The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  I nodded dumbly. Stratford relaxed his grip and handed me my commission which I thrust into my belt-pouch. The king seemed a little disconcerted by his archbishop’s actions and tried to cheer me with assurances and promises of support. He then deftly dismissed me and the ever-taciturn Sir John Chandos took me back to the waiting barge. He and his company took me back to Queenshithe Wharf. The journey back was sluggish against the changing tide. I hardly noticed. I sat and stared anywhere except into Chandos’s cold, steel-blue eyes.

  I was back in Bread Street late in the afternoon and spent the rest of the day analysing what had happened at Windsor. Why, I kept asking myself, was the king so interested in his father’s death sixteen years after the event? Why the great secrecy and, above all, why had the king chosen me? True, I am a skilled civil servant with some military service but I am also a commoner, bereft of kin, few in friends and lacking any powerful patron. Facts, the king had so readily emphasised. My parents are dead, I have no kin or friends except Kate, a sweet little piece in the service of a London mercer. She swears she loves me, and probably does, but her feather brain cannot understand the simplest problem, never mind the complexities of political intrigue. In fact, I reflected bitterly, I was the type of person who quietly disappears should he anger the high and mighty. I got up from my pallet and looked into the polished metal mirror. A tired lined face stared back, sallow with large dark-ringed eyes, long thin nose and short, dark hair. I looked at myself and thought about my loneliness, the chances missed and the opportunities lost. Was I to ruin this one? Ambition and a restless excitement have persuaded me to grasp it.

  Nevertheless, I am writing to you, Richard, in defiance of my lord archbishop and my forced oath of secrecy. I am not seeking advice (I beg you never to reply) but simply to entrust you with what I find. I shall tell you all, describe events and report conversations, to serve as my bond, my security against the king in the event of my disappearance or trial for treason on some trumped-up charge. All my letters, like this one, will be sent north to you by any trustworthy messenger I can find. God keep you Richard. Written at Bread Street, 16 August, 1345.

  Letter Two

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, health and greetings. Please accept my apologies, dear friend, for the weeks that have passed since I wrote to you but the king’s “secret matter” is proving to be a hard task-master.

  I started the investigation in my own chambers. My absence from the Chancery went unnoticed apart from a little envious chatter, as release from normal duties usually means another step up the greasy ladder of royal preferment. I was glad to be free. Even the most dedicated clerk tires of the cramped writing quarters, the poor light, the squeak of quill on parchment and, above all, the smell of sweat and burning wax. At first, I saw my task as a holiday. I began by listing those of the present king’s family and council who had survived the four-year reign of Mortimer and Isabella. My list, based on Chancery documents for the years 1326 to 1330 was long, but it soon shrank to a pitiful few. The king and Stratford claim they know little. Queen Isabella is in retirement and an unapproachable recluse, whilst the king’s sisters were excluded from affairs of state on account of their youth. I also dismissed the king’s present clique of friends and councillors, for they would scarcely enjoy current royal favour if they had collaborated with Mortimer. The rest of the list, the king’s brother, John; his uncles, Edmund of Kent and Thomas of Norfolk; and Edward II’s gaoler, Thomas de Berkeley, are all dead.

  My disappointment was acute for I had hoped my investigation would be based on personal witness. Unlike the psalmist, “I have never said in my heart all men are liars,” they usually tell the truth even if it is only implicit in the lies they fabricate. I spent days and nights scrutinizing my lists, neglecting food, drink, even Kate. I was on the brink of despair when I did remember one omission from my list, Adam Orleton, Bishop of Worcester. He had been a confidant of Mortimer and his ruthless ambition became a by-word in an age notorious for its self-seeking clerics. Orleton had managed to survive Mortimer’s downfall due to his episcopal office, as well as to the fact that he had only been responsible for conducting foreign policy with little influence on domestic matters. This accounted for his frequent absences from Mortimer’s retinue, as well as his exclusion from the list I had first drawn up.

  A few discreet inquiries amongst my colleagues revealed that after 1330, Orleton had received no further preferment. He had spent the last fifteen years in seclusion from court, ruling his diocese of Worcester like a pope. I decided to petition Orleton for assistance in writing my “history” and was gratified by a swift reply. The bishop, so his secretary wrote, would be pleased to meet me in his chambers at Worcester Cathedral after the midday mass on the first of November, the Feast of All Saints. I left London the day after I received this reply and, after an uneventful journey, arrived in Worcester on the last day of October and lodged at an inn near the city’s west gate. The next morning I went to the cathedral and presented myself to the bishop’s chancellor, who led me through a maze of draughty passageways into a great chamber where Orleton was sitting enthroned behind a large oaken table. I was immediately struck by the grandeur of my surround-ings: sweet-smelling rushes covered the floor whilst the walls were draped in multicolored tapestries from Bruges, most of them dealing with themes certainly not to be found in the Bible or the writings of the Fathers. Around the room, beeswax candles and small glowing braziers fended off the chill November darkness. Their fire sparkled from the many precious objects which adorned the spacious chamber.

  I could have stood and gawked till Christmas but when the bishop’s chancellor coughed and closed the door behind me, I hastily remembered protocol. I walked forward and made the most reverent obeisance towards the desk. A harsh voice bade me stand and I rose to inspect one of England’s most notorious prelates. I expected an ogre but, despite the swarth of purple robes and sable furs, the figure in the chair was frail and small and his face was as pale and finely etched as any ascetic. Yet, as Orleton leaned closer, I noticed his eyes were little, hard, black pebbles and their stare never faltered.

  “You’re here at the king’s express command?” The voice had lost some of its sharpness.

  “His Grace,” I replied glibly, “has commissioned me to write a history of his late father’s reign. I hoped your lordship could provide me with some information concerning that king’s unhappy end.”

  Orleton fingered a tassle on his robe. “Master Beche,” he replied, “I know why you are here. The real reason, that is.” He held up a scrawny, be-ringed hand to stop any denial. “I, too, have my spies, Master Clerk, so rest content with that. Let us be brief,” he jabbed a finger at me, “you know, I know, the king knows, indeed the whole realm knows, that I was a friend of Mortimer. A member of his secret council, but I was not, I repeat, not, involved in Edward II’s murder. In my life, I have been many things but never a perjurer and I have publicly sworn my innocence as regards the death of our present king’s father.” He paused before continuing, “In April, 1334, a clerk, John Prickhare, or Prickarse, as I like to call him, came into this very cathedral and accused me of being party to Edward II’s murder. The accusation was a serious one so I purged myself by oath, as well as producing irrefutable evidence that when King Edward was killed, I was abroad on a mission to France.”

  Orleton sipped from a plain pewter goblet. “Naturally,” he continued, “my innocence was established. I was free of guilt but not from the suspicion of it. The present king has dismissed me from the council and I have never escaped from the endless circle of rumours concerning my supposed involvement in Edward II’s death.”

  The bishop stopped once more to gulp from the goblet. “Rhen-ish wine laced with nutmeg,” he explained. “It keeps the chill from my bones.” He put the goblet down and continued as if there had been no interruption. “Some of the rumours are quite incredible. You have heard of them?”

  I shook my head and Orleton, seizing a quill from a porta
ble writing tray, scrawled a few words on a scrap of parchment.

  “Of course, you’re familiar with Latin?” he inquired. When I nodded, Orleton handed me the parchment and instructed me to construe the following sentence: “Regem noli occidere, timere bonum est.”

  “‘Do not kill the king, it is good to be afraid’?” I translated questioningly.

  Orleton nodded with satisfaction and quickly scrawled another message for me to read. The phrase was identical to the one before and I was about to hand it back when Orleton told me to scrutinize it more carefully. I did so and noticed that although the words were identical, Orleton had now moved the comma from the “occidere” forward to the “timere,” so the translation now became “Do not fear to kill the king, it is a good thing.”

  The bishop must have gathered from my startled expression that I had discovered the new translation for he grinned mirthlessly and slumped back in his chair, a small parchment-knife balanced carefully between his fingers.

  “Rumour has it, Master Beche,” he explained, “that I sent the second message to Edward II’s gaolers in reply to their request about what they should do with the king. Then when there was an official inquiry into his murder after Mortimer’s fall from power, I was supposed to have claimed that the comma had been moved. If it comes after the word occidere, then it reads as you first translated it, a piece of simple advice. The gaolers were not to kill their prisoner, as I expected that they should be frightened of their great responsibilities.”

  Orleton tossed the knife on to the table and leaned forward. “The story is a complete fable, Master Clerk. I never sent such a message. I was abroad when the old king died and, even if I had been present, I would never have had the authority to issue such an order. So why do I tell you this fable?” Orleton’s voice almost rose to a shout. “Simply to illustrate the lies and popular hysteria which still surround Edward II’s death. Do you understand?”

  I hastily reassured him that I did. I also realized Orleton could tell me little although his account had flushed one hare from the corn.

  “My lord,” I began, “you mentioned both the king’s gaolers and an official inquiry into the horrible crime they committed. Who were these gaolers and was there really an inquiry?”

  For a while Orleton stared hard at the rafters above my head before telling me that Edward II had been imprisoned at Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire. The king had been under the direct supervision of Sir Thomas Berkeley, father of the present seigneur. Lord Berkeley, he explained, was tried by his peers at the November Parliament of 1330 and declared innocent of any involvement in Edward II’s murder.

  I pressed Orleton for the reasons for such a verdict, but he claimed his memory was failing. He did admit that there had been other gaolers involved in the murder but these were never brought to trial as they had fled overseas.

  Orleton rose wearily as if exhausted by the violence of his speech and extended a gnarled hand for me to kiss, a sign that the audience was over. I was about to withdraw when he suddenly called out, “Master Beche, I do wish you success with your commission.” I turned expectantly, for his tone conveyed more than a pleasant dismissal, but the bishop shook his head.

  “No,” he said softly, “there’s little to add, except that it was I who heard Mortimer’s last confession. You know canon law, Master Beche, and realize I cannot account for what passed between us but, after I had given absolution, I questioned Mortimer about Edward II’s death. It’s strange. The fellow swore he had not killed the king. Of course, I tried to press him further but he refused to say any more. I thought it peculiar. Don’t you, Master Clerk?”

  Naturally, I agreed with him. I thanked him for his assistance, then withdrew, rather confused about some of the details of my conversation with him.

  I returned to the inn and packed my saddle-bags for an immediate return to London. I remember little of that journey, neither the clinging cold during the day nor the warmth and food of the inns where I lodged at night. I was totally taken up with what Orleton had told me. His remarks about Mortimer, I quickly dismissed. The dead baron had been the bishop’s friend and patron which would account for Orleton’s attempt to clear his name. Even if the bishop was correct, Mortimer could have been lying or, more probably, using some legal quibble to clear himself of any personal guilt in Edward II’s death. No, what fascinated me, Richard, was Orleton’s reference to the official investigation at the November Parliament of 1330. The great rolls of Parliament, preserved in the muniment room of the Tower of London, would have recorded such an event and this fact led me to consider a different approach to my inquiry.

  So far, I had relied on personal witness but Orleton had demonstrated the flaws of such a method which relied on hearsay, prejudice, half-truths and even deliberate lies. Moreover, most of the important witnesses were either dead or unapproachable. Consequently, by the time I entered Cripplegate early this afternoon, I had decided that the answers for which I was searching could lie here in London. As you know, Richard, the English may despise good government but they have an almost religious awe for competent administration. Ever since the early days of Henry the Angevin, this administration has revolved around the Chancery and the Exchequer. The former is the royal writing office which issues all writs, letters and proclamations whilst the latter is the treasury, controlling the revenues of the crown. Both are subject to royal scrutiny and so both keep meticulous accounts which they deliver annually to the great muniment room in the Tower. Of course, I am acquainted with both and I decided to reconstruct Edward II’s imprisonment by a thorough scrutiny of all government records for the year 1327.

  Such records, however, would only provide the facts but no narrative, no contemporary account. When I got back to my lodgings, I lay fully dressed on my bed wondering where I could find such a source. Then the bells of St Paul’s Cathedral began to ring out for Saturday vespers. The cathedral dominates Bread Street and the constant tolling of its bells from matins to compline has always irritated me, but this time they came as an answer to a prayer. The cathedral is staffed by canons and I am on cordial terms with their archivist, Simon Islip. I remembered a chance meeting a few months earlier when we discussed the highly delicate task of preserving vellum. Islip was greatly concerned with this matter as he was responsible for the annals of his cathedral which, he proudly maintained, served as a valuable history, not only of the capital but of the country at large. These annals may be the very things I need, a contemporary account of the events surrounding the death of Edward II.

  So, dear Richard, without stirring abroad, I can finish this wretched business. Tonight, I shall celebrate with a meal and a romp with my Kate, a description of whose charms and arts would only offend your celibate nature. I bid you adieu. God keep you. Written at Bread Street, 6 November, 1345.

  Letter Three

  Edmund Beche to his friend, Richard Bliton, Prior of Croyland Abbey, greetings.

  I closed my last letter, Richard, so confident that my work amongst the records would finally finish the task, but they have simply clouded the matter further. At the same time I wrote to you, I also sent a report to the king, describing my interview with Orleton and explaining what I intended to do. His grace replied promptly. He expressed special interest in the bishop’s last meeting with Mortimer and ordered me to report again once he returns from his campaign against the French.

  I began my research at St Paul’s and in the Tower Muniment Room and, within three weeks, I was able to draw up a fairly accurate picture of Edward II’s capture and imprisonment. In 1322, after crushing his barons at the battle of Boroughbridge, Edward II and the Despenser family began to rule England like despots. Despenser the Younger totally controlled the king’s decisions and waged a savage vendetta against Isabella, who refused to accept his authority. He confiscated her lands and even organized a plot to allow the Scots to capture her. He insisted on sleeping in the same room as the King and encouraged Edward’s affection for his own wife, Eleanor. In
1325, under the pretext of a diplomatic mission to France, Isabella managed to leave England. A few months later she was joined by her eldest son (the present king) and, together with the exiled Roger Mortimer (who had escaped from the Tower), moved to Hainault in the Low Countries where she planned her invasion of England.

  Isabella and Mortimer landed in Suffolk in September, 1326, with a few followers. Popular discontent at Edward II’s rule drew almost everyone to their standards, especially as the queen was shrewd enough to pose as the champion of justice and the avenger of the wrongs committed by the Despensers. When Henry, the new Earl of Lancaster, joined Isabella, this was the signal for a general desertion of her husband’s cause. The king soon found himself unable to resist the united opposition centred around the queen; within weeks, even the rats from the administration began to desert him. The very courtiers who had been the chief agents of Despenser, the self-seeking bishops, the corrupt judges and the time-serving royal agents went over almost as a body to the side of Isabella and Mortimer. Edward was in London when his queen landed but the anger of the mob soon drove him out of the city. He tried to make a stand at Gloucester, where he unfurled the royal banner, but no one answered his summons, so he crossed the River Severn to the county of Glamorgan. There he made one more pathetic attempt to maintain a foothold in England. Despenser’s father was sent back to hold Bristol but he only attracted the attention of Isabella, who besieged the city. After a few days, Despenser the Elder surrendered. He was shown no mercy but dragged through the city and beheaded.

  Meanwhile, Edward was wandering aimlessly through Glam-organ. Isabella, intent upon his capture, despatched some of her faithful followers to track him down. On 16 November, 1326, Edward and his pitifully few retainers were betrayed at Neath in South Wales, captured and marched off to the castle of Llantrissant. Hugh Despenser the Younger, however, was taken to the queen at Hereford. There, he was dragged through the city shrieking with terror, before being hanged, quartered and beheaded. Isabella had a banqueting table placed beneath the scaffold so she could eat and drink while she watched her enemy die. As for Edward II, Isabella refused to meet him and ordered him to be imprisoned at Monmouth Castle.