The King of Thieves: (3 page)

Toscanello grunted to himself, and then set off again, his boots slapping on the paved floor. It was a huge room, this, larger
than any he’d seen before. Probably used to store all that was necessary to feed the army of hangers-on which the Pope took
with him everywhere. Not that many of them had stayed behind with their master; they had all melted away in the hour or so
before the arrival of Guillaume and Sciarra’s army. Only the Pope and a few loyal attendants remained, and this one fellow,
too.

His behaviour was odd. Most of the clerks here had submitted immediately, hoping that by surrendering, they might save themselves
further pain. Not so this one. He was running as though he thought he might be able to save himself somehow.

Toscanello shrugged. There was a door at the far side. He saw it close, and ran towards it, reaching it in time to hear the
bolt sliding over.

‘Shit!’ He experimentally slammed the pommel of his sword into the old wood, and saw it dent and shiver. It was enough. He
pounded on the door with all his might, until at last a plank burst apart, and he could reach in. Groping wildly, he found
the bolt and opened it, shoving the door wide.

And found himself at the rear of the Pope’s palace. A door was slammed a short way away, and he saw that it was the entrance
to an undercroft.

‘We’ll dig him out,’ a voice rasped, and Toscanello looked up to see Paolo striding towards him. Toscanello had never liked
Paolo, and the feeling was mutual. Paolo had been a paid man-at-arms to a Roman family, and looked down upon all those who
were born outside of Rome itself. Still worse, all those who weren’t actually warriors. But he had three men with him, who
may not have been Romans, but all had the same aristocratic contempt for peasants. Toscanello sheathed his sword and nodded,
then turned and walked back the way he had come. It was plain enough that Paolo reckoned there could be a rich reward in following
the man.

They were all there for profit, after all. There were men even now, arguing and fighting upstairs over some of the Pontiff’s
richer clothing; Toscanello could hear them. In the court he could see five or six men bickering over a huge tapestry, pulling
in all directions, until another, a red-faced Piedmontese with a jug in one fist and his sword in the other, swathed in bright
silks stolen from some secret store, set his sword’s edge on the cloth and it ripped, the coloured threads parting all through,
and the men falling.

The Piedmontese laughed uproariously, but then stopped as a dagger sliced across his throat, and the fool toppled back, thrashing
about as he died. The others laughed then.

All about Toscanello, the place was degenerating. Someone had found the undercroft where the wine was stored, and there were
men drinking and brawling in the dirt. From the shouts and screams inside the palace itself, others were rampaging through
it, looting as they went. All that splendour, all the majesty of the Pope, was being systematically destroyed. It made Toscanello
unutterably sad … There was a sudden shout from Paolo, and Toscanello turned just in time to see his quarry spring from
the door behind which he had hidden, and set off across the court towards Toscanello. But he had only
taken seven or eight steps when Toscanello saw Paolo lift his arm. There was a glint of steel as he brought his arm back –
and then he let fly.

The dagger he threw was little more than a flat, sharpened steel splinter ten inches long. There was no defined cross, only
a rough leather grip. Now the highly polished steel flashed in the sun as it sped on towards the running man, and suddenly
the man’s steps faltered. He looked as though he would fall, but managed to pick up his rhythm again, running harder. Toscanello
willed him to succeed, to reach some place of safety where he might be able to escape, but even as the thought ran through
his mind, he saw the man’s legs wobble, like a puppet whose strings were loosened. His eyes widened, and he slowed. Blood
trickled from his lips, and he staggered, and then was suddenly still. He gazed at Toscanello with what looked like rage mingled
with incomprehension, and then toppled to his knees, falling to rest on all fours before very gently sagging down to lie with
his face in the dirt.

Paolo walked to him with a beaming smile. ‘Said I could hit him, Hugues,’ he called over his shoulder to one of his men. ‘That’s
a gold piece you and Thomas owe me!’ He pulled the dagger free, then stabbed twice, quickly into the man’s back – one to the
kidneys, one to the heart – before wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s robes. He cast a contemptuous glance in Toscanello’s
direction, and swaggered away.

He was plainly dead before Toscanello reached him. Rolling the body over, he found himself staring down at a young man of
his own age. The eyes were brown, but already fogged with death, and the splash of blood about his face made him look repugnant,
but Toscanello forced himself to peer down at him for a few moments, reflecting that this had been a man. That it could easily
have been him who died here.

Just a man. A young man with a tonsure. Toscanello shook
his head. The fellow had a crucifix about his neck, and a rosary at his belt. And then he peered. There was a key, too. A
large steel key, as though to a door or a large chest.

That was how Toscanello became richer than any man he had ever met.

And why he was slain.

Monday after Nativitas, Blessed Virgin Mary, eighteenth year of the reign of King Philip IV of France
^*

Anagni

Guillaume de Nogaret marched over to the figure lying dead on the ground. He looked at the Sergent. ‘Well?’

‘They killed him, took the money and bolted. They’re not the only ones though – you know that. All the men are sitting here
hung-over and riotous.’

‘Which ones were they?’

‘Paolo’s men – Hugues and Thomas – but he’s dead too. So only those two. You want me to send after them?’

The King of France’s most trusted adviser looked down at the broken figure of Toscanello. ‘He was only Italian,’ he said.
‘Let them go. We don’t have the men to catch them.’

Morrow of Deusdedit
,

Third year of the reign of King Charles IV of France, nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward II of England
^*

Louvre, Paris

At last the woman was gone. He would not meet her here in the Louvre on his way to the chapel, nor in the King’s chamber.
He was rid of her.

Cardinal Thomas d’Anjou could not help but feel the spring in his step at the thought. Her presence here in Paris had been
an embarrassment for too long. The idea that a woman like her should come here and flagrantly ignore the rightful demands
of her husband … well, it was not to be borne.

King Charles IV had demonstrated enormous sympathy for her. Of course, he always considered any situation from the perspective
of chivalry, and what was honourable, so when his sister arrived here in France, King Charles had made her welcome. The fact
that she was a negotiator from that despicable tyrant, King Edward II of England, did not detract from the King’s evident
joy at seeing his sister again.

Perhaps his pleasure was enhanced by the fact that he was himself married again at last. The poor man had suffered so
much from the adultery of his first wife. The whole royal family had. She and her sisters-in-law had been found to have committed
the foul sin with two knights. Immediately the women were imprisoned, while the men suffered the most humiliating, painful
and public deaths ever meted out by a King to a traitor.

King Charles’s woman was mentioned only in lowered tones since then. But at long last the Pope had permitted the annulment
of the marriage when she had fallen pregnant to her gaoler at the Château Gaillard. The clear, incontrovertible proof of her
faithlessness at that point had been enough, and the Pope at last gave his agreement. Now the faithless one was safely installed
in a convent far away, and the King had remarried a second time. Sadly, his second wife had died in childbirth. The baby himself
had only lasted a short while before also succumbing, and now the King was married to his third wife, the delightful young
Jeanne d’Évreux. Hopefully, with her he would prove more fortunate and provide an heir for the kingdom.

There had been so much trouble in the last few years, Cardinal Thomas thought. Ever since the end of the Templars, the Parisians
had experienced increasing hardship. Kings came and went, but they were astonishingly short-lived, and none seemed able to
father a son. This latest King could be the saving of the line – it was an end to be desired, after all. God alone knew who
else might take over the realm.

But his sister’s arrival, and her refusal to obey her own husband, must be a shameful reminder to King Charles of his own
suffering. Even the joy of his latest marriage must be soured by the presence of his sister, Queen Isabella of England. After
all, she it was who had told their father about the women’s adultery in the first place.

A messenger came, knocking gently on the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Cardinal, there is a man to see you. He says he has information for the King.’

The Cardinal made a dismissive gesture. ‘You want me to come and see someone
now
? Are you a complete fool?’

‘He said it was about a treasure, Cardinal. Something stolen from the King. I thought someone should know, but the steward,
the marshals –
everyone
– is preparing for the departure of the English Queen.’

Cardinal Thomas frowned, looking at his reflection in the mirror. There was a little mark on his cheek, and he licked a finger,
removing it. ‘Very well. I shall come to find him,’ he said eventually, and rose. ‘There is still some little while before
the King and his lady arrive. I shall go to see this man, and then you can take him back to the gates again – yes?’

He waved the servant onwards, and the man led the way along the high corridor, and into a tower. They descended by spiral
stairs to the ground floor and turned left, past the kitchens and storehouses, where the din of clattering pans and dishes
mingled with shouted commands to the kitchen staff and one hoarse bellowing voice demanding to know where on God’s earth his
kitchen knave had gone. The Cardinal also saw the black-haired whore who was Hugues’s latest favourite, sitting and combing
her hair with slow, wanton deliberation near the horse troughs. No doubt she’d been washing away her sins, the Cardinal thought
sardonically.

At a door near the great gate, the servant stopped, waiting for a sign. The Cardinal nodded, his eyes closed. ‘Be quick!’

The servant opened the door for the Cardinal, and stood back.

Cardinal Thomas entered. ‘What on … Man, there’s been a murder! Call the guard at once!’

‘Sir? I—’

‘
GO!
’

As the servant hurried away, his feet silent on the sanded ground, the Cardinal crouched by the side of the man on the ground.
The fellow was only twenty or so. Not much more, certainly. He had a strong face, but resentment showed in the narrow set
of the eyes. There was much you could tell from a man’s face, the Cardinal thought; this one had lived with bitterness. ‘Where
you are going, all bitterness will be gone,’ he muttered gently, and pressed his fingers to the man’s throat, feeling for
a pulse. There was nothing. Just the coolness that was unnatural in a living man.

Sighing, Cardinal Thomas knelt and began to recite the
Pater Noster
, then the
Viaticum
, as he glanced about him at the room where the fellow lay.

‘What a place to die, eh? What a place.’

Château du Bois, Paris

Queen Isabella of England stood with her back to the window as she held her arms out for her ladies to clothe her. All must
be perfect, after all. She was a Queen.

Yet even a Queen had concerns. For Queen Isabella it was hard to know what to do for the best. If she were weaker in spirit,
she would have given up her embassy and returned to her husband. There was so very little money remaining now. That was a
permanent worry, because her grasping, miserly spouse had not entrusted her with sufficient funds when he sent her here to
Paris to negotiate with her brother. No, instead he had taken away all her revenues, as though she herself might become a
traitor. All because she was French.

Perhaps there was no actual malice in it. Edward was not generally malicious. Or hadn’t been before his mind had been poisoned
by that murderous devil, Sir Hugh le Despenser.

When they had first been married, he had treated her with
scant respect, but she had been so young compared with him. He was four- or five-and-twenty, while she was just twelve. It
was not surprising that he preferred the company of others, of older men. And women, of course. She was wise enough to know
that. It was four years before she would be able to give birth to their son, Edward. Adam had been the King’s firstborn son,
although poor Adam had died in Scotland on one of the King’s adventures to pacify that cold and wet province.

Still, he had appreciated her when his great companion, Piers Gaveston, had died, murdered by his most powerful barons. They
had
dared
set themselves against their lawful King! That was something a French baron would never have thought to attempt, but the
English were ever truculent and rebellious. Even the people of London would revolt at the slightest opportunity and rush through
the streets causing mayhem and murder as they went. It was a land that demanded a mailed fist to control it.

At that time she had done all in her power to aid and support him, as any wife would. The birth of their boy had helped, naturally.
King Edward II was besotted with the lad. As soon as little Edward was born, the King seemed to change. He lavished presents
upon the man who brought news of the birth, he made grand gestures to his boy, endowing him with lands and ennobling him when
he was only a few days old.

But the depredations of Despenser were bound to cause problems, and soon the depth of the Despenser’s greed became apparent.

In the beginning he was more circumspect, but as he grew less worried about his position, depending upon the King for support,
the people in the land grew to hate him more and more. Eventually his thefts, his murders, his kidnaps and tortures proved
too much and the Lords Marcher in Wales could take no more. They overran his territories and brought
their armies to London. For a while they held the King to account and forced Despenser’s exile. But then, when he returned,
he was stronger, more deeply in the King’s affection, and all the more powerful.

The Lords Marcher were crushed at the Battle of Boroughbridge, and afterwards began the slaughter. Men-at-arms, squires, even
knights and lords, were rounded up and executed as an example to others. The first to die was the King’s own cousin, Earl
Thomas of Lancaster. It was as though all the King’s rage at the way his ‘dear brother’ Piers had been slain was guiding his
mind now. All those who now stood against his new favourite were his enemies, and he would destroy them all. The bodies of
his enemies decorated the gates of every town and city in the realm.

It was a hideous shock. Isabella could see the change in every aspect of her own life.

All was the fault of that snake, Despenser, and the foul Bishop of Exeter, the untruthful, greedy thief who set such stock
on probity in public, and who enriched himself at the expense of all while he was Lord High Treasurer to the King. It was
those two together who caused her such terrible trouble.

Despenser hated her. There was no hiding his feelings. They both knew and understood each other. There might be occasional
flashes of mutual respect, but little more than that. Despenser had lured her husband from her, and she would never forgive
him. Her ease of spirit was all gone, stolen away by this … this
pharisee
. Any joy she had once experienced in her marriage was now nothing but a fading memory.

The Bishop was equally evil, in her mind. It was he who had spoken to the King after the War of Saint-Sardos last year, he
who had murmured soft words of deceit. He said that it was unsafe for the French to have an ally in the easily invaded lands
of Devon and Cornwall. Perhaps it would be best if they
were taken out of the control of the Lady who was sister to the French King, and who was yet the Queen of England. Not because
she was
herself
disloyal, of course … but she had a huge
familia
to support her. And almost all were French themselves.

Her household was broken up shortly afterwards. All her properties were taken into the King’s hands, all her income confiscated,
her servants, guards and even ladies-in-waiting dismissed, all bar a tiny number. Even her children were taken from her. No
doubt, in order that she might not pollute their minds against the lawful commands of their father. That was how effective
the Bishop’s sly mutters had been. She had not even the solace of her daughters. And then she was herself given a new household
of ladies; now nothing could be written or sent in private apart from some few, carefully concealed notes which the Queen
managed to secrete about herself. There were still one or two men upon whom she could rely. Even the woman responsible for
her household was installed at the insistence of Despenser. Isabella’s most senior lady-in-waiting was his wife, Eleanor.
And Eleanor held that most potent proof of Isabella’s independence: her personal seal. There was nothing remaining of Isabella’s
regal position, in truth. It was utterly humiliating.

With the pittance her husband had allowed for this journey, there was little for any form of extravagance. That was why she
was forced to leave Paris and find cheaper accommodation elsewhere. Soon, perhaps, she would be forced into returning to her
husband. There was no alternative, when all was said and done. At least for now she was only to move a little outside the
city, to the Château du Bois.

Meanwhile, there were compensations. Life here in France was far less austere than her existence had been in recent months.
Although she could not afford distractions of her own,
there were many invitations from others, to parties, hunts, diversions of all kinds.

All she hoped was that the truce should hold a little longer, and that the negotiations should continue. Here she felt free
once more.

She would not return to England to be insulted and slighted, to be gaoled in a gilded cage.