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 luxuriously 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.