Michael Jecks
The King of Thieves
Prologue
Saturday, Nativitas, Blessed Virgin Mary, eighteenth year of the reign of King Philip IV of France*
Path outside Anagni, south-east of Rome
God’s blood, but he hated them. All of them. The religious ones; the pious ones. And today he would win some sort of satisfaction for the way they’d treated him.
It was a hot day, and Guillaume de Nogaret wiped his brow with his sleeve as he sat on the horse, waiting for the signal from the man at the top of the rise. September in this benighted land here, only a few leagues from Rome, was always hot. He was used to heat, but not to this overwhelming dryness. He was baking inside the heavy tunic he had bought in Paris.
Some two-and-thirty or so years old, Guillaume had been born in the lovely countryside near St Félix-en-Caraman, but it was not long before he had been captured — when he was orphaned.
The men who had taken him were all the same. Men of the Church who prostrated themselves before the Cross and begged forgiveness for their sins. Well they might! Their hypocrisy and venality were unequalled. Thieves and gluttons, lustful, degenerate, evil. They would declare their love for boys like the little Guillaume, asking him to participate in their unnatural practices, and then beat him with rods when he refused them.
Beatings, whippings … all was punishment in their world: children like little Guillaume were there to be educated and shown the right path to take, they said. That was why they must thrash him regularly, they said. There were times he had returned to his cot with his back and buttocks so raw, so severely lacerated, that he could not lie on his back for days. Sleep in those times came hard. He would weep, silently, for making noise in the dorter would lead to another thrashing, crying red-hot tears of misery at the loss of his darling parents. God should not have taken them from him. But God didn’t. Men did.
His parents had been good, kind, hard-working folk. Their name came from the small property his father had inherited, a peasant’s home at Nogaret, but his father had been better off than that. He had lived in Toulouse; made a fair living, too. Young Guillaume could remember both parents. In the long, lonely hours of the night, he was sure he could sometimes smell faint traces of lavender, the scent he associated with his mother. And sometimes, when he was about to doze off, he could feel the touch of her lips upon his forehead. Those were happy moments. She had doted upon him. He knew that. And he missed her so.
Theirs was a close family. All his father had wanted was for his ‘Petit Guillaume’ to take over his work and make a good life for himself. Simple desires, the desires of a peasant — but good, sensible ones, the kind that would wash through the veins of any man who had the earth baked into his soul from the first moment of birth. And Guillaume was one such man.
Yes, the boy hated the so-called men of God, who sought to conceal their true natures beneath calm smiles and soft manners. Yet he knew them. They had raised him; they had shown him their weaknesses. And he would exploit them, all of them.
At last! The signal.
Sieur Guillaume de Nogaret nodded to his servant, then spurred his mount. Behind him, the standard-bearer’s flag flapped and crackled as the wind whipped around in little gusts. Perhaps that was why he was feeling reflective, Guillaume told himself. This area was like the hills about Carcassone and up to Montaillou. It reminded him of his old home.
But home was miles away, just as his arse was telling him now. Since the great meeting at the Louvre six months ago, Guillaume felt as though he had been travelling constantly, riding hurriedly to do the King’s will. Paying out money without worry, hiring men as he may, and recruiting those who had as much hatred as he.
As his horse clattered up the stony path, he had to concentrate on keeping his seat, so when he reached the summit of the little rise, and could gaze about him, the scene was a fresh one.
A thousand — no, fifteen hundred — warriors were waiting in a small valley. They had ridden hard, too, all the way from Florence, where he had paid for them, and they were resting their horses and seeing to their equipment.
‘My friend. I hope I find you well?’
Their leader was a tall, elegant, grizzled man of about the same age. He looked over Guillaume’s clothing with a quizzical eye.
‘I am well, Giacomo,’ Guillaume said softly. Giacomo Colonna was the fiercest general in that warlike family. The Colonnas were the second great clan of Rome, and detested their enemies with a passion that was equalled only by Guillaume’s. Any opportunity would be seized by them to hit back at the Gaetani family — especially the head.
There was nothing more to say. Giacomo, known as ‘Sciarra’, the Quarreller, because of his bellicose habits, was a man who believed more in actions than polite conversation, and particularly at a time like this, when he could almost smell the defeat and despair of his enemy. There was a gleeful spring to his step as he rallied his force and pushed and kicked recalcitrant men back on to their horses. In only a short while they were all remounted and then, with a raised arm, Sciarra Colonna set off, with the King of France’s man at his side.
Within the hour, they had captured the man they both despised: Benedetto Gaetani, the leader of the great Roman clan, and now known as Pope Boniface VIII, who had overturned the Colonna and driven them from their great homes and palaces. He had all but ruined them. And not content with that, now he had excommunicated the French King, and was threatening to put the whole of France under anathema. There would be no churches opening for any man. No burial services, no church weddings, no baptisms — nothing. That would be intolerable. The French could not allow it.
It was hard to command obedience from a Pope, but King Philip IV would not tolerate any more truculence. That was why his most trusted lawyer and adviser was here.
To kidnap the Pope.
Anagni
Toscanello di Accompagnato looked about him with astonishment as they entered the palace, struggling, and failing, to keep his mouth closed as he took in the rich paintings, the carvings and statuary. He had never seen such proof of wealth, not even in Florence. The Pope was truly a man to be honoured if he could possess such treasures. God must have showered these gifts upon him for a reason.
Yes, he told himself, the Pope was chosen by God. So he must go and confess this crime as soon as he could.
And it was a crime — there was little doubt about that. All over the place, there were men being held, while a few figures lay in the dirt, their blood leaching into the soil about them.
There had been little resistance. The men here had known that they couldn’t win, and even the demands of loyalty to their master were insufficient to make a man fight when it was clear that the battle was already lost. So Guillaume’s and Sciarra’s troops had found their way eased considerably. They entered the papal palace and the great building swallowed them all. Somewhere inside, Toscanello knew, the Pope was being questioned by Guillaume. And soon he would appear, ready to be carried off to France.
Others were looting the place, but Toscanello could only stand and carry on gawping.
He was nineteen this year. Finding a living was hard in his little town, and he had decided to travel to Florence to try his fortune — but with little success. He was still forced to live on the streets, and there were times when he had been compelled to steal in order to eat. So far, he had not been caught, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Then he would have to flee, and eke out some sort of living in the outskirts — or stoop to joining one of the bandit gangs which plagued the lands all about.