The King of Thieves: (23 page)

But even as Sir Richard hefted his great quart pot and urged them to do the same, Baldwin saw his true feelings in his eyes.
Sir Richard, for all his protestations of ease, was more worried than Simon and Baldwin.

Outside north-west Paris

Hélias had a client who had stayed with her all night, one of her long-standing men, as she liked to call him, and she had
just bade him farewell at the door when the whisper on the street reached her ears.

‘What’s all this?’ she demanded. Bernadette, one of her girls, a buxom brunette with eyes of startling emerald, stopped talking
to her cully and turned, ashen-faced, to Hélias.

‘The Procureur, Hélias. He’s dead.’

‘Don’t talk stupid, wench. Who’d kill him?’ she scoffed.

‘There are a few who’d like to remove a man like him,’ the client said. He was a flash fellow, with bright yellow and scarlet
clothing, apart from an old cowl of faded green. He had been digging in his purse, and now he lifted a coin with the demeanour
of a man who had performed a magnificent conjuring trick. ‘Ah! An hour of your time, girl!’

Hélias rudely shoved him from her path. ‘Be still! Tell me, who could have done this? Has anyone confessed?’ She was torn
between scorn and the dawning horror that Jean might actually be dead.

‘No, of course not. What, you think someone would kill Poissy and then rush to the officers and roar, “It’s me! I did it!”’

‘You, Bernadette, get inside and fetch the other girls. She can do you later, man. For now, you want to have her for free?’

The man’s eyes were fixed on the girl’s bouncing figure as she hurried inside to get the other girls. ‘Is this a trick?’

‘No. I want to know who killed my friend.’ Hélias took a shuddering breath. ‘Anyone who can bring me information about him
will be rewarded – and you will be first. If you go to all the taverns in the city – start with those nearest to where he
died, and then go to the farther ones – you can have her for free, and any of her friends you like. You understand me?’

The man nodded wildly.

‘Good, then
go
! Now, Bernadette, where the hell are you?’ Hélias bawled.

Louvre

The Bishop had slept well, but upon waking he felt as unrefreshed as ever. He rolled in his bed, grunting and grumbling until
he rose from the mattress and made his way over the floor. There was a jug and bowl on the table at the window, and he threw
open the shutters, staring out into the castle’s courtyard.

For all his life, he had been a servant. At first he was merely a servant of the Church, and as a student, he had proved adequately
to himself how important learning was to the youthful mind. Later, when he became a Bishop, he had decided to take more interest
in other spheres of public life, and especially the government of the realm.

There were many who decided to go into politics in order to enhance their own position or to enrich themselves. In Christ’s
name, he had known many of them himself: from the slovenly, dull-witted fools who thought themselves so grand if they could
but earn a few pounds without work, to those myriads who were callow, corrupt and venal. It was an astonishment that the realm
ever succeeded in anything. And a miracle that its enemies had thus far failed to destroy it.

He knew that he had acquired an unenviable reputation. Many loathed him because they thought he was a thief who had stolen
taxes in order to endow himself with wines and fine foods. In London he was especially detested for the Eyre which he had
been instructed to hold into all the customs of the city. It had been held at the King’s order, but that was no consolation
to the folk there. They hated him, and made it clear enough to him that, were he without the King’s protection, his life would
be worth little.

The irony was, his motives were pure. He had been a loyal servant of the Crown, seeking to increase the efficiency of the
system of taxes so that less was wasted, less was stolen, and less was merely misplaced. Instituting a new system of records
had made a vast difference to the King’s ability to collect his revenues, and thereby had helped to protect the kingdom. The
King could now fight wars which required large investment. There was always a need for money, and now the King had it. All
that, Bishop Stapledon knew, was because of
his
hard efforts – no one else’s.

And he had not used one single penny to feather his own nest. That was an easy allegation to make, he knew. Standing at the
basin, he filled it with water, washing his face and armpits, round the back of his neck, and then peered into the water as
it smoothed over, the ripples and distortions fading. In the makeshift mirror he saw his face. Older than it should appear,
he thought, longer and more haggard. He had none of the colour he used to have; all was washed away with the worry and trials
of journeying and negotiating – or trying to.

A drip ran from his chin and splashed in the middle of his reflection, and it was gone. Suddenly he had a premonition that
this was how his own life would be. One day he would still be here, hale, hearty – maybe even happy. And the next, he would
be gone. Eradicated so effectively that he might
never have existed. Who would remember him a month after his death? A year? Nobody after a few tens of years, surely. The
Canons of his cathedral would recognise his name, presumably, and perhaps the work he had undertaken at the Exchequer would
ensure that he was not instantly forgotten in government, but beyond that, there would be little enough to show that he had
ever lived. That he had breathed the air, that he had worked so hard to make other lives better. Nor that he had come on this
latest perilous mission, risking his life in service to his King.

Drying his face on the towel by the basin, Walter Stapledon felt an unaccountable sadness washing over him. He was very lonely
here in France. Everyone hated him for his support of his King against their Isabella. But what else was a man to do, other
than support his King? It was every subject’s duty to do as he had. He knew that, and he could not regret it. He
would
not.

Pulling his robe on, and shrugging the heavy material to drape more evenly over his shoulders, he mused a little about the
state of his own life.

The matter of the little man the day before rankled. There had been no excuse for his ridiculous display of petty arrogance.
He decided he would have to pray for some humility and a little calmness. It was quite wrong, to jump at a man merely because
he was watching him.

Yet his mood would not go away. He had been anxious ever since the harridan Isabella had responded to him so rudely in front
of the French King’s entire court. It had been shocking to find her speaking to him in that manner. Shocking and unreasonable.
And disquieting.

He was still aware of that feeling of anxiety as he walked down the stairs and along the passageway to the courtyard at midday
with two of his clerics. Morning Mass had taken the
edge off his sense of unhappiness, but not the feeling of being a stranger in an enemy’s camp. Today it would have been enough
for him to see only one friendly face to make him throw off his grim presentiment of evil, but there was nobody he recognised.
He searched among the men standing about – and then he saw Sir Henry de Beaumont.

‘Come,’ he said to his clerks and servants, his
familia
, and crossed the yard to Sir Henry, a smile on his face.

To his surprise there was no reciprocal joy on the face of the knight when he saw the Bishop approach.

‘Sir Henry. I hope I see you well?’

‘Well enough, Bishop.’

There was a curtness in his manner which was unlike the suave knight whom Stapledon had met in England. Sir Henry was an ally
of some months, and had always been polite. Now, he was short to the point of rudeness, and the Bishop could feel his hackles
rise. However, before he could make any further comment or enquire as to the reasons for his changed attitude, there was a
series of cries from the gateway, and some new visitors arrived.

One was a short, black-haired man with the build of a church’s column. His thighs alone were the size of a small tree-trunk,
and the width of his shoulders was proof of great strength. He had blue eyes, permanently lazily lidded, that peered about
him, and looked as though he had a smile that was always ready to intrude.

The second man was taller, with the long, gangly arms and legs of a youth. His face was darker, but not swarthy, and he had
a mild expression, rather like so many young men the Bishop had seen in different villages over the years. He looked like
one of those who suffered from less brainpower than he deserved.

A tall fellow went to speak with them, a grizzled old
veteran of many of the French King’s wars, from the look of him. He spoke briefly to them, and then cast an eye about the
place, beckoning two guards and a messenger.

‘What is this?’ Baldwin asked, appearing behind the Bishop’s shoulder.

‘I have no idea,’ Bishop Walter said, shooting him a look. Behind him Stapledon saw Simon and Sir Richard de Welles. Simon
gave him a grin, which was so comforting, the Bishop felt suddenly almost weak with gratitude after the rudeness displayed
by Sir Henry.

The old fellow had been seen by the gatekeeper, who was talking to him and the other two now. All four appeared to be speaking
very swiftly, and the gatekeeper held up both hands suddenly, stopping all further discussion, before jerking his chin and
then pointing, shouting one word as he did so. ‘
Là! Là!
’

He was pointing at the Bishop and Baldwin.

There was an inevitability about the progress of such an investigation, as they both knew. Simon was not articulate in colloquial
French, although he had not found it difficult to make his desires known, but Baldwin was entirely fluent and comfortable
with the language.

The Bishop, as befitted a man who had spent so much time abroad from his earliest years as the chaplain to Pope Clement V,
and later on diplomatic service for the King, spoke French like a native, as he was able to demonstrate now with some gusto.

‘You suggest
what
! You dare to accuse me, the Bishop of Exeter, of a murder? You say that I would waylay an innocent on some road I have never
travelled, and for what? In order to repay some perceived slight? Do you think a man of God has no scruple? Is that how you
view your clergymen in France
today? When I was last here, man, I was viewed with respect, and now you tell me I am the suspect in a murder inquest?’

‘I think, my Lord Bishop …’ Baldwin began, but the furious Bishop held up a hand peremptorily and he subsided.

‘This is not merely a gross insult to me, it is a shameful insult to my liege Lord, the King of England. It is also an insult
to Queen Isabella, whose servant and guardian I am while I am here, and to the Holy Mother Church, and a deliberate insult
to the Pope himself. I am shocked and appalled that this kind of accusation could be considered, let alone that it could be
actually posed to me.’

The two men were standing before him. The shorter was still grinning, and Baldwin kept his gaze fixed upon him, because in
his experience, men who wore that kind of look were usually smiling with their mouths only; however, this one appeared to
be genuinely enjoying himself. He could, of course, be that rarity among officials, Baldwin thought, a man who could conceal
his true motives and aims even from his own eyes. That sort of man was exceedingly rare – and enormously dangerous.

‘My Lord Bishop, we have made no accusations. I would obviously not wish to suggest that you could be guilty of anything so
foul as this simple waylaying of a pair of men on their way home. And yet, we have already heard from Arnaud and others of
your argument with the Procureur – and yesterday he died. What was it that you accused him of?’

‘I accused him of nothing. I was tired and irritable after a very long ride, and I was surprised to find myself being observed
when I arrived here to the Louvre.’

They were in the great hall now. The only aspect which gave Baldwin some satisfaction was the fact that the King of France
and Isabella were not present. However, both must have their own spies here in the chamber. In truth, Baldwin
was not sure any longer who was loyal to King Edward, and who was more devoted to Isabella. Those whom the King had selected
to travel with the Queen and their son were all, so far as Baldwin could tell, becoming increasingly devoted to the Queen,
at the expense of any commitment to the King himself.

The Bishop was almost spitting with rage. ‘You dare to accuse me, then? This is what diplomatic protection means, is it? That
I can be dragged here against my will and forced to answer these ridiculous questions? I shall not! If you wish to speak to
me, you will need the sanction of the Pope himself, and I will write to him myself explaining the ludicrous position into
which you have cast me. To think that I, a Bishop, could be accused of such dishonour, is a disgrace!’

There was a quiet soughing at the back of the room, Baldwin noticed. He peered over the heads of the men encircling the Bishop,
and saw a group of people passing through the crowds.

‘Make way for Queen Isabella!’ was suddenly bellowed, and Baldwin saw Lord John Cromwell appear, a staff of office in his
hands. Immediately behind him was the Queen, and Cromwell stood aside as the Queen arrived in the open space. Whether by design
or fortune, she had appeared at the side of the two officers of the city, staring in a confrontational manner at the Bishop.

‘My Lord Bishop, what is this?’

‘I am the victim of a dreadful injustice, my Lady. These men have heard of a minor altercation I had with a man the day we
came from Vincennes, and now seek to accuse me of that man’s murder.’

‘Is this true?’ she demanded.

‘No, my Lady. The Bishop here is upset that we have sought to ask him about the dead man. He was, you see …’ and here
the man hesitated, clearing his throat. Baldwin, studying him
closely, was sure that he saw a tear or two in his eye. ‘He was a good man, diligent in all he did, and widely respected.
And now he is dead – only one day after a small dispute with you, my Lord Bishop. It seems a coincidence, you see?’