I left the muniment room and joined Lord Berkeley in the great hall. My disappointment must have been evident but he was too courteous to pry and promised that as soon as I had eaten, his steward, Edmund Novile, would escort me to Gloucester to visit the royal tomb. Novile had been born in the Berkeley demesne and had risen through the domestic ranks to the position of chief steward, a rare achievement for a mere commoner. We left the castle after midday. A watery sun gleamed and glistened on the overnight snow which covered the countryside. As we let our horses amble along the track winding down to Gloucester, Novile forgot his shyness towards a stranger from the great city, and soon became loquacious, a mood I furthered with a mixture of subtle flattery and generous swigs from the wine-skin I carried.
He assured me, his wine-laden breath rising in puffs, that he had been at Berkeley during the late king’s imprisonment and was glad when the dreadful business was over. “The castle,” he explained, “had crawled with Mortimer’s wild Welshmen while Guerney and the little hunchback, Ockle, had ruled like cocks in a barnyard. They had refused everyone entry to the base of the keep and threatened death to anyone who tried to enter it, especially after the Dunheved escapade.”
I asked him how that band had managed to penetrate so deeply into the castle, but Novile muttered something about a surprise attack in the dead of night. Somehow, I received the distinct impression that he was sorry Dunheved had failed.
“You know,” he added, wiping his mouth after another generous helping from my wine-skin, “that attack was a mysterious affair. I shared a girl with Pellet, the guard who was killed, so I asked Ockle if I could arrange his funeral. The man went pale with fury. He told me to mind my own business as Mortimer had ordered Pellet’s body to be kept in spirits for transportation back to his family in Bordeaux.”
“Wasn’t that rather generous treatment for a Gascon mercenary?”
Novile shrugged. “So I thought. But Guerney said that the Gascon had ‘connections.’ ”
“Was the body sent?”
“I don’t know,” Novile replied. “Ockle and Guerney increased their vigilance after Dunheved’s attack. I don’t really know what happened to Pellet’s body. Everything was so confused, hidden in a mist of secrecy. But I think it was sent back.”
“What happened to the old woman who had been brought in to dress the corpse?” I asked. Novile said he didn’t know. He remembered Guerney bringing her to the castle and that was all. She probably disappeared, he added, once she had done her task and been suitably rewarded.
He then lapsed into a filthy diatribe against Mortimer and Isabella, who had brought such dishonour to the Berkeley name. I let him ramble on as I analysed the information both he and his master had given. There were a number of facts I could pursue further. What became of the fighting monk Dunheved and his fellow conspirators? And why was Edward II’s corpse dressed by an old woman and not by court physicians?
I was still pondering on these problems when we entered Gloucester. We passed through streets clogged with filthy mush, wary of the snow which cascaded from the sloping roofs. The city, so dependent on the surrounding countryside, was quiet. The streets were deserted except for the occasional, dirty beggar. We slowly made our way to the cathedral, whose magnificent spire must be the pride and glory of the countryside. We left our horses in the cathedral forecourt and walked through the icy slush to the great door. Just as I was about to enter, Novile tugged at my sleeve and pointed back to the middle of the great, empty square.
“There,” he exclaimed, “right there! That’s where they put the king’s corpse.”
“Did you see it?”
Novile nodded. “It was laid out in a great coffin, resting on trestles covered with black velvet cloths. The body was dressed in a white shroud and the head covered with a wimple like that of a nun.”
“You recognized him as King Edward?”
“Of course,” Novile jibed. “His face was shaven but I had seen Edward on the few occasions he had visited Berkeley, before his wife started to play the two-backed beast with Mortimer. Why?” he added abruptly. “Who else could it have been? Don’t forget the corpse was also seen by Edward II’s family and leading courtiers.” I hastened to explain that Mortimer’s ruffians could have so ill-treated the king that they might have substituted his corpse with another. Novile laughed outright and, shaking his head with amusement, led me by the arm into the cathedral.
We walked up the main aisle, genuflected to the high altar and turned left towards the decorated tabernacle of Edward II’s tomb. It is truly magnificent. On a huge white slab hewn out of pure marble rests a life-like effigy of the murdered king, resplendent in marble robes and crown. Above this is an intricately carved canopy of stone, supported by slim pillars which allow the visitors to view but not touch the beautiful effigy. Novile explained that the tomb was erected by the king’s son. As I studied it, I suddenly realized that there was something further amiss. All English kings are buried at Westminster so why had Edward II been buried here? Because he had been deposed? Or simply out of convenience? I remembered the chronicle of St Paul had maintained that no church, except Gloucester, was willing to accept the royal corpse, for fear of offending Mortimer. I put this to Novile, who stoutly denied it. He remembered a monk from Westminster coming to Berkeley to claim the king’s corpse, but, on Mortimer’s orders, Ockle and Guerney had rejected the request out of hand. Novile also pointed out that Gloucester was a natural choice. The abbot at the time, Thoki, was a relative of Mortimer, the cathedral was near Berkeley, whilst a funeral procession to Westminster might have only provoked riots in favour of a king whose stupid errors had been wiped out by his sudden death. I was impressed by such arguments but I could see Novile was becoming bored and I suggested a quick return to the castle.
The following morning I left Berkeley. I thanked Lord Berkeley for his hospitality and travelled as quickly as possible back to London. I arrived back safely on Friday evening and decided to spend Saturday and Sunday, not on affairs of state, but in gentle dalliance with Kate. The wench pouted at my absence but quickly forgave me when I took her to purchase a silver gewgaw in Lombard Street.
On Monday I began my research in the library of Westminster Abbey. I did find numerous petitions from the abbey that Edward II be buried there, as well as the expenses of one of the monks, John Jargolio, who had travelled to Berkeley in a vain at tempt to secure possession of the royal corpse. He had travelled to Gloucestershire to seek an interview with Mortimer. This had been refused. Instead, he had to content himself with Guerney who curtly instructed him that Queen Isabella had decided that Gloucester would be the final resting-place for her husband. The report gave nothing else and so I spent the rest of the week delving into more records to draw up a file on Dunheved’s attack on Berkeley Castle. Dunheved himself is not mentioned in any official account until 1 August, 1327, when a warrant was issued for the arrest for “divers crimes” of Thomas Dunheved, his brother Stephen, William Aylmer, John Butler, Peter de la Rockle and Thomas de la Haye. Two weeks later Dunheved was arrested in Yorkshire and committed to Pontefract Castle. The rest of his gang were rounded up by the end of September and thrown into the Fleet prison in London. I checked the expense rolls of both Ponte-fract and Fleet (whose rolls are always sent to the Exchequer as the gaolers claim for the upkeep of their prisoners) and I was surprised to find that by December, 1327, neither Dunheved nor any of his companions had been brought to trial as they had all died from a variety of gaol diseases.
So, Richard, I now have an arm-long list of questions which I cannot answer.
Item—why did the expenses for Edward II suddenly end on 21 July?
Item—what happened during the Dunheved attack on Berkeley Castle?
Item—why did the official accounts omit any reference to an attack on Berkeley Castle, but merely accuse Dunheved of “divers crimes”?
Item—why was Dunheved not brought to trial? And, rank though our prisons be, surely it is strange th
at he and all his collaborators died of gaol fever within three months of their arrest?
Item—why was an old woman and not royal physicians brought to dress the corpse of the dead king?
Item—why were Guerney and Ockle so secretive in their custody of the king?
Item—why did Mortimer categorically refuse to hand over the dead king’s body to the Abbey of Westminster?
Item—just how did Edward II die?
Taken individually, I know there is probably a plausible answer to each of these questions, but taken together, they do cast serious doubts on the accepted version of Edward II’s murder. Roger Bacon once said that “Truth is the daughter of time.” But time waits for no man, Richard, and I have decided to approach the Queen Dowager Isabella. She may solve all my problems and I think I am well equipped to coax fresh answers from her.
I have decided not to inform the king of my intentions, for I shall merely report that I am investigating the Dunheved conspiracy. I beg you to continue to keep silent. God keep you Richard. Written at Bread Street, 22 February, 1346.
Letter Four
Richard Bliton to Edmund Beche—greetings, I have decided to ignore your advice and, on this occasion at least, reply to you. It was good to receive your letter. It is a pity that such mysterious circumstances have prompted it, but I am sure His Grace the King knows what he is doing. Must you show disrespect both to him and our lord archbishop? Should you be breaking their confidence? I would liked to have been consulted first. I do hold an important position in the Church which cannot be compromised. However, I have given the matter careful thought and believe my rank and status make me the best possible confidant. I would have liked to reply earlier but I had to travel to London on urgent priory business. My real purpose in writing is to warn you not to be impulsive. The king may think you are a steady, industrious clerk but I know you to be stubborn, impetuous and proud. I warn you to be careful and confide in me.
My second reason for writing was to impart certain information. As you know, Croyland has its own chronicle, and I have spent two busy days of my precious time in researching on your behalf. There are the usual entries about Isabella’s invasion and rule, but the following entries may be of use to you. The first is a confession and I give it to you verbatim:
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I, Brother Thomas Marshall, took this confession from John Spilsby, master carpenter, at his behest on 14 March, 1332.
My name is Spilsby. I was born in Grantham and became an apprentice carpenter. My skills, thank God, gave me preferment and I entered the service of the crown as a Master Craftsman. A position I held till an accident crushed my legs and brought me a king’s pension to die at Croyland. My life was an uneventful yet quietly fulfilled one. I worked on wood and loved the craft I followed. Life, politics, even religion passed me by. This ended in the winter of 1327. Like everyone at court I knew that the old king had been overthrown and imprisoned at Berkeley Castle. I was working in Gloucester Cathedral at the time, aware of what had happened but not really bothering. That is until the summons came. It was from the old queen. I was ordered to Berkeley Castle on a secret and private matter. I knew that Edward II had died and I guessed with dread, why I had been summoned. I was taken to Berkeley by a large, uncouth Scottish mercenary and given lodgings in the castle. A room in the keep, small, sparse but clean. There were none of Berkeley retainers. I understood that these had been cleared out and the place was garrisoned by Mortimer’s wild Welsh. Except for the keep and the main hall, these were under the direct command of the group I later learnt were the regicides, the old king’s gaol-ers, Guerney, Maltravers and Ockle. For days I kept in my room, food, drink and a change of clothing and bedding were regularly supplied. Eventually, Guerney came to see me. Tricked out in gorgeous colours, he reminded me of a weasel I had once seen; sleek, pampered, well fed and dangerous. He was curt. I was there to measure up the late king’s body for a state coffin to be placed in the cathedral. My protests were ignored. A bag of gold was thrust in my hand and I was told to be ready that evening.
I waited all day and thought that Guerney had forgotten me when I heard a rap on my door and Guerney’s hoarse whisper of a summons. I threw my cloak round me and opened my door; Guerney and a misshapen hunchback, I later learned to be Ockle, were waiting for me. They held torches, I always remember those torches, the way they flickered, spluttered and revealed the gargoyle features of the regicides. I was taken down to the main hall of the castle. It was cold and deserted. A poor light was given by a few ensconced rushlights which lit up the long trestle table on the dais at the top of the hall. As we approached it, I began to shiver. I had seen Edward II in life. I had never thought that I would be the one to measure his corpse. I found I could not stop the panic within me. The hall was so quiet, so cold and dominated by the corpse lying huddled under a thick purple robe. I turned to Guerney and asked:
“The king?”
Guerney stopped and turned, his eyes as cold and black as any marble.
“The former king,” he rasped.
We then walked to the dais. Guerney told me not to lift the cloak but simply measure the corpse. He would stand by me. I recognized the threat, knew he was armed and was more than aware that, though the hall was deserted, it was surrounded by every cut-throat in Wales. I shrugged my shoulders. It was a job. I was not responsible for that terrible figure lying so quietly under the cloth. I started my work, the measuring rod clutched in my hand as tightly as a vice. My task was nearly completed, I measured the body and made a few notes which Guerney carefully checked. Then it happened. Perhaps it was the poor light, or my own fears, but, as I moved to the top of the table, I stumbled and collided with Guerney. For a second we stood poised, then both of us crashed against the table. It quivered, then gently, almost gratefully, it let its terrible burden slide from under the purple cloth on to the floor. I watched in terror. In the poor light I saw a shaven blond head, a pale face and legs, and, as the body rolled in its white shroud, I saw the blue-black holes of the stab wounds. Then everything went black as Guerney threw a cloak over my head. His arm wrapped round my neck like an iron collar, and I felt the prick of a dagger against my heart.
“That was a mistake, Master Mason,” he whispered. “An unfortunate accident. You saw nothing.”
I nodded, terrified at what I had seen and that piece of steel so near to my heart. Guerney pushed me off the dais, removed the cloak and hustled me out of the hall to where Ockle was waiting. The hunchback must have heard the crash, for he began to babble with questions. Guerney silenced him with an order to take me back to my room and, as we left, I heard the hall doors close behind us. That night I expected to die, I could not sleep for fear for my own safety and at what I had seen. Nothing happened. The next morning Guerney came to my chamber and handed over to me the illegible notes I had made the night before. He did not refer to the events of the previous night except to stare at me before saying that I would be taken back to Gloucester that same day. I realized then that the only reason I was being left unharmed was that Guerney wished to protect himself.
That afternoon, the same Scottish bully took me back to Gloucester. I was excused from normal work and, when the timber arrived, began work on the coffin. Within a week it was finished and sent by road to Berkeley. I received a fresh purse of gold and to all intents and purposes my task was finished. Nevertheless I could not forget that whirling white body, the lolling head, the blue-black mouths of the wound. I saw it roll towards me in my dreams. I knew I had seen the body of the murdered king. But whom could I tell? Who would want to know? Who would care? I went to be shriven but my tongue refused to describe what my eyes had seen. Then the accident occurred. A timber slipped and I was thrown into space and blackness. I remembered opening my eyes after I fell only to feel the savage pain in my legs and back. I thought I saw Guerney’s face in the crowd which surrounded me, but that must have been a delusion. I was discharged from the king’s service and sent to
Croyland Abbey. Now, I am dying, I can tell everything and get rid of the haunting vision of a whirling white body with its blue-black gems.
The confession, cryptic as it is, then ends. Spilsby died a few days later and Brother Thomas too is dead. All that is left is this confession of a broken man. You may use this information for its worth. The second piece of information is more mysterious. Whilst searching among the chronicle entries I came across the following:
In the year 1328, royal commissioners, Sir Robert Brabazoun and Sir John Eyatt came to the abbey bearing the commission of the Queen Isabella and Roger Mortimer, Earl of March. They did not reveal the reason for their visit, though we were given to understand that similar visits were made to other monasteries. They brought soldiers from the retinue of Lord Mortimer, who searched the monastery and all its outbuildings. A survey was also made of all in the abbey and then the commissioners left. They did, however, tell the Lord Abbot that official searchers would be appointed to watch the coast, and they would be based in the abbey. Then they left.
I never found out the reason for their visit, and the searchers stayed in the abbey until Mortimer fell. I once met Sir Robert Brabazoun, it was after Isabella’s fall from power, and I asked him about his visit. He just smiled and said that he was no wiser. He, like the other commissioners, had been told by Mortimer that they would know what they were looking for when they found it.
The Death of a King Page 4