The King of Thieves

Chapter Fifteen

Second Wednesday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary^*

Louvre

Hugues was tempted to go and see the ‘King’ and throttle the bastard. It was all very well, him being so cocksure about the danger posed by Nicholas the Stammerer, as Amélie had intimated, but that didn’t make the castellan any calmer. He had too much to lose, damn the man’s soul!

Although he had not been so lucky as some. Hugues thought back to the sack of Anagni, the capture of Pope Boniface VIII. When the others had found the man Toscanello, and taken the key from him, there had been no one about at Anagni. No one at all, and although Toscanello had denied finding anything, the shifty little shite had been unable to stop himself sweating. Anyway, Paolo had always hated him. That was why he’d wanted to search for himself. And found the chest.

Most money chests were made of steel with more steel bands to enclose and protect them, and a great locking mechanism that was designed to keep all safe inside. Not this. It was a simple wooden box, not much larger than the chest a man might keep in his bedchamber. Perhaps two feet tall, two more deep, and a yard and a half wide. No decoration, just the enormous hole for the key.

‘See? It’s just an old chest,’ Toscanello had said, and had made as though to leave the room. But he was shaking.

Paolo had stopped and stared though, less sure. Just because this was lying in an undercroft didn’t mean it was empty. He was keen to open it up. So he did. The great key fitted the lock, and they could all hear the mechanism moving four enormous lugs out of their slots. And then he lifted the lid.

Hugues had never seen so much money. It actually hurt. There was a desire like a knife in his groin. He’d never known avarice like this, not since he’d craved another’s wife, and then he’d had to kill her man and rape her before killing her too. But this, this was different. It was so pure, this gold coinage, so shiny and bright, he could hardly bear the thought of touching it.

In the chest itself there was the coin, but then as they searched further in the storage room, they came across other chests, other boxes. One contained a set of plates, all gilded and valuable as diamonds. Another contained goblets, another held jewels. All the wealth of a Pope was in here. All the money Boniface VIII had accrued from selling indulgences and promotions at the turn of the century, taking advantage of the centennial fever that struck Christendom, it was all here.

And in the chamber, there were only the four of them: Paolo the leader, Hugues, Thomas and Toscanello. That much money was enormous, even split four ways.

But all knew the risks. And any who was unaware would have realised the danger as soon as the detestable de Nogaret began demanding to know where all the booty was. He wasn’t here just for the better glory of the King of France; he was here at Anagni to make himself fabulously rich. And he would have the head and heart of any man who tried to prevent him.

It was some while before they had reached Paris afterwards. De Nogaret was disappointed with his rewards, still fuming over his inability to find much of the Pope’s fabled wealth. He couldn’t. Hugues and Thomas had concealed it well. He soon learned to seek other means of gaining the money he craved. Hugues and Thomas later returned to the place where the money was hidden, and rescued their shares — which they were able to put to good use.

It was twenty-two years since that fateful meeting at Anagni, and Hugues was damned if he would see all he had built up destroyed by a drunken sot who fancied himself ‘King of Thieves’ and dropped others in the shit from incompetence.

Temple, Paris

Jean stood in the room and gaped. ‘Who let the assassin into the chamber?’

The executioner shook his head. ‘There are always people who try to get inside. Some are legitimate — they want to go and provide some food for the prisoners. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, but no one should have been allowed in there. Not there, where the King’s prisoner was being questioned. You know that, in Christ’s name! So how did this happen?’

‘As I told you, we found the prisoner dead in there this morning. Someone had stabbed his heart with a long, thin blade. It was only a matter of a spot of blood at his shoulder. I would have missed it myself, but one of the guards saw it there. There was nothing we could do.’

Jean dismissed him angrily. All too often prisoners could suddenly die, he knew. Sometimes it was an angry guard who went over the mark when a man was complaining. Guards were not hired for their sense or kindness. If a weeping man carried on for too long, he could be given something to weep about. Occasionally prisoners could die for no other reason than disease. Or malnutrition, or the cold or wetness. All were natural enough in a dungeon. These deaths weren’t the result of particularly bad treatment.

But this man’s death left Jean with more work.

First he must find out more about the Stammerer, and then see if he could do the same about this man called the ‘King’.

But first, perhaps, he should see if he could learn a little more about de Nogaret and his wife.

Tuesday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael^*

Bois de Vincennes

Baldwin took his place at the edge of the dais with an eye on the crowds all about. They were all in the courtyard of the great hunting lodge, and the arms of the French manor house reached out on either side, the fourth side being blocked by a large wall. Flags drooped in the still air; it was unseasonally warm for late September, and Baldwin could feel a trickle of sweat running down his back.

There were so many people here. Wolf was behind him, and Baldwin kept turning periodically to make sure that he did not spring into the middle and cause a mêlée. He had no desire to see a fight break out because of his beast. Not on an occasion of such importance.

Opposite him were a large contingent of French nobility, all watching the English visitors with suspicion. Baldwin was glad that he was wearing a new red tunic. His old one would have made him feel too much like a country churl in the midst of all this splendour. Armour gleamed with a blue light, the French nobles’ clothing was clearly the best available, and even in his new tunic, he felt slightly shabby.

In the event it was all over quite quickly. Simon Puttock and Sir Richard de Welles, the Coroner, turned up just as Duke Edward, Earl of Chester, arrived and strode to the throne where the King of France waited, Edward’s mother at his side. Before all the men present, the King held out his hands. The Duke knelt before him, and raised his own hands in that universal symbol of fealty, his palms pressed together as if in prayer. The King placed his own hands on either side of the Duke’s and looked about him at the audience of witnesses as the Duke spoke in his high, unbroken voice. And it was done. Immediately the King announced that his warriors would be withdrawn from all the lands held by his nephew, and control would revert to the Duke.

Baldwin glanced at Sir Richard. He had conspired to bring a small haunch of ham with him, and was surreptitiously chewing at it as he listened.

‘Well, Sir Richard, was the ceremony to your taste?’

‘To me taste? Not so fine as a good jug of English ale, eh?’

Simon squared his shoulders and stretched. ‘Maybe now we can soon return home, Baldwin. Surely the Queen’s business here is done and we can serve her on her way home.’

‘That is to be fervently desired,’ Baldwin agreed, but even as he spoke there was a sudden noise.

It was the Bishop of Exeter. Walter Stapledon strode forward and bowed to the King. ‘Your Royal Highness. I have here a letter from King Edward, which demands that the Lady Isabella, his Queen, should return at once to England.’ Stapledon waved the note high, and then held it out to the Queen. ‘Your Royal Highness, the King says that he will tolerate no delay. I have money to pay your outstanding expenses, but I have been commanded only to pay if you will come straight back to England with me to return to your husband, as you are obliged to do. I am afraid the King does not offer you an option, your Royal Highness. He demands your obedience.’

There was a complete silence for a moment. It was as though all the world was waiting to see how the Queen would react to this rudeness.

She responded coolly, staring at the note in his hand with some contempt. And then she looked at the Bishop with eyes that seemed to dart fire.

Sir Richard gave a low whistle. ‘If he was hoping for a quick service of his own, I’ll wager he’ll need a new filly.’

His crudeness about the Queen was shocking to Baldwin, who was about to remonstrate, when the Queen spoke. Her voice shook with rage, beginning so quietly that all must strain their ears to hear her words. And then her voice grew, swelling, until all could hear, and her disdain and anger were clear to all present. It lay there in her perfect enunciation and slow, deliberate speech.

‘I feel that marriage is a joining together of man and woman, maintaining the undivided habit of life, and that someone has come between my husband and myself, trying to break this bond. I protest that I will not return until this intruder is removed, but discarding my marriage garment, shall assume the robes of widowhood and mourning until I am avenged of this … this Pharisee!’

Stapledon held the little roll high overhead, then turned to the King for support. ‘My Royal Lord, you know that a man’s first duty is to his wife. Surely no wife can look for support when her husband has determined that she must go to him?’

The King of France looked to Baldwin as though he might explode with fury himself.

‘D’ye think the Bishop knows of the King’s past?’ Sir Richard said to Baldwin. ‘Poor devil — his first wife was found playing the dog with two tails with a knight, after all. Won’t like to be reminded, I reckon.’

‘I don’t think he could be unaware,’ Baldwin retorted. ‘Why he has chosen such a high-handed manner is beyond me.’

Simon was more sanguine. ‘Because he’s never had a wife, Baldwin. If he had, he would understand the folly of such language and such a conspicuous venue for his demand.’

The King looked at the letter, and then at Stapledon. His voice was cool, but calm. ‘The Queen has come to my court of her own free will. I will not send her away if she chooses to remain. She is a Princess of France and my sister. I will not exile her.’

Baldwin winced. ‘That is your answer, Simon.’

‘Christ’s ballocks. We’re stuck here, aren’t we?’

Furnshill

Margaret was surprised to be told that there was a man in the hall to see her. Jeanne had sent a maid to fetch her, and Margaret strode indoors with a frown of concern on her face. It was unlikely to be a messenger from her husband, so she had a feeling that the fellow would be from her home.

‘You are Madame Puttock?’ the fellow asked, eyeing her haughtily.

He was a youngster, this cleric, but one of those who thought he knew the importance of his own position in the world.

‘Yes.’

‘My Cardinal, Raymond, sends his deepest regards and wishes me to tell you that your house is entirely to his satisfaction. He will be most happy to remain there for some weeks until accommodation can be provided at Tavistock Abbey.’

‘Oh!’ Margaret said. She was dumbfounded. ‘But what of the men who had taken it over?’

‘They learned to regret their impetuosity.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He sighed, but as Jeanne appeared with a great jug of ale, he brightened appreciably. ‘The Cardinal is here to adjudicate between two candidates at Tavistock Abbey. The last abbot, may he rest in peace …’

‘I know. He was a kind, good man,’ Margaret said. She had always liked Abbot Robert Champeaux, and she and Simon had been sad to learn of his death.

‘There are two men who claim the abbacy. Robert Busse won the election, but John de Courtenay chooses to contest it. The Cardinal is here to listen to the evidence and decide who deserves the post. He answers only to the Pope. He fears no man.’

‘Nor does Wattere.’ Margaret remembered with a shudder the man leering at her.

‘Wattere was the man who took your house? He has learned to respect the Cardinal. He is in the gaol at Tavistock Abbey now.’

‘What happened?’

‘The man chose to try to draw a sword. My master called on the stannary bailiffs of the local court and reminded them that the Abbey of Tavistock owns the stannaries. They were happy to arrest Wattere and his men for the Cardinal, and then transported them to Tavistock for him.’

Margaret could only gape.

Paris

The King of Thieves ran his hand along the thigh of the whore at his side. She was a new one, this Amélie. The last had given up, exhausted by the hours he kept, but the King didn’t care. It was better for his natural urges that he spend them with new women at every opportunity.

This latest was a Galician. Strong, fiery, not at all compliant, she would take a little breaking in, he thought. She’d been the go-between for the castle and him for some weeks now, but perhaps he should keep her here with him a while. She had the temper to match her body.

‘So you succeeded, Jacquot. I congratulate you.’

Jacquot walked along the room until he stood before the King. ‘You should trust me more. He was a pathetic copy of me. He would never have made the mark.’

‘Perhaps so,’ the King said. He put his head to one side, staring at the woman’s black hair. It gleamed as though oiled, and he set his hand into it. ‘It’s good that you’ve removed the little stammerer. Yet you have still not managed the first commission. The Procureur is still alive.’

Jacquot smiled without humour. ‘It will be done.’

‘Good. Go to it, then.’ The King motioned idly with his hand and the man turned and left him.

He was the only one who dared do that. The others all gave him some sign of respect, limited in a few cases, it was true, but they still gave him some proof that they accepted him as their natural leader. Not Jacquot, though. He was always the loner, the one who was watching, never involved.

Soon a couple of watchmen were due to come and see him. There was always business. Never a moment for rest. The King let his hand sweep down the flank of the Galician girl, then smoothed his palm over her upper thigh to the soft, inner flesh. He always loved this part of a woman. So free of blemishes, so lovely and sleek. He had a few minutes, surely. His hand rose to her, and her head turned to him, lips slightly open, eyes dull and staring into the distance.

Oh, the bitch had ruined the moment. He drew his hand away and clouted her hard on the rump, making her squeal. Women were so stupid. They didn’t understand what a man wanted. Not a real man like him. His anger flared, and he punched her in the mouth, jerking her head away from him.

And then he saw her turn back to him. There was a trickle of blood at her mouth, and she wiped it, then smiled and licked it away. And in her eyes there was a pleasure he had never expected to see reflected. It was like looking into his own eyes. She pinched him, and he felt his heart begin to pound.

Yes, he’d keep this one at his side.

Bois de Vincennes

The King of France stormed from his hall, pulling off his gloves as he went and hurling them at an unfortunate servant. ‘Well? What do you have to say?’ he snarled at Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou. The latter had that look on his face, the self-righteous one that was so infuriating, and the King enjoyed a brief vision of the Cardinal bending over the figure of some wench, that same bloody expression on his face, as though he wasn’t a man like all others.

‘It was a most unfortunate display — and yet may well play to your advantage.’

‘Oh, yes! Much to my advantage, this. My sister, Queen to Edward of England, refusing to obey his order for her to return. It is bad enough that she is here, consorting with any men who are disinclined to accept their own King, her husband, as though set on reminding me that I used to wear the cuckold’s horns. Now she wants it to escalate into a full-scale political dispute or war!’

‘It would be a war you would win, my Liege.’

‘But it would be hellishly expensive, and I have other affairs that demand my energy. She has antagonised that fool the Bishop.’

The Cardinal smiled. ‘Did you see his face? Like a man who’s bitten into a juicy pear to discover it tasted of wormwood! Hah! That was worth the seeing.’

‘Yes. It’s true, that was worth a chest of treasure, just to see the bile in his face! Stapledon is one of those who has caused shame beyond measure to me and my sister. The man thinks he can insult me with impunity and then come here on a diplomatic mission! Well, he is safe from me, but if he was threatened here, I don’t think that the Queen’s supporters would lift a finger to aid him. Except for Sir Baldwin, perhaps.’

He knew that Sir Baldwin and Stapledon were friendly. It was one of the Cardinal’s own spies who had brought that information to him.

The Cardinal smiled and nodded.

He was a strangely self-possessed man, the King thought. Charles had known him for many years, both as a diplomatic and a legal adviser, and had only rarely found him to fail. His spies were everywhere — they were probably only marginally less effective than the King’s own, although nothing like so speedy and accurate in their information as those of, say, the Bardi family. But then bankers always had the best of everything. They could afford it.

No man in the world was indispensable — but the Cardinal came very close to being so. For the King he was the most competent adviser on every aspect of Church politics, he was shrewd when planning about England, astute on Scottish affairs, and utterly objective and ruthless in the pursuit of French interests.

‘What would you do now that the fool of a Bishop has forced Isabella’s hand?’ King Charles asked after a moment’s consideration.

‘My Liege, it is very hard to know what to recommend. Naturally the King of England is entirely within his rights to demand that his wife returns — but he is not in a position to ask that you force her to comply. She is still a free woman, and a Princess of France. However, it would be of no service for others to believe that you assist a woman against her husband. And were you thought to be plotting to remove a neighbouring monarch, that would not enhance your reputation.’

The King nodded. He beckoned a servant, took the goblet of wine and drank. ‘So?’

Cardinal Thomas watched as the servant walked away before answering. It was a measure of his caution that he would not even speak in front of the King’s servants. Foolish, in the King’s view, since a servant would know that he would have his tongue cut out, and his nails removed before having his limbs broken on the wheel if he opened his mouth at the wrong moment and caused any embarrassment to the King. They were more careful than the King himself about not divulging anything.

‘My Liege, you do not want any hint of complicity in planning the downfall of your brother-in-law, so I advise you to make it clear to your sister that her presence is an embarrassment to you. She will understand.’

‘So I should exile my sister from her own country,’ King Charles said. This was dispassionate advice at its best. The Cardinal had a heart as cold as a toad’s.

‘Not exile, no. But remove her from your immediate orbit. Otherwise the King of England might end up with a case that justified his own actions. Your sister wouldn’t wish for that.’

‘What do you mean by “his own actions”?’

‘Her lands, her treasure, her income,’ Cardinal Thomas shrugged. ‘All have been sequestrated by the King. If she were to plot here, the King of England’s spies will soon hear of it. And then he could declare all her possessions forfeit. If she were to wander away, to a place such as Hainault, where the English King is less likely to have spies in place, she may be safer. And so may her son.’

‘Yes. That is fair,’ the King said. He motioned to the Cardinal to leave him, and stood a while in splendid isolation in the middle of the great room.

His sister must go, that much was certain. Apart from anything else, her behaviour was growing tedious. The repetitive complaints about her husband, the whining, the sidelong mentions of her lack of funds — it was all getting on his nerves. And then there was the matter of Sir Roger Mortimer, and his sister’s relationship with the man. Mortimer had been arrested, left to moulder in the Tower of London, and then engineered an escape a matter of days before he was to be executed. But this man had been the King of England’s best warrior! He was the King’s own General in Ireland, the man who had managed single-handedly to halt the warfare out there, and therefore the one man whom the King of England most feared. As for the Despenser — he and Mortimer had a feud that went back to the time of their grandsires, since Mortimer’s grandfather had slain Despenser’s on the field of war.

But it was one thing to have a sworn and bitter enemy of the English here in France to twist the tail of the English King, quite another to have a man who appeared to be inveigling his way into the Queen of England’s affections, if not yet her bed.

The Bardi spies were usually the best, but those which the King had set to watching Mortimer were the finest, the most skilful at their craft. And having once been forced to wear the cuckold’s horns, King Charles was sensitive to any suggestion that his sister might be doing the same to her husband while here at the French court.

It was not to be borne.