mildly annoyed tone: ‘I was expecting my brother, the King of England, and yet I find I have a Bishop and a cleric. What, has King Edward suddenly died? Has he fallen from his horse and broken his pate? Or is he, perchance, sitting with a terrible attack of the gout?’