The King of Thieves: (4 page)

Louvre, Paris

Arnaud, the porter at the south gate to the castle, heard the cries before the messenger appeared, panting and anxious.

‘What is it, man?’ he demanded. He was seated on a bench behind his makeshift desk, booted feet up on it, his back resting
against the wall behind him. Without a candle, the servant could only see a low blur in the gloomy room after the bright sunshine
outside.

‘A man came to speak with the Cardinal d’Anjou, and he’s been murdered.’

Arnaud closed his eyes and shook his head, then said, ‘Go and find the guard, tell him to see to the body, and then fetch
the city’s prosecutor. The Procureur should be present as the matter is investigated. He will take charge.
Go!
’

But when the boy had fled from him, Arnaud suddenly gaped with a distracted air. ‘Which man has been murdered?’ Then, with
a stern expression on his face, he slapped the pommel of his sword in a gesture of decision, called to one of his officers
and left the gate in his hands while he himself strode off towards the hall to visit the castellan, Sieur Hugues de Toulouse.

The Louvre had a magnificent hall, as befitted the King of France, and the castellan’s little room was attached to the eastern
end. It was a small square chamber, with a large table and a stool, and a bed area behind. A fireplace and chimney
had been added, and a cheery fire hissed and spluttered, making the porter jealous when he thought of his own chilly and comfortless
little room.

Today, though, when he entered, the castellan was busy. A slim, dark-haired beauty was sitting astride him as he lay on the
bed behind the desk, and she turned and met Arnaud’s appraising gaze with a tilt of her head. He smiled at her. He’d seen
her earlier when she had entered the castle. You didn’t forget a face and body like hers.

‘You want something? Eh? Hurry up!’

‘Sieur Hugues, I …’

‘You waiting for a formal introduction? This is Amélie. Amélie, this is Arnaud, the porter. Arnaud is the man who should be
guarding our gate, but instead he’s here in my chamber staring at your bubbies.’

The castellan’s words and tone proved that he had no desire to discuss matters at the moment, and Arnaud quietly stepped from
the room and closed the door.

He would have to come and see him later, when the castellan was less ‘busy’.

Procureur Jean de Poissy eyed the messenger without comment for a moment, chewing a hunk of bread with some hard cheese. A
tall man, with a long face surprisingly unmarked by scars for a knight who had spent so much of his life fighting in his King’s
causes, he was elegant and urbane. Unlike many warriors, he was also intelligent.

‘Who is the dead man?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. He didn’t give his name.’

‘Who killed him?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Why was he killed?’

‘I …’

‘… don’t know. No, nor do I, but these are the questions we must ask, heh? So, take me to the unfortunate fellow, and
we shall see what may be discerned.’

Château du Bois

The Queen waved her ladies away when Lord John Cromwell was announced. Only little Alicia was permitted to remain when Lord
John and William de Bouden entered. There was no need of a chaperone with these men.

William gave her a curious look, and she felt a cold hand clutch at her heart, suddenly fearing that somehow her husband had
changed his mind and ordered her immediate return to London. But then she saw that there was an odd stillness about him, as
though he was listening to Lord John with his entire soul.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ Cromwell began, ‘I have received some news from England. It is not all good, I fear.’

‘Continue.’

‘The King has discussed the position here with his council, and they have concluded that the best means of resolving all the
issues, is for him to come here himself.’

‘The King? My husband will come here?’ Queen Isabella gasped. ‘But how will he do so? Will he leave the realm under the control
of our son?’

‘My Lady, I do not know more than this,’ Lord Cromwell said. He was quiet a moment, and then looked down at the ground, frowning.
‘But …’

The Queen maintained her silence, but motioned to Alicia to fetch the jug of wine from the sideboard. Alicia floated over
the floor, a graceful figure in all she did, and soon both men were sipping from large goblets.

Lord Cromwell pursed his lips, and then looked up with some sort of resolve in his eyes. ‘My Lady, I think you will be
ordered to return to England upon his arrival.’

Aha! she thought. ‘I fear you are right. And I shall be forced to return to my prison, guarded by those set to watch over
me.’

‘I think that would be a great shame, my Lady. Further …’ His eyes slid towards William, and the Lord appeared to take
some courage from the impassive man at his side. ‘Further, I think it would be a mistake. You are crucial to our negotiations
with your brother.’

That was why she was here. To ensure a continued peace with her brother, King Charles IV. After the little war last year,
King Charles had confiscated all the English territories in France. It was Isabella’s job to try to win them all back. And
she had all but succeeded. All that was needed now was for the King to pay homage to the French King for those lands which
were held under feudal tenure. The rest didn’t matter. And until the King came to pay homage, the Agenais would remain under
the control of the French King for now, while the courts decided what should happen to it.

The French had set the date of the
assumptio
of the Blessed Virgin Mary
^*
– one month exactly from today. That was the date when he was supposed to be here in France, to perform the formal homage
at Beauvais.

But she was sure that he would not come. He was sly, as she knew all too well; cunning enough to escape this. To perform full
homage to another King would imply that he was little more than a vassal to the French. A man who might be called ‘King’,
but who in reality held his crown not because it had been bestowed by God, but because he was permitted to do so by his superior.
King Edward would never tolerate such a climb-down.

‘I shall be delighted to see my husband again, of course,’
she said carefully. Lord John was still the man set to guard her during her journey here, not selected by her, but by Despenser
and her husband.

‘We have heard that he is to delay his journey. The date for him to meet with your brother is now to be two weeks later, on
the Feast Day of St John the Baptist.
^*
’

The hand was at her heart again. Did he mean that she was to return at once, then? But no! That would be too cruel. She would
not go yet. To voluntarily return to a prison would be …

‘My Lady, I do not think you should return. You should remain here. There is much still to do, and it would be wrong for you
to hurry precipitately from Paris. Better that you should wait for your husband here.’

She nodded, not allowing a smile, but as the two men backed their way from her room, she was convinced that the air in her
chamber had grown musty and unwholesome. She was suddenly hot, dizzy, and she gasped, swaying, before rushing to the window,
throwing the shutter wide and gulping at the air.

‘My Lady? My Lady, drink this!’ Alicia said urgently, passing her a goblet.

‘Wine, Alicia? Wine? I don’t need wine now!’ Isabella said breathlessly. ‘Do you understand? Did you see what my Lord Cromwell
was saying? He has moved to our camp, Alicia. Even the head of the King’s embassy here in France has moved to support me!’

Louvre, Paris

His mood, always fragile, shattered when the next knock came. Sieur Hugues lifted Amélie bodily from him, stood up
and hoiked his hosen up as he walked across the room to open it.

Amélie couldn’t help but laugh as she watched him. The sight of his skinny little legs, the heavy scarlet robe, and his scowling
features was enough to make her dissolve. Even when he threw a furious look in her direction, it only served to make the scene
still more amusing.

‘What do you want?’ he bellowed at the poor boy outside.

‘Sir, there’s b-been a murder!’ the boy stammered, appalled at the glower on his face and petrified that he might be beaten
for interrupting.

Sir Hugues was still for a heartbeat, and then he glanced over his shoulder at Amélie, his face a picture of horror.

She met his gaze with a blink of surprise. She had no idea why he should look so anxious. He had been here all the time.

Furnshill, Devon

‘Wat! Stop that unholy racket!’

If it were not for young Wat whistling in that tuneless, foolish manner, Baldwin de Furnshill would have been perfectly content
as he sat at his table. There was much to be done here, plus he had duties as Keeper of the King’s Peace, which kept him busy.
It was just good to be here, at home, with his wife. For too much of the last year he had been forced to stay away from his
family, even undertaking a journey to France to protect the Queen on her way to see her brother, but now he could sit and
enjoy the simpler delights of his family. Or could, if it weren’t for Wat …

Baldwin was tempted to tell him to leave the hall – but that would not do. Wat had every right to sit at table, just as all
his servants did. They were there by feudal obligation: theirs was to serve and support him, while his was to feed, house
and clothe them. The responsibility of feudal law meant more, so
Baldwin sometimes felt, to the lord of the manor than it did to the servants themselves.

But it was a responsibility which he felt keenly. Any man who had given him his word and hand was fully deserving of Sir Baldwin’s
reciprocation. Just as Baldwin’s own lords were deserving of his unswerving loyalty, so he was deserving of their support
and protection. That was the whole basis of English law.

So, Sir Baldwin must give all aid to the Lord of the Shire, Sir Hugh de Courtenay; through him, Baldwin must support the King
himself. As must Sir Hugh. And yet Baldwin was becoming concerned that the balance of rights and responsibilities was shifting.
There was a growing burden on the part of the King’s subjects – all because of Despenser. The rapacity of the man was unwholesome
and no one in the country could stomach it any more – except, apparently, the King.

Outside, once he had finished his meal, the air was still cool, and as he waited for his horse to be brought to him he stood
in front of the house gazing down southwards, a tall man of some two-and-fifty years with the powerful shoulders of a trained
warrior, the thick neck of a knight used to the weight of a heavy helm, and the slightly bandy legs of a man who had spent
much of his time in the saddle. His dog walked to him, sitting against his leg and leaning, looking up into his eyes.

Wolf was a handsome animal. He was heavy-boned, and black all over, apart from delightful tan colouring at his eyebrows, cheeks
and ankles, with a white muzzle, paws and tip to the tail. And a large white cross on his breast. He panted all the while,
as though it was ridiculously hot in the sun. Still a little anxious, he preferred to be with Baldwin at every moment. It
was irritating to Jeanne on occasion, but Baldwin had always been a lover of hounds and large dogs of all types.
He had acquired Wolf only a few weeks ago, from the Bishop of Orange, and felt honoured that the brute was so affectionate
to him in such a short while.

As he thought this, his eyes rose to the distant view again.

‘Husband, you are too pensive.’

He smiled and nodded as Jeanne, his wife, joined him. From here there was a patch of grass that led to the Tiverton Road.
It was a small pasture for feeding goats and occasional travellers’ horses, but Baldwin always enjoyed standing just here,
in front of his door, because there was a fair view over the road. It was easier to see people approaching.

‘Are you worried about something?’ she said gently.

‘Your soft words show better than anything how well you understand me,’ he said with a dry grin, his fingers playing at the
hair on Wolf’s head.

It was easy to be happy in her company, he reflected. Jeanne was a tall, slim woman with red-gold hair, and a face that had
none of the merits of classical beauty. Her nose was tip-tilted, her mouth over-wide, with a large upper lip. And yet it was
the total of the imperfections that he thought made her unimaginably lovely. Added to her looks, she had a brain which was
sharp and astute.

‘Is it the King?’

He sighed. There was no concealing his fears with his wife, no matter how dangerous it might be to allow his concerns to become
more widely known. ‘Yes. I do not know what I should do.’

‘What is the need to worry about it at this time?’

‘In case I have a man demand that I support him now. This has been brewing for many years. Our Lord, Hugh de Courtenay, has
been a keen supporter of the King most of the time – but when Piers Gaveston was being hunted down in the land, it was Sir
Hugh who went to try to capture him. When
there have been troubles, and the Good Lord knows how often there have been in this unhappy reign, the baron has been at the
forefront of the forces trying to hold the King to account.’

‘You are worried that he may not support the King?’ Jeanne said quietly.

‘It would not surprise me. And would that mean that he would demand my loyalty to him personally?’

‘What would you do if he did?’

‘I could do little. I have made my oath to Sir Hugh and his family. But I do have a higher debt of honour to the King, surely?’

‘I am sure you will find a balance, my husband.’

‘I wish I were so sure as you,’ Baldwin smiled. Then, at the sound of a short scream from inside the house, he spun round
and winced. ‘I think your son wants you again!’

‘He can wait,’ Jeanne said with uncharacteristic sharpness. ‘What of Despenser?’