The King of Thieves

Chapter Seventeen

Louvre, Paris

Now, at last, he was beginning to see the story.

Jean the Procureur sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his breast. It was an affectation, but the fact of keeping his fingers perfectly still helped him from being distracted.

‘The man was de Nogaret’s son. His wife was with him. Within a few days of arriving here, he visits the Louvre, and there he is killed. A short while after that, his wife too is slain. Most viciously.’

Hélias, when asked, had cheerfully confessed to knowing seven assassins in the city. They were occasional clients of hers. One apparently preferred men, so he had never visited her establishment, but she wasn’t going to try to persuade him otherwise. There were plenty of men with hot blood in the city without seeking new clients.

According to Hélias, the common view was that de Nogaret’s wife had simply been unlucky and met a cut-throat on her way along a quiet street. There was no more to it than that. Jean himself, however, had seen plenty of deaths in his time, and to him, this one had all the hallmarks of a crime of passion, not of some random robbery and killing. If the husband had died in a similar manner, with bloody wounds all over his torso, that would be significant, but he hadn’t. His death was clearly a great deal more professional. As was the despatch from this earthly realm of Nicholas the Stammerer.

Oddly, Hélias had not been able to help him over that death. Sweet Mother of Christ! It had made the Procureur furious to learn that the security up at the Temple was so lax that a man might walk in off the street and commit murder with impunity. The two executioners must have been bribed, but it was not so easy to punish them, as men with their lack of scruples and their minute moral flexibility were hard to find.

Still, the death of Nicholas the Stammerer had been clean and tidy: a simple thrust down with a terrible, thin blade. It would have to be a long blade, too. There were some who said that to break open a man’s heart it would take only an inch and a half of metal from the front. More, apparently, from the back — but from above? He wondered how long the blade would have to be: six inches? Ten? But all men carried blades as a matter of course. There was little point attempting to look at the methodology, except to consider the manner of death. The two men killed cleanly with a single blow: the woman slaughtered in a frenzied welter of blows.

‘Are you sure you know no more about the married couple?’ he had pressed Hélias. He would ignore Nicholas the Stammerer for now.

‘What can I tell you? The pair of them seemed pleasant enough, although desperately hard up. They did keep talking about how much easier their lives would be soon, but never told anyone why, nor how much they would be improved.’

‘No mention of gaining money directly, then,’ Jean mused. ‘But who would, in a tavern in a strange city? That would be to invite death.’

‘Then perhaps they did confide in someone, eh?’ Hélias had said shrewdly.

‘Yes,’ he said now. ‘Someone was told. Someone knew what was going on.’

He frowned up at the ceiling, considering all the different aspects of the matter, and it was only when he thought again about the footsteps of de Nogaret, that the frown deepened.

If he had arrived here in the castle, he would have requested some help to find the chamber where the Cardinal would meet him. And Jean had already decided that the chamber was perhaps selected for de Nogaret by his assassin, because it was far enough away from everything and everybody.

The first person he had considered for the murder was the messenger who brought the Cardinal to the body. First the man took de Nogaret to the chamber, and then he slew him, before going to fetch the Cardinal.

Except there would have been blood. The messenger was seen by many, and all admitted that he was clean. So that was the first mark against him.

‘Second,’ he murmured, closing his eyes, ‘we have the problem of the servant killing him for no reason. Why do that? The man appears to be perfectly normal, so far as I can see.’

If he had wished it, the boy could already have been dangling from the meat hook in the Temple, but there was little to be gained by harming a lad of decent birth. It wasn’t the same as torturing a fool and knave like the Stammerer. And at the present, he had no reason to suspect the servant of anything other than working correctly in his post.

‘So, servant finds visitor at gate; servant takes visitor to a remote chamber; servant fetches the Cardinal; Cardinal and servant return to the room and find de Nogaret dead. Why? And why in that particular room? And slain by whom?’

It was a foul, confusing mess, and the more he considered it, the less confident he felt about learning the truth.

There was no point in remaining here. The dark was beginning to fall. He must leave the castle and find his way home. Perhaps while he slept, a partial solution might occur to him; some little detail he had missed.

He closed his door behind him, locked it, and crossed the court to the gate — and then, as a man entered, he stood a little aside.

‘Friend, do you know where I can find the exchequer of the Duke of Brabant?’

Jean was tempted to snarl, ‘Do I look like a servant?’ but then he spotted a young knave from the stables. ‘I think you will find this boy an excellent guide,’ he said, and was about to turn away, when he realised what he had just done. The visitor thanked him and walked away, casting a curious look at him, as though wondering whether he was moon-struck.

It was his own foolishness that made Jean swear quietly and lengthily. He had seen it only a few days ago. When a visitor arrived, if he knew little about the castle and the people in it, he would automatically ask a mere boy to show him the way. A knave from the stables, or one from the kitchens, either would suffice.

Surely that was what de Nogaret had done. A newcomer to Paris, overawed by the city itself, then by the great palace of the Kings of France, he would have gazed about him with fear, anxious that he might make himself appear foolish. And so he would have turned to someone who was lower in the social scale at the castle: a knave.

Jean cast a look about him as the dusk began to settle. He would hurry homewards, and then consider this. Perhaps, he thought, the solution was approaching him after all.

Bois de Vincennes

‘Are you sure of this?’ Baldwin asked.

Sir Richard set his head to one side and didn’t respond.

‘I am sorry, Sir Richard. I forget you too are a Justice.’

‘I am used to questioning men, and I know when they are lying to me, Sir Baldwin. Trust my judgement here. Sir Henry de Beaumont is no more an independent guard of the Duke than I’m a tailor. The man is up to his eyes in something.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as plotting to support the Queen while she’s here, I should think, Sir Baldwin. The woman’s as cunning as a fox, and will use her wiles to protect herself and her son. Now, this means that it’s only you, me, the Bailiff here, and the Bishop who are independent of the Queen. It’s not enough to serve the Duke as he should be served. I think we ought to warn him. Maybe leave France.’

‘I do not think so. We have no need to fear the King,’ Baldwin objected. ‘He will not harm his sister or his nephew. No, we are safe.’ Then a thought occurred to him: it was one thing for them all to be safe, but quite another for the Bishop of Exeter. He was hated throughout France for the stand he took against Isabella. And she would be unlikely to do much to help him.

Simon was nodding to himself, but his expression was glum. ‘If we cannot trust to Sir Henry, we have to look to ourselves. But perhaps that is the Queen’s ambition, to force each of us to take her part, and then leave no one here independent to protect the Duke. Perhaps keep him here, away from his father.’

‘At least the King’s traitor, Mortimer, is not here,’ Baldwin said. ‘But no matter. I suggest we should remain together, all three of us, as much as possible — just to ensure that our own lives are not threatened. And we must tell the Bishop as soon as is possible.’

‘Yes. That makes perfect sense,’ Sir Richard said. He cast an innocent look upon Simon. ‘Perhaps we should visit the castle’s bar and take a little wine to settle us after this unpleasant shock, eh, Bailiff?’

Simon threw a look of mingled horror and disgust at Baldwin. His belly was only recently recovered after his last visit to a tavern with the iron-gutted Sir Richard.

‘I think that would be an excellent idea,’ Baldwin said, and left the chamber with a fixed grin on his face.

Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou was enjoying his visit to the Bois de Vincennes since his discussion with the King about the Queen of England and Bishop Stapledon. It was not always the case. He had been one of those who struggled to get on with King Charles and his companions. Not surprising, perhaps, bearing in mind the fact that the King’s friends were all of exalted rank, and his own family were little better than peasants.

Yet in France there were some who looked beyond the position of a man’s parents. In Thomas’s life, that guardian angel had been the kindly priest of his tiny parish church. Some priests had so little learning themselves that they were not merely unwilling, they were unable to spot the brighter children, but not Père Hugo. He had noticed the young Thomas’s facility with numbers and with a pen, but rather than pick him out and thus ostracise him from his circle of friends, the priest made a point of speaking with all the boys, and occasionally holding small parties for them, at which he would let them play with slates and chalk.

But it was Thomas who had the ability. There was no doubt about that. And when he was praised for his efforts, he began to want to continue, to learn more. Reading he found difficult, but writing was a joy. He loved to make curling letters spread over a tablet or sheet of parchment, the patterns a delight to the eye. To elevate his work to a higher level he would add pictures: dragons breathing fire, boars snorting steam in the winter, horses rearing with a knight in the saddle. Later, when his tutor saw these works, he had scowled and beaten Thomas for inventing things which would be unpleasing to God.

‘He has made this marvel of a world for us, His people, and you spend your time inventing new worlds? Make yourself more complete, boy, by studying His works, by copying His creatures.’

The beatings were regular, of course. All boys learned how to cope with the pain. But it did not dissuade the young Thomas, and as soon as he could, he had announced to his Vicar that he would like to be educated as a priest himself. And a priest he became after some little while, but he did not remain a priest for very long. Soon he was studying again in the Vatican. And he came to the notice of the Pope.

In those days, the Papacy was a shoddy organisation. Not enough piety, too much avarice. And yet to be there, to be living with the Pope, that was an enormous honour, and one which he was unwilling to give up lightly. He rose through the ranks, crowning his career with this position of Cardinal, here at the court of the French King, as adviser to King Charles, diplomat, and spy on behalf of the Pope.

It had been a good life. And now, with all fortune, perhaps he could see a long-hoped-for peace. The bitter rivalry between the two Crowns of England and France would be set aside at last, and maybe a new Crusade could be launched, against the heretics who’d stolen the Holy Land. That was an aim devoutly to be desired.

The Queen of England’s position was difficult, though. Her being here could prove to be an embarrassment before long. There was enmity between herself and her husband, the kind of bitter dispute that could end a marriage. And while her presence in France could be a thorn in the side of the English King, it was infinitely worse for the King of France, for it was a constant reminder of the matter of the silken purses. The last thing which the King wished for was any reminder of that horrible affair …

Thursday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael^*

Paris

It was a cool morning when Jean the Procureur woke, and he clad himself in thick clothing in a hurry, bellowing for his servants to prepare his fire and some hot water with wine as well as food.

He hated the winter. The cold seeped into his bones, and the feeling of darkness all around made him anxious. There were plenty who felt the same, he knew, but that was little consolation to him.

It was the lack of daylight which really oppressed him and brought his spirits low. The fact was, he enjoyed warm sunshine on his face, and the winter meant little if any. So much of the day was spent in darkness: rising in the dark, leaving for work in the dark, returning in the dark, sitting at home with only the firelight and perhaps a candle or two for illumination … all was misery and black fear. Ghosts and witches abounded, so they said. It was easier to believe those stories in wintertime.

Stephen, his servant, the burly man who had been following around after him and who assisted in the arrest of Nicholas the Stammerer, was a devoted fellow. He stood about now, helping his master into his jacket, tugging the old cloak over his shoulders, and standing back to consider the effect before hurrying down the steep staircase to the ground level, where he stirred the thin porridge and warmed some spiced wine.

‘At least the sun is abroad,’ the Procureur said, once he was sitting before his fire.

It was throwing out a feeble warmth, he thought to himself. The faggots of twigs had burned through already, and it seemed that there was little heat in the remaining embers. He kicked at the coals, then threw a last faggot on top and enjoyed the sudden crackling rush of hot air that left his face feeling scorched and shining.

‘Are you going back to the Louvre?’ Stephen asked.

‘Yes. I have had a new idea about the death of the man de Nogaret,’ he said. It was a matter of pride to him that he should have had the thought, and he did not mind demonstrating his cleverness. ‘You remember that he arrived, and was murdered before the Cardinal could reach him?’

‘I have been considering it with anticipation ever since you divulged your conundrum to me.’

‘Don’t talk ballocks to me, Stephen,’ the Procureur rasped. His servant might have the appearance of a churl from the gutters of Bordeaux, but there were few cleverer men in Paris, he knew. And sadly, Stephen knew this too. ‘The lad was killed, I think, because the period between his arrival and the appearance of the Cardinal was greater than people thought beforehand. Consider: if another led the visitor to the room, and then asked a second messenger to go to the Cardinal, that might leave more time. The first messenger could have been the killer, for all I know. He slew de Nogaret, and then hurried off to ask someone to fetch the Cardinal.’

‘Possible, certainly,’ Stephen considered. ‘But who would want to kill de Nogaret?’

‘There are many who remember his father, I would imagine. Was there some ancient debt to be paid? Someone may have been happy to slip a blade into him.’

Stephen nodded, but not with enormous conviction. There were, the Procureur knew, too many possible failings in his logic. Because that was all it was: a string of logic. There was nothing substantial on which to hang an allegation.

Still, it was a starting point, and when he marched to the Louvre, with Stephen in his wake, he paid less attention to the people around him as he considered the day’s work ahead. At least the King was still away at his hunting lodge. That was a relief. It meant that Jean would have a little peace before he must present his findings.

The porter at the main gate to the castle was a burly man in his late thirties called Arnaud. He had a thick beard, which he grew partly to conceal a jagged wound he’d won in the battle of the Golden Spurs at Courtrai twenty-odd years before. Where some men prized their scars, Arnaud seemed to find it only a source of shame.

When Jean arrived at the gates, Arnaud was standing with two of his men, waving the morning’s rush into the castle grounds.

‘Ha! You again, Procureur? Haven’t you finished your inquest yet?’

‘Perhaps you yourself can assist me with my enquiry? I have to know what would have happened to the visitor when he arrived here at the gate.’

‘We’d have sent him on his way, of course!’ Arnaud said. He showed his teeth for a moment in a grin. ‘You mean something else, of course?’

‘Of course.’

Arnaud glanced behind him, then jerked his head, and the two men stepped forward and took his place, herding the people through. ‘So?’ he asked again, once they were inside his little chamber in the gate’s tower. ‘What do you want now?’

‘The man de Nogaret. When he entered the castle, I assumed that a servant who happened to be here at the gate, would have taken him to a room, and then fetched the Cardinal himself?’

‘It is perfectly possible.’

‘Do you have any servants waiting here right now, in case a visitor turns up? If a man came here at this very minute, what would you do?’

Arnaud considered him and a slight frown passed over his face. ‘What are you suggesting, old friend, eh? That I or one of my men took this fellow to the chamber and killed him?’

‘No,’ Jean said. He paused. The porter was a useful contact, but not a friend, no matter what he might call Jean. To upset him would make life and entry to the castle more difficult in future, and was best avoided. He needed to placate the man’s feelings. ‘The thing is, you see, I need your help to understand this. The servant who brought de Nogaret to the room: what was his name?’

‘Raoulet, I think. He works under the steward in the hall.’

‘That’s him. Do you remember him being here when de Nogaret arrived?’

In answer the porter jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the queue of people walking into the castle. ‘Do I remember Raoulet being here? No. Do I remember de Nogaret? No. Do you expect me to remember all these faces tomorrow? You can, if you wish, Procureur, but I doubt I’ll remember more than a dozen. There are too many.’

‘Very well — do you remember any who might have been on the other side, then? Inside the castle’s court? So that a man walking in might see him and ask directions? I saw a fellow doing just that the other day. He asked me where he should go, and I regret to say I was unable to help him.’

‘You should ask Raoulet himself. He would know. I see all sorts here. Christ’s teeth, I even saw a whore directing a man the other day. People will ask directions of anyone.’

‘I will do. Can you fetch Raoulet now?’

‘He’ll be in the buttery, I expect. Would you be waiting outdoors on a cold morning like this?’ Arnaud said bitterly. The gatekeeper was obviously proud of his grievances, and any opportunity to air them would never be missed.

Jean smiled. ‘I think he has the best idea. That is good, then, master Porter. I will go and ask him. I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I was only seeking to learn what could have happened.’

‘That’s all right,’ the porter said gruffly.

‘For your help, I’ll have some wine sent to you later. The cold! A man needs wine to keep it out, eh?’

‘That is kind. Very kind. You know, there was one … I can’t be certain it was the same day, you understand, but there was one kitchen knave waiting out there one day. It’s such a while ago now, but I did notice the lad out there, loitering.’

‘Loitering?’

‘He was a young lad. Eight or nine years old, I’d guess. Not that it’s easy to tell nowadays. But he reminded me of one of my own boys. Little devil! He was out there kicking stones about like there was nothing better for him to do.’

‘And he could have offered to take a man somewhere?’

‘He could have — but I didn’t see it. And he’s only a kitchen knave, you understand.’

‘I fully comprehend. And this boy — do you know his name?’

‘Aye — the devil himself! He was out there that morning because he was waiting to be thrashed by the cook for leaving the spit to turn on its own instead of being there to keep the meat cooked evenly. He is that sort of boy, little Jehanin. And I heard the cook bellowing for him later.’ He frowned quickly. ‘Haven’t seen him since, though.’

The cook ruled supreme. He stood, a large, rotund man, with a thick towel tied to his waist by a cord of rope that also held a large knife, and a shirt of linen all besmottered with gravies and blood. Sandy-haired, with blue eyes that were so faded they were nearer grey, his flesh was pale and unhealthy, while his lips were the rosy red of a maid’s. Still, he had the voice of a herald at war; arms on his hips, roaring and cursing all who came near.

Seeing Jean enter, he glowered truculently. ‘What do you want?’

‘I was hoping to see the chief cook.’

‘Congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Now, piss off! We’re busy.’

‘So I see.’

It was, in truth, a scene from hell. All about the cook, young boys ran, some carrying joints of meat, some bags of beans, one or two staggering under the weight of yokes which held buckets filled with water on either branch. The fires were roaring, four of them all in a row, and there were massive cauldrons on two, while enormous viands were set to rotate gently about a third. The fourth appeared to have been lighted for no purpose, but the heat from it reminded Jean of a tale he once heard the priest tell of Hades. All was mad bustle, with a sudden gust of feathers which flew into the air from a table at the middle of the room, where three boys were plucking and drawing geese next to four men who were washing, cutting and slicing vegetables. Steel racks were poised like instruments of torture, and among all the youngsters, older boys and men hurried to carry out the cook’s instructions.

‘I would like to speak with you.’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘It is about a murder.’

‘And this is about breakfast, you fool! Can’t you see that? Now clear off out of it, before I call the Sergent!’

‘I am the Procureur, and the King has ordered me to investigate this case. If you wish, I can go to him and tell him that you have deliberately obstructed me. After all, it will not harm you — a new cook is hard to find.’

‘You pissy little prickle! Do you think you can scare me? Eh?’ He turned and caught sight of a man listening with interest. ‘Jacques, get back to your work! If you think I’m going yet, you’ll have a nasty shock!’ Turning back to Jean, he snarled, ‘It is easy to find a man who says he can do this job, but much harder, to find someone who can actually do it!’

‘All I want is to speak to the kitchen knave called Jehanin.’

‘Do you? Well, so do I, man. When you find the little shit, you can tan his arse for me. That’ll warm him up for when I thrash him and take all the flesh from his backside for running away.’

In the porter’s room, Arnaud poured himself a large cup of wine and drank it reflectively. And then, while he still had the resolve, he set the cup down, and left the gate. He muttered a few words to the men left to guard it, and then crossed the court to the main castle building.

The great hall had been a source of wonder to him when he first saw it. It towered up, and its white stone gleamed when the sun shone on it. Today, though, he was not thinking about the building. Instead he walked inside and looked about him until he saw the face he was seeking.

‘Hey, old friend. A word.’

Hugues looked up with quick interest at the tone of his voice. ‘What?’

‘I’ve just been talking with the Procureur. He wanted to know about a kitchen boy. The lad had helped fetch Raoulet on the day that man was killed.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, I saw your girl with the kitchen knave.’

‘What?’

‘That raven-haired beauty. She was with him. And now he’s missing.’

‘He was a boy. They disappear all the time. You saying she killed the dead man? No? Then don’t be so stupid!’