If the King could not provide food, it was up to him to find food for himself. If God would not provide food, it was up to him to seek it. He had been a decent, fair man in his life. When he had money, he had been generous. All those whom he loved had felt the advantage of his largesse. But now he was brought to his knees. There was nothing for him to do but die, unless he took life in both hands and wrung a living from it. There was no point meandering onwards, hoping to find some food. Even the monasteries had little enough to share amongst the thousands who clamoured at their gates.
This conclusion had just reached him when he saw a small building not more than a few hundred yards away. Without quite knowing why, he made for it. Beyond, he saw a wall, and in the wall was a broad gate. He found it was unlocked. Inside was a small farm, with a woman toiling in the fields. The rain was falling in a perpetual stream, and her ankles and calves and thighs were beslobbered with mud as she strained with a harrow, pulling it in place of her beasts. The rain washed over her body, flattening her linen tunic over her breasts, and he stood a while and stared.
Speaking had seemed pointless. The hunger that drove all made throats sore and voices rasp, so he stood silently as she heaved on the rope. And then he walked past her to the door of her cottage and sought food. There was nothing. When she entered, later, he said nothing, and she appeared heedless. For her supper, she had a little pottage made thin, with grasses and some seeds boiled until they almost had some taste. There were no cabbages, no onions or peas to provide ballast to an empty stomach, and bread was a long-dreamed of impossibility. Still, they foraged in among the hedges and fields for what they might find, and somehow both lived for a while.
Then, one morning, he woke to find her cold beside him in the bed. Her eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling sightlessly. He fancied that there was a smile playing about her mouth.
He had left the area and made his way north again. And a few miles later he found himself at a convent. But here the local population had decided to take what they could. He approached to the smell of burning, the sounds of rioting, the crash and thud of buildings being broken systematically.
Two men tried to prevent him from joining in, for he was a stranger here, but either he was slightly better fed, or his desperation was the more potent, for one he knocked down and the other he would have slain, had he had a knife to hand. Instead, though, he took part in the sack of the convent, and within a short space he had joined the people.
It was enough to allow him to survive those two dreadful first years, but he was still scarred by those experiences. And the aftermath, when he had taken to capturing women on the road, waylaying any who appeared to have money about them. Several he simply throttled, stealing their clothing and money; others he took to cities to sell, until by degrees, he made his way here to Paris.
In the past he had been working on his own, but now he had the companionship of a whole class of similar men. These were the dregs of Parisian society, but they gave him their friendship and to a degree he reciprocated it. He began to have a life again.
It was a skewed life. Jacquot embarked on it with two men he met in a tavern. All three drank heavily, and when a whore offered herself, they went with her to an alley, and there, after they had all used her, he himself cut her throat and stripped her naked. The body they threw into a midden, while her few and paltry belongings they took to another innkeeper’s wife, a woman they all knew, who washed the clothing and sold it to their profit. It was the beginning of his criminal life in Paris.
Now he was with a brotherhood. The three had become many, all working for the man they called ‘The King’. It was said that no matter what the business, if you wanted an act committed within the boundaries of Paris, The King could provide the service, so long as it was paid for.
Jacquot knew perfectly well what the service was this time. There were many amongst his friends who were reluctant to cut a throat, but not he. No, he was happy to release a soul from this pit of misery that was life. And this time there was a good target for his blade.
Jean de Poissy, the Procureur, walked on along the darkening streets. He came and went by the same route each morning and evening when he had to visit the castle of the Louvre, for he was secure, he knew. The Procureur was a powerful man in the city of Paris. He was the leading investigator of crimes, the chief prosecutor of those who were engaged in murder, pick-pocketing, breaking and entering, and any other offence. None would dare to harm him. He might not be invincible, but with the authority of the King and the city behind him, he came as close to being invincible as a man could become.
There was a strong odour of faeces from the slaughter houses as he continued east. The smell hung about here at all hours of the day, but it was just one of the normal, everyday manifestations of life in a city.
He continued past the rising mass of the buildings on the Île de la Cité, and on along the river until he came close to the eastern wall, where he began to head north. Three lanes up here, he took a turn to the east again, and fumbled with the latch to his door. It was dim in the lane here, and he had to concentrate hard to find it and open it wide. A man passed by, but the Procureur ignored him, even when he stopped and turned back.
Jean de Poissy merely assumed it was a beggar, and swore at the man briefly. He had enough on his mind already without worrying about lowlifes.
Jacquot smiled as the Procureur pulled the door wide. So this was where de Poissy lived. A pleasant house, he had here. Unlike other lawyers, in their expensive chambers, this Procureur lived cheek-by-jowl with tradesmen and artisans. Strange, but no matter.
Jacquot’s knife was ready in his hand, and as he shifted his weight, ready to lunge, the Procureur himself took a sudden sidestep. Jacquot felt alarm thrilling through his body at the idea that his quarry had realised his intention. His first thought was to stab the man and make a bolt for it, and then he realised that it was only the Procureur’s servant, come to the door to let his master in.
Sighing with relief, Jacquot made a mental note of the address and slouched off back the way he had come.
The Procureur could be killed whenever he wished.
Tuesday before the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Furnshill, Devon
‘Dear Christ in chains!’ Baldwin burst out as he read the letter.
‘Husband!’ Jeanne expostulated.
‘Don’t think to remonstrate, Jeanne,’ Baldwin said. ‘I’m to go to France again, in God’s name!’
Paris
Jacquot entered the little brothel and strolled over to the barrel in the corner of the room.
It was a foul chamber. Straw lay on the floor, but it was ancient, and reeked of piss and stale wine. He poured a good measure of wine from the barrel into a cup and drained it. As he did so a wench came running into the room, her skirts up about her hips, her chemise gone, and her breasts bouncing merrily. Behind her was a skinny young man with a mop of sandy hair. He had lost his left ear: the proof that he had had a short interview with the law. Seeing Jacquot, he grinned, then hared off after his prey once more.
If the room was foul, the next few were worse. Each was smaller than the previous one, and held little in the way of furniture, but for a medley of palliasses and blankets piled higgledy-piggledy on the floor. There had never been an attempt to clean the place. The sort of men and women who lived here had little need of hygiene.
In the last room, Jacquot entered more cautiously. This was the room where the King rested. It was dim and airless. Candles illuminated the men standing about: some six or seven, two with the split lips that spoke of an executioner’s punishment. These were the guards, the men who would fight anyone to protect their leader, who now reclined on a thick bed of cushions on the floor at the point farthest from the entrance. When he spoke, all was silent in the room.
The King of Thieves was a quiet, sullen man, with the dark hair of a Breton. He had thin features and close-set eyes, which fixed upon one with a stra
nge intensity. No one who had felt those black eyes upon him would forget the sensation. It was like being watched by a snake.
He wore a plain linen shirt and hosen made of good quality wool. His belt had an enamelled buckle, and there were gold rings on each finger of his left hand. At his side was a girl, clearly a new one, recently brought here to the brothel. Jacquot didn’t know where she came from. She was only very young, from the look of her, and while the King mused and spoke, his hand played over her breast and stomach, then lower, while she stared fixedly away from him, watching Jacquot or the wall; anything other than the man who fiddled with her body as another might play with a quill or a knife. She would not complain. Not if she knew the kind of man he was.
‘You didn’t kill him when you were asked,’ the King said.
‘I couldn’t. There were too many others about.’
‘What do they matter? We’ve been paid.’
Jacquot was not about to contest the money, although he had seen nothing of it as yet. There was a firm belief in the company that all money was to be shared sensibly. For an important commission like this assassination, the money was paid to the King, and when the job was done, Jacquot would receive his share. Not the full amount, for the larger part would remain with the King, but he would take some livres, and with them he could enjoy himself for a while, gambling, drinking and whoring.
‘I will kill him within the week,’ he stated softly.
‘Good. I look on you as my barber. You shave the unnecessary from Paris, as a barber shaves my chin. He removes my hair, you remove the people who aren’t needed. I don’t want another failure.’
Jacquot nodded. He looked at the girl. The King had set his hand on her groin, and Jacquot saw a little shudder of revulsion run through her frame, as though she had felt a man walking over her grave. Perhaps fourteen summers old, she already had tracks of pain and hardship etched into her soft cheeks and brow.
Fourteen summers. That was the age of his little girl, when he buried her nine years ago.
Suddenly disgusted by his life, he turned and stumbled out. It took three large mazers of wine to help him recover his equanimity.
Furnshill, Devon
The letter was almost apologetic in its tone, but there was neither comfort nor sympathy in the brief text.
It was an order which had come to him from the Sheriff’s offices at Rougemont Castle in Exeter. There were many words on the paper, declaring the King’s position, his authority over the British, his overlordship of Guyenne and all the other territories, but these were irrelevant to Baldwin just now. All he saw was the simple command at the bottom: The King would have you travel with him to Paris as a member of his guard of household knights. Meet him at Langdon, near Dover.
Jeanne saw the scrawl at the bottom and blanched. ‘I can’t come with you, Baldwin. I’d like to, but not with young Baldwin and Richalda. They wouldn’t be able to cope with such a long journey, not at their ages. Not at the speed the King will wish to travel. It’s just not possible.’
‘My love,’ Baldwin said, scrunching up the parchment and pulling her towards him. ‘I don’t want to go, but I cannot refuse the King without good reason.’
‘I understand that, husband, but I cannot come too. What else does it say?’
‘Only that he wants me to bring Simon too.’ Baldwin sighed. ‘This is too cruel! Simon will not want to leave while this new matter of Despenser’s ownership of his home is troubling him and Margaret.’
‘Leave that for him and his wife to sort out, Baldwin. You need to arrange matters for yourself. You cannot worry about everyone else, my love.’
‘Very well. But I have to send a messenger to Simon to warn him.’
‘Yes.’ Jeanne’s eyes took on a faraway look. ‘Perhaps there is one thing which you might do to protect him, then.’
Morrow of the Feast of St Augustine of Hippo*
Langdon, Kent
Neither of the two men were happy as they rode into the yard of the great Premonstratensian house, Wolf trotting happily behind them.
Simon was grim of visage in the face of this latest enforced departure. He had sworn so often, to Baldwin’s knowledge, that he would never again leave England’s shores on a ship, and yet here he was, set to travel again to France, and at a time when his wife was being cruelly threatened by Despenser. The last time Simon had been away from home, he had installed a lodger who was more than capable of protecting himself – another Bailiff from the moors who had a need of a home. Margaret, meanwhile, had gone to visit Jeanne and taken their son with her.
This time, Jeanne had suggested he should put the local priest in as their lodger. The man would be very glad of a home so near to the church, and Margaret could once more travel to stay at Baldwin’s house.
This arrangement did not, however, leave Simon with any sense of comfort. He was here, many miles away from his home, and his wife and family were undefended.
‘Despenser promised us that he’d leave me alone,’ he said again.
‘Simon, I think this only proves that it is not possible to trust anything that he says,’ Baldwin replied. ‘He is not an honourable man, but a felon who dresses well. He just has so much power that he thinks he can behave with complete impunity. And with the King’s support and tolerance, he is quite right.’
‘Damn him. Damn his soul to hell,’ Simon muttered. He had never felt such an overwhelming detestation of any man before in his life. All those whom he had hunted down for murder, for treachery, for crimes of all sorts, had not inspired this sense of utter loathing. To think that the man could have done such a thing to him, for no genuine reason. Simon had done nothing to harm Despenser intentionally. Oh, possibly he and Baldwin had together ruined some of his plans, but that was not their fault directly. They were both officers of the law, and when they discovered acts that were illegal, they were bound to apply the law.
‘You must try to forget his actions against you while we are here, Simon,’ Baldwin advised, glancing about him. The abbey was filled to bursting with the King’s men and they mingled with those who wore the Despenser insignia. ‘Do not lose your temper, old friend.’
‘I will try not to, Baldwin, but if that self-satisfied cretin shows up and insults me, I will find it difficult not to push my fist through his face.’
‘Simon!’ Baldwin said urgently. ‘Bear this in mind, old friend – Despenser is inviolate. He is the King’s closest friend. Any man who makes Despenser an enemy is also an enemy of your King. You want to be an outcast in your own land? Then keep hold of your tongue. Despenser is foul and his acts repugnant, but that is no reason for you to die. Remember that! You do not wish to leave Meg and little Peter destitute, do you?’
‘I am sure I recall saying almost the same thing to you, the last time we were leaving the King’s presence,’ Simon said with a dry grin.
‘And you were right then, just as I am now. You reminded me of my duty to my family – now I do the same for you. Do not forget them, old friend.’
‘I will try not to,’ Simon promised. But there was little conviction in his tone.
Chapter Eight
Saturday after the Feast of St Augustine of Hippo*
Langdon, Kent
The years after the invasion of the Normans had seen a flourishing development of religious houses in the country. First were the Benedictines, then Cistercians too, but as time passed on, the Premonstratensians became more and more popular with those who could afford the best protection for their souls. Investing a little money in a house for these white-clad monks was a good long-term prospect.
It was Matilda, the daughter of that great monastic builder, Ranulf de Glanville, who paid for the colony here at Langdon. Simon had heard that they were never overly expensive, which must have been an attraction to some of those who decided to support them. Perhaps they were cheap to feed, since all were vegetarian. And they never required much in the way of laundry, apparently. Their robes were noted for being rather ‘l
ively’. It was a reputation which he preferred not to put to the test, certainly. He would be using his own bedroll, he decided, while they were staying here.
In the event, he and Baldwin took space in the small inn nearby. This entailed sharing a small chamber with five other men, but at least all were from the King’s household, and should therefore have better hygiene than the monks.
It was a pleasant little place, and their first night had been comfortable enough, with little in the way of irritating habits from the others in the room. Being only a small inn, there was no great bed for travellers, but space for each to spread a palliasse and a rug over the top. It was not the best bed Simon had ever used, but nor was it the worst.
However, even on that first night, worn out from a long, rapid ride to comply with the King’s wishes, he found sleep evaded him. How could he rest content, when he had left his wife behind alone?
She had been brave, of course. Meg always was. Her bright blue eyes never looked so clear and shining as when he left her. Her body was slim and taut against him, and her mouth soft and yielding when they kissed. She held him for a moment or two afterwards, looking deep into his eyes, and he knew that she understood he had no choice. He must go – unless he wished to incur the King’s displeasure.
Meg had always been sensible. Even in those desperate times when they had been parted, she had not been a nag. She understood the imperatives of a man’s life and his duties. In those days, when he had been given the new, awful position of the Keeper’s representative at Dartmouth, she had never made him feel guilty about his decision to accept the post. She was sad that he had to leave her and the children, but she appreciated that it was not his fault.
But this time, this parting was harder for both of them. He had already been away for so long, and the country was undeniably more turbulent than before. To be absent from home just now, when Despenser was growing ever more bold in his actions against them both, was enough to drive him frantic. It was not knowing what was happening that made him chew at his lips. For all he knew, his wife and son could have been attacked, along with Jeanne and Baldwin’s children.
The King of Thieves: Page 8