The King of Thieves: (17 page)

On the second day, he believed the man when he gave his name. ‘
Nicholas
. They call me the Stammerer.’

He had looked at Jean with his face screwed up against the light of the candles. Jean thought – a strange idea, this – that
the boy was actually speaking like someone talking to an ally or confederate. There was no complicity in this room, though,
except for that which lay between torturer and questioner. The men who wielded the metal and stretched this poor scrawny body,
breaking pieces of it, little by little, and him, Jean, the Procureur.

‘Why did you want to kill me? Who was the man in the Louvre? What was his name?’

It was the same questions, repeated. Each time a response was given, he made a note of it. And then, when the answers seemed
to be falling into a pattern, he would change the order of the questions, trying to catch Nicholas out, snapping them out
and waiting to see how long it took for the reply, listening for that pause that said Nicholas was having to think, to remember
something he had invented, or whether the fellow was responding honestly.

‘He was de Nogaret. That is all I know.’

‘And the woman?’

‘His wife. We were paid to kill her …’

This was the first time that it wasn’t ‘I’. It was interesting. More interesting, if he was honest, than much of the slobbering,
self-justifying ox-shit he had been forced to listen to. Jean stood, his legs and arse aching from spending too
much time on a stool. Crossing the floor, he leaned down, hands on thighs, and peered up at the dangling head.

Blood trickled from a wound over his temple. Both eyes were puffed and blued from the regular beatings, and there was a reddened
welt on his shoulder where a heated rod had been lain. The rest of his back was thankfully in darkness, and Jean needn’t look
at that, nor at the man’s grotesquely swollen genitals.

‘Why?’ he asked quietly. ‘What would it serve you to kill me?’

‘The King was paid. Just like he was paid to kill de Nogaret.’

‘Who paid him?’

‘Someone from the castle. Don’t know who. Servant came to pay.’

Jean nodded. ‘Who is the “King” you talk of?’

‘I can’t say.’

‘You can. You will.’

‘I can’t say.’

Jean rose and shook his head. Looking over the boy’s head, he saw the two torturers. Neither was an expert at this art. Both
were trained in the fields of Montfaucon among the great poles that stood there. The old wooden uprights were gone, replaced
with stone in the last year. Now there were sixteen uprights, the King could have a full complement of sixty-four corpses
swinging in the wind when he so desired. And all were on view from the north of the city. When space was needed, the bodies
could be cut loose, and then the rotting flesh was cast into the city’s midden that lay close by. On a hot summer’s day, when
the wind came from the north, Jean would cover his face with a cloth against the noxious fumes.

These two had learned their arts there, stringing up the boys and men who were guilty of foul, degenerate crimes like
stealing a loaf. Better that a man should starve than rob his fellow. Jean had lived through the famine. He knew what it was
like to see people starve to death. If a man had managed to keep a small store of foodstuffs, and another sought to rob him
of it, that man deserved his fate at Montfaucon, so far as Jean was concerned.

‘Leave him until morning,’ he said now, considering the broken and ravaged figure before him. ‘But show him the brazier and
all the implements. I want answers by the end of tomorrow. Show him and let him dream of them tonight. And cut him free. He
can’t run anywhere tonight, and the freedom will hurt more than leaving him hanging.’

He left the chamber and the stench of sweat, piss and faeces, with relief. With every step he took away from that revolting
room, he felt a little of the foulness falling away from him, until he found himself up in the open, and took in deep lungfuls
of the fresh air. He was no torturer. The whole process made him feel sick. But the job worked – that was the trouble. It
achieved results.

Louvre, Paris

The castellan strode into his room to find her there, waiting as usual. ‘What are you doing here?’

Amélie stood and walked towards him languidly. ‘Don’t you want me any more?’

It was tempting. Galician born, she had the body of a heathen harlot, but the face of an angel. Black hair that gleamed, an
oval face with lips as red as a rose, she was utterly beautiful. Christ knew, it was tempting … but he didn’t have time.
‘You have to go to your master. To the “King”,’ he said harshly. ‘Tell him that one of his men has been taken, yes? He’s being
held in the Temple, where they’re torturing him.’

‘What of it? Nicholas will break and die,’ she said, reaching
up to his neck and placing her cool, cool hand behind his head. Her black eyes stared into his.

‘Get off me, wench! Sweet Jesus! You think this is the time for that? If this man is taken, we’re all in the midden, you understand?’

‘The “King” is no fool, Sieur Hugues. He has already sent a man to deal with Nicholas. The boy will stammer no more!’ She
drew away from him as she spoke, and walking to the shelf on which lay his jug and cups, she poured two, and brought them
to him. ‘Come, drink, relax, and then do what you want with me. I have all the time we need.’

‘What do you want with me?’ he demanded, but with less anger, as she took his hand and led him to the back of his room where
he had a palliasse rolled at the wall.

She said nothing, but unrolled the bedding and knelt on it. As he watched, she crossed her arms and lifted her linen tunic
over her head. Beneath it she was naked.

Temple, Paris

The figure at the doorway tapped quietly. ‘I have a livre for you if I can see the man they’re torturing.’

‘What do you want with him?’ the porter demanded, taking the little leather purse and reaching inside. He took up a coin and
stared at it hard, before experimentally biting into it. Seeing the result, a grin of delight spread over his face.

With directions, it was easy to find him. Through one open door, down some steep stairs, into a great vaulted room that might
as well have been a hall, he thought. Inside, two men were using bellows to warm a charcoal brazier, while the Stammerer stared
in horrified fascination from his ravaged face.

Sighing, Jacquot strolled inside. ‘Gentlemen, this fellow was a friend of mine. Can I let him have some money for food and
drink while he remains here at your service?’

‘Who are you?’ The nearer of the two men clearly had the sharper brain. Now he blocked Jacquot’s path, a length of chain swinging
from his fist.

Jacquot said nothing, but showed his second purse, a bloated little pouch. The man took it, then turned to his companion and
showed him the contents. ‘This for us?’ he asked Jacquot.

‘If you give me a few minutes with him, yes.’

‘A few minutes, then. But we’ll be listening, mind.’

The two walked out from the room, leaving Jacquot with Nicholas the Stammerer. They had not yet released him from his hook,
and he swung gently, his head loose, a ball of exquisite agony.

Seeing he did not have the lad’s undivided attention, Jacquot took a large ladle of water from the barrel near the door, and
dashed it into Nicholas’s face.

In the past such an insult would have merited an enraged response, but now Nicholas had sunk so far into despair that he could
only mumble and avert his head.

‘So, Nicholas the Stammerer. How are you today?’ Jacquot said with mild enquiry. He looked at the wreckage of the man and
shook his head. ‘You should not have tried to take my prize, little man. It was not a sensible course. I do not like to destroy,
but when there is money at stake, and
such
money … well.’

He already had his long, thin knife in his hand, and he weighed it in his palm for a moment. ‘You are dead, Nicholas, already.
There is nothing anyone can do for you. But the King and I do not want our names mentioned. So I will stop your mouth.’

‘No!’

The knife slipped down from above his shoulder, gently sliding in between the collarbone and the shoulder blade.
Nicholas lurched to draw away, but that put strain on his hands. He screamed wildly, and thrust his body upwards. His mouth
opened, madly, his neck muscles thickened and strained, his veins stood out like ropes, and his head swung from side to side
in maddened denial, as his heart thudded with thunderous irregularity, working against all reason, as though his soul could
contain the damage done by the skewer-like blade that had sheared through muscle and lungs to puncture it.

Second Wednesday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary
^*

Louvre

Hugues was tempted to go and see the ‘King’ and throttle the bastard. It was all very well, him being so cocksure about the
danger posed by Nicholas the Stammerer, as Amélie had intimated, but that didn’t make the castellan any calmer. He had too
much to lose, damn the man’s soul!

Although he had not been so lucky as some. Hugues thought back to the sack of Anagni, the capture of Pope Boniface VIII. When
the others had found the man Toscanello, and taken the key from him, there had been no one about at Anagni. No one at all,
and although Toscanello had denied finding anything, the shifty little shite had been unable to stop himself sweating. Anyway,
Paolo had always hated him. That was why he’d wanted to search for himself. And found the chest.

Most money chests were made of steel with more steel bands to enclose and protect them, and a great locking mechanism that
was designed to keep all safe inside. Not this. It was a simple wooden box, not much larger than the chest a man might keep
in his bedchamber. Perhaps two feet tall, two
more deep, and a yard and a half wide. No decoration, just the enormous hole for the key.

‘See? It’s just an old chest,’ Toscanello had said, and had made as though to leave the room. But he was shaking.

Paolo had stopped and stared though, less sure. Just because this was lying in an undercroft didn’t mean it was empty. He
was keen to open it up. So he did. The great key fitted the lock, and they could all hear the mechanism moving four enormous
lugs out of their slots. And then he lifted the lid.

Hugues had never seen so much money. It actually hurt. There was a desire like a knife in his groin. He’d never known avarice
like this, not since he’d craved another’s wife, and then he’d had to kill her man and rape her before killing her too. But
this, this was different. It was so pure, this gold coinage, so shiny and bright, he could hardly bear the thought of touching
it.

In the chest itself there was the coin, but then as they searched further in the storage room, they came across other chests,
other boxes. One contained a set of plates, all gilded and valuable as diamonds. Another contained goblets, another held jewels.
All the wealth of a Pope was in here. All the money Boniface VIII had accrued from selling indulgences and promotions at the
turn of the century, taking advantage of the centennial fever that struck Christendom, it was all here.

And in the chamber, there were only the four of them: Paolo the leader, Hugues, Thomas and Toscanello. That much money was
enormous, even split four ways.

But all knew the risks. And any who was unaware would have realised the danger as soon as the detestable de Nogaret began
demanding to know where all the booty was. He wasn’t here just for the better glory of the King of France; he was here at
Anagni to make himself fabulously rich. And he would have the head and heart of any man who tried to prevent him.

It was some while before they had reached Paris afterwards. De Nogaret was disappointed with his rewards, still fuming over
his inability to find much of the Pope’s fabled wealth. He couldn’t. Hugues and Thomas had concealed it well. He soon learned
to seek other means of gaining the money he craved. Hugues and Thomas later returned to the place where the money was hidden,
and rescued their shares – which they were able to put to good use.

It was twenty-two years since that fateful meeting at Anagni, and Hugues was damned if he would see all he had built up destroyed
by a drunken sot who fancied himself ‘King of Thieves’ and dropped others in the shit from incompetence.

Temple, Paris

Jean stood in the room and gaped. ‘Who let the assassin into the chamber?’

The executioner shook his head. ‘There are always people who try to get inside. Some are legitimate – they want to go and
provide some food for the prisoners. You know how it is.’

‘Yes, but no one should have been allowed in there. Not
there
, where the King’s prisoner was being questioned. You know that, in Christ’s name! So how did this happen?’

‘As I told you, we found the prisoner dead in there this morning. Someone had stabbed his heart with a long, thin blade. It
was only a matter of a spot of blood at his shoulder. I would have missed it myself, but one of the guards saw it there. There
was nothing we could do.’

Jean dismissed him angrily. All too often prisoners could suddenly die, he knew. Sometimes it was an angry guard who went
over the mark when a man was complaining. Guards were not hired for their sense or kindness. If a weeping man carried on for
too long, he could be given something to weep about. Occasionally prisoners could die for no other reason
than disease. Or malnutrition, or the cold or wetness. All were natural enough in a dungeon. These deaths weren’t the result
of particularly bad treatment.

But this man’s death left Jean with more work.

First he must find out more about the Stammerer, and then see if he could do the same about this man called the ‘King’.

But first, perhaps, he should see if he could learn a little more about de Nogaret and his wife.

Tuesday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

Bois de Vincennes

Baldwin took his place at the edge of the dais with an eye on the crowds all about. They were all in the courtyard of the
great hunting lodge, and the arms of the French manor house reached out on either side, the fourth side being blocked by a
large wall. Flags drooped in the still air; it was unseasonally warm for late September, and Baldwin could feel a trickle
of sweat running down his back.

There were so many people here. Wolf was behind him, and Baldwin kept turning periodically to make sure that he did not spring
into the middle and cause a mêlée. He had no desire to see a fight break out because of his beast. Not on an occasion of such
importance.

Opposite him were a large contingent of French nobility, all watching the English visitors with suspicion. Baldwin was glad
that he was wearing a new red tunic. His old one would have made him feel too much like a country churl in the midst of all
this splendour. Armour gleamed with a blue light, the French nobles’ clothing was clearly the best available, and even in
his new tunic, he felt slightly shabby.

In the event it was all over quite quickly. Simon Puttock and Sir Richard de Welles, the Coroner, turned up just as Duke Edward,
Earl of Chester, arrived and strode to the throne where the King of France waited, Edward’s mother at his side. Before all
the men present, the King held out his hands. The Duke knelt before him, and raised his own hands in that universal symbol
of fealty, his palms pressed together as if in prayer. The King placed his own hands on either side of the Duke’s and looked
about him at the audience of witnesses as the Duke spoke in his high, unbroken voice. And it was done. Immediately the King
announced that his warriors would be withdrawn from all the lands held by his nephew, and control would revert to the Duke.

Baldwin glanced at Sir Richard. He had conspired to bring a small haunch of ham with him, and was surreptitiously chewing
at it as he listened.

‘Well, Sir Richard, was the ceremony to your taste?’

‘To me taste? Not so fine as a good jug of English ale, eh?’

Simon squared his shoulders and stretched. ‘Maybe now we can soon return home, Baldwin. Surely the Queen’s business here is
done and we can serve her on her way home.’

‘That is to be fervently desired,’ Baldwin agreed, but even as he spoke there was a sudden noise.

It was the Bishop of Exeter. Walter Stapledon strode forward and bowed to the King. ‘Your Royal Highness. I have here a letter
from King Edward, which demands that the Lady Isabella, his Queen, should return at once to England.’ Stapledon waved the
note high, and then held it out to the Queen. ‘Your Royal Highness, the King says that he will tolerate no delay. I have money
to pay your outstanding expenses, but I have been commanded only to pay if you will come straight back to England with me
to return to your
husband, as you are obliged to do. I am afraid the King does not offer you an option, your Royal Highness. He
demands
your obedience.’

There was a complete silence for a moment. It was as though all the world was waiting to see how the Queen would react to
this rudeness.

She responded coolly, staring at the note in his hand with some contempt. And then she looked at the Bishop with eyes that
seemed to dart fire.

Sir Richard gave a low whistle. ‘If he was hoping for a quick service of his own, I’ll wager he’ll need a new filly.’

His crudeness about the Queen was shocking to Baldwin, who was about to remonstrate, when the Queen spoke. Her voice shook
with rage, beginning so quietly that all must strain their ears to hear her words. And then her voice grew, swelling, until
all could hear, and her disdain and anger were clear to all present. It lay there in her perfect enunciation and slow, deliberate
speech.

‘I feel that marriage is a joining together of man and woman, maintaining the undivided habit of life, and that someone has
come between my husband and myself, trying to break this bond. I
protest
that I will not return until this intruder is removed, but discarding my marriage garment, shall assume the robes of widowhood
and mourning until I am avenged of this … this
Pharisee
!’

Stapledon held the little roll high overhead, then turned to the King for support. ‘My Royal Lord, you know that a man’s first
duty is to his wife. Surely no wife can look for support when her husband has determined that she must go to him?’

The King of France looked to Baldwin as though he might explode with fury himself.

‘D’ye think the Bishop knows of the King’s past?’ Sir Richard said to Baldwin. ‘Poor devil – his first wife was found
playing the dog with two tails with a knight, after all. Won’t like to be reminded, I reckon.’

‘I don’t think he could be unaware,’ Baldwin retorted. ‘Why he has chosen such a high-handed manner is beyond me.’

Simon was more sanguine. ‘Because he’s never had a wife, Baldwin. If he had, he would understand the folly of such language
and such a conspicuous venue for his demand.’

The King looked at the letter, and then at Stapledon. His voice was cool, but calm. ‘The Queen has come to my court of her
own free will. I will not send her away if she chooses to remain. She is a Princess of France and my sister. I will not exile
her.’

Baldwin winced. ‘That is your answer, Simon.’

‘Christ’s ballocks. We’re stuck here, aren’t we?’

Furnshill

Margaret was surprised to be told that there was a man in the hall to see her. Jeanne had sent a maid to fetch her, and Margaret
strode indoors with a frown of concern on her face. It was unlikely to be a messenger from her husband, so she had a feeling
that the fellow would be from her home.

‘You are Madame Puttock?’ the fellow asked, eyeing her haughtily.

He was a youngster, this cleric, but one of those who thought he knew the importance of his own position in the world.

‘Yes.’

‘My Cardinal, Raymond, sends his deepest regards and wishes me to tell you that your house is entirely to his satisfaction.
He will be most happy to remain there for some weeks until accommodation can be provided at Tavistock Abbey.’

‘Oh!’ Margaret said. She was dumbfounded. ‘But what of the men who had taken it over?’

‘They learned to regret their impetuosity.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He sighed, but as Jeanne appeared with a great jug of ale, he brightened appreciably. ‘The Cardinal is here to adjudicate
between two candidates at Tavistock Abbey. The last abbot, may he rest in peace …’

‘I know. He was a kind, good man,’ Margaret said. She had always liked Abbot Robert Champeaux, and she and Simon had been
sad to learn of his death.

‘There are two men who claim the abbacy. Robert Busse won the election, but John de Courtenay chooses to contest it. The Cardinal
is here to listen to the evidence and decide who deserves the post. He answers only to the Pope. He fears no man.’

‘Nor does Wattere.’ Margaret remembered with a shudder the man leering at her.

‘Wattere was the man who took your house? He has learned to respect the Cardinal. He is in the gaol at Tavistock Abbey now.’

‘What happened?’

‘The man chose to try to draw a sword. My master called on the stannary bailiffs of the local court and reminded them that
the Abbey of Tavistock owns the stannaries. They were happy to arrest Wattere and his men for the Cardinal, and then transported
them to Tavistock for him.’

Margaret could only gape.

Paris

The King of Thieves ran his hand along the thigh of the whore at his side. She was a new one, this Amélie. The last had given
up, exhausted by the hours he kept, but the King didn’t care. It
was better for his natural urges that he spend them with new women at every opportunity.

This latest was a Galician. Strong, fiery, not at all compliant, she would take a little breaking in, he thought. She’d been
the go-between for the castle and him for some weeks now, but perhaps he should keep her here with him a while. She had the
temper to match her body.

‘So you succeeded, Jacquot. I congratulate you.’

Jacquot walked along the room until he stood before the King. ‘You should trust me more. He was a pathetic copy of me. He
would never have made the mark.’

‘Perhaps so,’ the King said. He put his head to one side, staring at the woman’s black hair. It gleamed as though oiled, and
he set his hand into it. ‘It’s good that you’ve removed the little stammerer. Yet you have still not managed the first commission.
The Procureur is still alive.’