The King of Thieves

Chapter Three

Westminster, Thorney Island

Sir Hugh le Despenser was in his small chamber when his clerk found the single sheet of parchment in among the pile of correspondence.

‘My Lord?’

‘What is it?’

‘You have apparently acquired a property in Devon, but I cannot see exactly what this …’

Despenser frowned and strode to the unfortunate man, snatching it from him.

‘It’s from Wattere,’ the clerk said helpfully.

His master turned a look upon him that was so sour, the clerk reckoned it could have curdled milk.

The Lord Despenser was not, in truth, looking well. His face had grown pinched and sallow in the last few weeks.

Seeing Despenser glance at him again, the clerk turned back to his work. It was never pleasant to have the Lord’s eye upon a man. There was a wealth of suspicion in that eye, and it was dangerous to be thought of as someone who was showing too much interest in him or his affairs. There were enough men and women in the country who were now his enemies.

But the plain fact was, Sir Hugh was a worried man. This in response to news coming in of armies being gathered over the sea, of more and more malcontents who were so disenchanted with the rule of Sir Hugh and the King that they had fled the land and were now gathering in ever larger, bolder groups in France and in other places where the King’s enemies congregated. The trouble was, almost all the world was the King’s enemy. Everyone knew that.

There were reports almost weekly now of ships being readied for an invasion; and each time Sir Hugh would spring into frenetic action, distributing messages to the Admirals, to the Sheriffs of the coastal counties, to knights and others upon whom he felt he could count, demanding added vigilance, ordering them to send ships to sea to seek out the forces which threatened the realm, and generally over-reacting. It was a proof of his own sense of vulnerability.

That was not all. The kingdom was unsettled. Certainly Sir Hugh had not helped matters with his single-minded pursuit of his advancement at the cost of all others. There were many who had cause to regret hearing his name. Some were impoverished, their lands and treasure forfeit to the King and now held by Despenser as reward for his loyalty. His enrichment had come at the expense of so many of the families who had chosen to set their faces against their King. Others had been broken physically, their limbs shattered until they agreed to sign away their fortunes to him, while some few were no more, their bodies concealed in shallow graves.

But the instability which he had assisted was now growing alarming. Only this month, Robert Sapy’s deputy in Wales had been attacked in Gloucestershire. His eyes had been torn out, his legs and arms smashed, and his accounts stolen. There had been a time only a very short while ago when no man would have dared to treat such an important man in so dreadful a manner, but that time was past. Now no one was safe.

And just as he grew alarmed to hear such stories, there was the threat of the King actually leaving the country to go to France to pay homage to King Charles IV. Sweet Christ in chains, was the man a cretin? If the King were to leave England, Despenser could not go with him. He had been promised death if he ever set foot in France. But as soon as the King left the realm, Despenser’s life wouldn’t be worth a wooden farthing.

He barked suddenly: ‘You! Peter!’

The clerk jumped, startled from his reverie. ‘Yes, my Lord?’

‘Take a message for Wattere. It is this: “Let him know”.’

‘Just that?’

‘Yes. He will know what to do,’ Despenser said. He clasped his hands behind his back.

Peter the clerk watched him surreptitiously. The stance in many would look like that of a decisive man who was considering a new task, but Peter knew him better than most.

He thought Despenser was trying to stop his hands from twitching with nervousness.

Old Palace Yard, Westminster Palace

Edward, the Earl of Chester, strode from the court where he had been practising sword-play with a master of defence, and wiped his forehead with a cloth.

He was already showing signs of the kind of man he would become. Only twelve years old, he was powerfully built, with a long, handsome face framed by thick golden hair. His eyes showed his intelligence: quick, shrewd and observant; he was already a good judge of character. He had been made Earl only a few days after his birth, although his father had been sixteen before he was given an earldom. And it made a difference, he knew. He had inherited responsibilities and duties which most others wouldn’t have to think about until they were men.

His other gift was that of diplomacy. Early on, he had discovered that he must develop these skills to help bridge the gap between his parents, as his father withdrew more and more, growing convinced by stages that his wife was a traitor and considering deserting him.

‘My Lord, your father has asked that you join him,’ a servant said, panting slightly as he trotted beside the Earl.

‘I will go straightway to him, then,’ Earl Edward said. He took the next corridor, and in a few minutes was walking into the King’s own chamber.

It was a magnificent room. The ceiling was white, with corbels inset, but the walls were painted with scenes from the Old Testament. Carpets lay on the floor, softening the sound of tread, while at the far end was the King’s bed. Servants stood silently. When the King lifted a hand, miraculously a goblet appeared in it, the man who had placed it there swiftly but silently returning to stand at the cupboard.

‘My Lord King?’ Earl Edward said.

‘There is no need for too much formality today,’ the King said as his son bowed low. ‘Today is a day for discussion of the problems I face.’

‘My King, you are universally respected …’

‘I am hated by many.’

‘Yet still respected,’ the Earl said with barely a pause.

‘You know the situation with France,’ the King said, ignoring his words. ‘I am caught in a cleft stick. If I do this, I lose the Agenais. If I do this, I lose all our French territories. It is intolerable! Am I not a King in my own right?’

‘Not in France, my Lord,’ Edward said simply.

‘Then I must go and abase myself before my brother-in-law. It will demean the Crown to do so before a foreign power. Can I do it and keep my royal dignity?’

‘I am not sure that there is a choice, my father.’

The King did not notice the alteration in tone. A slight steeliness had crept into the Earl’s voice. This discussion was not an abstract matter to him. It affected the realm which he would one day inherit.

‘There is an alternative.’ The King had stepped to a window near the large fireplace, and now he stood by it reflectively, staring out over the Thames. ‘You.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Earl Edward remained where he was for the moment, gazing at his father with some perplexity.

‘Your mother has proposed another idea. It wasn’t her own, of course. Her brother, that shite Charles, thought this up a few months ago. No doubt he managed to persuade her to his will. You will see that, Edward. Women are invariably weak and suggestible. It is always easier to deal with men, I assure you.’

‘What is this, Father?’

‘The proposal is, that I invest you with all my territories in France. Make you a Duke of Guyenne. Then you can yourself go to France, meet with your mother, and pay homage.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I am King, boy!’

Earl Edward bit back a hasty reply. This was a time to think. Think! ‘You do not wish to go because it would be demeaning?’ he confirmed.

‘Yes. But if you go in my place, it will serve to protect dear Hugh.’

‘How so?’

‘Do you go about with your ears covered?’ his father snapped. ‘There are many who resent any friend of mine, and I must protect Sir Hugh. He would come with me to France, but I cannot acquire a safe passage for him. The French have an unreasoning hatred for him.’

The Earl forbore to mention the period when Despenser had been exiled and, rather than seek a safe home, had set about raiding shipping from his own great vessel. In one encounter, he stole a wealthy French ship and her cargo. Since then, he had been threatened with torture and death, as befitted a pirate, should he ever set foot on French soil.

‘So I cannot go with him. Yet, if I leave him alone here, defenceless and unprotected, he may be captured and destroyed like poor Piers.’

‘Poor Piers’ Gaveston had been the King’s previous adviser, before Despenser. While away from the King and without protection, he had been grabbed and executed after a brief trial organised by some of his many enemies. King Edward would not leave Sir Hugh le Despenser to suffer the same fate.

‘So you will remain here, then?’ Earl Edward said.

‘If I elevate you to a Dukedom, you will have the authority to pay homage on behalf of the whole of Guyenne. That will satisfy the King of France, and it will satisfy me.’

‘So you are decided?’

‘I think so,’ the King said, but then he tilted his head in that curiously undecided way he had. ‘I do not see any other path. I cannot risk losing Sir Hugh, and your mother and your uncle have both urged that I settle Guyenne on you and that you go and pay homage. I trust neither, so will not!’

‘I do not understand …’

‘Do you think I am a fool? If I sent you to them, your mother would have you under her control. I cannot do that. So I will comply with their wishes. I will go myself. But while I am there in France, I shall leave Sir Hugh as your responsibility. He will advise you in my place, and you will obey all his commands, and see that he is protected.’

He had been talking musingly, as though to himself, but now he appeared to remember his son was present, and span round on his heel. ‘You will look after him, yes?’

Earl Edward nodded, but internally he was sickened. Not by the vacillation of his father, but by his weakness. By the tone of pleading.

Wednesday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen^*

Chapelle de Saint Pierre, near the Louvre, Paris

Jean de Poissy stood at the back of the chamber as the priest intoned the prayers, trying to ignore the thick fumes from the censer as they wafted past him. The odour was thick and cloying, and caught in his throat like a pungent woodsmoke.

There was little enough for him to see here, but he felt as though he owed it to the dead man to come and witness his funeral. There were all too few others who would come for an unknown man.

He waited as the body was taken out, watching the priest and the peasants who carried it, his mind on the identity of the poor soul. He was keen to find the man’s murderer, and yet there was nothing to show who the man was, nor why he would have come to the castle. No one had admitted to knowing him.

All Jean knew was that the fellow had come there to see the Cardinal. That was something to mull over, certainly.

The body was gone, and at last the little chapel was quiet again. Jean leaned back against the wall, staring down the empty space to the altar. This close to the royal castle of the Louvre, it benefited from the wealthy men who came to pray. Gilt shone on the woodwork, the floor was neatly paved and tiled, and the altar itself held enough decorative and valuable metalwork to tempt a saint to theft.

It was the delight of Paris, he thought. And Paris was surely the world’s most magnificent city, resting here in the world’s greatest nation. Paris, the jewel of Christianity. All the world’s people envied Paris. They sought her learning in the university, they sought her culture, her beauty. They came from all over the world to enrich themselves, to find a better life. Hardly surprising they came only to Paris, in Jean’s view, bearing in mind how intellectually impoverished so much of the nation remained. The people of the soggy lands north were a bickering, unruly mob; those in the east were merely unmanageable, while those to the south, in the too-dry lands — their people were noted for their feuding. Only here in Paris was there order and calm, the centre of the French nation created by Charles Martel.

‘Mon Sieur Procureur?’ It was a flustered-looking youth clad in a threadbare tunic and bare feet. He had a tousled mop of pale brown hair, and grey eyes with a slight squint, so Jean was unsure whether he was looking at him or not. ‘I have been sent to ask whether you have learned any more about the dead man?’

‘How did you know I would be here?’ Jean asked softly. He stood studying the church without turning to the boy.

‘I think … I was told you would be here.’

‘Ah … I see. By whom?’

‘The bottler to Cardinal Thomas. He told me to find you to learn whether you have any news of this man’s death?’

‘You see, this is most interesting. I have this body, the body of a young fellow who wished to see the Cardinal, and yet the Cardinal says he knew nothing of him. And meanwhile, of course, nobody else appears to have any knowledge of him whatever. It is peculiar, do you not think?’

‘Me?’

The church was certainly not as richly decorated as the cathedral of Notre-Dame, but for a smaller place, which existed mainly to serve the souls of a community of merchants, it had done very well. It was more modest, but still beautiful. A wide, clean space with all the decoration that man’s skill and money could achieve.

There was a thought there, he knew. The thought that the Cardinal was only a more lowly version of the Pope, perhaps. He was as beautifully clothed and bejewelled, just on a smaller scale.

But why had the dead man come to meet the Cardinal?

‘Take me to him.’