She recognised one of the men at once. It was tempting to run back into the house and gather up her son to protect him. Instead she stood her ground, her face set.
‘Wattere,’ she said steadily. ‘What do you want?’
William atte Wattere grinned without humour. ‘I have a message for you from my Lord Despenser. He wishes that this house be emptied.’
‘I cannot do that. My husband is not here.’
‘Yes. We know that.’
Margaret swallowed back her fear. ‘You threaten a woman when she is all alone? What courage!’
Wattere smiled. His left forearm was still wrapped in a linen cloth from where Simon had slashed at him earlier in the year, and the pain had not left him. It was little satisfaction to know that Simon’s hand and shoulder were both injured from Wattere’s sword.
‘Lady, I don’t threaten. I’m making a promise. You go, or your house will be taken from you by force. And I will take whatever payment I want,’ he added, eyeing her body lasciviously.
She felt her skin crawl at the thought of his hands on her.
Vigil of the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Dover
Baldwin and Simon had not slept well after the Bishop’s comments about the Earl’s life and the realm being in danger if he himself, were killed. Neither wanted to talk about it the next day until, much later, Baldwin gave Simon a look and the two left their stools and went outside.
‘If you want to talk about Walter’s words yesterday,’ Simon began, ‘don’t! I have no desire to contemplate someone killing him.’
‘And yet it is a natural fear on his part,’ Baldwin said. ‘The Bishop is no friend to the French, and the King of France knows that. More, he is still less a friend to the Queen. It has been largely by his efforts that she has been deprived of lands and wealth. The French King would be entirely within his rights to deprecate the treatment meted out to his sister on the advice of the Bishop.’
‘Perhaps so, but I don’t want to think about such matters. They’re not for me,’ Simon said. ‘Our job is to guard the Earl, and that is all.’
‘Simon, I do not disagree. However, how would it look to the King if we permitted someone to kill his most respected churchman? We shall need to take care.’
‘I find it hard to imagine that anyone could try to kill Bishop Walter, in any case,’ Simon grunted.
‘And I too,’ Baldwin said, crouching to rub the ears of his dog. Wolf sat and stared up at him, panting slightly. ‘But we should be wary nonetheless.’
‘I am likely to be wary the whole time I am away,’ Simon said glumly.
Louvre, Paris
It was nearly dark when Jean had finally finished his work. The light was dim in his chamber with only three cheap candles, and he was relieved to be able to snuff them and rise, rubbing at his eyes. The scrolls he could leave there. No one was likely to try to break into his room to steal them, in his opinion. No, better to leave now and make his way homewards.
Since the second attempt on his life, he tended to avoid the smaller alleys, sticking to the larger thoroughfares where there were more people. Yet he was aware still of a certain anxiety. There was something about knowing that a man had set his heart upon your death that took the lustre away from even the best and brightest day.
Today he and his man walked quickly from the castle gates and into the city. And it was as he passed the great city gate that he saw a small shape dart under a guard’s polearm, and rush towards him.
For an instant he was tempted to reach for his sword and sweep it out, until he realised with a closer look that this was a young girl, and if she was armed, her weapons were very well concealed, since she only wore a thin linen shift, with no sleeves, belted about her waist with a cord.
‘Sieur Procureur?’
‘I am,’ he answered, lifting a hand to tell the guard to hold back.
‘I come from Hélias. She asked me to tell you this: the girl was not a whore. She was a recent visitor to the city with her husband. They were called de Nogaret, I think.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ Jean blurted.
So that was it! The two corpses were those of de Nogaret and his wife.
Furnshill, Devon
Madame Jeanne de Furnshill was entirely engaged in the careful selection of the apples and pears that were to be stored, seeing to their careful wiping so that any dirty ones wouldn’t pollute the others, and taking out all those which were bruised or damaged in any way. They would be eaten now, or used to make cider for the farmers on the demesne. She had just set the last from the present basket in the rack in the roof, when she heard the clopping hooves and rattle and squeak of harness and chains. Frowning slightly, she put the damaged apples into the basket, and carried it down the old ladder with some caution. A new ladder would be needed for next year, for this one was rotted with worm holes.
Outside, she was still wiping her hands on her apron when Margaret Puttock appeared around the corner. ‘Margaret! You are sooner than I expected – were you not going to come in another couple of weeks?’ Jeanne was surprised. Then, remembering her manners, she said hastily, ‘You are most welcome! Come here, come here!’
She could see the weariness on Margaret’s face as she hurried to the horse to greet her. The miserable old devil of hers, Hugh, was grumbling at the cart behind, with her son Peterkin at his side, but all were clearly glad to be here in Furnshill. Jeanne sensed Baldwin’s servant Edgar behind her, but before she could ask, he had taken Margaret’s horse’s bridle, and was holding the beast steady for her.
‘Jeanne, I am so happy to be here. I feel safe at last,’ Margaret managed, before bursting into tears.
Chapter Twelve
Jean le Procureur’s house
Later, as he sat in his chamber, rubbing at his eyes to clear them, he could recall the story of the late Guillaume de Nogaret. Born of a family which had been denounced as heretics, the young Guillaume was removed from them and placed in the care of the Church. Naturally, both parents were executed.
A clever boy, he rose quickly through the Church, and was educated to a high standard. As a result, he entered a career in the law, and after some years came to the attention of the royal court. Soon he was the King’s most trusted adviser. When there was a hard task, de Nogaret would be called upon to assist. It was he who drew up the spurious accusations against the Jews and had them thrown from the country, their debts all cancelled, the money diverted to the Crown. And then there was the matter of the Templars. It was Guillaume who had drafted the accusations against them. By all accounts, his enthusiasm for persecution of those in the Church knew few bounds. And then he had been sent to Italy, too, to capture the Pope.
Jean picked up his pen again. This was very important, he knew. The full matter of de Nogaret’s son must be recorded, since his father had been responsible for a major incident in the autumn of 1303 – the seizing and punishment of the Pope. It was a shocking affair, of course, but it had shaped the world today.
The old Pope, Celestine V, had been a hermit, and was more or less forced to accept the post by the cardinals about him. A mere matter of months later, he had been persuaded to relinquish the job, and his successor, Boniface VIII, had taken his place. However, many believed that a Pope was chosen by God, so it was not possible to abdicate. They considered the new Pope to be a cuckoo in the nest, and sought to find and reinstate the old one. Celestine had gone into hiding, but he was found and taken back to Rome, where he died shortly afterwards. All thought he had been murdered on the orders of Boniface VIII.
This successor was an acquisitive man utterly ruthless in his search for wealth. For him, the turn of the century was a fabulous bonanza, in which he sold privileges and made vast sums. But he was as determined to bring secular rulers to book as he was to fleece Christians generally. He issued a ruling that proposed the Pope to be superior to all earthly rulers. And in so doing, signed his own death warrant.
His behaviour had be
en causing concern for years when he issued this latest provocation, and the French King was willing to take up the challenge. De Nogaret was given his instructions, and a short while later he was at Anagni, where the Pope was finalising his plans to bring Kings to book. Boniface’s palace was attacked and ransacked, his wealth taken, and he was himself captured. He died a matter of days later, some said because of a blow from de Nogaret or his allies. Others said he was driven so mad by the loss of his vast fortunes that he killed himself, driving his brains out by slamming his head against a wall.
Jean finished his notes. ‘De Nogaret was at Anagni,’ he murmured, ‘but de Nogaret has died. Possibly the dead man was Guillaume de Nogaret’s son. But what was he doing, here in Paris? Why did he seek to meet the Cardinal – and why did the castellan deny knowing him?’
Jean set his reed aside and rubbed at his temples, studying what he had committed to the scroll.
It made little sense. No, he must search deeper, and answer those questions. He sighed, exhausted, and rolled up the scroll, storing it away safely in his chest before yawning, finishing his wine, and preparing himself for his bed.
Furnshill, Devon
‘So your house is gone?’
Margaret nodded unhappily. Peterkin was asleep in the solar already, and the two women were sitting on a bench before the fire, drinking some of the end of last year’s cider. ‘Wattere came and threatened me with my life – and with rape. I had to leave before anybody was hurt by him.’
Jeanne felt her heart go out to her friend. To lose everything now, just when the work of harvest was complete, was a dreadful blow. It was one thing to lose a house, and another entirely to lose the crops which had been husbanded so carefully in the last months. ‘Was anything saved?’
‘What could we rescue? I had to pack all our belongings and get out as quickly as possible. There was nothing I could bring. Not with only one cart.’
‘Well, when the Bishop is back with Baldwin and Simon, they will see to your house and ensure that all is returned.’
‘That is good, Jeanne, but what can they do against Despenser? He has ruined us, and there is nothing we can do to defend ourselves. We have lost everything!’
Monday following the Feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary*
Paris
Jacquot sipped at a mazer of wine as he entered the chamber, affecting an ease he didn’t feel.
The King did not look in his direction. He was studying the breast of the girl who lay at his side, exploring it with the frowning innocence of a young boy. But he knew when Jacquot entered.
‘You failed!’ he snapped. ‘You swore he would be dead within the week. But that was – what? Three weeks – four weeks ago?’
‘I will kill him.’
‘When, do you think?’
‘As soon as he walks abroad alone. As soon as he’s unprotected. What, do you want me to be killed?’
The King was driven to smile. ‘That,’ he explained, tracing the line of the girl’s nipple with a forefinger, ‘is your concern, not mine. All I know is, I took money for this service, and you haven’t done what you were supposed to, have you? Perhaps you’re too old now, Jacquy? Are you too old? Does the thought of death at the hands of the Procureur fill you with dread? Or is it just that you don’t want to be a part of my little force here? Do you think you could take over from me, perhaps? Have control of my men?’
All was spoken in that quiet, sing-song voice that showed his real anger. There was one thing that maintained the King’s authority in Paris, and that was his power to promise results. If a man paid for the destruction of an enemy, the King would guarantee it. And that promise, that certainty, kept the money coming in.
‘If it was a crophead, you’d have done it in a moment. But I suppose a priest is easier, eh? They don’t have such …’ his finger had dropped to the girl’s navel, and now she bit at her lip as he moved lower … ‘such ability at defending themselves, eh? No, a Procureur is more hazardous. Perhaps you are scared?’
‘I fear nothing, King. Not even death,’ Jacquot said. And it was true.
Ever since he saw his last child into the grave, he had held no illusions. A God who could permit the deaths of his little ones and force him to suffer so much, was no God for him. What use was a God, in any case? God had seen to the deaths of so many, and always the innocent died first. There were some who said that God was testing men, but to them Jacquot would ask: why? If He wanted to test a man’s soul, He should pick a man who had been alive long enough to have some sins, not a beardless child.
Jacquot could survive now, mainly by his wits, but also by the exercise of his skills. There was no assassin on the streets of Paris who could compare with him. In his profession he was pre-eminent, and he knew it.
‘You have failed, though – whether you are fearful or not. So, I have to wonder what I should do for the best. You see, there are others who want to serve me. The Stammerer over there – he would like to serve me. He is keen to test his knife in another man’s blood.’
Jacquot did not even bother to glance at the fresh-faced, smiling boy in the background. He knew Nicholas the Stammerer perfectly well. Nicholas was the kind of man who would pull out a man’s nails – not from any need to extract information, but purely from interest – to see how much pain his victim could endure. He was only sixteen years old, so Jacquot had heard. ‘You want to entrust the Procureur’s death to him?’
‘I begin to wonder whether he would not be a better agent for us. He has some dedication – but I have begun to doubt your strengths, you see. He is a young lion. You … you are more of a boar, I think. Wily, powerful, but brutish and slow.’
Jacquot smiled. ‘And you think Nicholas is faster? Then try him, King. Try him. And when he fails and dies, ask me again. But next time I will need more money, I fear. Much more.’
Louvre, Paris
The castellan was a short, heavy man called Hugues de Toulouse, who was the proud owner of a goodly paunch. All men aspired to such a belly: it proved that the owner was a rich man, that his family was well-provided for. Jean le Procureur eyed it with a degree of jealousy.
‘Mon Sieur,’ the castellan said as he marched into his little chamber and found Jean waiting. ‘You have something you need?’
‘For my investigations, you mean? No, not really. There were just a few questions I had about the man who died. Did you know who he was? I have learned that his name was Guillaume de Nogaret.’
‘Shit! In truth? But he was young!’
‘He was not the old man who served our King’s father, but perhaps that Guillaume’s son?’
The castellan puffed out his lips, shaking his head, and then made his way to the shelf behind his table, where a jug of beer stood. He filled a horn and drank it off, before refilling it, his back to the Procureur.
This was a huge embarrassment, were it to come out. The castellan knew that the son of the old King’s chief lawyer might not be considered important himself, but the mere fact that he was related to a servant of the old King’s would make his death more suspicious, were anyone to learn about it.
‘I knew his father,’ he said at length. ‘He was an arrogant bastard at the best of times – like all those who get too much education and get pushed up the ladder when they’ve not the sense to make good use of it all. Bloody fools. Got to give him that: Guillaume was a bright lad. He picked things up. And when he went after the Jews, or the Templars or the Pope at Anagni, he made sure of his position first, and then he was as sodding relentless as a mastiff. If he got his teeth in, there was nothing would shake him loose. Complete bastard for that, he was.’
‘You liked him?’
The castellan eyed him sourly. ‘You mad? You trust anyone in the King’s closest circle? Of course I didn’t trust him or like him. No, he’d have shoved a knife in my back as soon as he heard I had something he fancied.’
‘Did you know him here at the court?’
‘After Anagni, yes
. I wasn’t here before that.’
‘You were there, then?’
‘Why do you say that?’ the castellan asked suspiciously.
Jean smiled. It was natural for any man to grow alarmed when he was asked about dead men whom they had known. ‘You mentioned Anagni, and it was as though that was an event in your life, not merely something that happened to de Nogaret. You were there, I infer?’
‘Yes. I was one of the King’s men. There were many of us there. And there was so much booty, all of us became richer for our efforts.’
‘Booty from the campaign?’
‘From the Pope’s palace. He was a thieving old scrote, Pope Boniface. Had the best collection of cash, gold, plates, goblets – you name it – of any Lord I’ve ever seen. Didn’t save him, though, murdering old bastard. We found him and raped the place! Happy times, they were.’
‘Did you know de Nogaret had a son?’
The castellan shrugged. ‘Should I? I last saw de Nogaret some while after the arrest of the Templars, a long time after Anagni, but by then I was already fairly wealthy myself. Didn’t have to ingratiate myself with him.’
‘His son was already a boy by then,’ Jean said pensively.
‘What of it?’ the castellan demanded. ‘You suggesting I had something to do with the lad’s death? Because I was here, and there are witnesses to it. The morning he was killed, I was here in the hall with the King.’
‘Sieur Hugues, please, do not upset yourself,’ Jean said soothingly. ‘I was thinking aloud, that is all. Is there anything else you can tell me about the boy or his father?’
‘Nothing. I hardly knew them.’
‘Very good. And now I must leave you. You will have much to do, I have no doubt.’
‘Why are you asking me all this about de Nogaret? Has someone said I was there?’
‘No, I merely wanted to learn all I could about the man, so I could try to understand what he was doing here.’
The King of Thieves: Page 12