The King of Thieves: (18 page)

Jacquot smiled without humour. ‘It will be done.’

‘Good. Go to it, then.’ The King motioned idly with his hand and the man turned and left him.

He was the only one who dared do that. The others all gave him some sign of respect, limited in a few cases, it was true,
but they still gave him some proof that they accepted him as their natural leader. Not Jacquot, though. He was always the
loner, the one who was watching, never involved.

Soon a couple of watchmen were due to come and see him. There was always business. Never a moment for rest. The King let his
hand sweep down the flank of the Galician girl, then smoothed his palm over her upper thigh to the soft, inner flesh. He always
loved this part of a woman. So free of blemishes, so lovely and sleek. He had a few minutes, surely. His hand rose to her,
and her head turned to him, lips slightly open, eyes dull and staring into the distance.

Oh, the bitch had ruined the moment. He drew his hand
away and clouted her hard on the rump, making her squeal. Women were so stupid. They didn’t understand what a man wanted.
Not a real man like him. His anger flared, and he punched her in the mouth, jerking her head away from him.

And then he saw her turn back to him. There was a trickle of blood at her mouth, and she wiped it, then smiled and licked
it away. And in her eyes there was a pleasure he had never expected to see reflected. It was like looking into his own eyes.
She pinched him, and he felt his heart begin to pound.

Yes, he’d keep this one at his side.

Bois de Vincennes

The King of France stormed from his hall, pulling off his gloves as he went and hurling them at an unfortunate servant. ‘Well?
What do you have to say?’ he snarled at Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou. The latter had that look on his face, the self-righteous
one that was so infuriating, and the King enjoyed a brief vision of the Cardinal bending over the figure of some wench, that
same bloody expression on his face, as though he wasn’t a man like all others.

‘It was a most unfortunate display – and yet may well play to your advantage.’

‘Oh,
yes
! Much to
my
advantage, this. My sister, Queen to Edward of England, refusing to obey his order for her to return. It is bad enough that
she is here, consorting with any men who are disinclined to accept their own King, her husband, as though set on reminding
me that I used to wear the cuckold’s horns. Now she wants it to escalate into a full-scale political dispute or war!’

‘It would be a war you would win, my Liege.’

‘But it would be hellishly expensive, and I have other affairs that demand my energy. She has antagonised that fool the Bishop.’

The Cardinal smiled. ‘Did you see his face? Like a man who’s bitten into a juicy pear to discover it tasted of wormwood! Hah!
That was worth the seeing.’

‘Yes. It’s true, that was worth a chest of treasure, just to see the bile in his face! Stapledon is one of those who has caused
shame beyond measure to me and my sister. The man thinks he can insult me with impunity and then come here on a diplomatic
mission! Well, he is safe from me, but if he
was
threatened here, I don’t think that the Queen’s supporters would lift a finger to aid him. Except for Sir Baldwin, perhaps.’

He knew that Sir Baldwin and Stapledon were friendly. It was one of the Cardinal’s own spies who had brought that information
to him.

The Cardinal smiled and nodded.

He was a strangely self-possessed man, the King thought. Charles had known him for many years, both as a diplomatic and a
legal adviser, and had only rarely found him to fail. His spies were everywhere – they were probably only marginally less
effective than the King’s own, although nothing like so speedy and accurate in their information as those of, say, the Bardi
family. But then bankers always had the best of everything. They could afford it.

No man in the world was indispensable – but the Cardinal came very close to being so. For the King he was the most competent
adviser on every aspect of Church politics, he was shrewd when planning about England, astute on Scottish affairs, and utterly
objective and ruthless in the pursuit of French interests.

‘What would you do now that the fool of a Bishop has forced Isabella’s hand?’ King Charles asked after a moment’s consideration.

‘My Liege, it is very hard to know what to recommend.
Naturally the King of England is entirely within his rights to demand that his wife returns – but he is not in a position
to ask that you force her to comply. She is still a free woman, and a Princess of France. However, it would be of no service
for others to believe that you assist a woman against her husband. And were you thought to be plotting to remove a neighbouring
monarch, that would
not
enhance your reputation.’

The King nodded. He beckoned a servant, took the goblet of wine and drank. ‘So?’

Cardinal Thomas watched as the servant walked away before answering. It was a measure of his caution that he would not even
speak in front of the King’s servants. Foolish, in the King’s view, since a servant would know that he would have his tongue
cut out, and his nails removed before having his limbs broken on the wheel if he opened his mouth at the wrong moment and
caused any embarrassment to the King. They were more careful than the King himself about not divulging anything.

‘My Liege, you do not want any hint of complicity in planning the downfall of your brother-in-law, so I advise you to make
it clear to your sister that her presence is an embarrassment to you. She will understand.’

‘So I should exile my sister from her own country,’ King Charles said. This was dispassionate advice at its best. The Cardinal
had a heart as cold as a toad’s.

‘Not exile, no. But remove her from your immediate orbit. Otherwise the King of England might end up with a case that justified
his own actions. Your sister wouldn’t wish for that.’

‘What do you mean by “his own actions”?’

‘Her lands, her treasure, her income,’ Cardinal Thomas shrugged. ‘All have been sequestrated by the King. If she were to plot
here, the King of England’s spies will soon hear of it. And then he could declare all her possessions forfeit. If she
were to wander away, to a place such as Hainault, where the English King is less likely to have spies in place, she may be
safer. And so may her son.’

‘Yes. That is fair,’ the King said. He motioned to the Cardinal to leave him, and stood a while in splendid isolation in the
middle of the great room.

His sister must go, that much was certain. Apart from anything else, her behaviour was growing tedious. The repetitive complaints
about her husband, the whining, the sidelong mentions of her lack of funds – it was all getting on his nerves. And then there
was the matter of Sir Roger Mortimer, and his sister’s relationship with the man. Mortimer had been arrested, left to moulder
in the Tower of London, and then engineered an escape a matter of days before he was to be executed. But this man had been
the King of England’s best warrior! He was the King’s own General in Ireland, the man who had managed single-handedly to halt
the warfare out there, and therefore the one man whom the King of England most feared. As for the Despenser – he and Mortimer
had a feud that went back to the time of their grandsires, since Mortimer’s grandfather had slain Despenser’s on the field
of war.

But it was one thing to have a sworn and bitter enemy of the English here in France to twist the tail of the English King,
quite another to have a man who appeared to be inveigling his way into the Queen of England’s affections, if not yet her bed.

The Bardi spies were usually the best, but those which the King had set to watching Mortimer were the finest, the most skilful
at their craft. And having once been forced to wear the cuckold’s horns, King Charles was sensitive to any suggestion that
his sister might be doing the same to her husband while here at the French court.

It was not to be borne.

Wednesday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

Bois de Vincennes

Stapledon walked up and down the chamber, while his clerks watched anxiously. There were three of them, all sitting at the
large table, waiting for instructions, but for now there was nothing. The Bishop didn’t trust his voice still. The embarrassment
of the previous day sat like bile on his soul. So now he paced, his hands clasped before him as though in prayer, but the
language which rolled about in his mind was not that which he would usually use in the presence of God.

It was not his fault. The King had decided to send him here to see to the diplomatic problems involving the Queen, and ask
that she return home. He even had access to the King’s bankers so that he could raise money to cover her present expenses
and those of her journey. But she was a dangerous, difficult woman – sly, cunning and hard to deal with. The
vixen
!

‘Ha! Me lord Bishop, I think she has you there!’ Sir Richard declared as he entered. He crossed the floor to the sideboard,
where he inspected the dishes in the hope of finding something sustaining.

‘Sir Richard, I do not need your advice on the matter,’
Bishop Walter said coldly. ‘Where are Sir Baldwin and the Bailiff?’

‘With the Earl, and keeping an eye on the others with the King, I dare say. The Queen’s a pretty little thing, but I wouldn’t
want
my
son left with her and her brother as my boy’s guardians, so I suggested that the two of them stayed with Earl Edward. I believe
they were going to go falconing.’

‘And you didn’t want to join them?’

‘Me? Chase after a bird? No, although give me some good greyhounds and a fleet destrier, and I’ll chase deer all over the
place. I’ve been asking, and there are quite a good number here. Perhaps I’ll have a chance of setting the hounds on ’em,
eh? That would be a glorious ride. In the meantime, I’ll have to just occupy meself as best I can around here,’ he added mournfully.

The Bishop nodded curtly and strode to the large table. On it were the letters which he had been asked to bring. A clerk looked
up hopefully, and received a baleful glare in return, as the Bishop picked up the sealed parchment for the bankers.

Leaving the chamber, with Sir Richard wandering behind him like some enquiring mastiff, the Bishop swept through the corridors
until he came to the Queen’s chambers. He knocked, and the little blonde woman, Alicia, the lady-in-waiting who was so often
at the Queen’s side, opened it.

‘Tell your mistress that I would speak with her,’ he said abruptly.

‘I think she may be a little indisposed, my Lord Bishop,’ Alicia said.

‘I have funds for her if she makes herself available.’

As he had expected, the letter in his hand was the key to opening her chamber, and in a short while he and Sir Richard were
in the Queen’s gracious apartment. She stood, dressed as a widow, all in black, as the two entered. Behind her were
Alicia, Lady Alice de Toeni and Joan of Bar, King Edward’s niece. And all stared at him without expression.

Dear God
, he thought,
the bitch has poisoned all of them against me!

It had been almost a year ago now that he had argued with the King that her household should be broken up, and new maids brought
in to serve her. As Stapledon had said, the woman might be Queen of England, but she was still French by nature. Her heart
was French. All those who were French should be removed from her household, and replaced with loyal English servants. That
was why he’d been forced to demand a full safe-conduct from Queen Isabella when the King first suggested that he come here
to treat with her. Until then there had been threats that he would be captured and tortured if he ever set foot in France,
for his offences to the Queen.

‘I hope I see you well, my Queen.’

‘I am well. Alicia said you have money for me? That is good. I need funds to maintain myself in the manner to which a Queen
should be accustomed.’

‘Yes, my Lady. I am to help you here as I may, so that you can return home to your husband all the more speedily.’

‘I shall consider the matter as soon as I have my debts paid,’ she said firmly.

‘My Lady, your husband, the King, has asked that you return home forthwith. Here is his letter.’

‘I do not wish to read it, Bishop, but I will have my money, if you please?’

He looked down at her hand and then back up into her eyes. Cold, they were, as ice. ‘No.’

‘You refuse
me
, your
Queen
?’

‘I was told quite definitely to give you money only when you agreed to return to England. I am not at liberty to give you
money to support you here while you refuse. Especially after the manner of your refusal yesterday. That was a sad embarrassment
to me, to your husband’s loyal servant!’

‘Then it would appear that there is little more to be discussed.’

‘Quite so,’ the Bishop said. He was shivering, he was so cross. That this damned
woman
could dare to deny him – and her King – what they reasonably asked, was outrageous. Quite outrageous!

‘What are your plans, my Lady, if you will not go back to the bosom of your family and your husband?’ he asked with frigid
calm.

‘I have much still to do, my Lord Bishop. There are matters to negotiate with the King here. Fortunately he is prepared to
help support me as a Princess should be. I am safe here in France, you see. Safe from attack – and from the depredations of
those who would rob me of all my properties and income.’

Bishop Walter curled his lip at that, but said nothing. He knew that his reasonable and sensible actions in seeing all her
lands in Devon and Cornwall sequestrated had rankled, but that was not his concern. ‘And how long do you intend to hold this
charade?’ he said, indicating her widow’s clothing.

‘Until the King is free of the base traitor Despenser and I can once again take my throne in Westminster Hall.’

‘Come home now.’

‘You heard me yesterday. I will not.’

‘Then all support is cut off. The King will advance you nothing.’

He stared at her hard, and then span on his heel and strode out, Sir Richard, grinning broadly and winking at Alicia, following
more slowly.

‘Sir Richard?’ the Queen said as he reached the door.

‘Yes, my Queen?’

‘Do be careful around the Bishop. There are many here in France who do not like him.’

‘I’m always careful, my Queen,’ he said with a smile. He left the room just as Sir Henry de Beaumont appeared in the corridor
outside. ‘Ha! Sir Henry. You coming to see the Queen too?’

Sir Henry had paled, before smiling in return and nodding effusively. ‘Yes. I was here to speak with her and ensure that she
was safely guarded. Can’t have just anyone breaking in on her.’

‘No, there are too many Frenchies here for my liking!’ Sir Richard chuckled, and set off in the Bishop’s wake.

But Sir Richard, for all his amiability and an exterior composed apparently of elephant hide, was a law officer, and as astute
as any. The hesitation of Sir Henry had not been missed.

Paris

He knew what the ‘King’ was thinking, half the time.

Jacquot stood in the shadow near the gate of the Louvre, watching the crowds passing by, waiting for a sight of the Procureur,
musing over the ‘King’s’ behaviour.

He was growing ever more irrational. When Jacquot had first arrived here, the ‘King’ had been greedy, but wary. No one could
survive with immoderate demands at all times. It was necessary for a man to be sensible. The ‘King’ had known that. He had
become the main gang-leader in the area because he had the ballocks and brains for the job. Over the years, two rival gangs
had ruled the city. One controlled the northern part of the city, the other the south, the river forming a natural boundary
for them. And for many years this was an adequate separation. There were tens of thousands – perhaps hundreds
of thousands – living in Paris, and a number were devoted to a life of crime.

All operated under the aegis of one or other criminal ‘family’.

Jacquot had arrived just as the situation was changing. It was impossible for him to earn money, except by robbery, and when
he fell in with others in a similar position, he took the same attitude to his victims as he had in the past to animals while
living on the land. There was a duty to make any necessary killing as swift and painless as possible. That was his creed,
and he stuck to it.

However, others were less humane. The ‘King’ was one such.

Jacquot met him once, swaggering about the lanes with a woman at his arm. He was about seventeen then, and life had been good
to him. He had been a cutpurse for a while in the southern family, and progressed to breaking locks. But for him the small
beer of the southern half of the city was no good. He wanted more. Always more.

So the ‘King’ began to make inroads into sections of northern Paris, striking up relationships with the thief-takers and Sergents,
making little advances to test them every so often. Once a man had taken a small bribe from him, it was harder for them to
return to the northern family and denounce him, and the ‘King’ was very shrewd. He took care which men he over-used.

His genius lay in his new idea. While all the others were content with their lot, making a few sous a day and wallowing in
wine and women at night until all was gone once more, the ‘King’ saw that a more amenable approach to his income would be
to take the royal shilling. So he became a thief-taker himself. Only a lowly one, naturally, but the position and the royal
staff that went with it were both enough to guarantee him
an easier passage about the city when he wanted. And in that position he could take more stolen goods and trade them on his
own behalf.

There had been a bloodbath when the two families realised someone was taking their business. For weeks, corpses were found
lying in the streets or thrown into the river, to be discovered further downstream. And then, when the two old families were
so weakened by internal wrangling and the loss of so many of their men, the ‘King’ appeared to take over, with a new group
of hard men, men who were keen to impose their own rules on the city. From that moment the north and south were united in
the one large band, and where the rivalries had threatened their business, now they controlled all. It was the beginning of
the ‘King’s’ reign.

Jacquot had watched all from his own distance. He had no need of the ‘King’s’ aid, nor did he want to become associated with
a group of men who could well prove to be entirely untrustworthy. The idea of becoming involved in a group which then sold
him to the law, or perhaps thrust a knife into his back when he didn’t expect it, had little appeal. It was only when he realised
that it would grow ever more dangerous to work on his own, and that unless he had the support of the ‘King’ he could be turned
over to the Sergents, that he chose the easier route of joining the ‘King’ and becoming a loyal servant.

Not that he was entirely committed, of course. A man should always look to his back when he lived as a felon.

Bois de Vincennes

Baldwin had enjoyed a good morning out in the woods. Although he had no falcons, it was enough to watch others sending their
birds high into the air, then observe them plunging down to break the backs of the rabbits set loose for them.

The only hair in his soup was his brute Wolf. As soon as he saw the birds, the beast was determined to be off after them,
and when the game was killed, he would try to lunge free.

‘You should tie the blasted thing to a tree and leave him until we’re done,’ Simon said at one point. ‘Better still, leave
him there permanently.’

Baldwin stroked Wolf’s head. ‘Do not listen to him, old fellow. The good Bailiff feels grumpy this morning.’

‘So should you, hearing that there’s little chance of our returning homewards any time soon. Do you think we could speak with
the Duke? Perhaps he would release us …’

Baldwin glanced at him seriously. ‘True. He might. And then, consider: what if he came to some mishap while he was here, and
we were safe at home? What would the King say to us then? Would he understand how you and I had left his heir alone with a
reduced party to protect him? Or would he hang us from the gates of Exeter City for all the world to laugh and jeer at?’

‘Baldwin, my wife is troubled …’

‘So is Jeanne, Simon. And both are many leagues distant. So the best course we may take is to serve our Duke and pass our
time sensibly until we may take ship again – for it will happen. Perhaps we can raise the subject when we speak next with
the Queen.’

The two friends spent the rest of the morning with the Duke and the King of France, and later, when the hawks were resting
in the Mews, they ate a hearty midday meal with the second service. For while the King and Duke were eating with the Queen,
Simon and Baldwin stood behind the Duke on guard. Only when the higher nobles had eaten their fill and left the tables were
fresh mess-bowls brought in for the likes of Simon and Baldwin.

It was after they had eaten, and when Simon had suggested
a walk about the old hunting lodge that they came across Sir Richard.

‘Ha! You look like a man who’s eaten a hog by yourself!’ the knight declared, poking Simon’s belly with a finger as hard
as a staff of oak. ‘You’re a trencherman after my own heart!’

‘I doubt it,’ Simon muttered, but the knight was already looking at Baldwin. ‘I think there may be a problem here for us,
Sir Baldwin. Care to come with me on a walk, both of you?’