The King of Thieves: (31 page)

Backed to the wall, he stood a while, listening. From here the noises of the courtyard were muted. The hammering of the smiths,
the cries and shrieks of all the servants, the bellows of the stewards, the agonised squealing of the pigs being slaughtered,
all were far off, as though in a different building altogether, and that fact alone made him feel more anxious. What he would
have given for his sergeant, Edgar, or Simon to be at his side. For he was sure that he was about to be attacked.

There was a slight waft of air. He felt it on the right-hand side of his beard, and saw the tapestry near his shoulder ripple.
There was a secret door behind it.

Moving with elaborate slowness, he began to draw his
sword. It was half out of the scabbard when the tapestries parted and he saw a familiar figure.

‘Ah, Sir Baldwin. I know already that you are a loyal servant of my husband. Do you intend to slay me?’ the Queen asked.

Slums east and north, Paris

André was no novice to the art of watching a house. Any man who had been in the service of Pons would soon learn that his
post was usually to stand in the rain and the chill wind without cover of any sort, and normally in the dead of night.

In his time André had watched suspected thieves, murderers and traitors as well as those who were thought to be at risk, but
this was the first time he had been told to watch someone who potentially fulfilled
all
the criteria.

Le Boeuf was not a pleasant character. André had already been asking a few of the people nearby about him, while Pons was
originally watching their quarry. Sending André was as clear as pinning a notice to the door announcing that the King’s men
were investigating little Le Boeuf. Pons wanted him to realise that he was being watched.

The doorway where he was standing was dark enough, he thought. There wasn’t much likelihood that he’d be seen. His dark cloak
and tan clothing would help, too, as would his swarthy features and beard. He only hoped and prayed that no inquisitive Sergent
would come along and ask what he was doing there, loitering with such obvious contempt for the laws of the city.

There was little to watch, in truth. The chamber in which Le Boeuf lived remained dark. It had been so since the early
morning when Pons had set him here. There was nothing happening, no one to see. André was here, freezing off both ballocks,
and all for no purpose. It already felt as though the whole of his left hand had frozen solid, and he wasn’t so sure that
his face was safe. If only it was still summer. At least in the summer he didn’t freeze.

Nor did he die. He felt the thread around his throat rather than seeing it slip over his head, and felt it tighten about his
skin before he even had time to raise a hand to try to stop it. He tried to scrabble with his fingers to reach under it, but
it was already beneath his flesh, cutting into it. There was nothing he could do to pull at it; nothing on which to gain purchase.
All he could do was scrape at his throat ineffectually, while the hideous cord crushed his windpipe and stopped the breath
in his neck. And then there was a sensation of collapse, and the madness rose in his mind as he felt his life draining away,
because his mind was working normally, and rationally it knew that he was going to die, and die now – slowly, painfully, his
lungs screaming, his mouth gaping.

He fell back, his heels striking frantically at the ground, while his eyes bulged and his tongue thickened in his mouth, blocking
what little airway there was. His hands reached behind him at last, trying in desperation to claw at his killer’s face, eyes,
throat.

And he failed. The man waited a little longer as the heels stilled, the fingers relaxed, the shoulders eased and the breast
stopped its mad jerking. He let the cord go, and very gently stroked André’s face, his hair, stroking down to his neck, which
he took suddenly in both hands, and twisted while pulling, until there was an audible crunching of bone.

Then Hugues the castellan stood again and looked over the road towards the house where Le Boeuf lived.

Le Boeuf would have to die. He was a problem, and problems were there to be resolved.

Louvre

‘Sit, Sir Baldwin.’

He rose from his bow, and backed himself to a stool. ‘Your Highness, I am terribly sorry. I had no idea …’

‘… that the good Cardinal could have brought you here for some ulterior motive of your Queen? I am not surprised. But
there is much which may surprise
you
.’

‘I am sure you are right.’

‘You know my husband has ordered my return, but you are not surprised that I am still here?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you have enemies in England.’

‘Despenser, naturally. And Bishop Walter. He is a particular enemy of mine. He hates me.’

‘I would not say …’ Baldwin was silenced by a look. Shame-facedly, he grinned. ‘Well, just now, with you refusing his
King’s command, perhaps yes, he does dislike you a little.’

‘Or a lot. But thank you for not lying to me, Sir Baldwin. Tell me – what would you do in my position?’

‘Me? Either return immediately and beg forgiveness, or petition the Pope to annul your marriage and remain here.’

She looked at him quickly. ‘Did you know that the Despenser has already attempted that? Ah, but almost everyone knows. Why
should I delude myself that I have any secrets any more?’

‘Your Royal Highness, you have many friends. Could you not merely go home and discuss this with the King, and petition your
friends to help you?’

‘Which friends do you think would help me? The King has
disbanded my own household. In England I am as free as a caged lark. I may sing, but only because if I do not, I will starve.
And no one dares to speak up for me. Not while the King and Despenser reject me. Do you think I am stupid?’

‘No, my Lady. Never. But I do hope that you do not intend to harm so many people in our country. If you wait over here, that
is one thing. It will delight the King’s enemies, and serve only to weaken him. That may mean that your son’s inheritance
is endangered.’

‘What else might I do?’

‘You know that as well as I. There are rumours of Mortimer.’

‘There are?’

‘Sir Roger Mortimer is already the King’s most detested enemy, my Lady. If you go to him, you will cause a great deal of anger
and resentment. Again, that must put your son’s future at risk.’

‘You think that the King would dare to suggest that I was a whore? That he would say our son was a bastard?’

Her voice had risen with her rage, and now she stood, quivering with fury before him.

He bowed his head. ‘My Lady, I do not accuse, I merely say what others will. The King will have poison poured into his ears
by the Despenser. You know that already. And the realm will be riven with anger, with mistrust and disloyalty. For some will
follow you, and others will follow the King. But at the end, when all the men in your host and in the King’s are dead, the
people will still follow the King. Because they trust in him. He is anointed by God.’

‘My son could be, too. If the King were persuaded to leave his throne, if he could be pensioned off, to a monastery, perhaps,
then my boy could be crowned in his stead.’

‘Lady, do you really believe that the men of England would
suffer a child on the throne? Your son is old enough to be wedded, I know, but he is not old enough yet to be able to defend
himself from the barons. What would the Marcher Lords make of him? If you disrupt the kingdom, if you show people that the
King is able to be deposed, they will take the message that the throne may be taken by any with authority and power. And your
son will not find his way to a monastery, I would wager.’

‘So I have no choice? Yours is the counsel of despair, Sir Baldwin.’

‘No, it is the counsel of honour, your Royal Highness. You do not wish to throw the kingdom into war and decline. Better to
return and accept your place. You will be honoured for it.’

She said nothing for a moment, and then she spoke, musingly eyeing the hallings before her. ‘You know, I did all in my power
to have him love me, Sir Baldwin. I made no complaint when I arrived in England, all alone, and found that my own jewels had
been taken and given to that primping cretin, Piers Gaveston. I did not mind, because I was so young, I only sought to win
his approval. At twelve years, all I knew was that my place was at the side of my husband, to comfort him. But he wanted nothing
of my company. He did not care for my comforts, only those of his friend Piers.

‘And when I grew older, when Gaveston was dead, and I gave Edward a son, at last, I thought, I had the love of my husband.
But then, that despicable excrescence Despenser came and inveigled his way into my husband’s affections. You know how that
snake works. My husband took a little longer to throw me aside, and at least I have had the comfort of a number of children,
but then at last Despenser won, and I lost all. Position, trust, wealth, friends, even my children. And if I return to England,
what exactly will be returned to me?’

‘My Lady—’

‘Nothing, Sir Baldwin.
Nothing!
You ask me not to go home to husband and lover, but to gaol. You tell me I have to do this, or that, and yet what you offer
to me in return is the bars of a cell. Tell me honestly – why should I go there? If I was your daughter, would you in faith
order me to go back to a husband who is despised by all? I am nine-and-twenty years. You are older. You could be my father!
What would you have me do?’

‘My Queen, you torment me. I am a loyal subject, I cannot in conscience say aught else but that you should go to your husband.’

‘Yes. You are loyal. But fools may be loyal. And if I were to be so loyal that I would put my life once more in the Despenser’s
hands, I would be a fool. A complete fool. I cannot do that, Sir Baldwin. And more, I most certainly cannot allow my son to
be taken back. Despenser wants total power. Would you have me, a mother, place my own son’s life in danger? I will not. I
cannot.’

‘Then what, Lady?’

‘My course is set, I think. I do not wish it, but I see no choice. That is what the good Bishop said, was it not? That my
husband had left me no choice? He meant that I should go back with him, immediately. But when a man tries to force one course,
sometimes God will show another.’

‘What will it be?’

‘For now, I will remain here. Sir Roger Mortimer has been most kind to me, in the absence of my own money or the support of
my husband. I shall remain here with him.’

‘Your Royal Highness, I am deeply sorry to hear it.’

‘Perhaps you are. Can you not understand the appalling hurt I have suffered at my husband’s hands?’

‘Yes, I can comprehend the hideous injustice you feel. I detest injustice as much as any man.’

‘But you do not think that I should protect myself?’

‘You are in a most difficult position. As Queen you are the embodiment of all the womanly virtues. How could I advise you
to do other than return to your position as Queen?’

‘That is most sad, Sir Baldwin. You see, I wish to ask you to remain here with me. To serve and guard me.’

Tavern near Grand Châtelet

Vital had just demanded a fresh jug of wine when the portly Sergent from Le Boeuf’s street appeared in the road outside. He
was out of breath and wheezing with the unaccustomed exercise, but he did not halt until he was at the table beside Pons,
and then he stood, head hanging, as he composed himself.

‘Come, man! What is the matter with you?’

‘André – he is dead. A man has killed him!’

The two gaped for an instant, but then they were on their feet, bellowing for the tavern-keeper, thrusting the table from
their paths as they rushed towards the door.

André lay in a doorway, his neck broken, his eyes staring, his tongue swollen and protruding a little. A gaggle of people
had gathered nearby, a woman holding a little boy as though she could protect him from the memory of the sight – although
it was more likely that she wanted to be saved from the sight herself. ‘It was my little Henri who found him, Master,’ she
said.

‘When?’

The boy had been playing with a top, apparently, and found the dead man only a matter of moments after he had come from the
church at the end of the Mass. They had sent for the Sergent immediately, and he had arrived very soon because he too had
been at church.

‘What of Le Boeuf?’ Pons asked the Sergent.

He shrugged. ‘I came to fetch you as soon as this body was found.’

Pons had a feeling of dread as he glanced across the road, but would not admit to such feelings before these others. ‘Come!’
he said, and set off to Le Boeuf’s house.

The door was open, and Pons felt his shoulders droop. He made no pretence of caution. There was no point. He knew that the
man was dead already. It was a small house, with only one large chamber below, and a ladder to climb to a smaller room up
in the eaves. Pons went up, filled with dread at what he would find in the bedchamber, but when he reached it, there was nothing
to be seen. Only rumpled clothing which reeked, and a rotten palliasse with straw so ancient, most was turned to dust.

‘Well?’ Vital called up to him.

‘Nothing. He’s not here.’

‘Shit of a witch!’ Vital swore.

Louvre

The Bishop of Exeter returned to his chamber with little sense of his alarm and concern being allayed. All that his prayers
appeared to have achieved was a conviction that his position here was intolerable.

It was all the Queen’s fault! The woman should have agreed to go back to her husband without argument or delay, but no! She
had to remain here and try to seek some additional damned concessions. Well, there would be none. And meanwhile, the Bishop’s
own life was in danger, as he had predicted before coming here. Dear God, what he would give now for that prediction to be
proved false!

‘Sir Richard, where is Sir Baldwin?’ he asked as he entered his chamber.

‘He’s been called to speak with the Cardinal, me Lord.’

‘Perhaps the Cardinal is to persuade him to go to the Queen’s side, then,’ Bishop Walter said musingly. ‘I should not be surprised.
She is tempting all others here in France.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. With Simon and Baldwin and me, you’ll be secure enough,’ the imperturbable knight declared, peering with
interest at a plate piled high with different dried meats.

‘Yes, Simon – where is he?’

‘He went out to the privy a little while ago.’

‘Oh. I see.’ The Bishop nodded, and walked to a chair, in which he sat and brooded a while.

‘You look worried still, me Lord Bishop,’ Sir Richard said, chewing at a sausage with an expression of distrust on his face.
‘Pah! Too little salt in that.’

‘I am concerned for the kingdom. The Queen’s irrational behaviour could bring untold damage to the King.’

‘What harm can she do? She’s here, the King’s there. Unless she tried to marry their son off to some princess, there’s not
much she can achieve. She’s a woman, when all’s said and done.’

‘Women can be most capable at deceit and dissembling, don’t forget, Sir Richard … and this one is French,’ the Bishop
added.

‘And alone.’

The Bishop clenched his fist and held it in the air. ‘Alone? She has persuaded many to rally to her. It was bad enough with
a few contrary men who could not remain in the King’s realm at peace, but now I am convinced that she has succeeded in calling
Lord John Cromwell to her side, and I believe de Beaumont will remain here with her. In England she has managed to convince
many that she has been wronged – and yet look at her! Does she appear to be a woman who’s distressed?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Sir Richard said.

‘No,’ the Bishop agreed quietly. ‘Neither do I. Yet I do know that she is a friend of the Cardinal.’

‘You speak his title as if it’s poison in your mouth, me Lord.’

Walter Stapledon glanced over at the honest-faced knight. ‘I do not like that Cardinal. He strikes me as the kind of man who
is too keen to provide for himself, and less likely to invest in the general good. Do you know, some years ago I had the duty
of attending to the Pope. Clement was not the most rigorous man in his works, and I was occasionally forced to
wonder about his motives in constantly acquiring new assets. Such jewels, such quantities of gold and silver … and one
item I adored: a set of goblets which were quite extraordinary. Lovely workmanship. Pewter, but with delightful gilding.’

‘Aye.’ Sir Richard nodded politely, trying to concentrate.

‘And I saw the mate of those goblets in the Cardinal’s room. You see, I think he is as avaricious as any other. It is partly
that which makes me fear him, for if the Queen were to offer him money, or Mortimer – God save us! – we would be entirely
at the mercy of a man who would not scruple to remove obstacles.’

‘Hmm. You think he might attempt to kill you?’

‘I greatly fear it, yes. And if it would suit him, he would be happy to remove me by allowing rumours of my guilt in the death
of the Procureur to flourish. Ah, me! What can I do?’

‘Sit and have some wine, me Lord. It’s very good.’

The Bishop smiled wearily. ‘I think my need is greater for spiritual support. And right now, I must leave and emulate Simon.
Excuse me.’

‘D’you wish me to walk with you? After all you’ve said, surely it’s not safe for you to be alone? What if that man from the
corridor should meet you again?’

‘I should be safe enough in broad daylight,’ the Bishop said with a grateful smile. ‘Even the Cardinal would not dare to attack
me in the King’s castle in the sun.’

Outside, a little of his bleak mood left him. In truth, it was hard to be miserable while in a marvellous place like this.
The Louvre was one of the most magnificent castles in the whole of Christendom, with the white stone making it shine in the
afternoon light. Approaching it in broad sunlight was quite dazzling, because the white stonework mingled with the water of
the immense moat to blind a man. Lovely, quite lovely.

After relieving himself, he wandered a little while, his mind
running on the work he must yet complete before he could go home. It was the first time in a long time that he had been able
to leave matters of state alone. Perhaps, he reflected, it was the result of the discussion with God in the chapel. He had
seen fit to calm Bishop Walter’s fears and lend him a little ease.

‘Bishop? Are you all right?’

He turned to see Simon Puttock hurrying towards him, a look of concern twisting his features. ‘You are an extraordinary guard,
Master Puttock,’ he smiled. ‘You leave me in my chapel, and then make the effort to seek me out while I’m enjoying the sun.’

‘Yes, that’s right. Would you like to come back now?’

‘No, it is good to take the air for a little.’

‘The air here is not so wholesome as that in your chamber, Bishop,’ Simon said firmly.

‘You wish me to be inside, where you may protect me more easily, and there is logic in that. But the cool air here seems to
make my mind function more effectively.’

‘Yes, I have no doubt. However, I would like you to come with me
right now
.’

There was an edge to his voice that made Bishop Walter stop and look at him with a sudden alarm. ‘What is it, Simon? Is there
another disaster to mar this lovely morning?’

‘Only one thing, Bishop. Sir Roger Mortimer is here.’

Upper chamber near St Jacques la Boucherie

He woke with acid in his belly, and Le Boeuf began to puke before he knew where he was, before he remembered anything about
the evening.

‘Christ’s boils!’ he muttered, spitting and cursing.

There was a pain that began right behind his eyeballs and spread from there to encompass his entire skull. He must have been
beaten up badly for his body and head to feel like this, he
told himself. And then there was the soreness about his belly. He must have been drinking too, then.

There was light now, but he daren’t open his eyes yet. The pain was going to be too intense, sod it, so he rolled himself
over, avoiding the direct sun. But something was very wrong. He wasn’t on his palliasse. Maybe he’d fallen from it, and was
just on the planks of the bedchamber, then. There was rough timber under his cheek, and he experimented with his good eye,
opening it to glance down.

Where was he?
This wasn’t his floor. It wasn’t his home. Where had he got to? In a mild panic, he sat upright, and then he realised his
wrists were bound. ‘God’s ballocks! What the …’

‘Awake, are you? Good. I like to have someone awake when I consider what to do with him. Although in your case I don’t feel
the need to worry myself. Can you understand that?’

Le Boeuf closed his eye and shook his head, hoping that this might be a mere bad dream, but the dream didn’t go away. He felt
an ungentle prod against his back, and then a pain that seemed to slam into his kidney and made his eyes jerk wide. A whimper
left his drooling mouth.

‘Aha, Le Boeuf, so you do know who I am, eh?’

The King of Thieves crouched down to smile at him. Behind him, Le Boeuf could see a woman, a dark beauty with a look of interest
on her face as she watched the King draw a dagger. He allowed it to rest against Le Boeuf’s cheek, the point down on his skin.
It made his flesh creep. He could feel the sharpness, sense the ease with which it could be thrust down, where it would jar
against his teeth, then slip softly into his mouth, through his tongue, through even the other cheek, until it pierced the
wooden floor, where it would hold him entirely; he’d be unable to move without slicing through the whole of both cheeks, losing
his tongue in the process. This
was torture of a sort King Charles’s own executioners could not have dreamed of. He had heard of the King of Thieves using
it against many of his own men.

‘Who did you speak to when you decided to sell me and my men?’ the King asked in a mild, soft tone.

‘I didn’t tell anyone …’

The knife was pressed down. There was a spurt in his mouth, and he screamed into his closed lips, eyes wide and panicked.
Blood in his mouth. A chip of tooth where the dagger’s blade had connected. ‘No! No!’

‘You’ll tell me, of course,’ the King said. ‘Because it’s easy. And if you don’t, I’ll have your body cut into tiny pieces,
one by one, even as you watch. You’ll be able to see it all. So you need to answer.’

‘The King’s Sergent. I had to! I had to tell him. And he brought two officers of the King, a man called Pons and another called
Vital. They were going to …’

‘Yes, they were going to kill you, weren’t they? Well, it doesn’t really matter now, because you will die for what you have
told them. You have put me to a lot of trouble, you see. So I think I shall kill you – but not yet. No, I think you need to
consider your crimes first, and so I shall wait until later. But to make sure you don’t try to escape, I shall need a hammer,
please.’

He wanted to shake his head, to plead, but the King had no compassion. There was nothing in his eyes except the desire to
inflict as much pain as possible on the man before him. Le Boeuf saw the heavy leaden hammer being passed, and only just had
time to open his jaw before the dagger’s hilt was struck. His horrified screams were almost muted by the dull thudding of
the hammer against the dagger as it was pounded through Le Boeuf’s mouth and into the floor.

‘There,’ the King said, when he was done. He eyed the
sobbing, bleeding thing on the floor before him, and drew back his boot to slam it with all his malice into Le Boeuf’s belly,
making the man spew again, the vomit pooling near his mouth, the acid burning at the fresh wounds in his cheeks, the blood
mingling with the greenish-yellow swirls. ‘Feel free to rise, if you want,’ the King said quietly.

He kicked again, and Le Boeuf felt it hammer at his upper belly, his body convulsing to eject all the fluid left in his stomach,
desperate not to move his mouth and slash all to pieces.

But it wasn’t the King’s ferocity towards him that scared him most. It was the look in the woman’s eyes as she watched, licking
her lips as though contemplating a sexual encounter, rather than the destruction of a poor beggar.

Bruised, his kidney ruined, his face pinned to the wooden plank of the floor, Le Boeuf sobbed for his life and for his approaching
death.

Louvre

Baldwin was leaving the Cardinal’s chamber, when the Cardinal himself approached him from the corridor. ‘Sir Baldwin? Would
you object to my walking with you?’

‘By all means,’ Baldwin said with an entirely false smile.

‘The Queen is a most determined lady.’

‘Yes. I was growing aware of that,’ Baldwin said.

‘She would have the King relinquish his unnatural obsession with this man Despenser and return to her marital bed. Is that
such a dreadful desire?’

‘Of course not. However, it is her methodology which I question. She has been commanded to go to her husband, and that rightful
order she is refusing to obey. That itself is
petit
treason. No woman has the right to deny her husband’s command. But this is worse – her husband is the King. That
makes her refusal an act of genuine treason. It is impossible to condone such behaviour.’

‘You would have her go to a home which is repugnant to her? You would have her throw herself at her husband, no matter how
undeserving?’

‘Yes. She is married to him. It may be painful, but better that than the inevitable shame and humiliation of being
forced
to go back.’

The Cardinal looked at him from under frowning brows. ‘You think someone could force her?’

‘Your King will have to in the end. The Pope will not wish for any further enmity between your King and ours.’

‘The Pope will be keen to see the issue resolved, it is true.’

‘You don’t think he’ll demand that she returns to her husband?’

‘The Pope? No. I know his mind, I think, as well as anyone does.’

‘Why not?’ Baldwin asked, genuinely confused by the man’s arrogant conviction.

The Cardinal looked at him. ‘Do you understand much about the workings of power?’ he asked, pointedly looking at Baldwin’s
patched and threadbare tunic. ‘I used to be a poor man, but I managed to achieve some prominence by application and taking
some risks. Some years ago I helped the French King to capture the treacherous Pope Boniface. I was soon afterwards able to
advance myself. It is how all do so, Sir Knight. The Pope is another such self-made man who managed to win an election. God
did His part – but who is to say that men themselves did not influence His choice? The Pope, when all is said and done, is
only a man. He wants his life to be eased, not complicated. Now, from his perspective, how safe will it be for Queen Isabella
to return to her husband? It will lead to strife in their relationships. It may even lead to her being chastised.

‘And now consider this. If she were to be publicly rebuked, how would the King of France view such treatment of his sister?
Would you be happy, were she your sister, and you the King of such a land as this? It may well lead to a war, and one which
could only have dire consequences for the rest of the Christian world, and which must also delay the possible expeditionary
force to the Holy Land to begin a new Crusade. If you were Pope, would you wish for such an eventuality? Or would you prefer
to keep the couple separate, perhaps even until the King himself died and his son could take the throne. Then the mother could
return.’