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.’
Chapter One
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?’