The King of Thieves: (13 page)

Wednesday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
^*

Paris

The Procureur had three mysteries to consider now, where one alone had taxed him before. There were the two corpses, and the
matter of the thefts, as the King called it. The only positive aspect was that at least the second death had nothing to do
with the King. The first, the death of the young lad, must take precedence, because it was an embarrassment to the Crown.
Jean had spent all the previous day trying to find out more. But without success.

On the day that the man had arrived, he had been taken to the chamber where he was presumably murdered by a servant. This
same servant was no longer at the Louvre, Jean had discovered. He had been despatched to the King’s special hunting ground
at Vincennes, one of the servants sent ahead to prepare the little palace for the vast numbers of guests shortly due to arrive.
Meanwhile, three others stated that they had seen the man in conversation with the castellan, Hugues – but he had denied all
but a fleeting contact with him.

This morning he had made a decision, and sent a messenger to Philippe at the Louvre. The boy was rebelling against these
constant investigations, but Jean had demanded, and received, the support of the head cook, and now Philippe was seconded
to his service. Jean had ordered the lad to watch the castellan and report any visitors to him. It was likely that the castellan
was merely involved in some form of corruption and trying to conceal that, rather than being a murderer – but at this stage
of the investigation, anything was possible. And yet the witnesses were all convinced that Hugues and the stranger had greeted
each other like old companions.

Anyway, to Jean the dead woman was a worry of a more immediate sort. He was not at all happy to have a madman walking the
streets of Paris who could slash and stab a defenceless young girl so viciously. Once she had been cleaned up, he had counted
sixty-three wounds on her. An appalling number. Her hand was crushed, too. But not by a single massive injury; there had been
several different blows: one to each knuckle, one to each finger, one to the bones of the hand, and so on. The blows had been
rained down on her to inflict maximum damage or pain.

He was walking from the Grand Châtelet’s chapel, in which he had viewed the corpse again where it lay before the altar, and
now, recalling that poor little body, he stopped and wiped a hand over his eyes. She was so pretty, so young and innocent
looking. He could feel hot tears rising at the memory of how she had been forced to suffer.

But tears wouldn’t bring her back, nor erase the memory of her suffering.

If only there was something,
anything
, which could give a hint as to who she was, and who her killer might be.

There was a natural assumption that an unknown girl like her, found dead in an alleyway, was more than likely a prostitute.
Women like that were five to a
sou
in Paris. They came in from miles around to the city here: girls who had
argued with their parents and fled the home; girls who were threatened with rape by local men of influence, and needed to
escape; girls who met persuasive young men who told them of the life they could enjoy together in the city, and who then sold
the girls … So many young women, so many victims. There were few indeed who would survive here to make a life for themselves.

But there
was
one woman who might be able to help him find out who she was. Hélias was one of those who knew everything that went on. She
could always aid a man – in so many ways …

He mustn’t think of her, though. There was too much to be done.

And then he stopped. He was in the middle of the main street which ran west from the Grand Châtelet. Shops and stalls lined
the sides, and people wandered and mingled all about. Women in gaudy colours strolled among the stalls where merchants and
haberdashers plied their trades. The dressmakers called to them, the cloth-sellers held up bolts of material, the wine sellers
extolled their wares, as did the girls with baskets of small, sweet pastries, and the boys trying to sell honeyed thrushes
and ortolans – and over them all was a haze of dust rising all the while. The sun was warm on his face as Jean looked up at
the sky. Here the road was wide to allow the passage of wagons, and he could actually see the sun up in the sky. Its brightness
made him wince.

He was Procureur. There was a responsibility on him to investigate any murder when the King demanded it, but there was also
a need to protect the public of this city. He had two bodies. So far, he had got nowhere with either of them. He did not even
know who the dead man was, nor why he was in the castle. Meanwhile, here was a young girl. It was possible that he might be
able to find out who she was, why she had died
there in the demeaning little passageway. And if he could, to hell with everything else.

Tomorrow he would see
her
. Hélias. The whore who knew all.

Louvre, Paris

Cardinal Thomas rose from his praying and crossed himself reverently before leaving the little church.

The Procureur was asking all sorts of questions, which was good. Soon he would discover the identity of the dead man. It was
fortunate that Thomas had been able to prime three servants to let de Poissy know that the castellan had seen the dead man
that morning. After all, Sieur Hugues had told him that he’d seen the fellow. Hugues knew him, all right, and had made sure
that he’d been taken to the chamber in which he’d been invited to wait for the Cardinal’s arrival. Of course, when Cardinal
Thomas did arrive – the poor fellow was dead as a nail.

The Procureur would soon make the connection. Cardinal Thomas for one would be glad to see the castellan taken away in chains.
It would serve the man aright for his attempt at blackmail.

It was only a shame that Cardinal Thomas could not himself give the castellan, Sieur Hugues, to the Procureur as a gift. But
to do that would inevitably leave him open to danger, and the possible extortion of even
more
money. So it was best to leave matters as they stood, and hope for the best.

Thursday before the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
^*

Paris

Hélias lived in a small building on the other side of the city wall, a little north of the Château du Bois, in a filthy area
that was close to collapsing into a bog. The soil here was always damp, as though the Seine had inundated it. But no, it was
just some freak of the area. No one knew why it was.

There were many who lived down there among the grim little hovels. They were the people who had not been born inside the city
walls; those who had, had an immediate advantage in life. They were the ones who would form the aristocracy of the city when
they grew up. The merchants, the members of the guilds and fraternities, they all rose to their elevated positions as a result
of the location of their birth, not merely by dint of effort. If hard work entitled a man to wealth, position, power, Paris
would be ruled by the poorest, Jean thought.

Perhaps this would happen in the future. For the present, the city was ruled by those who already had money. And those lesser
beings whom they needed – to clean the streets, to sweat and toil and die while others took advantage of their efforts – existed
here in these dank streets.

Hélias was sitting on a stool in front of her little house when Jean de Poissy arrived. He could see her there as he strolled
up the reeking street, avoiding the puddles of rainwater, of urine and of worse. The city employed men who would scrape up
every piece of dogs’ faeces to be sold to the tanners of leather, but here outside the city the men weren’t paid to come,
so the place was about as wholesome as a … as a tanner’s yard, he supposed.

She was a large woman now. Still handsome in many ways, although at nearly forty years she was long past her best. Yet, for
a woman to have survived so long in her chosen trade, that was a marvel. And for her to have saved enough from lying on her
back to buy this little place and fill it with other young hopefuls, was nothing short of miraculous. For her to have remained
unbowed and proud was still better.

The figure which had tempted so many men when she plied her trade in the streets was sadly worn. Her large breasts sagged,
and her belly was swollen like a mother ready to be confined, while her face, which had once been so soft and full of promise
to the young men who came to be entertained by her, was bloated with wine and the inevitable effects of too many hours lived
at night rather than day.

And yet yes, she
was
still handsome. Her eyes had the gleam which could make a man stop and look again. There was a liveliness in the set of her
head, an overt manner of licking her lips as she considered a man, a brazen manner of staring at his cods when she should
have been meeting his eye, which still set a man’s blood boiling.

‘I don’t often see you up here, Procureur,’ she said. ‘You wanting wine? Or something else?’

‘What else could a man seek at your door, Hélias?’

‘Ah, you smile now, naughty man. There was a time when we were both in our twenties when you wouldn’t have waited and smiled,
though, wasn’t there? Then you just took me by the hand and led me to the nearest bed. It’s true!’ she added more loudly,
in case her neighbours hadn’t heard.

‘Hélias, I don’t deny it.’

‘No. But you’d still prefer one of the younger fillies now, rather than this old jade, wouldn’t you?’

‘I would prefer the practised to the student, every time. And
I doubt me not that you have the most practised rump of all the wenches in Paris, Hélias!’

‘I don’t deny that. If you have a skill, I always say, you should use it. Some can sew, some can knit. Me, I was built for
other purposes!’

‘True enough.’

‘Not that I need to do any of that now. Hey, come and sit with me, Procureur. It’s too hot to be standing and talking. Sit
and have some wine.’ She bellowed in through the open door behind her. ‘I’ll have a girl bring you something. Not the usual
piss I feed the gulls, either. Real stuff.’

Her house was adequately equipped as a tavern, for a madam needed the drink to aid the clients to fetch off swiftly enough
so her girls could charm another. ‘There is no point having stock waiting on a shelf,’ she was fond of saying.

‘So, then, naughty man. What do you want? A blonde, a red-head? I have a fresh girl from the south, if you like. Black hair
like a …’

‘You know which girls turn up in the city, Hélias. I have one. Killed.’

Her eyes dimmed a little, but then they hardened. She took a long pull at her cup of wine. ‘How old?’

‘Entirely fresh, I would say. Perhaps fifteen?’

‘Hair? Eyes?’

Jean gave her a full description, and as he spoke, she frowned in concentration.

‘There are many of that age. They appear at all times of the year, although more so in the summer and autumn. I think they
are less keen to test themselves against the snows if they can avoid it. No clothes, you say? Then it’s possible she was new
here, and didn’t realise a whore could die for stripping in the wrong alley. There are all too many men who seek to protect
their territory and their investments by killing any little
draggle-tail who seeks to make use of their bit of land. Money paid to a new wench is money taken from their own, they reason.
But this sounds less like a cock-bawd protecting his money. He’d just cut her throat – get the job done. The idea that he
should stab so often … that sounds more like a madman.’

‘That’s what I thought, Hélias. If he isn’t found, he may do this again. That is what worries me.’

‘I’ll let the girls know. All of them. Meanwhile, where is this chit? I’ll go and see her.’

‘Why?’

‘To see if I know her, of course. And to pay for a Mass too. No one should die without a decent send-off. Don’t care if she’s
one of mine or someone else’s, she ought to have a service.’

‘Good, Hélias. You do that. And I should be off.’

She looked up at him, and there was that deliberate set to her head again, an evaluation in her eyes. ‘Do you
need
to go?’

‘What are you offering me? A second-rate trainee, or the real thing?’

‘You wouldn’t be satisfied with a student, would you?’

‘And you’d see to me for free?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Get away, you villein! The day I offer my arse for free is the day you leave the city to live in
the countryside.’

Lydford, Devon

Margaret, Simon’s wife, was out with the milkmaid when the sound of hoofbeats reached her ears. She set the maid to work with
the butter churning, and then hurried out to where Hugh, Simon’s servant, stood with a staff close to hand, scowling at a
pair of riders. The priest had not yet arrived to take over, and
she had not packed or prepared for the move to Furnshill. She had wanted to finish all the main tasks about the house and
farm first, like seeing to the harvest of the fruit and nuts, the slaughter of the pigs and the careful threshing of grain
and its storage. All was nearly complete now, but there were still many jobs to be finished, and her back was breaking under
the effort.

She recognised one of the men at once. It was tempting to run back into the house and gather up her son to protect him. Instead
she stood her ground, her face set.

‘Wattere,’ she said steadily. ‘What do you want?’

William atte Wattere grinned without humour. ‘I have a message for you from my Lord Despenser. He wishes that this house be
emptied.’

‘I cannot do that. My husband is not here.’

‘Yes. We know that.’

Margaret swallowed back her fear. ‘You threaten a woman when she is all alone? What
courage
!’

Wattere smiled. His left forearm was still wrapped in a linen cloth from where Simon had slashed at him earlier in the year,
and the pain had not left him. It was little satisfaction to know that Simon’s hand and shoulder were both injured from Wattere’s
sword.