The King of Thieves: (40 page)

City gate, Paris

Jacquot was almost at the gate itself when the two men appeared in it. One pointed at him, while the other bellowed for help.
Time to run again.

The third, the one who had been in front, seemed to materialise from nowhere over to his right. That was fine. He had not
intended to run that way anyway. It only led down to the river. No, he would take the path up past the Louvre and out to the
open country north. These bumbling fools wouldn’t follow him up there. He could stay out overnight, then make his way back
in the morning, perhaps. And he’d have these arses discovered and punished for trying to attack him – the new King.

He walked at a rapid pace, throwing his long legs out in front of him and striding powerfully, for all the feeling of exhaustion
creeping into his muscles. There was no getting away from it, he was an old man now. There had been a time when he would have
done a march like this without thinking, but many barrels of wine had gone under his belt since then.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that they were not apparently gaining on him. That was good. If he could only make it up
past the main thoroughfares here, he should be all right.

He was past the northernmost section of the Louvre now, and the streets were smaller and less crowded. His pursuers
were catching up now. They were more confident, the further they went from the main roads of the city. Especially now that
the way was more potholed and muddy. The people all around were the shifty sort who wouldn’t meet a man’s eye – as clear a
sign of danger as any.

A fine drizzle began to fall, and he hoped that this might be the onset of a heavier downpour. A man could hide in a really
heavy storm. He tried to urge his legs on faster, but there was a problem. They seemed unwilling to obey his brain. Already
he had hurried halfway across the city; there was a feeling of burning in his lungs, and he felt sure that if he didn’t get
away soon, they would be on him.

There was a shout from behind him, and when he turned, he saw the men begin to hurry, urged on by the larger man of the three.
He was a hulking figure, his cloak blowing behind him. He was pounding along the road now, each step throwing up mud or worse,
on his face a grim snarl.

He looked familiar, Jacquot thought. Where the devil had he seen the bastard before?

Jacquot made to flee, but suddenly two men darted into the street ahead of him. One had a club, which he weighed in his hands,
while the other, a much older man, nervously handled a long staff.

Jacquot ran at the younger, ignoring the old man; he was no threat. He shoved out with his hands, thrust the cudgel-man from
his path without halting, took a deep breath, and would have continued, but something struck his shin, and he was flying.
The ground seemed to gradually rise up to meet him, as though in some form of delayed reality, and he could see a stone directly
in his path that must surely break his jaw when he struck it. He tried to lift a hand to protect his chin, but it was too
late, and as he hit the roadway, the shock of the impact jarred his entire frame.

A hand grabbed his right wrist and yanked it down and round behind his back. About it was wrapped a thong, then his left was
pulled back too, and although he wanted to struggle and fight, there was an odd lightheadedness in his bones and his head.
He could make no defence.

It was as they hauled him to his feet and he tottered like a new-born foal, that he recognised the man at last.

He had been a thief-taker. One of the old King of Thieves’ contacts. This was a man who could be hired by any to seek out
and arrest or murder an enemy.

‘Oh, shit!’ he murmured through slackened lips. ‘The bastard got me in the end!’

Louvre

The commotion outside the gate made all the men stop and stare, and then Simon was running with Sir Richard and Baldwin for
the entrance.

A group of men had gathered about the dying woman, and the three, with Pons puffing behind them, had to push them away.

‘Dear God!’ Pons muttered under his breath, and crossed himself.

‘Do you know her?’ Baldwin demanded.

‘She used to be the wench of the King of Thieves,’ Pons said.

She was still moving, but it was obvious that there was nothing anyone could do for her now. A priest knelt by her, his features
pinched and blanched by the reality of the woman’s death, and he was doing the best he could, muttering his prayers, trying
to get her to utter the words that would save her soul.

‘Did anyone see who did this? Eh? Anyone here see who killed this girl?’ Pons roared.

‘He went off up there, with three men chasing after him,’ a voice said from the crowd.

Pons nodded and set off at a trot. After glancing at each other, Baldwin and the others followed.

Baldwin called, ‘You seem very angered by this. Was she known to you?’

‘You recall we arrested the King of Thieves? It was her took us to him. Looks like he’s had his revenge already.’

‘What makes you think
he
has done this?’ Baldwin asked, puffing slightly.

‘Who else would?’

Baldwin made no answer to that. Already they were past the castle, and now only a few tens of yards away, they could see a
huddle of men outside a little house further up the road.

Pons had seen it too. Now he gave a great roar and redoubled his speed. Clattering and splashing, the three Englishmen raced
after him as quickly as they could.

‘Leave him alone!’ Pons bellowed.

Hélias motioned to Bernadette and the young girl went to the thief-taker and took his arm, murmuring in his ear. He nodded,
bent and kissed her on the mouth, and then stood back, snapping an order to the two with him.

In the roadway in front of her little tavern, Jacquot lay rolling in the filth, gripping his belly. His face was already swelling
from the beating he had taken, and as she looked over, she saw old Michel preparing to whack him again with his long staff.
She gave a hissed order, and he looked around with surprise. Seeing Pons, he stepped back, and soon Jacquot was alone.

‘What is this, Hélias? You taken to waylaying men as they pass? You need the business that much?’ Pons demanded. Jacquot tried
to shift himself to a sitting position, and Pons
nudged him hard with an ungentle foot, knocking him down again, where he remained, groaning gently.

‘I want to help the law, Pons. This one, he should have been arrested an age ago.’

‘I will be the judge of that. I do know he’s likely to be taken soon anyway. He’s just murdered a young woman.’

‘Well, you should listen more carefully to people who know your business, like me.’

Pons spat. ‘Really? Why?’

‘Because this fellow lying at your side is the murderer of Jean le Procureur.’

‘How do you know?’

Hélias looked at him. ‘We have our own means of finding answers.’

Jacquot held up a hand weakly. ‘Can I have a say in this? I’m innocent!’

‘No! Shut up!’ Pons said. ‘Hélias?’

‘I had customers ask around. They led me to him.’

Jacquot tried again. ‘You want to know who really killed le Procureur? Who killed the de Nogarets? Who also killed the man
watching the fellow who was taken and murdered by …’

‘You mean my watchman, André?’ Pons snapped.

‘Yes. All were the result of the scheming bitch back there. I killed her, I confess it! I killed her to save people.’

Baldwin was shaking his head. ‘What do you know of this, fellow? Who are you?’

‘My name is Jacquot, and I have nothing to lose by confessing all. Will you hear me out?’

Pons scowled at the name. ‘I have heard of you, Jacquot. You are a killer.’

‘Only in my own defence. That woman was called Amélie. She was the lover of the King of Thieves, as well as of the castellan
in the Louvre. Some weeks ago she met the man de
Nogaret and his wife, and she heard them say that they were coming to the Louvre. De Nogaret’s father was a man high in the
King’s esteem, and he wanted to plead for a little of the King’s largesse. But he made a terrible mistake. He told
her
– and Amélie was always in search of money. She decided to kill them both, I think, and take their money when they had some.
But then she learned from them that de Nogaret’s father had mentioned a pair of men who stole a large sum from the Pope years
ago. Two men called Hugues and Thomas d’Anjou.’

‘The Cardinal and the castellan,’ Baldwin said, looking at Pons.

‘Yes. And it gave her an idea – to take the money herself. To get the two to pay her to keep her silent about their past.’

Simon was frowning. ‘Why? What would it matter what they did to the Pope all those years ago?’

‘Not much,’ Baldwin responded thoughtfully. ‘Unless the King felt that the money rightfully belonged to him. And that might
lead to his taking it for himself.’

‘Which is what she reasoned,’ Jacquot agreed. He eased himself up to a sitting position, ruefully eyeing the old man with
the staff. ‘That stick has hurt my head, old man.’

‘What then? Do you have anything other than speculation to support this tale?’ Pons rasped. ‘I tell you now, I believe little
of what you say. You are an assassin, a man who relies on night for your evil.’

‘I don’t know who told you all that. I am just a peasant and beggar in this city,’ Jacquot said. ‘All I’m doing is trying
to help you!’

‘Continue, then,’ Baldwin said. ‘What happened with this woman?’

Jacquot hawked and spat. ‘The first thing was, she was bumped by the Cardinal. He told her, if she wanted to spread
tales about him, he would have her arrested by the Church and imprisoned. Then the castellan told her she would do well to
leave them both alone. But he liked her. And he bedded her. And to keep bedding her, he would have to do her bidding. He thought
she only wanted money. She didn’t. She wanted power as well. Power over other people. So she killed the de Nogarets to gain
power over the Cardinal.’

‘A woman did that?’ Pons scoffed. ‘This man’s a fool. Take him to the Temple …’

‘Wait a moment,’ Baldwin said. ‘Continue.’

‘She killed the first somehow, and when the Cardinal reached the man, he realised he’d be blamed. Worse, he knew that the
money which he had taken would be claimed by the King if it was thought he had killed de Nogaret. So he chose to conceal all.
And when the Procureur came close to realising there was a link between the Cardinal and the dead man, the Cardinal sought
to silence that enquiry too. He paid the King of Thieves to remove this embarrassment.’

‘And the girl?’

Jacquot looked up at Baldwin. ‘She wanted power, as I said. So she was sworn to kill me too and remove another possible obstacle
to her authority.’

‘So, as you say, you killed in self-defence.’ Pons’s voice was dripping with acid. ‘Take him to the Temple. Have him held
there until we know what to do with him.’

The thief-taker nodded and took Jacquot’s arm. He gave a short nod to Pons, another to Baldwin, and then a brief bow to Hélias.
Baldwin was sure that he saw him wink too, which made him frown a moment, but then Pons was chivying them back towards the
Louvre. ‘Come! There is little more to be discussed here. We must find a jug of good wine to celebrate the discovery of the
murderer and her death at last!’

Jacquot was a pathetic figure, the thief-taker thought to himself. There was nothing about him to inspire fear or awe. Still,
there was the fact that he was worth money. That alone was enough to make him look entirely delightful.

‘Slower, friend,’ Jacquot said. ‘I am tired and failing after the way they beat me.’

‘Piss on you! Get a move on!’

‘Am I a danger to you? Am I a threat? Do you need to hurry me to my death? Let a man enjoy his last walk.’

‘I said, get a …’

The blade sank in silently, swiftly, and only when he withdrew it did it make a little sound, like a liquid belch. But there
was no possibility that anyone would have heard it. Jacquot helped the body to the ground, rolling it over a few times to
shove it nearer a wall, before wiping his blade on the man’s back and setting off quickly towards the city’s north gate. He
still had much to do.

Arnaud was nervous as the men appeared in the gateway. He didn’t care about the English, but Pons was a different matter.
‘Master, I …’

‘What is the matter with the fellow?’ Sir Richard demanded. Even Wolf appeared surprised. He sat near Arnaud and gazed up,
panting with mild reproof, or so Baldwin felt.

‘Do you have something to say?’ Pons said. ‘We are in a hurry.’

‘It’s the castellan, Sieur. I am not sure, but I think the day that de Nogaret was killed, that woman out there who was slain
today – I saw her with the boy, the kitchen knave who died. Little Jehanin.’

‘And you said nothing?’

‘What could I say?’

‘Anything else?’ Baldwin snapped angrily. If this man had spoken earlier, much of his work in the last few days could have
been reduced.

‘I did not think of it at the time, but some days after the murder, I spoke with her. She mentioned that she had met de Nogaret
in a tavern or wine shop.’

‘Who did you tell?’ Pons demanded.

‘No one. She was speaking about the Cardinal, saying how the boy had told her he was coming to the castle to get money from
the Cardinal and would soon be rich, because the Cardinal had stolen some and—’

‘What of the castellan?’ Baldwin interrupted sharply. ‘What of him?’

‘He told me to tell you. He was her lover, and he was very upset to learn that she had been with the lad.’

‘Why?’ Pons wondered.

‘I think we should speak to him,’ Baldwin said urgently. ‘Come!’

But it was too late. The body of the castellan swung gently from the rope about his neck, the hemp creaking with the regular
pendulum swing.

‘Cut him down,’ Pons said quietly.

‘Why did he do that?’ Arnaud said. He was standing in the doorway behind them as Simon clambered on to the desk and ran his
dagger’s edge along the rope while Sir Richard gripped the body in a hug. It was soon lying on the floor, a disjointed huddle
of clothing.