The King of Thieves: (6 page)

Furnshill, Devon

It was early afternoon when Baldwin heard the clattering and squeaking of a large number of men on horseback. His attention
snapped to the road, and Wolf followed his gaze, a low rumble in his throat.

There were few noises which Baldwin found so irritating as these. His little estate was a source of calmness and peace for
him. Sir Baldwin had been born here, in this little manor, but when the call to arms came from the Kingdom of Jerusalem, demanding
aid from Christians the world over, he had gladly taken up a sword. There wasn’t much for him in England, after all. His older
brother would inherit their father’s lands, and for Baldwin there was the possibility of a post in the Church if he wanted,
but his martial spirit quailed at the thought of spending the whole of the rest of his life in a convent.

Thus it was that in the Year of Our Lord 1291, Baldwin de Furnshill arrived in Acre, the last city to be encircled by the
Saracens. He endured the horror of that siege with fortitude for much of the time, only beginning to sink into despair at
the very end. Then, when the heathens exploited a breach, Baldwin and Edgar, the man who was to become Baldwin’s comrade and
companion, were rescued by a ship owned by the Knights Templar. The warrior-monks saved their lives and gave them peace to
rest themselves in a preceptory until they were whole and hale again, and when they were, Baldwin and
Edgar together joined the Order to repay the debt.

For more than a decade they served their Order, until the day when an avaricious French King and detestable Pope conspired
to destroy the Order whose only guilt was to have served their God with honour and distinction. Baldwin and Edgar returned
to England finally, seeking the sort of peace that could be found only in a quiet rural community.

This noise was a reminder to Baldwin of war and death. It was the sound of armour rattling and chinking, the rumble and thud
of a cart passing over rutted roads, the laughter and coarse joking of men-at-arms all together.

‘What is it?’ Jeanne asked, walking to his side as Baldwin stood in the doorway, watching.

‘Quiet, Wolf! I am not sure. I cannot see their flags from here. I would guess that they are men called to fight.’

‘For whom, though?’

Baldwin shook his head. The cavalcade continued on its way, heading southwards and west, towards Crediton, or maybe Exeter.
They could have been from Tiverton, from Lord Hugh de Courtenay’s castle, or perhaps they were from some further manor. All
told there were seven-and-twenty, by his count. A fair-sized entourage for a minor lord.

It left him feeling unsettled.

‘They’re gone, Baldwin,’ Jeanne said soothingly. She could see that he was distracted by the sight.

‘It worries me, Jeanne. There are so many men riding about the land now, and many have no care for the law.’

‘We are safe enough here,’ she countered.

‘Are we? If Despenser took it into his head to crush us, he could do so in a moment. There are many thousands at his command.’

‘You fear for us, I know, husband, but there is no need to. Remain here with us, and all will be well.’

Baldwin nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the small cloud of dust that enclosed the men-at-arms until they were out of
sight between the trees. There was a clutching fear in his belly.

Louvre, Paris

Jean de Poissy was allowed in before the Cardinal had arrived, and he stood in the great room studying his surroundings.

It was the room of a man of power and authority, that was clear. There was the large desk, with books and parchments scattered
all about it. A pair of spectacles lay folded on top of one large book, which Jean assumed was a Bible. The fireplace was
made ready, although there were no flames. Today was so warm, it was good to enter a room like this and feel the soothing
coolness. A large sideboard stood at one wall, and upon it were many silver plates and some goblets which adequately demonstrated
the wealth of the man. Large tapestries covered the bare walls on two sides, while on a third there were many paintings of
scenes from the Gospels. All designed, so Jean felt, to demonstrate the man’s position in the world, like the large goblet
with gilding all about it. Interested, Jean walked over and picked it up.

‘You wish for wine?’

The door had been thrust wide, and the Cardinal marched in like a General. He was pulling off gloves as he strode past Jean,
throwing them on the table and calling loudly for his steward. Soon the servant appeared with a large pewter jug, from which
he swiftly dispensed wine and brought it to the two men, Jean’s in a smaller, pewter cup rather than the fine goblet he had
admired. That was given to the Cardinal. Equally swiftly, the servant walked backwards to the wall, where he stood, jug still
in his hands, head bowed.

‘This is a fine goblet, is it not? One of a group I once found.
I gave the rest to the Pope himself, Pope Clement of blessed memory.’

‘The gift was appreciated?’

‘It brought me the position I hold today,’ the Cardinal said without boastfulness. ‘It often helps to achieve things when
you have the ability to smooth the way with money, don’t you find?’

‘Not in my world,’ Jean said.

‘No. I suppose not.’

‘You wished to see me?’ Jean said.

‘Yes. I wanted to know whether you had managed to proceed with the investigation?’

Jean studied him. The Cardinal was clad in a Cardinal’s clothes, but they had been cut from fine velvets and silks, their
colours somehow brighter and more expensive-looking than Jean was used to seeing. The Cardinal was a tall man, with a face
that had a certain severity about it. He had the deep brown hair of a man from the far south, and the olive complexion to
go with it. He peered at Jean now from narrowed eyes.

‘Yes, my Lord Cardinal,’ Jean responded coolly.

‘And?’

‘I am attempting all I may.’

‘Also, this theft – I trust you have heard of it?’

‘My apologies, what theft?’

The Cardinal made a dismissive gesture. ‘There has been a purse stolen from one of my clerks. Any place this size must have
its share of thieves, I suppose, but to think that a man would dare take a purse within the walls of the Louvre … you
must admit, that is alarming.’

‘I fear I have not been made aware of this crime, Cardinal. If you are concerned about it, you should report it to the castellan,
not me. Now, I know you told me all you could
about the man whom you discovered dead, but I hoped that you might have a little more information for me.’

‘Such as?’

‘Perhaps you can remember something about this man. Were you expecting to hear from somebody about treasure?’

‘Did I mention treasure?’

‘No, but the servant who came to seek you and brought you to the dead man, told me that the fellow had asked to see you on
a matter of extreme urgency – about some treasure. Perhaps you had forgotten this?’

‘I do not recall it. Perhaps he did say something, but the sight of the dead man drove all other thoughts from my mind.’

‘I see.’

‘You seem to believe I know something about this man,’ the Cardinal said with a trace of testiness.

‘I would expect you to, yes. The man came here from some distance away. He was not from the local garrison, nor, so far as
we can discover, was he from any of the households nearby. A foreigner, and yet he could ask for you by name. He plainly knew
of
you, if nothing more.’

‘Mon Sieur, many, many people know me. They know me by sight, they know of me by name. I am a man of God, and high in the
Church’s establishment. All know me, and yet you surely do not think I know them in return?’

‘You are of course quite right. Now, this treasure. What could he refer to?’

‘I have no idea. As I said, I do not know the man, I do not know where he came from, nor why he asked to see me. Plainly,
I also do not know what he spoke about.’

‘Naturally. So you cannot help me in any way about this fellow.’ Jean nodded to himself. ‘Tell me, do you often have men come
here to speak with you like this?’

‘No.’

‘Very strange that he should have come, then,’ Jean noted. He glanced about him at the tapestries. ‘Very pleasant chamber
you have, Cardinal.’

‘Thank you. I find it pleasant.’

‘Fortunate the man didn’t come straight here, isn’t it? If he’d been killed here, there’d be blood all over the place.’

‘Yes? Well, perhaps it is a good thing, as you say. There was much blood?’

Jean nodded. ‘Enough.’

‘Oh. I truly did not notice.’

Outside, Jean stopped and looked up at the walls behind him. On the second storey, where he had just been talking to the Cardinal,
he was sure that there was a shadow in the window, a shadow that swiftly moved out of sight.

The servant who had escorted him here from the chapel was lounging at a wall, and Jean beckoned him.

‘Boy? You look like the sort of fellow who’d be happy to earn a few sous.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It involves nothing too strenuous. What is your name?’

‘Philippe.’

‘Very well, Philippe. I require your help. You will be aiding me in learning all we may about this dead man.’

‘No one knows anything about him, though.’

‘No. So anything we learn will be an improvement, will it not?’

‘But I have my duties!’

‘And so do I. Mine have just been altered, as have yours. In God’s name, boy, I am seeking a murderer. And now, so are
you
.’

‘They won’t like it in the kitchen. They’re short-staffed as it is.’

‘Less sulking, boy. The staffing levels in the Louvre are not our concern. The fact that a man has been killed in the King’s
castle is more important to us. Especially since we have no idea who he was. That is the first question: who may know him?’

Furnshill, Devon

There were more men passing that day, but nothing on the same scale as the men-at-arms, and Baldwin breathed a sigh of relief
as he walked out later in the afternoon and lifted his tunic to relieve himself into the small barrel that sat over to the
western wall of the house, near his row of storerooms. The urine would be used later, fermented, to clean clothes, and any
excess would be thrown on to the compost heaps. There was nothing allowed to go to waste on his estate.

As he hitched up his hosen once more, letting loose his tunic to cover himself more decently, he heard another horse.

Peering up the road, he saw a mount riding at a steady pace, a young man with fair hair wild in the wind on its back. The
man appeared to take stock of the area, staring at Baldwin’s house, and then aimed for it, over Baldwin’s small field.

Baldwin felt the lack of his sword at that moment, but he was close to his door, and the risk was limited at this time of
day. Besides, he had fought and trained for more years than he cared to remember, and he felt sure that he could beat a young
fellow such as this one.

‘The road to Bickleigh goes up there,’ he said as the horse drew up some few yards away. No one would ride right up to a man
unless he wished to alarm them. This fellow was polite enough. Perhaps one-and-twenty, he looked as though he had ridden several
miles already.

‘Sir Baldwin de Furnshill? I have come from my Lord Walter, Bishop of Exeter.’

Thursday before the Feast of Mary Magdalen
^*

Furnshill, Devon

‘I am glad indeed that you were able to give me a bed for the night,’ the Bishop said.

‘My Lord Bishop, it is always a delight to have you visit us,’ Baldwin’s wife said. She bent to refill his jug, and Baldwin
saw how the sun, streaming in from the large, unglazed window, lighted her hair with red sparks.

Bishop Stapledon had arrived as darkness fell. He had, he explained, been travelling from a small vill in the diocese, but
they had been delayed in leaving, and it was clear that they could not reach Exeter that night. It was easy to accommodate
the Bishop. He took a bed in Baldwin’s solar, in the second bedchamber, while his servants slept in the hall with Baldwin’s
own. Baldwin’s men had to be persuaded to share their benches, and some men were forced to huddle on the floor near the fire,
but with blankets and cloaks spread liberally, most were comfortable enough. It was as good as the cots in the Bishop’s palace,
Baldwin considered. He had tried them before, and knew how uncomfortable they could be.

‘When you have broken your fast, you will be setting off for Exeter?’ Jeanne asked.

‘I suppose so,’ the Bishop said. His voice was heavy, and now that Baldwin studied him, he was struck by how the last weeks
had affected the man. It was only a short while since Baldwin had last seen him, but those weeks had been very unkind to him.
Bishop Walter’s face was pale, as though he had been sleeping badly for an extended period, and his blue eyes were peering
with an effort that was not merely his dreadful eyesight, but was also a proof of tiredness. He looked
down to see Wolf resting his head on the Bishop’s lap.

Jeanne saw too, and made a move to remove the hound, but the Bishop shook his head. He appeared to take comfort from Wolf’s
weight on his thigh. He stroked the huge skull.

‘Bishop, I hope you will forgive my observing that you appear quite worn,’ Baldwin said.

‘My dear friend, you do not need perfect eyesight to tell that. And after all, I am sixty-four this year. It is not surprising
that with all the responsibilities I have held, that I should be a little weary.’

He sipped wine, while Baldwin watched him closely. ‘Is this because of your responsibilities to the Treasury?’

‘Aha! No, that is at least one responsibility of which I have divested myself. There is no more I can do with that, in God’s
name!’

The Bishop’s eyes gleamed with an uncharacteristic anger as he spoke, and Baldwin was surprised. ‘You are no longer the King’s
Treasurer?’