The King of Thieves: (20 page)

‘Are you going back to the Louvre?’ Stephen asked.

‘Yes. I have had a new idea about the death of the man de Nogaret,’ he said. It was a matter of pride to him that he should
have had the thought, and he did not mind demonstrating his cleverness. ‘You remember that he arrived, and was murdered before
the Cardinal could reach him?’

‘I have been considering it with anticipation ever since you divulged your conundrum to me.’

‘Don’t talk ballocks to me, Stephen,’ the Procureur rasped. His servant might have the appearance of a churl from the gutters
of Bordeaux, but there were few cleverer men in Paris, he knew. And sadly, Stephen knew this too. ‘The lad was killed, I think,
because the period between his arrival and the appearance of the Cardinal was greater than people thought beforehand. Consider:
if another led the visitor to the room, and then asked a second messenger to go to the Cardinal, that might leave more time.
The first messenger could have been the killer, for all I know. He slew de Nogaret, and then hurried off to ask someone to
fetch the Cardinal.’

‘Possible, certainly,’ Stephen considered. ‘But who would want to kill de Nogaret?’

‘There are many who remember his father, I would
imagine. Was there some ancient debt to be paid? Someone may have been happy to slip a blade into him.’

Stephen nodded, but not with enormous conviction. There were, the Procureur knew, too many possible failings in his logic.
Because that was all it was: a string of logic. There was nothing substantial on which to hang an allegation.

Still, it was a starting point, and when he marched to the Louvre, with Stephen in his wake, he paid less attention to the
people around him as he considered the day’s work ahead. At least the King was still away at his hunting lodge. That was a
relief. It meant that Jean would have a little peace before he must present his findings.

The porter at the main gate to the castle was a burly man in his late thirties called Arnaud. He had a thick beard, which
he grew partly to conceal a jagged wound he’d won in the battle of the Golden Spurs at Courtrai twenty-odd years before. Where
some men prized their scars, Arnaud seemed to find it only a source of shame.

When Jean arrived at the gates, Arnaud was standing with two of his men, waving the morning’s rush into the castle grounds.

‘Ha! You again, Procureur? Haven’t you finished your inquest yet?’

‘Perhaps you yourself can assist me with my enquiry? I have to know what would have happened to the visitor when he arrived
here at the gate.’

‘We’d have sent him on his way, of course!’ Arnaud said. He showed his teeth for a moment in a grin. ‘You mean something else,
of course?’

‘Of course.’

Arnaud glanced behind him, then jerked his head, and the two men stepped forward and took his place, herding the people through.
‘So?’ he asked again, once they were inside
his little chamber in the gate’s tower. ‘What do you want now?’

‘The man de Nogaret. When he entered the castle, I assumed that a servant who happened to be here at the gate, would have
taken him to a room, and then fetched the Cardinal himself?’

‘It is perfectly possible.’

‘Do you have any servants waiting here right now, in case a visitor turns up? If a man came here at this very minute, what
would you do?’

Arnaud considered him and a slight frown passed over his face. ‘What are you suggesting, old friend, eh? That I or one of
my men took this fellow to the chamber and killed him?’

‘No,’ Jean said. He paused. The porter was a useful contact, but not a friend, no matter what he might call Jean. To upset
him would make life and entry to the castle more difficult in future, and was best avoided. He needed to placate the man’s
feelings. ‘The thing is, you see, I need your help to understand this. The servant who brought de Nogaret to the room: what
was his name?’

‘Raoulet, I think. He works under the steward in the hall.’

‘That’s him. Do you remember him being here when de Nogaret arrived?’

In answer the porter jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the queue of people walking into the castle. ‘Do I remember
Raoulet being here? No. Do I remember de Nogaret? No. Do you expect me to remember all these faces tomorrow?
You
can, if you wish, Procureur, but I doubt I’ll remember more than a dozen. There are too many.’

‘Very well – do you remember any who might have been on the other side, then? Inside the castle’s court? So that a man walking
in might see him and ask directions? I saw a fellow
doing just that the other day. He asked me where he should go, and I regret to say I was unable to help him.’

‘You should ask Raoulet himself. He would know. I see all sorts here. Christ’s teeth, I even saw a whore directing a man the
other day. People will ask directions of anyone.’

‘I will do. Can you fetch Raoulet now?’

‘He’ll be in the buttery, I expect. Would
you
be waiting outdoors on a cold morning like this?’ Arnaud said bitterly. The gatekeeper was obviously proud of his grievances,
and any opportunity to air them would never be missed.

Jean smiled. ‘I think he has the best idea. That is good, then, master Porter. I will go and ask him. I’m sorry I wasted your
time, but I was only seeking to learn what could have happened.’

‘That’s all right,’ the porter said gruffly.

‘For your help, I’ll have some wine sent to you later. The cold! A man needs wine to keep it out, eh?’

‘That is kind. Very kind. You know, there was one … I can’t be certain it was the same day, you understand, but there
was one kitchen knave waiting out there one day. It’s such a while ago now, but I did notice the lad out there, loitering.’

‘Loitering?’

‘He was a young lad. Eight or nine years old, I’d guess. Not that it’s easy to tell nowadays. But he reminded me of one of
my own boys. Little devil! He was out there kicking stones about like there was nothing better for him to do.’

‘And he could have offered to take a man somewhere?’

‘He could have – but I didn’t see it. And he’s only a kitchen knave, you understand.’

‘I fully comprehend. And this boy – do you know his name?’

‘Aye – the devil himself! He was out there that morning because he was waiting to be thrashed by the cook for leaving
the spit to turn on its own instead of being there to keep the meat cooked evenly. He is that sort of boy, little Jehanin.
And I heard the cook bellowing for him later.’ He frowned quickly. ‘Haven’t seen him since, though.’

The cook ruled supreme. He stood, a large, rotund man, with a thick towel tied to his waist by a cord of rope that also held
a large knife, and a shirt of linen all besmottered with gravies and blood. Sandy-haired, with blue eyes that were so faded
they were nearer grey, his flesh was pale and unhealthy, while his lips were the rosy red of a maid’s. Still, he had the voice
of a herald at war; arms on his hips, roaring and cursing all who came near.

Seeing Jean enter, he glowered truculently. ‘What do
you
want?’

‘I was hoping to see the chief cook.’

‘Congratulations. You’ve succeeded. Now, piss off! We’re busy.’

‘So I see.’

It was, in truth, a scene from hell. All about the cook, young boys ran, some carrying joints of meat, some bags of beans,
one or two staggering under the weight of yokes which held buckets filled with water on either branch. The fires were roaring,
four of them all in a row, and there were massive cauldrons on two, while enormous viands were set to rotate gently about
a third. The fourth appeared to have been lighted for no purpose, but the heat from it reminded Jean of a tale he once heard
the priest tell of Hades. All was mad bustle, with a sudden gust of feathers which flew into the air from a table at the middle
of the room, where three boys were plucking and drawing geese next to four men who were washing, cutting and slicing vegetables.
Steel racks were poised like instruments of torture, and among all the
youngsters, older boys and men hurried to carry out the cook’s instructions.

‘I would like to speak with you.’

‘I don’t have time.’

‘It is about a murder.’

‘And this is about breakfast, you fool! Can’t you see that? Now clear off out of it, before I call the Sergent!’

‘I am the Procureur, and the King has ordered me to investigate this case. If you wish, I can go to him and tell him that
you have deliberately obstructed me. After all, it will not harm you – a new cook is hard to find.’

‘You pissy little prickle! Do you think you can scare me? Eh?’ He turned and caught sight of a man listening with interest.
‘Jacques, get back to your work! If you think I’m going yet, you’ll have a nasty shock!’ Turning back to Jean, he snarled,
‘It is easy to find a man who
says
he can do this job, but much harder, to find someone who can actually
do
it!’

‘All I want is to speak to the kitchen knave called Jehanin.’

‘Do you? Well, so do I, man. When you find the little shit, you can tan his arse for me. That’ll warm him up for when I thrash
him and take all the flesh from his backside for running away.’

In the porter’s room, Arnaud poured himself a large cup of wine and drank it reflectively. And then, while he still had the
resolve, he set the cup down, and left the gate. He muttered a few words to the men left to guard it, and then crossed the
court to the main castle building.

The great hall had been a source of wonder to him when he first saw it. It towered up, and its white stone gleamed when the
sun shone on it. Today, though, he was not thinking about the building. Instead he walked inside and looked about him until
he saw the face he was seeking.

‘Hey, old friend. A word.’

Hugues looked up with quick interest at the tone of his voice. ‘What?’

‘I’ve just been talking with the Procureur. He wanted to know about a kitchen boy. The lad had helped fetch Raoulet on the
day that man was killed.’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, I saw your girl with the kitchen knave.’

‘What?’

‘That raven-haired beauty. She was with him. And now he’s missing.’

‘He was a boy. They disappear all the time. You saying she killed the dead man? No? Then don’t be so stupid!’

Friday before the Feast of the Archangel Michael
^*

On the road from Vincennes

It was wet, and miserable, and the Bishop could feel the steady trickle of rainwater running down the back of his neck.

‘I am too old for this,’ he muttered to himself.

It was nothing more than the simple truth. He was in his sixties, and most men by his age were either dead, stupid, or cosseted
at home, enwrapped in blankets, while doting wives and children, not to mention grandchildren, fetched and carried all that
was needful.

Not him, though. Early on he had chosen the path of mental and spiritual toil, and forsaking the comforts and ease of the
secular life, had embraced the world of an ascetic.

It had been hard. When he was first elected Bishop, he was so hard up for money that he was forced to borrow from the good
Bishop Reynolds, who was consecrated on the same day. But he had done his best in the years since. He had endowed schools
and a college in Oxford, and he was proud of his reputation of being a hard-working Bishop who knew every parish in his diocese.
And the rewards had come. Especially while he was the Lord High Treasurer.

This, though, this was his worst ever experience. He was
hated in France, as he knew all too well; the Queen detested him, a sentiment with which he was entirely comfortable, bearing
in mind he reciprocated it wholeheartedly. In his opinion, she was a vain, unpleasant example of an untrustworthy species.
Women were, as all knew, a flawed and failed version of the male sex, and the Queen, being half-French, was doubly so.

All the way from the Bois de Vincennes they’d been watching him. Hooded eyes, narrow and suspicious, were on him as he walked
around the court, as he mounted his horse, as he trotted from the hunting lodge, and now, on the road, they were on him still.
There was none in the French court in whom he could place his trust. This was a mission in which all depended upon him and
only a very few men – Sir Henry, Sir Baldwin, Sir Richard … and Simon Puttock, of course. The Bailiff had always been
very dear to him.

They rode due west, the rain gusting, the pitter-patter of raindrops tapping at his hat making him hunch still lower, while
the drips that touched his flesh made him want to recoil, they were so icy. It felt as though it might begin to snow at any
moment. His boots were already spattered with mud, his hose sodden and shapeless under his robes, and he felt as miserable
as a man could, but at least there was the promise of a fire and spiced wine when they reached their journey’s end. And he
had the protection of safe-conducts from two Kings and the clothing of a man of God to promise the Pope’s own vengeance on
any who dared to think of an offence against him. Yet still he felt worried.

There was something going on here that escaped him. The Queen seemed supremely confident – more than was warranted by her
situation. It was only to be expected that she would be feeling happier, of course. She was back with her own folk, away from
the court of her husband which she did
not understand. How could she? A spendthrift and feckless woman could never appreciate the constant battle which her poor
husband fought every day with income and tight restrictions on his budget, nor the worries which assailed King Edward every
day.

Yet her buoyant mood appeared to be more than simple confidence brought on by her return to this country. Something else must
be going on. Her life had been a steady, trotting journey, and suddenly she was bucketing off into the woods at the side,
and the Bishop did not understand it. Not at all.

Clearly she could not remain here. Queen Isabella might be a dreadful person, but she was, even Bishop Stapledon had to admit,
a devoted mother. She would never agree to leaving her children behind in England. She had one – and that the most expensive
bargaining counter of all, naturally, being the King’s own heir – but that did not mean she could happily concede the others.

She was still guarded by Lord John Cromwell; her ladies-in-waiting were still the women installed by the King and Despenser
to keep a wary eye upon her, and she still must depend upon her husband for her money. Without his goodwill, she had nothing.
And Stapledon had strict instructions: she must agree to return before a single farthing was advanced to her.

So why did she look so pleased with herself?

Ah! Thank God! Ahead at last, he saw the city in all its glory, the walls, the great towers, the stain on the sky that spoke
of a thousand, thousand fires, the noise of men shouting, and of all the other activities of a busy, thronging city. And beyond
it all, he could see the bright, white towers of the Louvre.

He had never thought he would be so pleased to see any city in the whole of France, but today, he was so deadly keen to see
a fire, he was almost ready to shake hands with the Devil himself.

Louvre, Paris

The weather was miserable, and Arnaud was happy to remain in his little chamber for most of the day, although when the entourage
appeared and the King’s outriders swept in through the main gates, he had to shift himself to make sure that all his guards
were ready on the doors.

There were so many, and all with their finery sodden and dripping. What weather to be travelling! He wouldn’t have gone out
in this, not for all the King’s money from Normandy. It was one of those fine rains that blew straight at a man horizontally
and cut through his clothing like a dagger piercing oil.

He saw Jean, and tutted to himself. The Procureur was standing, a small frown on his face, as though he was assessing the
incomers, trying to work out whether they were capable of the murder of the man in the chamber at the rear, or whether they
were dangerous in some other way.

Jean often had that sort of appearance. He looked like a man who would stare at a problem for hours, in the hope that it would
explain itself to him. A dowdy little fellow, Arnaud thought. He should have got married. Let a woman have a go at him. Then
he would have looked a little more presentable – although the poor fool probably thought he looked the picture of elegance.

A Bishop rode in, and sat upon his horse shivering, while three clerks busied themselves about him, one fetching a little
stool, one a fresh cloak, the last hurrying into the castle itself, probably, so Arnaud thought, to bring out a jug of warmed
wine or something similar. The Bishop looked ancient, after all. He was probably near to exhaustion.

Jean was still hanging around, gormlessly staring, and Arnaud grinned to himself when the Bishop took offence.

‘Well? What do you see that is so fascinating, man?’

Jean looked startled. ‘Pardon?’ he asked.

‘You are staring at me. I assume you have some reason for doing so?’

‘My apologies, my Lord Bishop. My mind was a thousand miles away. I did not observe you.’

‘Do not lie to me, man! I saw you staring at me! What was your reason? Eh? Come on out with it, you cretin!’

Jean held out his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘I do not understand your concern, my Lord.’

He glanced about him as though calling upon all those present to witness this curious outburst, but then a younger lad rode
up to the side of the Bishop. With a shock Arnaud realised by the coat-of-arms as well as the three men who followed him as
a guard, that this was the fellow all had been discussing: the Duke of Aquitaine, the boy who would be the King of England
when his father died.

It was the Duke who spoke first. ‘Is there a difficulty here, my Lord Bishop?’

‘No, no. I am deeply sorry if I led you to be concerned, your Highness.’

The little scene was intriguing. Arnaud stepped outside to listen.

Jean was speaking, ‘I do not know how I have offended, my Lords. I am a mere officer standing here watching guests arrive.’

‘It is well. I am sorry for any upset the Bishop may have given you. I am sure he would be more than happy to apologise very
fully.’

The Duke stared at the Bishop with a steadiness he had learned from his father. The latter had said once, that none of his
men should be too comfortable in his presence.

The King had led Edward, while he was a mere Earl, out to the walls of the Tower of London, and they went to a guard standing
lonely in the corner of the wall where it met a tower.

‘Are you well?’ the King asked the guard. He had a strangely gentle voice when he wanted it. At times his harshness and crudeness
could appal, but if he wished to please or cajole, his manner was much softer. He used it now.

‘Yes, my Liege. I am very well,’ the man replied.

‘It is a lovely evening,’ the King commented.

‘Yes.’

‘With a full moon.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you can see for miles as though it was torchlit.’

‘Yes.’

‘So perhaps you should keep looking out there,
you fool, and stop staring in towards the castle’s keep!
’ the King bellowed suddenly. ‘Because, you cretin, the enemy will attack from out there, not in here, won’t they?’

The Prince was tempted at the time to bolt, his father’s behaviour seemed so extreme. He wanted to run and hide, but his father
had given a twisted grin and a slight wink. ‘No, boy, you stay with me,’ he said quietly a moment or two later. First, he
pointed out along the guard-walks. ‘Look! All the men here heard me with that man. Do you see a single man idling? Is one
of them peering inside? No. Now, come with me.’

They descended into the court, and from there walked to the tower in which the jewels were stored. Outside were two more guards,
both alert, presumably because they had heard the King’s roar earlier from the walls. They allowed the King and the Earl inside,
and the King led his son along the shelves, opening the chests and displaying the proudest possessions of the Kingdom.

In a chamber inside the treasure house sat a pair of clerks, writing by candlelight at a table.

‘I hope I find you well?’ the King asked when the two had upset their inks and a candle in their haste to rise in his presence.

‘Very, your Royal Highness,’ one said nervously.

‘And you have all your works finished? The hour is late.’

‘No, we are completing our inventory for Sir Hugh le Despenser,’ one said.

The King’s face registered nothing, but for a heart’s beat there was no sound, and Earl Edward shot a look at him. The King
had not known that Despenser had set these two here, he realised.

‘You are not finished? Then how can you feel so well? You still have work to do,’ the King muttered, and left them to their
labours.

‘I had thought to spring myself upon them and make them jump, but see how they repaid me? They did not even realise they shook
me!’ he murmured to himself.

‘Your Highness?’

‘It is nothing.’

The Earl had been surprised to see his father like that. It was an odd occasion. The King at one moment so supremely confident
that he had destroyed the comfort of one guard’s mind, and then, while trying to repeat the experience, he had himself been
embarrassed. And perhaps it was little surprise. Because the man in whom he had placed so much trust was the same one who
had ordered the cataloguing of the Crown Jewels. It was a small enough matter, Earl Edward knew that. And yet, he wondered
then, as he did again now, whether his father had ever seen that inventory, or whether he waited, hoping against hope that
the Despenser had not made use of the inventory to appropriate a few of the choicer jewels for himself.

But the incident on the guard-walk had taught him about the impact of the voice of a man in power, and that lesson Earl Edward
had not forgotten. What’s more, this was the man who had shamed his mother.

‘My Lord Bishop, are you quite well?’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘Your mind is not disordered?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘And you have no upset of the humours?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘And yet you rail at this poor man as though you consider him a felon. What was his crime?’

‘He committed no crime, my Lord,’ the Bishop said, and turned bitterly angry eyes upon him.

‘You bellow and rant and for no reason, you say? And you also say you are not unwell?’

‘No.’

‘Then, Bishop, I think you should make a fulsome apology to him.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’

‘So, Bishop? Have you anything to say?’

Baldwin had watched from behind the Duke, and now he spurred his mount onward. ‘I shall take care of my Lord Bishop, your
Highness,’ he said.

‘Good. Please
do
take care of him,’ Duke Edward said. ‘After all, he has not yet supplied my mother with the money which she requires while
she remains here.’

‘I may not,’ the Bishop said.

‘You
may
not? Or
will
not?’

‘The King made me swear only to release the funds after your mother the Queen agreed to return home, as I have said.’

‘I think you should reconsider your priorities, my Lord Bishop. Some may take unkindly to your attitude,’ the Duke
said. ‘I think you should go indoors and rest and reflect. After all, one day you may find that you depend more upon me and
my mother, my Lord Bishop.’

‘Thank you, Duke. I shall.’

‘And remove all those wet things. We do not want you to have a coldness about your humours, do we? I need you fit.’

The Bishop watched as the Duke and two of his guards trotted away to hand their mounts to the ostlers.

Baldwin slipped from his saddle and bowed to the man who had sparked the little scene. ‘Sieur, I am called Sir Baldwin de
Furnshill. I apologise if my Lord Bishop upset you. It is only that we are tired and wet after our ride. I beg that you forgive
us.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Please do not trouble yourself,’ said Jean with a grave, deep bow in return. ‘Sieur Jean de
Poissy at your service.’

He nodded to the Bishop politely enough, and then strode away.

‘Bishop, are you sure you are quite well?’ Baldwin asked when Jean was out of earshot. He saw the gate-keeper watching, and
when he caught his eye, the fellow shuffled away.