The King of Thieves: (19 page)

Louvre, Paris

Now, at last, he was beginning to see the story.

Jean the Procureur sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers over his breast. It was an affectation, but the fact of
keeping his fingers perfectly still helped him from being distracted.

‘The man was de Nogaret’s son. His wife was with him. Within a few days of arriving here, he visits the Louvre, and there
he is killed. A short while after that, his wife too is slain. Most viciously.’

Hélias, when asked, had cheerfully confessed to knowing seven assassins in the city. They were occasional clients of hers.
One apparently preferred men, so he had never visited her establishment, but she wasn’t going to try to persuade him otherwise.
There were plenty of men with hot blood in the city without seeking new clients.

According to Hélias, the common view was that de Nogaret’s wife had simply been unlucky and met a cut-throat on her way along
a quiet street. There was no more to it than that. Jean himself, however, had seen plenty of deaths in his time, and to him,
this one had all the hallmarks of a crime of passion, not of some random robbery and killing. If the husband had died in a
similar manner, with bloody wounds all over his torso, that would be significant, but he hadn’t. His death was clearly a great
deal more professional. As was the
despatch from this earthly realm of Nicholas the Stammerer.

Oddly, Hélias had not been able to help him over
that
death. Sweet Mother of Christ! It had made the Procureur furious to learn that the security up at the Temple was so lax that
a man might walk in off the street and commit murder with impunity. The two executioners must have been bribed, but it was
not so easy to punish them, as men with their lack of scruples and their minute moral flexibility were hard to find.

Still, the death of Nicholas the Stammerer had been clean and tidy: a simple thrust down with a terrible, thin blade. It would
have to be a long blade, too. There were some who said that to break open a man’s heart it would take only an inch and a half
of metal from the front. More, apparently, from the back – but from above? He wondered how long the blade would have to be:
six inches? Ten? But all men carried blades as a matter of course. There was little point attempting to look at the methodology,
except to consider the manner of death. The two men killed cleanly with a single blow: the woman slaughtered in a frenzied
welter of blows.

‘Are you sure you know no more about the married couple?’ he had pressed Hélias. He would ignore Nicholas the Stammerer for
now.

‘What can I tell you? The pair of them seemed pleasant enough, although desperately hard up. They did keep talking about how
much easier their lives would be soon, but never told anyone why, nor how much they would be improved.’

‘No mention of gaining money directly, then,’ Jean mused. ‘But who would, in a tavern in a strange city? That would be to
invite death.’

‘Then perhaps they did confide in someone, eh?’ Hélias had said shrewdly.

‘Yes,’ he said now. ‘Someone was told. Someone knew what was going on.’

He frowned up at the ceiling, considering all the different aspects of the matter, and it was only when he thought again about
the footsteps of de Nogaret, that the frown deepened.

If he had arrived here in the castle, he would have requested some help to find the chamber where the Cardinal would meet
him. And Jean had already decided that the chamber was perhaps selected for de Nogaret by his assassin, because it was far
enough away from everything and everybody.

The first person he had considered for the murder was the messenger who brought the Cardinal to the body. First the man took
de Nogaret to the chamber, and then he slew him, before going to fetch the Cardinal.

Except there would have been blood. The messenger was seen by many, and all admitted that he was clean. So that was the first
mark against him.

‘Second,’ he murmured, closing his eyes, ‘we have the problem of the servant killing him for no reason. Why do that? The man
appears to be perfectly normal, so far as I can see.’

If he had wished it, the boy could already have been dangling from the meat hook in the Temple, but there was little to be
gained by harming a lad of decent birth. It wasn’t the same as torturing a fool and knave like the Stammerer. And at the present,
he had no reason to suspect the servant of anything other than working correctly in his post.

‘So, servant finds visitor at gate; servant takes visitor to a remote chamber; servant fetches the Cardinal; Cardinal and
servant return to the room and find de Nogaret dead. Why? And why in that particular room? And slain by whom?’

It was a foul, confusing mess, and the more he considered it, the less confident he felt about learning the truth.

There was no point in remaining here. The dark was beginning to fall. He must leave the castle and find his way
home. Perhaps while he slept, a partial solution might occur to him; some little detail he had missed.

He closed his door behind him, locked it, and crossed the court to the gate – and then, as a man entered, he stood a little
aside.

‘Friend, do you know where I can find the exchequer of the Duke of Brabant?’

Jean was tempted to snarl, ‘Do I look like a servant?’ but then he spotted a young knave from the stables. ‘I think you will
find this boy an excellent guide,’ he said, and was about to turn away, when he realised what he had just done. The visitor
thanked him and walked away, casting a curious look at him, as though wondering whether he was moon-struck.

It was his own foolishness that made Jean swear quietly and lengthily. He had seen it only a few days ago. When a visitor
arrived, if he knew little about the castle and the people in it, he would automatically ask a mere boy to show him the way.
A knave from the stables, or one from the kitchens, either would suffice.

Surely that was what de Nogaret had done. A newcomer to Paris, overawed by the city itself, then by the great palace of the
Kings of France, he would have gazed about him with fear, anxious that he might make himself appear foolish. And so he would
have turned to someone who was lower in the social scale at the castle: a knave.

Jean cast a look about him as the dusk began to settle. He would hurry homewards, and then consider this. Perhaps, he thought,
the solution was approaching him after all.

Bois de Vincennes

‘Are you sure of this?’ Baldwin asked.

Sir Richard set his head to one side and didn’t respond.

‘I am sorry, Sir Richard. I forget you too are a Justice.’

‘I am used to questioning men, and I know when they are lying to me, Sir Baldwin. Trust my judgement here. Sir Henry de Beaumont
is no more an independent guard of the Duke than I’m a tailor. The man is up to his eyes in something.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as plotting to support the Queen while she’s here, I should think, Sir Baldwin. The woman’s as cunning as a fox, and
will use her wiles to protect herself and her son. Now, this means that it’s only you, me, the Bailiff here, and the Bishop
who are independent of the Queen. It’s not enough to serve the Duke as he should be served. I think we ought to warn him.
Maybe leave France.’

‘I do not think so. We have no need to fear the King,’ Baldwin objected. ‘He will not harm his sister or his nephew. No, we
are safe.’ Then a thought occurred to him: it was one thing for
them
all to be safe, but quite another for the Bishop of Exeter. He was hated throughout France for the stand he took against
Isabella. And she would be unlikely to do much to help him.

Simon was nodding to himself, but his expression was glum. ‘If we cannot trust to Sir Henry, we have to look to ourselves.
But perhaps that is the Queen’s ambition, to force each of us to take her part, and then leave no one here independent to
protect the Duke. Perhaps keep him here, away from his father.’

‘At least the King’s traitor, Mortimer, is not here,’ Baldwin said. ‘But no matter. I suggest we should remain together, all
three of us, as much as possible – just to ensure that our own lives are not threatened. And we must tell the Bishop as soon
as is possible.’

‘Yes. That makes perfect sense,’ Sir Richard said. He cast an innocent look upon Simon. ‘Perhaps we should visit the
castle’s bar and take a little wine to settle us after this unpleasant shock, eh, Bailiff?’

Simon threw a look of mingled horror and disgust at Baldwin. His belly was only recently recovered after his last visit to
a tavern with the iron-gutted Sir Richard.

‘I think that would be an excellent idea,’ Baldwin said, and left the chamber with a fixed grin on his face.

Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou was enjoying his visit to the Bois de Vincennes since his discussion with the King about the Queen
of England and Bishop Stapledon. It was not always the case. He had been one of those who struggled to get on with King Charles
and his companions. Not surprising, perhaps, bearing in mind the fact that the King’s friends were all of exalted rank, and
his own family were little better than peasants.

Yet in France there were some who looked beyond the position of a man’s parents. In Thomas’s life, that guardian angel had
been the kindly priest of his tiny parish church. Some priests had so little learning themselves that they were not merely
unwilling, they were unable to spot the brighter children, but not Père Hugo. He had noticed the young Thomas’s facility with
numbers and with a pen, but rather than pick him out and thus ostracise him from his circle of friends, the priest made a
point of speaking with
all
the boys, and occasionally holding small parties for them, at which he would let them play with slates and chalk.

But it was Thomas who had the ability. There was no doubt about that. And when he was praised for his efforts, he began to
want to continue, to learn more. Reading he found difficult, but writing was a joy. He loved to make curling letters spread
over a tablet or sheet of parchment, the patterns a delight to the eye. To elevate his work to a higher level he
would add pictures: dragons breathing fire, boars snorting steam in the winter, horses rearing with a knight in the saddle.
Later, when his tutor saw these works, he had scowled and beaten Thomas for inventing things which would be unpleasing to
God.

‘He has made this marvel of a world for us, His people, and you spend your time inventing new worlds? Make yourself more complete,
boy, by studying His works, by copying His creatures.’

The beatings were regular, of course. All boys learned how to cope with the pain. But it did not dissuade the young Thomas,
and as soon as he could, he had announced to his Vicar that he would like to be educated as a priest himself. And a priest
he became after some little while, but he did not remain a priest for very long. Soon he was studying again in the Vatican.
And he came to the notice of the Pope.

In those days, the Papacy was a shoddy organisation. Not enough piety, too much avarice. And yet to be there, to be living
with the Pope, that was an enormous honour, and one which he was unwilling to give up lightly. He rose through the ranks,
crowning his career with this position of Cardinal, here at the court of the French King, as adviser to King Charles, diplomat,
and spy on behalf of the Pope.

It had been a good life. And now, with all fortune, perhaps he could see a long-hoped-for peace. The bitter rivalry between
the two Crowns of England and France would be set aside at last, and maybe a new Crusade could be launched, against the heretics
who’d stolen the Holy Land. That was an aim devoutly to be desired.

The Queen of England’s position was difficult, though. Her being here could prove to be an embarrassment before long. There
was enmity between herself and her husband, the kind of bitter dispute that could end a marriage. And while her
presence in France could be a thorn in the side of the English King, it was infinitely worse for the King of France, for it
was a constant reminder of the matter of the silken purses. The last thing which the King wished for was any reminder of that
horrible affair …

Thursday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

Paris

It was a cool morning when Jean the Procureur woke, and he clad himself in thick clothing in a hurry, bellowing for his servants
to prepare his fire and some hot water with wine as well as food.

He hated the winter. The cold seeped into his bones, and the feeling of darkness all around made him anxious. There were plenty
who felt the same, he knew, but that was little consolation to him.

It was the lack of daylight which really oppressed him and brought his spirits low. The fact was, he enjoyed warm sunshine
on his face, and the winter meant little if any. So much of the day was spent in darkness: rising in the dark, leaving for
work in the dark, returning in the dark, sitting at home with only the firelight and perhaps a candle or two for illumination
… all was misery and black fear. Ghosts and witches abounded, so they said. It was easier to believe those stories in
wintertime.

Stephen, his servant, the burly man who had been following around after him and who assisted in the arrest of Nicholas the
Stammerer, was a devoted fellow. He stood about now, helping his master into his jacket, tugging the old cloak over his shoulders,
and standing back to consider the effect
before hurrying down the steep staircase to the ground level, where he stirred the thin porridge and warmed some spiced wine.

‘At least the sun is abroad,’ the Procureur said, once he was sitting before his fire.

It was throwing out a feeble warmth, he thought to himself. The faggots of twigs had burned through already, and it seemed
that there was little heat in the remaining embers. He kicked at the coals, then threw a last faggot on top and enjoyed the
sudden crackling rush of hot air that left his face feeling scorched and shining.