The King of Thieves:

by Michael Jecks

  Four men had already punched, kicked and hammered the cook to the ground, but he lay with an expression of satisfaction on his face as the Cardinal began to gurgle and thrash about in his death throes.

  ‘He killed my boy,’ the cook said, just before Hugues kicked him in the face.

  Any possibility of an immediate hunt for the Bishop was gone with the death of the Cardinal. The men who had been mounting their horses so enthusiastically, were now milling about aimlessly. It was as though the removal of the Cardinal had taken away their collective will.

  Hugues crouched over the body of the Cardinal and wept, while the cook was dragged away to the castle’s cells. There was nothing Baldwin could do to protect him. He had murdered a priest in full view of half the Louvre’s staff. There could be no mitigation in a case like that.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Baldwin said.

  Hugues shook his head. ‘He was my only friend.’

  ‘You were at Anagni with him, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s how I came to have this position. I know Thomas did better, but I was happy enough. Food, a roof, women whenever I wanted. There’s everything I need.’

  ‘The money from Anagni paid for it?’

  ‘It meant I could become a baron in my own right. Thomas was right to go into the Church, because a man could buy more advancement for less money, but he had the training too. He was bright enough to make his way in the Church. I couldn’t have done that. But I was a good fighter. The King had need of a good baron, and with the help of de Nogaret’s father, I was knighted and became castellan here.’

  ‘Did you see de Nogaret here before he died?’

  ‘No. I didn’t know he was coming – I’d have welcomed him if I had. I didn’t realise Thomas would have him killed. I didn’t agree with that.’

  ‘You knew he had killed de Nogaret?’ Simon interrupted.

  ‘Who else would have done it? There was no need, though. The lad was no real threat. What was he going to do? Ask us about money we took twenty-three years ago? I doubt the King himself cares about it. It was money confiscated from his father’s enemy, anyway, so he’d be glad enough.’

  ‘You think so? In my experience,’ Baldwin said, ‘Kings tend to be quite happy to take money no matter where it comes from. If the Cardinal had thought that de Nogaret was going to report him or blackmail him, it could well have led him to kill the young man, to keep his secret. And the same goes for the kitchen knave.’

  ‘Him? He was just a boy,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘At least his master, the cook, thought differently,’ Baldwin said. ‘He thought the boy worth killing for.’

  ‘Perhaps the cook is a catamite? How should I know?’ Hugues snarled and returned to cradling Thomas’s body. ‘There was no need to do this for the brat.’

  Any sympathy which Baldwin had been forming for the man’s grief dissipated like morning mist.

  He turned and saw the horses waiting. ‘My Lord Cromwell, will you order them to stand down? There has been enough killing for one day.’

  Lord John nodded and began bellowing at the men to instruct them to return their horses to the stables, and meanwhile Pons stood over Hugues and the body, eyeing them thoughtfully. ‘You know, my friend, this still leaves me wondering about the other murders. There was the death of Madame de Nogaret. She surely died at the hands of some other. If the Cardinal killed her husband and the boy, it is less likely that he killed the woman. And Jean le Procureur was despatched by a professional. I suppose that must have been the assassin the King spoke of.’

  ‘The man who will soon also be dead,’ Baldwin noted.

  ‘Precisely. And yet, who killed my guard and took Le Boeuf? That was another, certainly, for I doubt me that the Cardinal would have left the castle so early in the morning as to do that.’

  ‘The assassin was in the pay of the robber King,’ Simon pointed out. ‘No doubt it was him again.’

  ‘And yet the assassin was already bitterly angry with the King, and it was mutual, because the one tried to withhold the money owed to the other. There was a body in the Seine when we got to his house, and the King told us that it was a man killed by the assassin. Would the latter have gone back to do the King’s bidding after that?’

  The others nodded, and Simon said, ‘So we may have another killer? It is an unlikely scenario.’

  ‘But something we shall have to consider. Something to keep in our minds,’ Pons said with grave deliberation.

  Chapter Forty

  Arnaud had seen it all. The Cardinal’s proud comments, the way that the group formed around him, the sudden appearance of the cook, the flash of the blade and the violence that followed … yes, he had seen it all.

  ‘You take care of this,’ he muttered to his men and strode away into the main courtyard after Hugues. He could see the castellan’s form up ahead; Hugues had the look of a broken man.

  ‘Sieur Hugues? I am so sorry, so sorry.’

  ‘What? Oh, Arnaud.’ Even his irascibility appeared to have been eroded. For Hugues looked like an older man, drawn in upon himself, the lines on his face more prominent, his eyes watery and unseeing. ‘You mean Thomas.’

  ‘I had never thought … I know he was a friend of yours.’

  ‘For more years than I can remember. My only friend. That cook will roast in hell!’

  ‘But why did he stab the Cardinal?’

  ‘Because Thomas killed the cook’s boy,’ Hugues snapped. ‘Didn’t you hear?’

  ‘No,’ Arnaud said, and he was frowning. ‘But I don’t understand …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I told you before – I saw your woman with that lad. You told me not to be stupid at the time, because she wouldn’t have killed the man de Nogaret, but she may have killed the lad.’

  Hugues opened his mouth, but then closed it again. His eyes dropped, and he studied the dirt for a moment. Then, ‘Tell them,’ was all he said.

  He turned on his heel and left the courtyard, walking to his chamber.

  When Hugues entered his room, he closed the door and stood in front of it, breathing deeply, eyes screwed tight shut, feeling as though his heart was about to burst.

  There was a smell in there. A smell he recognised.

  ‘Where are you?’ he rasped, opening his eyes again.

  ‘Here, lover.’

  Her throaty voice sent a chill along his spine. Pushing himself away from the door, he peered around his table. She was lying, naked, on the palliasse. She was as desirable as she had ever been, all whiteness and pinkness and softness. Everything he had ever wanted was there. He wanted to throw himself on top of her now, and find once again the release she offered. Even as he had the thought, she held up a hand invitingly, and he groaned and fell back on to his table, covering his face with his hands.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he said.

  She slowly came to a sitting position, leaning back on both arms. ‘Me? What have I done?’

  ‘You murdered the boy from the kitchen.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Hugues. Why don’t you come down here and tell me?’

  ‘You saw the lad out there, you paid him to get the other one, Raoulet, and had him go to the Cardinal. And then you killed the boy to cover your actions.’

  ‘Why would I have done that?’

  ‘For mischief. I know you.’

  ‘You think me so evil?’

  ‘I know you.’

  ‘But why would I do such a thing? I must have had a reason.’

  He looked at her. ‘You wanted to run the King of Thieves’ men, didn’t you? You set us all up. You had Thomas kill de Nogaret, you killed the kitchen knave to make it look as though Thomas had killed him too, and then you spoke to the King on Thomas’s behalf. The perfect go-between. You told him Thomas wanted a contract on de Nogaret’s wife, didn’t you? And then you made sure that Thomas was worried to death about the Procureur, and arranged another contract for his death.’

  She stretched l
uxuriously and lay back on the palliasse, smiling.

  ‘What then? Oh, you were involved in seeing to the arrest of the King himself, weren’t you? Why? So you could take over?’

  ‘I was always a lot cleverer than him. He is a fool.’

  ‘But you couldn’t run a gang like his. That’d be impossible. They’d cut you into minced meat for a pie.’

  ‘I could do it with an assistant.’

  ‘Who?’ Hugues sneered, letting his hands fall to his thighs. He eyed her with revulsion.

  ‘The King’s best man, of course,’ she said. ‘Jacquot.’

  ‘You persuaded him to rebel against the King?’

  ‘No. I persuaded the King to betray Jacquot. And that meant Jacquot would find himself in charge, if he was careful. And he was. So now he and I run it.’

  ‘You are evil. Is there no one you wouldn’t deceive?’

  ‘I haven’t deceived you, Hugues. If you wanted, you could join me,’ she said, and her hand wandered over her belly now, cupping a breast, rubbing gently, flicking, stirring herself and Hugues. ‘You would make more money than here, and you’d have me. Think of it. You could be in charge, once we get rid of Jacquot.’

  Hugues stared at her for a moment, and then said wearily, ‘Get out, deceiver. I trust nothing you say. Your very words are poison. Out! And never return to me.’

  A street near the Louvre

  Jacquot was still alive. That was, he felt, surprising.

  They had almost caught him three times. Once he fell over a startled cat, the bastard, and only just got to his feet in time to scarper before they caught up with him. There was another near-miss when he went the wrong way down an alley and found himself in a dead end. It had taken all his energy to clamber up a wall and escape. And finally there was that moment of dull shock when a man suddenly appeared in front of him, his head lowered and legs braced, a stick in his fist. He glared at Jacquot, and Jacquot in that moment knew that he was dead. He had no chance of escape with this man blocking his path.

  And then – miracle of miracles – the fellow apologised, bent his head politely, and stood aside to let Jacquot slip past.

  He had made it to this, the Grande Rue, and now, among the thronging crowds he could at least breathe. All the while, he cast about him for any sign of the men following, but there was nothing. They would spot him soon, no doubt. He must find an escape somehow. Somewhere …

  No. First he would find that poisonous bitch Amélie and slit her throat. This was a betrayal too far. She may have lived after ensuring the King was caught, but she should have realised Jacquot was different.

  There were only a few places she was likely to be at this time of the day. He knew that she would go to the tavern later, when she felt the need of food and drink, but before that she would usually go and whore at the Louvre. There were plenty of men there who would pay for her services, and Jacquot knew that she had made good use of her contacts there, bringing jobs and messages to the King. Truth be told, it was probably she who had taken the instructions from the Cardinal to have the Procureur murdered. And then, there were the other jobs. The woman killed down by the Grand Châtelet … she was the wife of the man slain in the Louvre, wasn’t she? And what about the man who had been set on Jacquot – the incompetent Stammerer. He would have been ordered to do that by someone. Perhaps she’d organised that, too, seeing the potential destruction of the King if she riled Jacquot enough. There were few lengths to which she would not go. And then she’d called the officers herself to the King’s hideaway, and ensured that he was taken.

  He had reached the gate of the city now, and moved with the crush, out towards the castle, which gleamed white and pure in the flashes of sunlight.

  And as he approached the enormous gatehouse, he saw her. Walking towards him.

  Louvre gatehouse

  She saw him quite clearly, and her smile was unaffected.

  That old goat Hugues was past his best. She wanted a partner of more stamina and power. Hugues was always half in the barrel. Too often, he would fall from her to snore when she was only partly satiated. That was why she came to him more often in the morning. At least then it was more likely that she would receive a decent service.

  But Jacquot, for all that he was the same age as Hugues, was more deserving of her attention. He had that cold, rational perspective. With his abilities and her ruthlessness, they would forge a partnership that would rock the whole of Paris.

  ‘Jacquot,’ she purred as he came closer.

  He smiled. ‘You really shouldn’t have tried to kill me,’ he said.

  His hand moved so quickly, she hardly had time to register it. The blade was a long one, and it slid in under her right breast. There was a little snagging sensation, an odd feeling that made her frown a little, and then a smooth gliding that was less pain, more itching. She felt the material at her back draw away as though in disgust, and then his hand was removed, and he was walking away from her. She stopped and glared at him, without registering for the moment what had happened. Jacquot, she saw, had his right hand under his cloaked left side, as though settling something. The knife, of course.

  She opened her mouth to shout at him, and then full realisation struck her as she gagged. Falling forwards, she retched and brought up a vast effusion of blood on to the dirt of the road before her. No! No! This wasn’t happening to her. It was a dream – a wild, ridiculous nightmare. She must wake in a moment and find herself in the King’s bed, or in Jacquot’s, or in Hugues’s. She couldn’t die here, lying in the street and watching her blood seep away from her to run in a thick stream down to the gutter.

  Unable to call, to shout, to accuse, she lifted her leaden head to watch as he stopped near the city gates. He gave her an unsmiling look, long and deliberate, before walking away again.

  She felt the pain growing, a spreading anguish that began in the wound and moved ever outwards until it encompassed her entire body, and then she began to roll and thrash in the roadway, the blood running freely from breast and back and mouth, until her struggles against death grew more slow and disjointed, while men-at-arms ran and called for aid, and women wailed and shrieked, and children bawled … and then she knew peace.

  Chapter Forty-One

  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 hal
fway 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.