The King of Thieves: (15 page)

Tuesday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
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Dover

Baldwin stood and watched, chewing slowly at a long strand of hair from his moustache as the King rose and held up his hand.
In his clear voice he made his declaration, sounding firm and resolute. He was in every way the symbol of perfection. The
ideal King.

‘Made a miraculous recovery, eh, Sir Baldwin?’

‘I think we should listen to his words, Sir Richard,’ Baldwin answered. He was thinking that never had a tyrant looked so
kindly.

‘Maybe so. But he don’t look like a man who had to miss
an important meeting with the French King, eh?’ grinned Sir Richard de Welles.

De Welles was a tall man, some six feet one inch in height. He stood with his legs set a shoulder’s width apart, as stolidly
planted there as any tree. He had an almost entirely round face, with a thick bush of beard that overhung his chest like a
gorget. His eyes were dark brown, amiable yet shrewd, beneath a broad and tall brow. His face was criss-crossed with wrinkles,
making him appear older than he really was, for Baldwin knew he was actually younger than his own age of two-and-fifty. Sir
Richard’s flesh had the toughened look of well-cured leather that only a man who has spent much of his life in the open air
would acquire.

He also had the endearing conviction that his booming voice was inaudible to the rest of the men standing about.

‘The Bailiff didn’t look too well, did he?’

Baldwin allowed a faint smile to pass over his lips. ‘I rather think that was your fault again, Sir Richard.’

‘Me? What did
I
do?’

‘He is not quite so well accustomed to strong wines as you, perhaps?’ suggested Baldwin, happy in the knowledge that his own
moderation the previous night had prevented any liverishness on his part.

‘Not so well accustomed? Sweet Jesus’s ballocks, Sir Baldwin, we hardly had enough last night to persuade a nun to run to
the privy. Hardly any at all.’

There was a hiss from the man at Sir Richard’s right. ‘Can you keep quiet? We’re trying to hear what the King’s saying.’

Sir Richard’s expression did not alter. His beaming countenance turned to his neighbour, a fellow in his early twenties, and
Sir Richard looked him up and down for a
moment in silence. ‘Did you speak to me, my young friend?’ he asked at length.

‘Sir, I would be grateful if you could be silent until the King has finished,’ the man growled.

Sir Richard’s smile widened. ‘And so you should, my young friend. You look damn familiar, though. Let me see, have we met?’

‘No.’

‘But we must have … no, don’t say a word … have you ever been to Exeter? I am Coroner there, you know.’

‘No.’

‘Aha! Then it must have been while I was in court, then. Were you ever in Axminster? Chard? Honiton?’

‘No,’ the man said, and his teeth looked to be set like a man with lockjaw, Baldwin thought.

‘Then at the King’s courts? Did I meet you at his hall at Westminster or York?’

‘No, I haven’t—’

‘I know. It was in a battle. Were you at Boroughbridge?’

‘
No!
Now will you—’

‘You weren’t at Boroughbridge? Were you at Bannockburn, then?’

‘Sweet Jesus! No!’

‘In that case, lad, I wonder where I, a warrior, a man high in the esteem of the King, a man who has been to battle on the
King’s behalf, and who has served him these last thirty years past, I wonder where I could have earned your contempt?’

‘I …’

‘Should keep your bread-hole shut when your betters and elders are talking, boy. So, Sir Baldwin, Simon is not feeling himself?’

‘I fear he regrets entering the third and fourth alehouses with you last night,’ Baldwin admitted.

‘He looked more like a corpse than the last two-month-dead body I studied before coming here,’ Sir Richard said musingly.
Then he brightened. ‘Still, I always say that the best cure for a sore liver is a little more of the same. It never fails
to cure me when I feel a little out of sorts.’

Baldwin smiled. To imagine the Coroner ‘a little out of sorts’ was like imagining a raging bear at the baiting rolling over
and cradling its head. It was inconceivable. He turned his attention back to the scene before them.

The Earl of Chester had just stood, and now held his hand high while those nearer him cheered and the noise rippled round
the rest of the men standing there.

‘There we are, then,’ Sir Richard declared, clapping his own hands loudly. ‘Hooray! Hooray!’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. ‘He’s no longer a mere Earl – now he is a full Duke.’

It was a week and a day since the Earl had been given the two counties, but with this ceremony, the King had settled upon
him all the rest of his extensive territories in France. Now, with the whole of the British Crown’s possessions in his hands,
the Earl, a Duke of France in his own right, could meet with King Charles and pay homage for all his English possessions.
He would be the first English Prince to own such a fabulous demesne.

‘Makes him an attractive target, don’t it?’ Sir Richard said as the crowds separated.

‘I do not think he need fear dangers here,’ Baldwin said, looking about them with a small smile.

‘I was thinking of France, as well you know. I may live in Devon, but I know dangers when I see ’em. And just now, with the
French snapping at the borders of all the King’s lands, this little lad would be a tempting morsel for them to pluck up, eh?’

Baldwin shrugged. ‘Sir Richard, all we can do, you and I, is guard his body as well as we may. I personally think that the
French King would do all in his power to protect the boy and save any embarrassment. It would be a blow to his reputation,
were he to treat his own nephew dishonourably.’

‘Aye. True enough. But his men could do it for him, couldn’t they? Especially all the renegades and traitors. Even that blasted
Mortimer is over in Paris, so they say. Despenser keeps having fits of terror that the man will return. He pretends he’s not
afeared, but you bring up mention of the Mortimer and watch Despenser’s face. Enough to sour a vat of ale! Not that I blame
him, mind. The idea that the King’s best and most effective general might land in England and be on your trail would be enough
to make most fellows quail.’

‘Not you, though, Sir Richard.’

‘Who? Eh? Me? No. I hope not, anyway. I ain’t a threat to any, because I am content. I don’t need to have anything more than
a comfortable berth for me backside of an evening, a jug or two of good wine, and perhaps a small brunette to warm me when
the evenings get chilly. Not too much to ask, is it?’

Thursday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
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Dover

They were fortunate. All managed to clamber aboard the ships without injury, and Simon and Baldwin were there as the King
bade farewell to his son. It took some little while, with exhortations that the young Duke wouldn’t enter into any marriage
contracts, nor accept a guardian without writing to confirm his father’s approval. Not that it would be forthcoming – he made
that clear enough. There was also a small ceremony, at which the priest from the port came to bless them all and their passage,
but Simon paid little attention to that. His mind was fixed on the sea already, and all the speeches and chatter as letters
were given to Bishop Stapledon and Henry de Beaumont for the Queen, washed over him like a great tidal wave. Just like the
ones he could see from here, he thought with a shudder.

The small fleet was soon at sea. All too soon, in Simon’s opinion. With luck they would cross the Channel in no time, and
be back on land again.

That was at least Simon’s most fervent wish. He could not remain below, and in preference, he made his way, green-faced
and horrible, in time to spew over the side before they had picked up full speed.

It was a consolation that some others were also here. He was by no means alone, even though the sea looked a beautiful blue
and had only a very few white wave-crests. The sailors running about the decks on bare feet, and rushing up the stays to the
sails, laughed at the sight of so many land-based men vomiting, but Simon was so far gone, he did not care.

‘Hah! Bailiff. Feelin’ a little better? I’ve a joke or two to tell you to pass the time, if you wish …’

Simon glanced over at the Coroner. He had a hunk of bread in one hand, with a thick slice of bloody beef wrapped about it,
while in the other he gripped a jug full of wine.

Simon only wished, as he heaved again, that when he died – and please God, may it be soon – he might be able to haunt Sir
Richard
de Damned
Welles and visit upon him the full wrath and hatred which he felt boiling in his blood at this moment.

Paris

He had done nothing, intentionally, since hearing from Hélias. Procureur Jean knew when he was treading on dangerous ground,
and this was as dangerous as any in his experience.

The name of de Nogaret was well known in France. The devoted servant of King Philippe the Fair, he had been a lawyer of such
skill and understanding, that few if any cases were lost once he had taken them on. The King so admired him that he had him
knighted and installed as his own trusted adviser.

It was shocking, therefore, to learn that both the boy and girl from this favoured family had now died, such a short time
after arriving in Paris. What were they doing here, de Poissy asked himself, and why were they killed?

Those were the tasks he set Hélias to discover, and he had faith enough in her abilities to leave her to it. If she did not
learn anything about the two, no one else would. She knew all those who might be able to answer his questions.

It was very late in the afternoon when he finally received a message to go and visit Hélias again. Pulling a woollen cap over
his head, he took up a staff, shrugged a cloak over his shoulders, and set off to the gates.

At the road outside, he saw the burly shape of a man lurking in a doorway towards the city’s gates, and immediately turned
left, up to the north, away from the fellow. But he was sure that he was followed.

At home he had an old, broken mirror, and he had tried bringing a shard of it with him in the mornings for a couple of days,
but it was so small that he could discern nothing in it when he held it up and glanced behind him. But when he tried a larger
piece the next day, he found people staring at him in the street, and began to fear that he might at any moment be grabbed
by a sergent and questioned. They probably thought him mad.

So instead he had hit upon this. Yet it was not foolproof. He just prayed that the man was actually behind him, had truly
seen him.

Hélias’s road branched off this one at a crossroads, where today there was a pair of carters brawling in the street. One had
broken a wheel, and the load from his wagon had fallen all over the roadway, a mixture of hens in cages, eggs broken and crushed,
and a mess of butter trampled into the mire. Like many others, Jean paused to watch, cheering on the larger man, who seemed
to need little by way of encouragement. He had already managed to turn the other’s mouth and face into a
bloody mess, and now he had grabbed the smaller man by his shirt, and was pounding him in the belly, while two Sergents watched
indulgently.

The crowd was as happy with the entertainment as any at a baiting. And it gave the Procureur time to shoot a look behind him,
and – yes, there he was! The man was leaning against a building, lolling like a drunkard, arms crossed over his breast, with
the weary, semi-vacant look of a man who had enjoyed too much of his master’s wine.

It was enough to make a man weep. Jean the Procureur sighed, passed around the two men as the smaller collapsed onto all fours,
vomiting, and the other carter drew his boot back for the final blow. The Procureur hurried now. Here the lane was partially
cobbled, and he had to watch his footing where the fist-sized stones had worked loose. At one particularly bad spot, he had
to spring over a large puddle. It was a little consolation that a short while afterwards, he heard his pursuer make a similar
leap, but heard the man’s boots fall into the water, followed by a short curse.

‘You took your time,’ Hélias said as he reached her door.

The Procureur nodded, trying to look relaxed as he glanced back along the road. There was one man, and then the fellow he’d
expected to see, a bit further back. Good! ‘May I enter, Hélias? I’d prefer not to discuss this business here in the street.’

‘Get inside, then,’ she said. There was little humour in her tone. ‘This is not the sort of affair I like to involve myself
with, you understand?’ She led the way in through the door. Once they were safely secluded in a tiny little chamber at the
back of the house, she passed him a cup of wine and sipped at her own. ‘You know what this makes me think of? Those bad days
when Philippe the Fair lost it.’

Jean nearly choked on his wine. ‘What?’

‘Oh, come on! Philippe lost it completely. He reckoned he could take whatever he wanted. Well, he was the King, wasn’t he?
First it was the Jews, and no one complained. Then it was the Templars, and some folks got uppity about that. But not too
many. No, a lot of us were pissed off with the Templars already. All they did was wander round the place showing off with
all their money, didn’t they? I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over them. But I think he went too far when he took all the
Templars’ money. That got the Pope’s back up, and then made everyone start to think, Well, if the Templars are up to no good,
what’s to say the other monks aren’t – and the nuns – and the priests – and if
they’re
gone to the bad, what of the Pope? Some folks even wondered about the King. After all, if he was accusing everyone else,
perhaps there was only one man to blame. And the Templars were monks. Most people trusted them.’

‘Hélias, they were found guilty of worshipping idols. They were
guilty
. Don’t you remember the ones they burned?’

‘And the King himself died a little later, didn’t he?’

‘That was different. That was a broken heart, I think.’

‘Yes. He learned much. Like his sons’ wives were all more keen on waggling their arses than a Toulousain tackle.’

‘Toulousain tackle?’

She looked at him. ‘You know what I mean. A tart from Toulouse. Anyway, his grandchildren were assumed illegitimate and disinherited,
his daughters-in-law were divorced … he saw the end of his line. Must have broken his heart. Would any man’s.’

He was frowning already. ‘But what’s all this got to do with my men?’

‘You know that they were both called de Nogaret? Husband and wife. He was named for his father: Guillaume. She was a pretty
little thing in life called Anne-Marie. They arrived here
in the town shortly after the visitation of the Blessed Virgin.
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I saw them about the place occasionally. They were living out near the Sainte-Opportune. A grotty little inn, not to my
standard, but clean enough, I suppose. Not that his wife would have enjoyed residing here, eh?’ She cackled suddenly. ‘I think
we could have helped them with the finances, though. She had the sort of backside that would have tempted the Bishop of Sens.’
She nodded to herself, and then a look of mild reproof crossed her face. ‘Not that he would be necessarily hard to tease,
from what I’ve heard.’

With difficulty, Jean pulled his attention back to the matter in hand. ‘The couple – de Nogaret and his wife. What happened
to them?’

‘I came to hear of them when they had not been here long. They let on to others that they wanted to seek an audience with
the King. They had some news for him, so they said. They seemed very keen.’

‘What was this news?’

Hélias shrugged with a wry grin. ‘You think they were stupid enough to tell anyone? They were stupid enough, it is true, to
let on that it involved the King, and that it involved money – a lot of money – but nothing more.’

‘Perhaps they wished to bring money to the King, and someone heard and executed them so he could take it all to himself?’

‘Perhaps. And then again, perhaps they sought to
take
money from the King or someone else. Plainly, somebody thought that there was a good enough reason to kill them both.’

‘You think they were murdered by the same person?’ Jean enquired.

‘I would say that as a Procureur, I would make a good investigator. And as a whore, you would be useless. But I can whore
as well, which means I am without a doubt the better of us two. Do you really mean to say you do not think that these two
died for the same reason?’

‘I had not connected the two. One died in the castle, the other in an alley. I assumed she had been killed by a jealous lover,
or perhaps a madman bent on enjoying her youth. While the man was simply slain for …’

‘For what?’

‘Money, greed. Perhaps for some political motive, since he was the son of de Nogaret.’

‘May the devil piss on him and stop him burning too quickly,’ Hélias spat.

‘You had reason to hate him?’

She crossed herself, but her feelings were made clear by her expression. ‘He was the cause of much pain and suffering. Never
trust a lawyer, is my motto.’

‘You think he was worse than others who had similar jobs?’

Hélias looked at him. ‘There are many who will kill for money or power – not so many will do it for simple pleasure.’

Jean left the little house with much to consider. There was a lot of sense in Hélias’s words. He now believed that the deaths
of husband and wife were too coincidental to be separate, random events. It was plain that they must be connected, and that
connection meant that there was someone who was keen to make use of some information which they had.

The crucial problem, of course, was that he had no idea what the information could be, nor how to glean it. Unless he could
find someone who knew the killer of the de Nogarets, and persuade him to talk.

There were many judicial methods for opening a man’s
mouth. Foolishly, many thought they could withstand the terror of the wheel, or the agony of flames. No man could. The only
effective means of preventing massive anguish or death, was to get over the shameful confession early in the process. Far
better to do that, than be left to suffer unnecessarily. The outcome would probably be the same, for most criminals, but the
sensible man would hasten the end and welcome death sooner rather than later.

Yes. He was content that there were plenty of ways of acquiring the knowledge he needed, provided that he could first capture
the right person.

Deep in thought, the Procureur walked with his head down, aware only of the conundrum of the deaths, and a hollow sensation
in his throat. It was deeply unpleasant to be strolling along here, convinced that he was being followed by a murderer, but
there was little else he might do. When a man sought an assassin, he was best served to leave himself open to attack, but
with enough protection that, were an attacker to try to kill him, the fellow would soon learn the error of his ways.

He could hear them now. The steady pattering of feet growing nearer, the firm plodding of another – unhurried, resolute and
calm.

Christ in a box, the man was going to be late! Jean thought, and turned, his hand going to his sword.

There was a lad. Almost on him, teeth bared in a grimace of desperation and determination, a small figure, with thin, pinched
features and gleaming brown eyes in a foul, smeared face. It was not his face that Jean saw, though, but the sharp knife in
his hand. It was held up in his fist, and suddenly the Procureur felt powerless. The point began to fall towards his chest,
and he felt like a mouse catching sight of the owl swooping down. He could not even groan, so great was his
terror. The knife was all. He could see its edge catching the light and glinting, as it plunged down towards him. All was
slow, all was hideously clear. The knife held his destruction. He would die now, and all because his servant—

There was a clanging tone, and he saw a metal-studded pole appear. It stopped the blade a foot from Jean’s face, and he felt
as though he must faint at any moment.

The staff rose, and Jean watched his impassive guard heft it up and away, before slamming a fist the size of a ham into the
side of the attacker’s head. Jean saw the lad’s head jerk, then swing back, into the fist once more. His eyes rolled up into
his head as his mouth fell wide, and suddenly his entire body wavered like a ripple on water. It lurched to one side, then
the other, and then gracefully collapsed.