The King of Thieves

Prologue

Saturday, Nativitas, Blessed Virgin Mary, eighteenth year of the reign of King Philip IV of France^*

Path outside Anagni, south-east of Rome

God’s blood, but he hated them. All of them. The religious ones; the pious ones. And today he would win some sort of satisfaction for the way they’d treated him.

It was a hot day, and Guillaume de Nogaret wiped his brow with his sleeve as he sat on the horse, waiting for the signal from the man at the top of the rise. September in this benighted land here, only a few leagues from Rome, was always hot. He was used to heat, but not to this overwhelming dryness. He was baking inside the heavy tunic he had bought in Paris.

Some two-and-thirty or so years old, Guillaume had been born in the lovely countryside near St Félix-en-Caraman, but it was not long before he had been captured — when he was orphaned.

The men who had taken him were all the same. Men of the Church who prostrated themselves before the Cross and begged forgiveness for their sins. Well they might! Their hypocrisy and venality were unequalled. Thieves and gluttons, lustful, degenerate, evil. They would declare their love for boys like the little Guillaume, asking him to participate in their unnatural practices, and then beat him with rods when he refused them.

Beatings, whippings … all was punishment in their world: children like little Guillaume were there to be educated and shown the right path to take, they said. That was why they must thrash him regularly, they said. There were times he had returned to his cot with his back and buttocks so raw, so severely lacerated, that he could not lie on his back for days. Sleep in those times came hard. He would weep, silently, for making noise in the dorter would lead to another thrashing, crying red-hot tears of misery at the loss of his darling parents. God should not have taken them from him. But God didn’t. Men did.

His parents had been good, kind, hard-working folk. Their name came from the small property his father had inherited, a peasant’s home at Nogaret, but his father had been better off than that. He had lived in Toulouse; made a fair living, too. Young Guillaume could remember both parents. In the long, lonely hours of the night, he was sure he could sometimes smell faint traces of lavender, the scent he associated with his mother. And sometimes, when he was about to doze off, he could feel the touch of her lips upon his forehead. Those were happy moments. She had doted upon him. He knew that. And he missed her so.

Theirs was a close family. All his father had wanted was for his ‘Petit Guillaume’ to take over his work and make a good life for himself. Simple desires, the desires of a peasant — but good, sensible ones, the kind that would wash through the veins of any man who had the earth baked into his soul from the first moment of birth. And Guillaume was one such man.

Yes, the boy hated the so-called men of God, who sought to conceal their true natures beneath calm smiles and soft manners. Yet he knew them. They had raised him; they had shown him their weaknesses. And he would exploit them, all of them.

At last! The signal.

Sieur Guillaume de Nogaret nodded to his servant, then spurred his mount. Behind him, the standard-bearer’s flag flapped and crackled as the wind whipped around in little gusts. Perhaps that was why he was feeling reflective, Guillaume told himself. This area was like the hills about Carcassone and up to Montaillou. It reminded him of his old home.

But home was miles away, just as his arse was telling him now. Since the great meeting at the Louvre six months ago, Guillaume felt as though he had been travelling constantly, riding hurriedly to do the King’s will. Paying out money without worry, hiring men as he may, and recruiting those who had as much hatred as he.

As his horse clattered up the stony path, he had to concentrate on keeping his seat, so when he reached the summit of the little rise, and could gaze about him, the scene was a fresh one.

A thousand — no, fifteen hundred — warriors were waiting in a small valley. They had ridden hard, too, all the way from Florence, where he had paid for them, and they were resting their horses and seeing to their equipment.

‘My friend. I hope I find you well?’

Their leader was a tall, elegant, grizzled man of about the same age. He looked over Guillaume’s clothing with a quizzical eye.

‘I am well, Giacomo,’ Guillaume said softly. Giacomo Colonna was the fiercest general in that warlike family. The Colonnas were the second great clan of Rome, and detested their enemies with a passion that was equalled only by Guillaume’s. Any opportunity would be seized by them to hit back at the Gaetani family — especially the head.

There was nothing more to say. Giacomo, known as ‘Sciarra’, the Quarreller, because of his bellicose habits, was a man who believed more in actions than polite conversation, and particularly at a time like this, when he could almost smell the defeat and despair of his enemy. There was a gleeful spring to his step as he rallied his force and pushed and kicked recalcitrant men back on to their horses. In only a short while they were all remounted and then, with a raised arm, Sciarra Colonna set off, with the King of France’s man at his side.

Within the hour, they had captured the man they both despised: Benedetto Gaetani, the leader of the great Roman clan, and now known as Pope Boniface VIII, who had overturned the Colonna and driven them from their great homes and palaces. He had all but ruined them. And not content with that, now he had excommunicated the French King, and was threatening to put the whole of France under anathema. There would be no churches opening for any man. No burial services, no church weddings, no baptisms — nothing. That would be intolerable. The French could not allow it.

It was hard to command obedience from a Pope, but King Philip IV would not tolerate any more truculence. That was why his most trusted lawyer and adviser was here.

To kidnap the Pope.

Anagni

Toscanello di Accompagnato looked about him with astonishment as they entered the palace, struggling, and failing, to keep his mouth closed as he took in the rich paintings, the carvings and statuary. He had never seen such proof of wealth, not even in Florence. The Pope was truly a man to be honoured if he could possess such treasures. God must have showered these gifts upon him for a reason.

Yes, he told himself, the Pope was chosen by God. So he must go and confess this crime as soon as he could.

And it was a crime — there was little doubt about that. All over the place, there were men being held, while a few figures lay in the dirt, their blood leaching into the soil about them.

There had been little resistance. The men here had known that they couldn’t win, and even the demands of loyalty to their master were insufficient to make a man fight when it was clear that the battle was already lost. So Guillaume’s and Sciarra’s troops had found their way eased considerably. They entered the papal palace and the great building swallowed them all. Somewhere inside, Toscanello knew, the Pope was being questioned by Guillaume. And soon he would appear, ready to be carried off to France.

Others were looting the place, but Toscanello could only stand and carry on gawping.

He was nineteen this year. Finding a living was hard in his little town, and he had decided to travel to Florence to try his fortune — but with little success. He was still forced to live on the streets, and there were times when he had been compelled to steal in order to eat. So far, he had not been caught, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Then he would have to flee, and eke out some sort of living in the outskirts — or stoop to joining one of the bandit gangs which plagued the lands all about.

But then there had come this proposal. He had been loitering outside a wine shop when he had seen a man whom he knew to be a servant of Sciarra Colonna; the man, noticing him, asked him whether he could ride and wield a sword. ‘If you can, and you serve my lord,’ he told Toscanello, ‘you will be paid in gold.’

That had been a week ago. Now, here he was, in a foreign land south of Rome, with over a thousand others, robbing the Pope himself.

Some of the men had declared themselves unwilling to attack when they learned who the target would be, but it only took one man being beaten to the ground by Sciarra Colonna for the rest to realise that they were happy to rob even Pope Boniface VIII.

In truth, most were anyway. They were all aware of the corruption of the Pope’s rule. He had succeeded to the Papal throne because his predecessor, poor Celestine V, had been so wildly unsuitable. Everyone knew the story. When Pope Nicholas IV had died, no one could agree who should replace him. As usual, the Cardinals had been locked in their room to make the choice, with God guiding their way for them, but with clans like the Colonna and Orsini unwilling to give way and lose influence by choosing someone not of their blood, the process dragged on for eighteen months.

It was Pietro of Morrone who broke the deadlock. The old hermit, highly respected by all because he lived a life so austere it was a miracle he lived at all, wrote to the Cardinals threatening them with God’s severe vengeance, should they not hurry and make a decision. To Pietro’s horror, they did. They picked him.

There was a need for intense persuasion and diplomacy. Pietro was happier in his cave with his whips, so he might flagellate himself without interruption. He needed little food, and existed in a quiet manner, rarely speaking except to praise God and pray. Yet even he could not argue with the will of God, so he agreed, and two years after the death of Nicholas, at last there was a new Pope: Celestine V. He lasted four months.

A simple man, he wanted nothing for himself. His first command, on entering the new Papal palace at Naples, was that a wooden cell be built, in which he could sleep. He was entirely unprepared for the magnificence of his new position — nor for the deviousness and acquisitiveness of his Cardinals.

Unused to the grandeur of his new life, he was entirely overwhelmed. He wanted to be efficient, and signed all the papers thrust before him. Unknowingly, he approved benefices and appointments to the greedy. Some even had him sign blank sheets which they could later sell on for huge profits. The corruption of the Church rose to unthought-of levels. And Celestine grew sickened as he realised how ineffectual he really was.

The fiasco lasted four months. At the end of that time, the poor old man had had enough. He knew that he was no Pope. All he wanted was to leave the debauchery and avarice behind, to go back to his little cave and the simplicity of his past life. He told his Cardinals that he must abdicate. And that was when Benedetto Gaetani became Boniface VIII.

But people muttered that no man could merely resign from a position which God had granted. God’s vicar on earth was installed by God, and no human, not even the Pope himself, could resist His will. So they looked on Boniface as being a usurper. The real Pope was still Celestine.

It was worrying enough to make Boniface send to have Celestine arrested, and although it took five months to track him down, at last Celestine was discovered at the coast, desperately seeking a ship to take him over the Adriatic. Brought back to Rome and thrown into the Papal prison, Fumone, there he languished until Boniface ordered his death. The old man could hardly have put up much of a struggle as a pillow was placed over his face and he was gradually suffocated.

So, now people looked upon Boniface as both an imposter and a murderer. He had stolen all the wealth he could from the Papacy, and even made the astonishing claim that, as God’s vicar, he held authority over all — even secular Lords and Kings. All must accept his lordship as a condition of their soul’s salvation.

Not all agreed. Kings were given their crowns and thrones in the same manner as the Pope: they were given them by God. The King of France in particular was unimpressed. Confrontation was inevitable. And when Philip the Fair decided to take action, his enemies would do well to fly.

It was because of him that they were all here today, Toscanello knew. It was the French King’s money which had paid for them all, and it was his servant, Sieur Guillaume de Nogaret, who was directing them. All in order to capture the Pope and bring him back to France.

Toscanello didn’t care, though. All he knew was that he’d been given food and wine, and his purse stood to be heavier when they returned. For the moment his belly wasn’t complaining, and life was good.

There was a shout from one little shed, and Toscanello saw a figure dart from it and bolt across the court. He looked around, but no one else appeared to have seen the fellow, so he gripped his sword in his hand and pelted along in pursuit.

The other man must have been the winner of the clerk’s hundred-yard dash, from the speed he went at. In fact, for all his clerical garb, Toscanello reckoned he must be a lay brother in the Pope’s service, for he had never seen a clerk run so fast before — up one narrow alley, then vaulting a low wall which Toscanello himself found challenging, before springing over a series of barrels behind the brewery, and hurling himself bodily at a door nearby. It slammed open, showering dust like a small explosion of gunpowder, and crashed shut again as Toscanello reached it. Unheeding of any possible danger, he kicked at it without slowing, and the door was flung wide. Under this second assault, a timber cracked, and the whole frame sagged, hitting the ground and remaining still as Toscanello ran on inside.

It was a large storage vault, he saw. There were barrels lined up, some massive ones for fermenting wines, while further away he saw bales of goods imported from all over Christendom. And beyond them, a shadow, and the patter of sandalled feet.

Toscanello grunted to himself, and then set off again, his boots slapping on the paved floor. It was a huge room, this, larger than any he’d seen before. Probably used to store all that was necessary to feed the army of hangers-on which the Pope took with him everywhere. Not that many of them had stayed behind with their master; they had all melted away in the hour or so before the arrival of Guillaume and Sciarra’s army. Only the Pope and a few loyal attendants remained, and this one fellow, too.

His behaviour was odd. Most of the clerks here had submitted immediately, hoping that by surrendering, they might save themselves further pain. Not so this one. He was running as though he thought he might be able to save himself somehow.

Toscanello shrugged. There was a door at the far side. He saw it close, and ran towards it, reaching it in time to hear the bolt sliding over.

‘Shit!’ He experimentally slammed the pommel of his sword into the old wood, and saw it dent and shiver. It was enough. He pounded on the door with all his might, until at last a plank burst apart, and he could reach in. Groping wildly, he found the bolt and opened it, shoving the door wide.

And found himself at the rear of the Pope’s palace. A door was slammed a short way away, and he saw that it was the entrance to an undercroft.

‘We’ll dig him out,’ a voice rasped, and Toscanello looked up to see Paolo striding towards him. Toscanello had never liked Paolo, and the feeling was mutual. Paolo had been a paid man-at-arms to a Roman family, and looked down upon all those who were born outside of Rome itself. Still worse, all those who weren’t actually warriors. But he had three men with him, who may not have been Romans, but all had the same aristocratic contempt for peasants. Toscanello sheathed his sword and nodded, then turned and walked back the way he had come. It was plain enough that Paolo reckoned there could be a rich reward in following the man.

They were all there for profit, after all. There were men even now, arguing and fighting upstairs over some of the Pontiff’s richer clothing; Toscanello could hear them. In the court he could see five or six men bickering over a huge tapestry, pulling in all directions, until another, a red-faced Piedmontese with a jug in one fist and his sword in the other, swathed in bright silks stolen from some secret store, set his sword’s edge on the cloth and it ripped, the coloured threads parting all through, and the men falling.

The Piedmontese laughed uproariously, but then stopped as a dagger sliced across his throat, and the fool toppled back, thrashing about as he died. The others laughed then.

All about Toscanello, the place was degenerating. Someone had found the undercroft where the wine was stored, and there were men drinking and brawling in the dirt. From the shouts and screams inside the palace itself, others were rampaging through it, looting as they went. All that splendour, all the majesty of the Pope, was being systematically destroyed. It made Toscanello unutterably sad … There was a sudden shout from Paolo, and Toscanello turned just in time to see his quarry spring from the door behind which he had hidden, and set off across the court towards Toscanello. But he had only taken seven or eight steps when Toscanello saw Paolo lift his arm. There was a glint of steel as he brought his arm back — and then he let fly.

The dagger he threw was little more than a flat, sharpened steel splinter ten inches long. There was no defined cross, only a rough leather grip. Now the highly polished steel flashed in the sun as it sped on towards the running man, and suddenly the man’s steps faltered. He looked as though he would fall, but managed to pick up his rhythm again, running harder. Toscanello willed him to succeed, to reach some place of safety where he might be able to escape, but even as the thought ran through his mind, he saw the man’s legs wobble, like a puppet whose strings were loosened. His eyes widened, and he slowed. Blood trickled from his lips, and he staggered, and then was suddenly still. He gazed at Toscanello with what looked like rage mingled with incomprehension, and then toppled to his knees, falling to rest on all fours before very gently sagging down to lie with his face in the dirt.

Paolo walked to him with a beaming smile. ‘Said I could hit him, Hugues,’ he called over his shoulder to one of his men. ‘That’s a gold piece you and Thomas owe me!’ He pulled the dagger free, then stabbed twice, quickly into the man’s back — one to the kidneys, one to the heart — before wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s robes. He cast a contemptuous glance in Toscanello’s direction, and swaggered away.

He was plainly dead before Toscanello reached him. Rolling the body over, he found himself staring down at a young man of his own age. The eyes were brown, but already fogged with death, and the splash of blood about his face made him look repugnant, but Toscanello forced himself to peer down at him for a few moments, reflecting that this had been a man. That it could easily have been him who died here.

Just a man. A young man with a tonsure. Toscanello shook his head. The fellow had a crucifix about his neck, and a rosary at his belt. And then he peered. There was a key, too. A large steel key, as though to a door or a large chest.

That was how Toscanello became richer than any man he had ever met.

And why he was slain.

Monday after Nativitas, Blessed Virgin Mary, eighteenth year of the reign of King Philip IV of France^*

Anagni

Guillaume de Nogaret marched over to the figure lying dead on the ground. He looked at the Sergent. ‘Well?’

‘They killed him, took the money and bolted. They’re not the only ones though — you know that. All the men are sitting here hung-over and riotous.’

‘Which ones were they?’

‘Paolo’s men — Hugues and Thomas — but he’s dead too. So only those two. You want me to send after them?’

The King of France’s most trusted adviser looked down at the broken figure of Toscanello. ‘He was only Italian,’ he said. ‘Let them go. We don’t have the men to catch them.’