The King of Thieves

Chapter Twelve

Jean le Procureur’s house

Later, as he sat in his chamber, rubbing at his eyes to clear them, he could recall the story of the late Guillaume de Nogaret. Born of a family which had been denounced as heretics, the young Guillaume was removed from them and placed in the care of the Church. Naturally, both parents were executed.

A clever boy, he rose quickly through the Church, and was educated to a high standard. As a result, he entered a career in the law, and after some years came to the attention of the royal court. Soon he was the King’s most trusted adviser. When there was a hard task, de Nogaret would be called upon to assist. It was he who drew up the spurious accusations against the Jews and had them thrown from the country, their debts all cancelled, the money diverted to the Crown. And then there was the matter of the Templars. It was Guillaume who had drafted the accusations against them. By all accounts, his enthusiasm for persecution of those in the Church knew few bounds. And then he had been sent to Italy, too, to capture the Pope.

Jean picked up his pen again. This was very important, he knew. The full matter of de Nogaret’s son must be recorded, since his father had been responsible for a major incident in the autumn of 1303 — the seizing and punishment of the Pope. It was a shocking affair, of course, but it had shaped the world today.

The old Pope, Celestine V, had been a hermit, and was more or less forced to accept the post by the cardinals about him. A mere matter of months later, he had been persuaded to relinquish the job, and his successor, Boniface VIII, had taken his place. However, many believed that a Pope was chosen by God, so it was not possible to abdicate. They considered the new Pope to be a cuckoo in the nest, and sought to find and reinstate the old one. Celestine had gone into hiding, but he was found and taken back to Rome, where he died shortly afterwards. All thought he had been murdered on the orders of Boniface VIII.

This successor was an acquisitive man utterly ruthless in his search for wealth. For him, the turn of the century was a fabulous bonanza, in which he sold privileges and made vast sums. But he was as determined to bring secular rulers to book as he was to fleece Christians generally. He issued a ruling that proposed the Pope to be superior to all earthly rulers. And in so doing, signed his own death warrant.

His behaviour had been causing concern for years when he issued this latest provocation, and the French King was willing to take up the challenge. De Nogaret was given his instructions, and a short while later he was at Anagni, where the Pope was finalising his plans to bring Kings to book. Boniface’s palace was attacked and ransacked, his wealth taken, and he was himself captured. He died a matter of days later, some said because of a blow from de Nogaret or his allies. Others said he was driven so mad by the loss of his vast fortunes that he killed himself, driving his brains out by slamming his head against a wall.

Jean finished his notes. ‘De Nogaret was at Anagni,’ he murmured, ‘but de Nogaret has died. Possibly the dead man was Guillaume de Nogaret’s son. But what was he doing, here in Paris? Why did he seek to meet the Cardinal — and why did the castellan deny knowing him?’

Jean set his reed aside and rubbed at his temples, studying what he had committed to the scroll.

It made little sense. No, he must search deeper, and answer those questions. He sighed, exhausted, and rolled up the scroll, storing it away safely in his chest before yawning, finishing his wine, and preparing himself for his bed.

Furnshill, Devon

‘So your house is gone?’

Margaret nodded unhappily. Peterkin was asleep in the solar already, and the two women were sitting on a bench before the fire, drinking some of the end of last year’s cider. ‘Wattere came and threatened me with my life — and with rape. I had to leave before anybody was hurt by him.’

Jeanne felt her heart go out to her friend. To lose everything now, just when the work of harvest was complete, was a dreadful blow. It was one thing to lose a house, and another entirely to lose the crops which had been husbanded so carefully in the last months. ‘Was anything saved?’

‘What could we rescue? I had to pack all our belongings and get out as quickly as possible. There was nothing I could bring. Not with only one cart.’

‘Well, when the Bishop is back with Baldwin and Simon, they will see to your house and ensure that all is returned.’

‘That is good, Jeanne, but what can they do against Despenser? He has ruined us, and there is nothing we can do to defend ourselves. We have lost everything!’

Monday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Paris

Jacquot sipped at a mazer of wine as he entered the chamber, affecting an ease he didn’t feel.

The King did not look in his direction. He was studying the breast of the girl who lay at his side, exploring it with the frowning innocence of a young boy. But he knew when Jacquot entered.

‘You failed!’ he snapped. ‘You swore he would be dead within the week. But that was — what? Three weeks — four weeks ago?’

‘I will kill him.’

‘When, do you think?’

‘As soon as he walks abroad alone. As soon as he’s unprotected. What, do you want me to be killed?’

The King was driven to smile. ‘That,’ he explained, tracing the line of the girl’s nipple with a forefinger, ‘is your concern, not mine. All I know is, I took money for this service, and you haven’t done what you were supposed to, have you? Perhaps you’re too old now, Jacquy? Are you too old? Does the thought of death at the hands of the Procureur fill you with dread? Or is it just that you don’t want to be a part of my little force here? Do you think you could take over from me, perhaps? Have control of my men?’

All was spoken in that quiet, sing-song voice that showed his real anger. There was one thing that maintained the King’s authority in Paris, and that was his power to promise results. If a man paid for the destruction of an enemy, the King would guarantee it. And that promise, that certainty, kept the money coming in.

‘If it was a crophead, you’d have done it in a moment. But I suppose a priest is easier, eh? They don’t have such …’ his finger had dropped to the girl’s navel, and now she bit at her lip as he moved lower … ‘such ability at defending themselves, eh? No, a Procureur is more hazardous. Perhaps you are scared?’

‘I fear nothing, King. Not even death,’ Jacquot said. And it was true.

Ever since he saw his last child into the grave, he had held no illusions. A God who could permit the deaths of his little ones and force him to suffer so much, was no God for him. What use was a God, in any case? God had seen to the deaths of so many, and always the innocent died first. There were some who said that God was testing men, but to them Jacquot would ask: why? If He wanted to test a man’s soul, He should pick a man who had been alive long enough to have some sins, not a beardless child.

Jacquot could survive now, mainly by his wits, but also by the exercise of his skills. There was no assassin on the streets of Paris who could compare with him. In his profession he was pre-eminent, and he knew it.

‘You have failed, though — whether you are fearful or not. So, I have to wonder what I should do for the best. You see, there are others who want to serve me. The Stammerer over there — he would like to serve me. He is keen to test his knife in another man’s blood.’

Jacquot did not even bother to glance at the fresh-faced, smiling boy in the background. He knew Nicholas the Stammerer perfectly well. Nicholas was the kind of man who would pull out a man’s nails — not from any need to extract information, but purely from interest — to see how much pain his victim could endure. He was only sixteen years old, so Jacquot had heard. ‘You want to entrust the Procureur’s death to him?’

‘I begin to wonder whether he would not be a better agent for us. He has some dedication — but I have begun to doubt your strengths, you see. He is a young lion. You … you are more of a boar, I think. Wily, powerful, but brutish and slow.’

Jacquot smiled. ‘And you think Nicholas is faster? Then try him, King. Try him. And when he fails and dies, ask me again. But next time I will need more money, I fear. Much more.’

Louvre, Paris

The castellan was a short, heavy man called Hugues de Toulouse, who was the proud owner of a goodly paunch. All men aspired to such a belly: it proved that the owner was a rich man, that his family was well-provided for. Jean le Procureur eyed it with a degree of jealousy.

‘Mon Sieur,’ the castellan said as he marched into his little chamber and found Jean waiting. ‘You have something you need?’

‘For my investigations, you mean? No, not really. There were just a few questions I had about the man who died. Did you know who he was? I have learned that his name was Guillaume de Nogaret.’

‘Shit! In truth? But he was young!’

‘He was not the old man who served our King’s father, but perhaps that Guillaume’s son?’

The castellan puffed out his lips, shaking his head, and then made his way to the shelf behind his table, where a jug of beer stood. He filled a horn and drank it off, before refilling it, his back to the Procureur.

This was a huge embarrassment, were it to come out. The castellan knew that the son of the old King’s chief lawyer might not be considered important himself, but the mere fact that he was related to a servant of the old King’s would make his death more suspicious, were anyone to learn about it.

‘I knew his father,’ he said at length. ‘He was an arrogant bastard at the best of times — like all those who get too much education and get pushed up the ladder when they’ve not the sense to make good use of it all. Bloody fools. Got to give him that: Guillaume was a bright lad. He picked things up. And when he went after the Jews, or the Templars or the Pope at Anagni, he made sure of his position first, and then he was as sodding relentless as a mastiff. If he got his teeth in, there was nothing would shake him loose. Complete bastard for that, he was.’

‘You liked him?’

The castellan eyed him sourly. ‘You mad? You trust anyone in the King’s closest circle? Of course I didn’t trust him or like him. No, he’d have shoved a knife in my back as soon as he heard I had something he fancied.’

‘Did you know him here at the court?’

‘After Anagni, yes. I wasn’t here before that.’

‘You were there, then?’

‘Why do you say that?’ the castellan asked suspiciously.

Jean smiled. It was natural for any man to grow alarmed when he was asked about dead men whom they had known. ‘You mentioned Anagni, and it was as though that was an event in your life, not merely something that happened to de Nogaret. You were there, I infer?’

‘Yes. I was one of the King’s men. There were many of us there. And there was so much booty, all of us became richer for our efforts.’

‘Booty from the campaign?’

‘From the Pope’s palace. He was a thieving old scrote, Pope Boniface. Had the best collection of cash, gold, plates, goblets — you name it — of any Lord I’ve ever seen. Didn’t save him, though, murdering old bastard. We found him and raped the place! Happy times, they were.’

‘Did you know de Nogaret had a son?’

The castellan shrugged. ‘Should I? I last saw de Nogaret some while after the arrest of the Templars, a long time after Anagni, but by then I was already fairly wealthy myself. Didn’t have to ingratiate myself with him.’

‘His son was already a boy by then,’ Jean said pensively.

‘What of it?’ the castellan demanded. ‘You suggesting I had something to do with the lad’s death? Because I was here, and there are witnesses to it. The morning he was killed, I was here in the hall with the King.’

‘Sieur Hugues, please, do not upset yourself,’ Jean said soothingly. ‘I was thinking aloud, that is all. Is there anything else you can tell me about the boy or his father?’

‘Nothing. I hardly knew them.’

‘Very good. And now I must leave you. You will have much to do, I have no doubt.’

‘Why are you asking me all this about de Nogaret? Has someone said I was there?’

‘No, I merely wanted to learn all I could about the man, so I could try to understand what he was doing here.’

‘Hah! Trying to get money, I expect. What else? That’s all petitioners ever do, isn’t it? He was probably coming here to ask to see the King to explain how, sadly, his father had fallen into poverty, and ask could he have a hand-out.’

‘Perhaps. But why would he then go to the Cardinal?’

‘Thomas knew his father too, just as I did.’

‘He did?’

‘Before he was a Cardinal, Thomas was a priest, and knew the court as well as any other chaplain about here.’

‘Interesting!’

Back outside, Jean stood in contemplation. There was much to consider, not least the fact that the castellan appeared anxious about something to do with the matter.

As he thought about all he had heard, he saw a dark-haired beauty enter the passage and walk down towards him. She was not well-dressed, but the graceful measured pacing of her feet made her look more elegant than many a lady of the castle. She looked at him without recognition or interest as she passed, and then made her way into the castellan’s room. It made Jean’s brows lift to see her confidence — and the fact that she was not evicted from Castellan Hugues’s chamber made them rise even higher.

If he had to guess, he would have said that she was a prostitute, from a certain hardness about her, and the swagger of her hips, and he found it a little disconcerting, not to say shocking, that the castellan should entertain such a woman in the King’s castle.

Tuesday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Dover

Baldwin stood and watched, chewing slowly at a long strand of hair from his moustache as the King rose and held up his hand. In his clear voice he made his declaration, sounding firm and resolute. He was in every way the symbol of perfection. The ideal King.

‘Made a miraculous recovery, eh, Sir Baldwin?’

‘I think we should listen to his words, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin answered. He was thinking that never had a tyrant looked so kindly.

‘Maybe so. But he don’t look like a man who had to miss an important meeting with the French King, eh?’ grinned Sir Richard de Welles.

De Welles was a tall man, some six feet one inch in height. He stood with his legs set a shoulder’s width apart, as stolidly planted there as any tree. He had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a gorget. His eyes were dark brown, amiable yet shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles, making him appear older than he really was, for Baldwin knew he was actually younger than his own age of two-and-fifty. Sir Richard’s flesh had the toughened look of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air would acquire.

He also had the endearing conviction that his booming voice was inaudible to the rest of the men standing about.

‘The Bailiff didn’t look too well, did he?’

Baldwin allowed a faint smile to pass over his lips. ‘I rather think that was your fault again, Sir Richard.’

‘Me? What did I do?’

‘He is not quite so well accustomed to strong wines as you, perhaps?’ suggested Baldwin, happy in the knowledge that his own moderation the previous night had prevented any liverishness on his part.

‘Not so well accustomed? Sweet Jesus’s ballocks, Sir Baldwin, we hardly had enough last night to persuade a nun to run to the privy. Hardly any at all.’

There was a hiss from the man at Sir Richard’s right. ‘Can you keep quiet? We’re trying to hear what the King’s saying.’

Sir Richard’s expression did not alter. His beaming countenance turned to his neighbour, a fellow in his early twenties, and Sir Richard looked him up and down for a moment in silence. ‘Did you speak to me, my young friend?’ he asked at length.

‘Sir, I would be grateful if you could be silent until the King has finished,’ the man growled.

Sir Richard’s smile widened. ‘And so you should, my young friend. You look damn familiar, though. Let me see, have we met?’

‘No.’

‘But we must have … no, don’t say a word … have you ever been to Exeter? I am Coroner there, you know.’

‘No.’

‘Aha! Then it must have been while I was in court, then. Were you ever in Axminster? Chard? Honiton?’

‘No,’ the man said, and his teeth looked to be set like a man with lockjaw, Baldwin thought.

‘Then at the King’s courts? Did I meet you at his hall at Westminster or York?’

‘No, I haven’t-’

‘I know. It was in a battle. Were you at Boroughbridge?’

‘No! Now will you-’

‘You weren’t at Boroughbridge? Were you at Bannockburn, then?’

‘Sweet Jesus! No!’

‘In that case, lad, I wonder where I, a warrior, a man high in the esteem of the King, a man who has been to battle on the King’s behalf, and who has served him these last thirty years past, I wonder where I could have earned your contempt?’

‘I …’

‘Should keep your bread-hole shut when your betters and elders are talking, boy. So, Sir Baldwin, Simon is not feeling himself?’

‘I fear he regrets entering the third and fourth alehouses with you last night,’ Baldwin admitted.

‘He looked more like a corpse than the last two-month-dead body I studied before coming here,’ Sir Richard said musingly. Then he brightened. ‘Still, I always say that the best cure for a sore liver is a little more of the same. It never fails to cure me when I feel a little out of sorts.’

Baldwin smiled. To imagine the Coroner ‘a little out of sorts’ was like imagining a raging bear at the baiting rolling over and cradling its head. It was inconceivable. He turned his attention back to the scene before them.

The Earl of Chester had just stood, and now held his hand high while those nearer him cheered and the noise rippled round the rest of the men standing there.

‘There we are, then,’ Sir Richard declared, clapping his own hands loudly. ‘Hooray! Hooray!’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘He’s no longer a mere Earl — now he is a full Duke.’

It was a week and a day since the Earl had been given the two counties, but with this ceremony, the King had settled upon him all the rest of his extensive territories in France. Now, with the whole of the British Crown’s possessions in his hands, the Earl, a Duke of France in his own right, could meet with King Charles and pay homage for all his English possessions. He would be the first English Prince to own such a fabulous demesne.

‘Makes him an attractive target, don’t it?’ Sir Richard said as the crowds separated.

‘I do not think he need fear dangers here,’ Baldwin said, looking about them with a small smile.

‘I was thinking of France, as well you know. I may live in Devon, but I know dangers when I see ’em. And just now, with the French snapping at the borders of all the King’s lands, this little lad would be a tempting morsel for them to pluck up, eh?’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘Sir Richard, all we can do, you and I, is guard his body as well as we may. I personally think that the French King would do all in his power to protect the boy and save any embarrassment. It would be a blow to his reputation, were he to treat his own nephew dishonourably.’

‘Aye. True enough. But his men could do it for him, couldn’t they? Especially all the renegades and traitors. Even that blasted Mortimer is over in Paris, so they say. Despenser keeps having fits of terror that the man will return. He pretends he’s not afeared, but you bring up mention of the Mortimer and watch Despenser’s face. Enough to sour a vat of ale! Not that I blame him, mind. The idea that the King’s best and most effective general might land in England and be on your trail would be enough to make most fellows quail.’

‘Not you, though, Sir Richard.’

‘Who? Eh? Me? No. I hope not, anyway. I ain’t a threat to any, because I am content. I don’t need to have anything more than a comfortable berth for me backside of an evening, a jug or two of good wine, and perhaps a small brunette to warm me when the evenings get chilly. Not too much to ask, is it?’