I almost dropped with surprise. “You mean to say,” I exclaimed, “that one of the murderers was found? Did he confess? Why did the king not tell me?”
“Tush, man,” Tweng replied, “there’s no need to get excited. True,” Tweng nodded, “Guerney was found and arrested, but he refused to confess to anything before he died. I admit his death was an embarrassment. The king was furious though he understood that I was not at fault; hence my appointment as sheriff here. It’s a rewarding post, as well as a convenient listening point for any rumours about Guerney’s colleague in murder, Ockle. Look!” he exclaimed, “surely the king has mentioned it to you?”
I thought hard. Had Edward deliberately kept such information from me? I was on the point of saying he had not when I remembered Edward specifically telling me at Windsor that the hunt for his father’s murderers was a job for others. “Yes,” I replied, “he might have mentioned something.”
“Good!” Tweng exclaimed. “Then let me give you the details about Guerney.” He took a deep draught from the tankard I had placed on the table before him and settled back to talk. “Thomas Guerney and William Ockle were all judged regicides and traitors at the November parliament of 1330. Yet it is essential to realize that although Maltravers is associated with Edward II’s imprison ment, only Thomas Guerney and William Ockle, his valet, were specifically accused of the king’s murder. Indeed, my interest was always with Guerney, not Ockle, for where the former went, the latter was bound to follow. Be that as it may, Guerney was always regarded as the principal murderer.” Sir Thomas stopped to clear his throat before continuing, “In the summer of 1331, two Spanish merchants with connections at the English court recognized Guer-ney in Burgos and successfully petitioned King Alphonso of Spain to have him detained. They then informed our king, who began extradition proceedings, but before they were compiled, Guerney escaped. One of the king’s squires, a Spaniard named Egidius, was already in Spain, trying to persuade the authorities to deliver Guerney up. When he escaped, Egidius devoted all his energies to the pursuit. He failed to capture Guerney, but he did arrest two of the king’s guards at Berkeley, John Tully and Robert Linelle. These he took back to England and,” Sir Thomas paused to draw diagrams in the spilt pools of wine, “they were questioned.”
I gathered from his pause that the fugitives had been tortured, which is contrary to common law. I realized that this was not the time for legal niceties and pressed him to continue.
He told me that these two had been of little use, apart from further information regarding others of the king’s guards, all of whom were rounded up and questioned, although little came of it.
“Then,” Sir Thomas continued a little more briskly, “on 16 January, 1333, I was with the king at York, when a report was brought in from William de Cornwall, one of the royal agents in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. According to this, Guerney had been seen there and the king immediately commissioned me to go to Naples to apprehend him. Preparations took about ten days and, accompanied by a small retinue, I sailed from Sandwich. We had good winds and docked at Genoa on 10 February. There the cog left us for active service in the Channel, while our party hired horses and travelled south to Naples.”
“We arrived about the beginning of March and, having observed the usual protocol, John de la Haye, the seneschal of the town, handed Guerney over to us. I remember being shocked by his ragged appearance but, after a shave and a new set of clothes, he didn’t look too bad. I had met Guerney many times during the reign of Edward II. He was a cocky bastard then and he hadn’t changed. He said he was glad to be going back to England. Glad! I reproached him as a regicide, but he merely smiled and said he had news that would set all Europe by its ears. After that, he refused to speak about Edward’s death at Berkeley.”
Sir Thomas turned and bellowed to the landlord to bring candles and ale. “Anyway,” he continued, “we set sail from Naples in the last week of March and landed at Couloures in Aragon on the east coast of Spain. I thought it best to cross northern Spain, through the Pyrenees, and so enter the English duchy of Gascony, rather than risk a perilous sea voyage up the Bay of Biscay. So, at Couloures, I hired mules and horses and also obtained the necessary passes to cross Aragon and Castile. Our journey was an uneventful one, until Guerney fell ill. Nothing serious at first, just gripes in the belly, but by the time we reached Bordeaux in Gascony, he was dead.” Tweng then broke off his narrative and stared hard at his thick, stubby fingers.
“I know what you’re thinking, Master Beche. His death does seem very convenient and so it was judged at the time. There are stories that he was killed to protect certain people in England, not just the queen mother.” Sir Thomas looked at me intently. “There’s no foundations for such lies. I was especially charged by the king to look after Guerney and I took along two physicians just in case he did fall ill, yet even they could do nothing to save him. The rest of the voyage was quickly over. Guerney’s body was preserved in spirits and we sailed from Bordeaux to Sandwich. The king himself inspected the corpse, and having commended me for my efforts, ordered Guerney’s remains to be buried in unconsecrated ground. That’s it, Master Clerk. A long, fruitless search, which resulted in nothing.” Sir Thomas smiled at me mirthlessly. “I’m not surprised His Grace did not inform you about such details for they are of little importance.”
I was deeply disappointed by Tweng’s account. Guerney was dead. Maltravers and Ockle had disappeared and if the king’s agents had failed to pick up their tracks in fourteen years, then what chance had I?
Tweng, however, had not yet finished. “What do you think, Master Clerk?” he asked. “Do you think Guerney was murdered?”
I realized the poor man, for all his bombast, still had doubts himself. I asked about the retinue which he had taken on his journey.
“Twenty in all, not counting myself,” he replied. “The two physicians, but they never approached him till he fell ill. Then there were six valets who took care of our needs and twelve royal sergeants, all volunteers.”
“Did any of these ever speak to the prisoner?”
“Yes,” Sir Thomas replied quickly. “A big thick-set fellow, very capable with his hands. A good soldier, like any Scot. He used to have regular conversations with Guerney, but when I questioned them separately, I found they had both done service in the Scottish campaign of 1328. “Anyway,” he shrugged, “the man’s innocent of any guilt, as I had sent him on to Gascony the day before Guerney fell ill.”
I didn’t really listen to anything else Sir Thomas said. The word ‘Scot’ rang like a bell in my brain and I knew that whatever Tweng might suspect, Guerney had been murdered. I let Sir Thomas ramble on.
“Has the king recently ordered you to resume your efforts to capture Maltravers?” I asked.
“Yes,” Sir Thomas replied, “during the last six months, the king has paid me extra sums to hire spies, but the money’s wasted. I have thirty agents working in the duchies of Germany and not one has made the slightest progress.”
I murmured words of consolation, promising to share any information I unearthed. For my part, it was a lie from the start. I intended to leave Sir Thomas chasing his will-o’-the-wisps in Europe, while I tracked down Michael the Scot.
Tweng, however, seemed to have little inclination to let me go.
“Look, Master Clerk,” he explained, “you’re in this as deep as I am and you seem just as confused. I have drawn up a file of documents on the late king’s imprisonment. Perhaps you would like to inspect them. They’re at the castle.”
It would have been churlish to spurn such an offer and I was greedy for any fresh information, so I offered to present myself at the castle the next morning. Sir Thomas bluffly rejected this and told me he would bring the file down personally. He then rose, nodded good-night and swept out.
The next morning I rose early, bribed the landlord for the best table near the window and obtained the loan of a portable writing tray. I had scarcely finished my preparations when Sir
Thomas joined me, bearing a thick roll of vellum.
“This is everything I know about Edward II’s death,” he announced. “Look through it and see if any of it can be of help to you.”
I insisted on buying him his breakfast, and while he ate it I unrolled the roll of vellum and began to move swiftly through the entries. Most of them were immediately recognizable as items I had already discovered, but one did catch my eye. This was the confession of Tully, one of the sentries at Berkeley Castle during Edward II’s imprisonment. The man was evidently a common foot-soldier and was innocent of any involvement in the late king’s death. Tully, however, had been on castle guard the night Dunheved attacked. According to Tully, he and the other soldiers were assigned only to the battlements, the inner bailey being the preserve of Ockle and Guerney. On the night of Dunheved’s attack, Tully had been completely surprised as the assailants had entered the castle by a sewer which ran from the moat into the inner bailey. Consequently (and I took note of the wording), Tully only knew of the attack when he heard the sound of the uproar behind him in the inner bailey and saw Dunheved’s men break and flee towards him on the main castle wall. What was most significant was Tully’s claim that Dunheved’s men actually got into the castle and were escaping before being either cut down or forced to surrender. This contradicted earlier statements that Dunheved’s gang were stopped at the walls. I copied Tully’s confession down and returned the roll to Sir Thomas, who had been anxiously watching me.
“Is that all you need?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and now, Sir Thomas, I must say goodbye.”
We shook hands, promising that we would share information. I told him where he could contact me and I walked into the yard of the inn and shouted for my horse.
Sir Thomas followed me into the frosty yard and watched as I mounted.
“Master Beche?” he asked. “Why do you think the king informed neither of us that the other was involved in this business?”
The same question had occurred to me and I gave him the same conclusion I had reached. The king had assigned me to write a history of his late father’s reign, not the task of tracking down his father’s murderers. Tweng looked about as satisfied as I felt at such an explanation, but time was pressing. We both agreed to keep our meeting together a secret. I nodded farewell and continued my departure.
My journey back was uneventful. I reached the capital this morning and I was in Bread Street when the bells of St Paul were calling for the midday Angelus. I left my horse in the hands of the ostler of The Green Man and entered its cool darkness. The place fell strangely quiet. At first, I thought it was due to my dusty appearance until Noyon, the landlord, bustled up and, avoiding my eyes, told me to sit. I gathered from his face that he brought bad news, common knowledge to all, but affecting only me.
“It’s Kate, Master Beche,” Noyon answered my look. “She’s dead, murdered three nights ago. She was found with her throat cut, near St Martin-le-Grand.”
The coldness which numbed me then still lingers on. I asked if there was a culprit, but Noyon was uncertain. He told me a huge, black-faced man with a foreign accent had been making enquiries about me the day before Kate’s death. “Perhaps it was he, but the coroner was unable to question him, as he vanished as mysteriously as he had come. This,” Noyon added, “was found in one of her pockets.”
It was a piece of parchment with the words “mortui mortuos saepeliant”—“let the dead bury the dead”—and I remembered that the she-wolf had given me similar advice at Castle Rising.
I thanked Noyon and stumbled back to my lodgings, where I lay staring for hours at the parchment. I have it now, neatly folded in my wallet, and I intend to return it to the Scot. Somehow or other, he murdered Guerney; he has tried to kill me once and probably came to London to finish the job. When he found me absent, he must have decided to kill Kate and terrorize me into silence. That old bitch, Isabella, works the man like a puppet but if I cannot reach her, then I will be satisfied with the Scot. I beg you, Richard, not to write with texts to leave vengeance to the Lord. By the time this letter reaches you, such vengeance will have been carried out. God keep you. Written at Bread Street, 11 April, 1346.
Letter Seven
Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. You must not think I ended my last letter with vain, empty threats. I was distraught at Kate’s death. Indeed, I still am. I did not love the girl, but I feel sorrow and guilt that such an innocent should suffer because of me. The morning after my return to London, I visited her small, forlorn grave and wept unashamedly. I ordered a stone cross to be placed there and paid a fee for masses to be said by a Chancery priest.
I also settled other affairs in London before using the king’s commission to draw further monies. The Exchequer clerk told me that one day I would have to account for it all. He looked even angrier when I said that the king had received more than he could ever give me. I left my old mare at The Green Man and bought a splendid beast, more suited for a knight than a clerk at the chancery, but past experience had already shown that my life could depend on the speed of a horse. I then fastened on my sword and dagger and left the capital for Cambridge and King’s Lynn.
It seemed so empty to leave without a kiss from Kate, and for the first time in my life I felt a loneliness that was more than a mere state of mind. I have no kin. My parents died working a small farm on the Pennines to send their only son to Oxford. Kate is gone and you, Richard, are locked away in your monastery. As I rode out of London, I felt that only the task I had now set myself was worth living for.
The horse I had bought proved its worth and after four days’ steady riding, with only a few stops for food and rest, I arrived once again at The Sea Barque. Naturally, I was greeted with surprised joy by the fraternity which haunt that place and no small embarrassment by the landlord. He confessed that he had kept my saddle and bags but sold the sumpter-pony as he thought I had gone forever. I improved my standing by telling him to keep the price he had made as I had now found employment with a rich London merchant. I used this as my excuse for my swift departure from King’s Lynn the first time and explained that I was on my master’s business to Kingston-upon-Hull.
The man laughed and shook his head in disbelief at my good fortune. “Thank God, Master Beche. We thought some evil had befallen you.”
“How is that?” I said, although I suspected the answer even before I’d heard the landlord’s reply.
“It was Michael the Scot, the old queen’s man. He came here a few days after you left and made inquiries about a clerk fitting your frame. We knew it was you, but we kept quiet, though we wondered how you had crossed swords with the lout.”
I glibly explained that I had tried to seek employment with the old queen, but had been turned back by the Scot, whom I had roundly cursed. The landlord then told me to be wary and lie low. I grimly decided to follow his advice for I was determined to strike before my enemy knew I was back.
A few discreet inquiries on my part revealed that Michael the Scot had one weakness. Now and again he came alone to King’s Lynn to visit a young widow called Mistress Launge, who lived alone outside the city walls. According to common report, Michael was hot for her as she was cold towards him. The ruffian’s fruitless suit was common knowledge and gleefully watched by all and sundry.
I decided to call upon Mistress Launge and found her at home in her small, neat two-storeyed house which sits on the border of the royal forests which surrounded King’s Lynn. At first, she was reluctant even to let me in, but when I hastily exclaimed I knew of a way to rid her of Michael the Scot, the door was flung wide open in welcome. She was a small nut-brown girl with lustrous black hair, blue eyes and regular features. She looked as soft as a young spring doe, but I discovered she hated the Scot as much as I did. Sitting in her small kitchen, warmed by a sparkling fire and lit by the rays of a watery sun, she told me about herself and the Scot. How she had been married young to an elderly mercer, a kindly man, who only survived the mar
riage by six months. For a while, she lived the life of a respectable widow until the Scot had seen her at last year’s Michaelmas Fair. Since then, he had pursued and pestered her like some imp from hell, threatening and coaxing her to enter his bed. She had no relatives, no men folk to protect her, whilst he stood high in the old queen’s favour. So far she had resisted him, but she was becoming terrified of what he might do. I commiserated with her and then, little by little, explained why I had visited her, basing my story on half-truths; how the Scot had attacked me in London, then in spite murdered my betrothed. I gently stroked her hatred for the Scot, until it overcame the terror in which she held him and so together we laid our plot.
The next day I visited the woods outside King’s Lynn and, having found the site I was looking for, I returned to my chamber at the inn. I stayed there until dusk, then I dressed in my darkest clothes, blackened my hands and face, and quietly led my saddled horse out of The Sea Barque. The widow was waiting for me and nervously announced that all was ready. She had combed her hair and wore a kirtle of scarlet which emphasized her small, round breasts and narrow waist. I repeated my plan, received her assurances and then went up to her chamber, where I hid myself behind the arras which ran alongside the wall at the foot of the bed. Here I found the dagger and club I had ordered to be concealed. Satisfied that all was well, I settled down to wait. After a while, I heard knocking on the downstairs door and then the gruff voice of the Scot announcing himself. The house became silent, broken only by the sound of faint laughter and the clash of cups. Suddenly, there was a squeal and a thumping on the stairs, then the chamber door flung open and Michael the Scot walked through, carrying a struggling Mistress Launge. Without a word, he flung the woman on the great bed and began to unfasten the lacing of his breeches. Once stripped, he flung himself on to the unfortunate woman, his great hands thrusting under her petticoat while he buried his face into her long neck. I waited for a few seconds more, slipped from behind the arras and brought my club down on to the man’s head with a resounding thwack. He jerked, groaned and slipped unconscious to the floor. Mistress Launge sufficiently recovered herself to help me bind and gag the unconscious man and then drag him downstairs. I went outside and brought my horse from the rear of the house, and, having assured ourselves that all was quiet, we dragged the Scot out and bound him across my saddle. I whispered my farewells to the girl and promised that she would see neither me nor the Scot again.
The Death of a King Page 7