by Paul Doherty
‘Hasn’t Sir John here killed Frenchmen in battle in pursuit of some dream by our war-like Edward III to become king of France and God knows what else? Remember what I told you, young Athelstan, many years ago? Every heart has its hymn, every soul has its song. Edward of Caernarvon was ours. He was our king, our liege lord, our vision. We friars go through life telling people to love each other. Look at them, Athelstan: whom do they love, really love? We loved Edward of Caernarvon who later became Edward II. We loved Peter Gaveston, his beloved. As a boy I was a page in Gaveston’s household. We were Edward II’s men, body and soul, in peace and war, in life and in death.
‘Fieschi was a threat to the secret about what really happened. What good would have come of it? The kings of England have their shrine to Edward, our master. Let them be content with that. Edward II was no saint. He was a man with all the weaknesses of human kind. He was a prince who suffered one misfortune after another. He was a soul who loved wrongly but passionately. And what would Fieschi have achieved? Nothing but a lie, and in doing so, would have only provoked others to lie about our master. Do you think the French would just ignore it?’ Dunheved abruptly stretched across, picked up a goblet and filled it with a jug standing on a tray. He drank greedily before slamming it down on the table before him. ‘Pope Urban in Rome wants Richard of England’s support. You know what would have happened. Urban’s rival in Avignon, Pope Clement, would have immediately attacked the canonisation of Edward II in the firm hope, and he would have been correct, that the French and others would support him.’
‘I agree,’ Prior Anselm interposed. ‘Both the public and personal life of Edward II would have been openly aired and discussed throughout the courts of Europe.’
‘More than that.’ Stephen Dunheved spoke up. ‘Every obscene tale, every sordid story about our master would have seen the light of day. He would have been made an object of ridicule, depicted as a demon incarnate. Richard of England should not look to our master to sanctify his own reign; he should leave the dead to peace and stillness.’
‘And Fieschi was a threat to you, wasn’t he?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘I mean, it was only a matter of time before the accepted story was seriously questioned. In time, the French too may have stumbled on this. Their secret chancery at the Louvre would burn the candles late into the night as they searched and studied to discredit every conclusion Fieschi reached.’ He paused. ‘Alberic had his suspicions, didn’t he? And so did Brother Roger.’
‘Yes,’ Dunheved sighed. ‘They were beginning to seriously question the alleged deaths of the Dunheved brothers in Newgate. They both thought it a strange coincidence. They also concluded that our good friend Brother Eadred was of one mind and soul with us.’ Dunheved sat back in the chair. ‘Once you start stirring the pot all sorts of things begin to rise to the top. It’s as you say, Athelstan, Alberic asked to see us, said he wanted to talk about Brother Eadred. You now know what happened.’
‘And Pernel?’
‘Ah, poor Agnes! We always wondered what had happened to her. Yes, Athelstan, she loved me but I did not abduct Agnes from her nunnery, she came of her own accord. She pledged herself to be one of our coven. Yes, she said she loved me with a passion beyond all telling. But that’s the way of the world, Athelstan. She loved me, but in time she realised that I did not love her. While we were abroad, the humours of her mind became deeply disturbed. She fled our company. I thought she had died until she arrived here that morning demanding to see you and Fieschi. The gatekeeper brought her to see me and Stephen immediately. I met her secretly in the small physic garden down near the water-gate. I didn’t recognise her but she certainly knew me. One glance and she was calling me Thomas. Poor soul. We tricked her, said we would take her to a safe place further down river. We escorted her to the steps and I pushed her, simple and swift, as easy as snuffing out a candle.
‘What you say about the rest is true. Odo Brecon was always a chatterbox, garrulous and loose-tongued; I couldn’t believe he had survived. We silenced him as we did poor Agnes whom you call Pernel. I sent Stephen here across the river to burn her house and destroy all memories.
‘You were also correct that we sent messages to the Earthworms beyond the walls. The attack was a risk, but it would have been good if the priory had fallen. In our message to the Earthworms we warned them not to hurt or injure any English Dominicans. In fact we thought Blackfriars would swiftly surrender and all would be well for us. Fieschi and his companions, however, would have been treated as foreigners. When the attack failed that left us with no other choice. Our great secret was threatened. We were in danger whilst the true burial place of Edward II of England might also be exposed. It is as you say. The death of Fieschi and his colleagues will silence this matter once and for all. It will take years, if ever, for the papacy and the crown of England to begin this process again.’
Athelstan studied Dunheved. He repressed the deep chill this former friend and mentor now provoked: the other two were simply extensions of Thomas Dunheved’s soul. He was the real killer, cold and analytical. Dunheved believed he was above all forms of morality and had free licence to do what he wished to protect himself and the vision he pursued.
‘And me?’ Athelstan asked. Thomas Dunheved’s face creased into a smile.
‘I taught you, Athelstan. I know how you can ferret out the truth. I did not wish to hurt you. We did not want to harm you, but you were, and you are, very dangerous, as you have so clearly demonstrated. My heart sank when I saw you. We discussed it amongst ourselves. In the end we had no choice. Fieschi was one thing, Brother Athelstan was another. You should be proud; I am.’
Athelstan tried to hide his revulsion by sifting through his papers.
‘And Edward II?’ Cranston asked.
‘I do not wish to talk about him,’ Thomas Dunheved retorted. ‘He was in our charge, not yours. This kingdom rejected him. We did free him from Berkeley but he had been abused, beaten, crowned with thorns, stripped, starved, thrown into filth. We fled. Agnes helped us, we sheltered in her nunnery. The King grew strong and we continued our flight. We left this kingdom, moving through Flanders and Hainault across the Rhine and southwards towards Italy. I will not provide you with details. We settled down here and there. Our gatekeeper was our guard. Stephen and I earned good silver working as a clerk, herbalist, leech and apothecary. I became very skilled,’ he smiled, ‘especially with poisons.’
‘And Eadred?’ Anselm intervened.
‘It’s as Athelstan says. We needed money. Edward our master, when fleeing his wife and Mortimer, hid a treasure cache in the royal manor of Alversbury to the north-west of the city. We returned, unearthed it and sent it abroad with others we trusted. We delayed a day and were arrested at Queenhithe.’ He grimaced. ‘We were lodged in Newgate, but, thanks to Eadred, we were free within days. Brother Eadred took care of the rest, obtaining two corpses to place in our cell, which were then sheathed in deerskin, and so on.’ He looked at Athelstan. ‘Very clever,’ he murmured, ‘very clever indeed.’
‘Did Edward want to return to England?’ Athelstan asked.
‘As God lives, little Athelstan, Edward of Caernarvon wanted nothing to do with his former kingdom. He was a broken man. He realised what would happen if he emerged from the dark to lay claim to what was rightfully his. No, no, he was quite content. He lived in relative comfort, and the only passion he betrayed was for his former wife, Isabella. Once again, time, place and occasion met. The King fell ill, some growth deep in his belly. There was nothing the physicians could do. He wanted to return to England one final time. He needed to confront his wife before he died, and he also expressed a deep desire to be buried next to the only person he ever really loved, Gaveston. We had been in contact with Brother Eadred, who was not only provincial of the order in this kingdom but prior of our house in Oxford.’ He shrugged. ‘The rest you know.’
‘Did you poison Isabella?’
‘Yes. I gave her a special potion,’ Dunheved tapped his own sto
mach, ‘which did damage her, an injury that would take months to develop.’
‘And the confrontation between the former king and his wife in the solar at Castle Rising?’
‘A matter of the confessional, Brother Athelstan. Isabella the She-Wolf learned that her husband had not died. What passed between the two of them is not for anyone but themselves and God.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘And now, Athelstan, I have said enough. There are things to be done. I have a letter to write.’
Athelstan nodded in agreement. Cranston called Flaxwith and his bailiffs to take the three prisoners to where Prior Anselm instructed. Once they were gone Athelstan felt the deep, brooding silence of the parlour, as if the passionate words exchanged there still hung heavy in the air.
‘What will happen to them?’ Cranston asked.
‘Oh, they will plead benefit of clergy,’ Prior Anselm replied. ‘They will appear before a church court who will hand them back to us Dominicans to deal with. Their judgement will be harsh. They will be separated one from the other, which will be a grievous blow to men who have lived their lives in each other’s pockets. Each of them will be despatched to live on bread and water on some lonely island or rocky outcrop. They will know true isolation. They will hear no sound except the crash of the waves and the strident call of the gulls. They will have no company. They will never taste wine or soft bread again. They will wait for death and, when it comes, they will welcome it.’ Prior Anselm rose to his feet. ‘Brother Athelstan, my thanks to you. You must submit a report which I can send to our Minister General. In view of what has happened in the city and here, you are welcome to stay.’
‘No.’ Athelstan got to his feet. ‘Every heart has its hymn, every soul has its song and,’ he grinned at the coroner and Prior Anselm, ‘whether I like it or not, in my case, it is the parish of St Erconwald’s in all its glory.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The fate of Edward II is one of the greatest mysteries in English history. Most of what is written here is based on historical evidence, as investigated in my non-fiction work, Isabella and the Strange Death of Edward II. The Dunheveds did exist. They did storm Berkeley Castle. The imprisoned king may well have escaped and he may have wandered Europe and met Manuele Fieschi. The Dunheveds eventually disappeared from history, though their true fate is not known. However, in those stirring days of 1326–7, they played a crucial role in the history of the English crown.
Richard II did attempt to have Edward II canonised, but in the end this came to nothing, as Richard himself became entangled in a bloody and violent conflict with his leading nobles.
As for the Peasants’ Revolt in London, I have been guided by primary sources, though I have exercised poetic licence in allocating a major role in the destruction of Wat Tyler and the consequent sudden collapse of the revolt to Sir John Cranston. Nevertheless, the main thrust of my story is based on fact. The Tower was stormed as I have described and those hapless royal officials brutally butchered. In turn, Wat Tyler met his nemesis at Smithfield; probably drunk and overconfident, he allowed himself to be ambushed by the royal party and paid the ultimate price.
Should any reader think that my story is too fanciful, I must refer to a character who appears in the novel, John Ferrour. He was a real person who went under a series of aliases, one of which was John Marshall. Ferrour was a killer, receiving a pardon on 13 March 1380 for the death of Roger Tibrit of Rochester. John Ferrour had business interests in Southwark. He and his wife Joanna were later indicted for stealing a chest containing a thousand marks from the Savoy Palace and taking it across the Thames. They were also accused of stealing two horses and a considerable amount of pure wool from the priory of Clerkenwell. The same indictment also accuses them of participating in the brutal murders of Sudbury and Hailes. Joanna Ferrour was described as ‘a chief actor and leader’ in the violent events in London during June 1381. She and her husband were arrested but eventually acquitted by juries, John Ferrour being freed at the request of no less a person than Mayor William Walworth. Ferrour certainly seems to have had a nose for mischief. He was in the Tower when young Henry of Derby was seized. Ferrour intervened and saved the boy. Fast forward nineteen years, and that same Henry of Derby is now King Henry IV, having deposed and executed his cousin Richard II. Not everyone in England was happy with this and conspiracies were formed against the new king. One of those indicted for treason was John Ferrour of Southwark, but he was pardoned because he had saved the life of Henry, ‘in a wonderful and kind manner’, during the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. In the end historical novels often reflect a reality based firmly on fact rather than fiction!
Dr Paul Doherty OBE
www.paulcdoherty.com