by Paul Doherty
Fieschi’s letter is finely balanced – a clever concoction, mixing fact with fiction. It can be read as a secret message to Edward to be more careful in his dealings with Fieschi. It seems this clever piece of blackmail had the desired effect: on 28 April 1342, Edward III ratified Manuel Fieschi as prebendary of Netheravon in the diocese of Salisbury and as a prebendary of Ampleforth in the diocese of York. Fifteen months later Fieschi was promoted even higher, when he was appointed Bishop of Vercelli in North Italy, the very diocese of which Melazzo and Cecime were a part. Did Edward III, to silence this clever Italian priest, bribe Avignon to win papal approval for such a nomination, or so that Fieschi could control this mysterious ‘king’?8 After 1342–3 Edward III received no further communications from Fieschi or his family.
Fieschi, it appears, deliberately exploited Edward III’s fears. He may also have learnt of a certain incident which took place in 1338 when Edward III, commanding his armies in the Low Countries, met a man claiming to be his father. In 1329 Fieschi had been appointed by the papacy, probably at the behest of Isabella and Mortimer, to the canonry of Liege in the Low Countries. In 1332, he was made Provost of Arnhem and in 1334 he was endowed with a canonry at Lilles, also in the Low Countries. He was well placed to hear the chatter about how Edward III, when his forces were based outside Antwerp in 1338, had despatched two men-at-arms to bring one ‘William Le Galeys’ or ‘William the Welshman’, ‘qui asserit se patrem domini regis nunc’ (‘who claims to be the father of our present King’), from Cologne to Koblenz and then to Antwerp, where he stayed three weeks.
The incident took place at the end of 1338.9 It is perhaps no coincidence that William the Welshman was taken near Cologne, one of the places mentioned in Fieschi’s letter. The Italian priest may have heard about this and spun his story around it. But who was this ‘William the Welshman’ on whom Edward III spent the quite princely sum of almost £2 for three weeks in December 1338? Is it possible that Fieschi met this lunatic, or very cunning man, wandering Europe pretending to be Edward II and that he was inspired by him to fabricate his story?
‘William the Welshman’ would have been a good alias for Edward II. He was often called Edward of Caernarvon, the first Prince of Wales. Even after his deposition, a great deal of sympathy existed for him throughout the principality. We have no record of what happened after Edward III met this person. Was he allowed to go free? My theory is that ‘William the Welshman’ was not Edward II but someone closely involved in his imprisonment, someone who knew enough about Edward II to excite royal interest. Indeed, what better person than Mortimer’s elusive William Ockle?
William Ockle was one of Mortimer’s adherents. Unlike Gurney, he was not of knightly rank but a commoner, promoted for his good service to the rank of ‘scutifer’ or squire. According to the November Parliament of 1330, Ockle was judged guilty of being involved in Edward II’s death. Unlike Gurney, he was not the object of any search and appears to have been allowed to disappear because he was a commoner, with Gurney being portrayed as the principal regicide. Parliament placed a reward of £100 on Gurney alive and one hundred marks if he was brought in dead. A much smaller sum was awarded for William Ockle: one hundred marks alive, £40 dead.
Ockle probably escaped, following Maltravers to the Low Countries but then might have decided to earn his living by pretending to be the King in whose death he was allegedly involved. He would certainly have known enough facts to elicit interest and perhaps sympathy. The story spread through Europe and eventually came under the scrutiny of the English Crown. Ockle would have kept his first name, but to protect himself, changed his surname, or had it changed for him, to denote his nationality: ‘Galeys’ or ‘the Welshman’. Another possibility is that Ockle went mad as he wandered through Europe, becoming more worthy of pity than royal justice. What happened to him after December 1338 is a matter for conjecture. He may have been harmless enough and released – Edward III was only too eager to keep such matters as secret as possible.
In conclusion, a close scrutiny of the evidence suggests that Fieschi’s letter was a clever attempt at blackmail which, in the end, succeeded, and it should be dismissed as such. It contains some interesting detail mixed with a tissue of lies. What is fascinating about Fieschi’s letter, as well as the incident of ‘William the Welshman’, is that it provides deep insight into Edward III’s own attitude to his father’s death. If Edward III truly believed, and had the evidence to hand, that his father had been killed at Berkeley and buried at Gloucester, he would have rejected Fieschi’s letter out of hand and not spent time and energy on the wandering ‘William the Welshman’. Fieschi must have known this. The fact that his letter was written in the first place, rather than what it actually says, provides telling proof that the accepted story of Edward II’s death and burial at Gloucester was highly suspect in his son’s mind. Fieschi was exploiting Edward III’s fears and nightmares, fully confident that his barbed comments would find their mark. Great lies, as Machiavelli has said, are those based on a truth. Fieschi’s letter is a fine example. He decided to exploit a great secret for his own private purposes, peppering it with teasing facts and half truths. Fieschi might not even have met the deposed Edward II, but his letter or, more importantly, the reasons he wrote it, are compelling enough to reassess the events of September 1327 and pose the question: did Edward II die at Berkeley? I think not. He escaped and a look-alike lies buried beneath that marble sarcophagus in Gloucester Cathedral.
EIGHT
The King is Dead, Long Live the King
‘Edmund, Earl of Kent . . . you have been, many a day, working to deliver Sir Edward, some time King of England . . .’
Brut Chronicle
On reflection, the evidence that Edward II did escape from Berkeley is not conclusive but of sufficient strength to question seriously the accepted story. The idea, described in Fieschi’s letter, that Edward was guarded at Berkeley by one keeper and found it easy to leave his gaol, kill a porter and then walk off into the English countryside, is laughable. Dunheved was probably the one who freed him. Despite the high security in Berkeley, the Dominican probably collected a gang in the woods around the fortress and, with inside help as well as assistance from great lords, managed to get into the castle sometime around 19–20 July 1327.
John Walwayn, a leading clerk, was immediately despatched to Berkeley to assess the damage. His letter, printed from the Ancient Correspondence in the Public Records Office, manifests his panic. The letter is a plea to the Chancellor, begging for greater powers to pursue the conspirators. Walwayn, in his panic, also let slip vital information, saying ‘that the rebels had forced the castle of Berkeley, taken the father of Our Lord the King out of our guard and feloniously plundered the said castle’. Thus, the Dunheved attack would not have been some petty assault. The rebels did not simply remove the King and flee for their lives. They got into the castle, overcame the garrison, probably driving them back into the towers or part of the keep, and then plundered the castle at their will. This would have included the stables, storerooms and armouries, and they had the time, as well as the resources, to collect their booty and cart it away.
Walwayn lists twenty-one names in his letter: these are to be regarded as the leaders rather than the entire gang. The Dunheveds would have recruited outlaws, poachers, men desperate for money or whatever plunder they could take.
Isabella and Mortimer reacted vigorously. Commissions were issued to track down the rebel gang but the government kept the reason as secret as possible. On 1 August 1327, letters were issued naming the leaders of the attack but the charge was ‘for coming with an armed force to Berkeley Castle to plunder it’ (the letter omits any reference to them getting in) ‘and refusing to join the King in his expedition against the Scots.’ Isabella and Mortimer were desperately trying to hide something. Dunheved and his gang had no more intention of joining the royal levies in Scotland than of flying to the moon, but desertion from the royal army was a general accusation and wou
ld ensure that the sheriffs and other royal officials would hunt them down. Isabella and Mortimer were in a quandary. If they, like Walwayn, panicked or instituted special measures, everyone would know what had happened at Berkeley, and Isabella and Mortimer would have to face the consequences. The hunt had to be conducted in secret: members of the Dunheved gang who were arrested disappeared, whilst a leading adherent of Hugh de Spencer, William Aylmer, was offered a pardon and freedom, probably for turning King’s evidence and betraying his comrades.
Isabella and Mortimer would have had to consider where the escaped King would flee. Edward of Caernarvon’s supporters were not in Dorset or Corfe Castle but in Wales. Isabella would remember how, in 1326, Edward and de Spencer had fled to Wales to raise troops against her, whilst Howel Ap Griffith’s allegations against William of Shalford in 1331 insinuated that the King’s greatest support was to be found in the principality. If the escaped King had reached there, it would take an army to track him down through the woods and mist-filled valleys where he might find shelter and succour amongst his own supporters and those who resented Mortimer. That medieval chatter-box, Walsingham, sums up Welsh loyalty towards Edward of Caernarvon: ‘When Scotland would openly rebel against him and all England wanted rid of him, then the Welsh in a wonderful manner loved and esteemed him. As far as they were able, they stood by him, grieving over his adversities both in life and in his death, composing mournful songs about him in the language of their country. His memory remains to the present day which neither the fear of punishment nor the passage of time can destroy.’1
According to Howel Ap Griffith’s letter, Mortimer had moved his headquarters to Abergavenny just across the Severn from Berkeley. On 4 September 1327, he had been confirmed as Justice of all Wales with power to arrest those breaking the peace in Wales. He did not join the court again until 4 October at Nottingham where again he witnessed charters. Why should Mortimer, the Queen’s lover, this sinister éminence gris behind the throne, deliberately absent himself for almost six weeks, not only from his beloved paramour, but from the centre of power? If there were malefactors in Wales, they posed no real threat. Wales was constantly in turmoil and Mortimer had lieutenants like William Shalford to keep an eye on things.
It is more likely that Mortimer moved to Abergavenny to supervise discreetly the search for the escaped King. A pragmatist, Mortimer realized that Edward of Caernarvon would head directly for Wales. Agents like William Ockle would be used in the search but with little success. It must have been like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Isabella was now faced with a dilemma. Edward II would have been free for almost six weeks. Isabella and Mortimer could not publicize their search so they continued the pretence that the deposed King was still safely housed at Berkeley. The logical next step was to claim that Edward II had died of a ‘fatalis casus’, a fatal accident at Berkeley, but a corpse had to be produced, exhibited and buried. This would remove two problems at one stroke. First, if Edward of Caernarvon emerged into the public eye, he could be dismissed as an impostor, a look-alike, and not a focus for treasonable rebellion. Secondly, his death would put an end to all conspiracies and agitation, as well as removing a potential embarrassment, not only to the government but to the Queen. She could now act the role of the grieving widow, free to do anything she liked.
The two men responsible for this possible deception were probably Gurney and Ockle, with Berkeley as a passive observer. A suitable look-alike had to be found and killed. This probably took place in the middle of September 1327, after which the news was secretly despatched to Lincoln where Isabella was waiting. The date of 21 September, the beginning of the autumn Equinox, was chosen for two possible reasons. First, it was the feast of St Matthew the Evangelist. Edward II’s birthday was on 25 April, the feast of an Evangelist (Mark), so placing his death on the feast of another saint was a clever touch of irony. Secondly, and more appropriately, 21 September 1327 marked the anniversary, to the day, of the beginning of Isabella’s invasion, when her fleet left Dordrecht: this, perhaps, was a subtle way of honouring that anniversary.
A messenger reached the Queen at Lincoln on the night of 23 September to give details of what was being prepared, but a full week would pass before Thomas Gurney reached the court of Nottingham, where the young King was about to hold a Parliament, with the official news that Edward of Caernarvon was dead, a task which earned Gurney 31s. 1d. Isabella and Mortimer, of course, would wonder where their prisoner had escaped to, but for now they deliberately played the matter down. No great fuss, no proclamations, the body would stay at Berkeley for a month before being transferred to Gloucester for burial. Doubtless Thomas of Berkeley was in on the conspiracy. The corpse Gurney and Ockle produced would have had more than a passing resemblance to the former King: the hair would have been cropped, the face shaved and, of course, the body embalmed for burial. The Brut Chronicle’s assertion that ‘friends and kin of the dead King were kept well away’ certainly seems true. Even Hugh Glanville, the clerk responsible for the burial arrangements of the dead King, did not assume his duties until 22 October 1327. What happened in the previous month? An old woman was hired to embalm the corpse for burial, probably within a week of Edward II’s supposed death. By 28 September the corpse would have been ready for display in the small chapel of St John at Berkeley Castle. The chronicler Adam of Murimouth, whose testimony is fairly reliable, says: ‘Berkeley invited leading notables from the area to view the corpse but, this was done superficially, and they stood far off.’
Mortimer, too, supervised affairs from afar. Smyth of Nibley, the official Berkeley historian, remarks: ‘What secret intelligence passed between father-in-law and son-in-law [Mortimer and Berkeley] I can only conjecture.’2 By the time Mortimer had left the area, at the beginning of October 1327, the corpse was already sealed in the lead coffin (glimpsed in 1855, when the tomb was hurriedly opened and closed).
Apart from Thomas Berkeley and the woman who dressed the corpse, the only other person allowed near the alleged deceased King was the sergeant-at-arms, William Beaukaire, paid for staying at Berkeley ‘Iuxta Corpus Regis’ from 21 September to the day of the funeral. In the literally hundreds of thousands of entries on the Calendars of Close, Patent rolls and other official records between 1327 and 1333, there is no trace of this Beaukaire. This is very surprising. Surely a sergeant-at-arms, deputed to guard the corpse of a King, would be someone well known? Wouldn’t he, too, be questioned after 1330? Perhaps Glanville had been ordered to insert this item to show the clerks of the Exchequer that someone did actually stand by the corpse, see it and protect it.
Glanville’s expenses are, in essence, a piece of creative accounting, which gives the impression that his responsibility for the burial arrangements for the dead King was a routine task. This was not the case: Glanville did not take over the custody of the corpse until 22 October 1327 when it was safely sealed in its lead casket. He finished his duties at the end of December 1327 but his accounts were not formally enrolled at the Exchequer until years later when Mortimer was long dead, Isabella in retirement and public curiosity had abated. Even then, the barons of the Exchequer questioned Glanville’s account. He had claimed expenses for travelling for seven days from Gloucester to York after Edward II’s funeral was over. The Exchequer clerks queried this and Glanville confessed that he hadn’t gone directly to York. Instead, he had escorted a certain woman ‘who’d disembowelled the King’ to the Queen at Worcester.
The role of this woman is crucial in proving that the official story of what happened at Berkeley is highly suspect. The corpse was dressed, not by a physician or even a local doctor or leech, but by a local ‘wise woman’. If Edward II had died a violent death, the effects of this violence, be it poison or the famous story about a red-hot poker being inserted up into the bowels, could be explained away. A royal physician could be bribed, sworn to silence. But if the corpse was not a king’s? A physician might draw the line at that, and Mortimer and Isabella would have to ta
ke a relative stranger into their confidence. As it was, this woman was carefully watched. The embalming must have been finished by the beginning of October 1327. Three days later Mortimer joined the court but, according to Glanville’s account, this mysterious woman was kept in some form of confinement from 1 October 1327, right through the period during which the alleged royal corpse was lying in state at both Berkeley and Gloucester. The Queen left Gloucester on 21 December 1327 and travelled, via Tewkesbury, to Worcester, where she celebrated Christmas before moving north to Nottingham at the beginning of January 1328. Glanville took the woman ‘who disembowelled the King’ to the Queen. The journey lasted two days, after which Glanville left Worcester for York. So, it seems possible that this ‘wise woman’ was closely confined under house arrest from the end of September to almost the end of December 1327, and then secretly taken to the Queen, a fact Glanville tried to hide through false accounting. Such secrecy does provoke deep suspicion. Was this woman closely interrogated by Isabella and Mortimer on what she had seen as well as what she had done? Did she hand over the heart she had taken from the corpse which Thomas Berkeley had placed in a silver cup or casket? And what happened to her afterwards? Mortimer was ruthless, why should he, or Isabella, have scruples about silencing the chatter of some old woman?
According to my theory, this is what happened to Edward II in 1327. He escaped from Berkeley in July 1327 and fled. Mortimer moved from Abergavenny to supervise the hunt. This proved unsuccessful so, to block any attempt by the deposed King to re-emerge onto the political scene, as well as to end all conspiracies, Mortimer and Isabella changed tack. A corpse, a look-alike, was produced and taken secretly to Berkeley. Gurney and Ockle, under Berkeley’s supervision, kept it secret while a local ‘wise woman’ prepared the corpse for burial: the hair, moustache and beard were shaved, it was clothed in a shroud and open to a quick and superficial view by local notables, hand-picked by Berkeley. A date was chosen for the death, and Isabella secretly informed within two days, but the news was not officially proclaimed until 1 October 1327. By then, the lead coffin had been sealed, the ‘wise woman’ safely detained, and Glanville despatched to take over the proceedings. He, too, was under strict instructions: his accounts should not provoke suspicion and were withheld from public scrutiny.