The King of Thieves

Chapter Twenty-Six

Paris, near the River Seine

The King wiped at his nose again, still feeling the fury that had swept through him when the mother-swyving son of a whore had left last night. The bleeding wouldn’t stop.

Amélie had tried to soothe him, but the bitch was no good with potions and bandages. All she was capable of was pouring a fresh cup of wine, and when his mashed lips had touched the liquor, it stung so much, he threw the cup at her, swearing when he missed. She had walked from the chamber after that, and hadn’t returned until now.

It took an age for the bodies to be taken out. Luckily the King had a shed next to the river, so all the men had to do was cart the fellows out at night and drop them into the water. Even that had proved a problem. The river was low, apparently, and one of the bodies fell into the thick mud at the water’s edge. Matters weren’t improved by the fact that he wasn’t entirely dead and began to wail. Probably came to as the cold water hit his face. Old Peter the peasant clambered down a rope and cut his throat for him before he could bring the Watch, and then half-dragged, half-slid the body to the water, where he pushed the fool off. Then Peter himself almost drowned in the mud and had to be rescued. The whole thing was a farce. And it was not made any better by the reflection that bloody damned Jacquot had bested them all.

You had to be impressed. The man was ancient now, and yet he could fight and win against several men at a time. The King was not keen to see his forces whittled down any farther, but there was a matter of pride at stake here. There were those who would hear of the incident and might form the opinion that the King’s crown must be slipping. And a crown, once fallen from a brow, could be picked up by any with the power and strength to carry it. There were many in Paris who felt sure that they had just that authority.

Curse Jacquot. He was the best man the King had ever had. But there was no doubt, he would have to die.

‘Where were you?’ he growled at Amélie. ‘I wanted you last night.’

‘You made no sign of it. I thought you wanted me to go, so I went.’

There was an indifferent note in her voice that made him want to hit her again. ‘Come here,’ he said.

‘Why?’ she asked as she crossed the room.

He reached out and grabbed her hair, twisting his fingers in it and drawing her nearer. ‘Where did you go last night?’

‘To a tavern. Why?’

‘Looking for a dog to cover you?’ he sneered.

‘Looking for a man, perhaps.’

‘You dare seek to make me wear the cuckold’s horns?’

‘Did you marry me, then?’ she hissed.

‘You cow! You strumpet! You craven, shitty little slut! You want some of this?’ he snapped, and drew his knife. The point had just touched her chin, when he felt something poke at his belly, and looked down to see her own knife at his groin.

‘Kill me, and you’ll be paunched, little rabbit,’ she said with icy calm.

‘I can kill you in an instant.’

‘Yes. And I can gut you so you die over days, in agony,’ she said.

And she was right. He had seen the exquisite torture that a knife in the guts could bring. There was no cure. Not when a man’s bowels had been spilled. It was enough to make him respect her again — if not trust her. He didn’t trust any woman.

He shoved her away and rammed the blade back into its sheath before demanding more wine. At least his mouth was healed enough for that now. Meanwhile, she walked away and lay on her flank on the skins that made up his bed in the corner. Christ’s arse, but she was beautiful. Wild, dangerous and lethal as a hawk. What she wanted, she would take.

‘You are lucky I didn’t kill you then,’ he said.

‘Am I?’

The King usually killed his women because they were too dull. This one would have to die soon because she was too unpredictable. She made him nervous.

Yes, Jacquot first, and then her. But Jacquot’s death would take careful planning. Whom could he set upon his assassin?

Paris

Vital eyed the men and shook his head.

‘I do not think that they know very much, Pons,’ he said.

‘I think you may be right, Vital.’

‘Will you release us, then?’

The speaker was a short man, with a face that appeared to have been burned by acid when he was a child. One eye was milky-white, although his hair was still unmarked by the frost of age. He was probably only some two-and-twenty years, Pons thought to himself. And already an expert in so many aspects of thieving and murder.

All these men had been swept up by the watchmen of the city in the last day. There were some forty or more in different gaols all about the town. Some were wanted already, and one was destined for Monfaucon, to be broken on the wheel for his offences, but most were like this little man: idiots who had so little ambition and intelligence that their crimes were obvious to all. However, they were useful, since they were likely to know more than most about the men who were capable of killing a Procureur.

‘Please? You have nothing against me.’

Pons and Vital exchanged a look. ‘No,’ Pons said. ‘You will remain here until we are satisfied that there was no collusion between you and others to murder the Procureur.’

‘But we know nothing! Nothing!’ The man swore as Pons and Vital nodded to the gaoler, and the heavy door swung shut with a dull thud. The keys rattled, the bolts slid into their niches in the wall, and the gaoler began to lead the way up the damp staircase.

‘Wait!’

Pons turned. ‘You want something else?’

‘You must realise you cannot keep us here for long?’

‘My friend, King Charles himself has demanded that we take all measures to ensure that the killer is found. You have no rights in this. You will remain until we remember you and consider letting you go free.’

‘But we …’

‘Bonjour, mon ami.’ Pons smiled, and set his face to the steps again.

Les Halles, Paris

Jacquot rested, watching a bear baiting, then wandering idly along with the crowds, viewing other entertainments.

The city was such a vast place. Cut in half by the great swirl of grey river, the islands in the middle where the cathedral and King’s main courts were based, this was the centre of Christendom now that the Holy Land was lost. Men and women congregated here, for Paris held all hopes, all desires, within its walls. Jacquot had arrived looking upon Paris as the place where he could find a new life, and it had given him that. However, in return it had taken all he had. All his honour and integrity had been eroded until there was now only this: a husk of a man, full of self-loathing, desperate for salvation but not having any idea how to achieve it.

If he had found just a fraction of love, of friendliness, he might have been different.

Walking about this area, he studied others now. They drew his eye as they had not for many years. Men and women, smiling, laughing. Children at their sides, gambolling and capering in the thin sunshine. Men buying flowers and sweet-meats for their wives. One man bellowing with laughter, throwing his son into the air, while the lad screamed with delight.

It reminded him of another time. Another life. When he had his own children, when he had hurled his boy up into the sky. But now, all he could remember was the same boy’s face, blue-grey, peering up sightlessly from the winding sheet as Jacquot wept and threw soil into those dead eyes. Up in the air, then into the ground. It made a fist in his breast, a fist that clenched about his heart.

Jacquot was lost. He was in the city’s market and he was lost. He recognised nothing. Panic was his sole companion as he span on his heel, desperate to be away, to be anywhere other than this. He wanted to run, to pelt off in the direction of his rooms. Or a tavern. Anything. Anywhere. Panting, he felt like a wolf in a trap, frantic with the urge to flee, but utterly incapable of doing so. His legs would not obey.

And then, the horror of his loneliness in the midst of all this joy left him, and he was calm again. He felt the fist open in his chest, his breathing return to normal, the cool sobriety return. There was nothing here for him to fear. The only danger for him was the King.

Last night Jacquot had felt secure. Now, he knew he was in grave danger. The King would have to eradicate him just to prove that he was still the King. Thus, Jacquot had two choices. He could leave, or he must fight.

He would fight, then. It was not in his heart to leave this whore of a city. He had run all the way here ten years ago. He wouldn’t be forced to run away again.

The King was past his time — Amélie was right about that. The King must go, and perhaps Jacquot would take Paris in his place.