The Death of a King
Page 9
A sharp acrid smell forced me to cough and it was some time before I lifted one of the rush-lights. It showed a crumbling, wooden, lidless coffin, lined with the remnants of fur and samite and covered with the shards of a white, gauze-like material. Beneath this lay a skeleton, the body perfectly straight, though the skull was askew like the head of a hanged man. Praying softly, I removed the gauze to examine further. Precious rings, which had once probably adorned the fingers, winked in the light and, at the bottom of the coffin, I found the gold pieces which must have been pressed into the eye-sockets. I then examined the skull and found a deep fracture which seemed to be the work of man, rather than the slow rot of the grave. Was this the guard Pellet’s fatal wound? I leaned forward into the musty coffin to replace the skull and yelled with horror when the soggy wood at the bottom of the coffin split to reveal another, smaller, hollow-eyed skull. I crouched in terror, breathing deeply to compose myself. When I was calm again, I stood and began to clear the coffin of the skeleton and its remains. I then raised the dark, wet wood at the bottom to reveal the second skeleton. It was smaller and more decomposed than the first. The back of the skull was smashed in, the jawbone hung loose, and I immediately noticed that it was bereft of all teeth except a few yellow stumps. Who could it be? I reconstructed the list of all those who had definitely been present at the preparation of “Edward II’s” body. There was one person unaccounted for. The old crone who had dressed the corpse. The skeleton would fit her frame and general description. Her death and secret burial was an ingenious way of keeping a secret. I breathed a “Miserere,” replaced all as I had found it, and then made my way slowly back to the surface.
After a few days’ rest, I left for London, having made sure that the shaft and tunnel under the cathedral wall were covered and sealed and all traces of my work hidden from any prying eyes. I should have felt some relief, but instead there was only growing anger. I had braved the perils of sea and land on the king’s behalf, killed for him, lost my Kate because of him, and yet, the task he had assigned me was based on a tissue of lies.
You see, Richard, I broke into the tomb at Gloucester, not to examine the coffin, but to find out if someone had been there before me. They evidently had. This explains the disused tunnel, the opening into the tomb and the unsealed coffin lid. No grave robber would have been so careful or ignored the precious stones I saw there. This could only mean it was someone with specific interest in the tomb. I believe this to be the king himself. Two factors force me to this conclusion. First, I have always wondered why the king ordered me to investigate the circumstances surrounding his father’s death, some eighteen years after the event took place. Secondly, the king was at Gloucester just two weeks before he ordered me to begin my investigation. Sir Maurice Berkeley remarked on the king’s interest in his father’s tomb when he visited Gloucester and he, or more likely Chandos, who accompanied him, dug that small tunnel in order to inspect the corpse. The king knew that an imposter was buried at Gloucester and simply wished to verify the fact, or even check that a corpse was really buried there. Only pure chance had prevented him finding the second corpse. However, what is more important is that I reached my conclusions through hard research and the assassination of Michael the Scot. But how did the king come to know? And why had he not informed me? As I rode back to London, I decided that some other source existed which the king did not wish me to see. My investigation had never been intended to reach any conclusion, but merely to throw up some information to corroborate this source. The king has simply used me, like some pawn in a game of chess, and I wondered again about my usefulness once this game is over. What happens to royal clerks who know too much about the great ones they serve? A diplomatic mission to some far-away place? Or an unfortunate accident in a grimy, crowded London street? Not for me, Richard. I shall return to London and pursue this task until the end. I will find out what did happen to Edward II at Berkeley Castle and why it has become so important to our king. Then I shall settle undisturbed far beyond the reach of our devious monarch. But first, I had to discover the king’s source of information. Hence, my journey back to the capital in the vain hope that I might discover something fresh amongst the records.
I arrived back in Bread Street to find a royal writ awaiting me, which demanded further reports on my investigation. It had been issued directly by the king and sent under the secret seal. It was dated at Bouvins in Normandy only a few days before and so I decided to ignore it for the moment. Instead I concentrated on where I could begin my search. As I sat staring at the writ I had just received, I suddenly knew where the information must lie—in the office of the secret seal, the one place expressly forbidden me by the king.
You probably know, Richard, there is the great seal in the custody of the Chancellor, and the privy seal, carried by another royal official. Both these seals are used to issue charters, letters and licences, but the secret seal is used exclusively by the king and covers any delicate or serious matter concerning himself or the kingdom. From my days in the Chancery, I knew that the office of the secret seal had a record depository behind locked doors in the Tower Muniment Room. Documents stored there are usually handed over in sealed caskets by the Chancellor, or even the king himself. No other person is allowed access to them without their express permission. I determined to break into the record room but I knew that I could not use the king’s commission, as it was now considerably dated and not specific enough to fool a Chancery official.
I decided to resume my search at the Muniment Room and cultivate the venerable clerk in charge of the secret seal records—John Luttreshall. The latter is a high-ranking official, a man grown old in the service of the royal administration. He knew me by sight and, with a little flattery on my part, I soon turned his acquaintance into a friendship. We established a custom of sharing a wine-skin after the day’s work when the other clerks were gone. John would grow expansive and gabble like a chicken about what he had done, whilst I sat open-mouthed in pretended astonishment at his petty achievements.
Yesterday evening I laced John’s wine with poppy-juice that I had bought from an apothecary. The old man quickly slumped, head on hands, into a deep sleep and I immediately went to work. I removed the chain of keys from his belt and opened the locks on the door to the secret seal records. Once through, I lit some tapers which revealed a long, low-vaulted chamber with white walls reaching up to a black-raftered ceiling. I realized that the depository was modelled on the same system as the rest of the Muniment Room with the documents sealed in small hide-skinned trunks according to the king’s regnal year. Edward III had been crowned in January, 1327, and I had received my commission in his eighteenth, 1345. I found the casket for that year on a shelf near the door and, having broken the king’s seal, began to work my way through its contents. There were a whole series of documents. Reports from spies and traitors at the French court, letters from the king to private individuals, and a collection of memoranda from the royal council. At last, I unrolled a small scroll bearing a broken seal I did not recognise. It was a letter from Manuel Fieschi, a clerk of the Papal Court in Avignon, and as I slowly deciphered the Norman French, my heart began to pound with excitement.
I hurried out of the chamber. John was still snoring softly, so I swiftly made a rough copy of the letter and returned it. Despite my excitement, I realized that someone would discover that the casket had been tampered with. I softened the wax of the broken seal, closed the casket lid and, pressing the seal together again, hoped that it would escape attention, at least for a while. I then relocked the chamber door, returned the keys to the still sleeping John and quickly strolled back to my house in Bread Street.
I cannot give you Fieschi’s letter in full, Richard, but its contents, to use Guerney’s expression, would certainly “set all Europe by its ears.” Fieschi claims that Edward II had not died at Berkeley, but had escaped during the Dunheved attack and managed to reach Ireland. From there, he had sailed to France where he had met Fi-eschi at the Pa
pal Court. The deposed king, so Fieschi maintained, was travelling in disguise and only revealed his identity after being given absolution in confession, and then left the Papal Court with the firm intention of travelling to Italy. The letter gave no indication of his whereabouts in Italy, but concluded with the firm hope that our present king would determine the truth of the matter. Even more incredible is that the letter is dated June, 1345, only three months, Richard, before the king assigned me to this inquiry.
The contents of Fieschi’s letter may seem incredible, but for me, they simply prove that Edward II was not buried at Gloucester and our king knew this from the start. I have spent the entire night wondering what to do next—and I have reached several conclusions.
Item—there is no trace of our present king’s instigating any search for his father. This is understandable. Fieschi’s letter would need further substantiation before the king began a venture which would surprise Europe. However close he tries to keep the secret, truth will out, and rumour spreads like the plague. I am sure that Fieschi has already received a swift rebuttal of his report, or a substantial bribe to keep him quiet.
Item—the letter speaks of Edward II going south to Italy. So where would an English fugitive go in Italy? To the north, riven by war, as well as the market for many English merchants? Or the south, where any Englishman, as Sir Thomas Guerney proved, soon comes to the attention of the authorities? No, Richard, all roads lead to Rome, an ideal place to hide. It is an independent state, filled with many nationalities, as well as a refuge for exiles from all over Europe.
Item—Edward II has been gone for eighteen years, yet has never made any attempt to publicize his existence. This can only mean he wants to lead a sheltered life and the safest place for this is some monastery or friary.
Consequently, Richard, I intend to go to Rome and look for our unburied king, whatever the risks involved. I did think of visiting Fieschi, but I am sure he cannot tell me more than his letter already has, and such a move would certainly attract the attention of the king. I have drawn up a fictitious report for my royal master, a lie to fight a lie. In this cold London dawn the thought comforts me. I shall write again, written 19 July, 1346, at Bread Street.
Letter Nine
Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. I intended to despatch this letter from Italy but circumstances, as you will see, have forced me to write again.
I enclose a letter from Sir Thomas Tweng. Please read it as it makes a most interesting revelation.
Sir Thomas Tweng to Edmund Beche, Clerk of the Chancery, greetings. I write in confidence to one who is also in pursuit of the truth, whatever that may be. Shortly after you left Taunton, one of my agents in the Low Countries, Peter Teloy, sent me an astonishing report. He had managed to track down John Maltravers, living under an assumed name near Ypres in Flanders. Teloy decided not to approach him but keep him under surveillance for a few weeks. He eventually reported that Maltravers (or “Groot” as he now called himself ) was rich and entertained many of the wealthy burgesses, supporters of our king in his war against the French. Teloy could not understand this and so he started to make his own enquiries amongst the burgesses of Ypres. It finally emerged that Maltravers passed himself off as an Anglo-Flemish knight and Edward of England’s special agent in Flanders! Such a position is not wholly remarkable. Maltravers was never specifically accused of the murder of Edward II. He may well have received a secret pardon in return for perpetual but comfortable exile as the king’s spy in the Low Countries. However, more was to come. Teloy became friendly with the wife of one of the most important burgesses who visited Maltravers. From her Teloy learnt that “Groot” was making discreet inquiries on the whereabouts of a certain Englishman, a hunchback called William Ockle.
Maltravers (or “Groot”) had narrowed his investigation down to the groups of mercenaries who were drifting south to offer their services to the highest bidder. Teloy decided to mix with these landless men, who told him a camp-fire story about an English sergeant-at-arms, one of Edward III’s recruiters, being teased by a band of Flemish mercenaries. Evidently, the latter had mocked our king for hiring Germans to do his killing, while the city of Metz hired a hunchbacked Englishman to do theirs as the public hangman.
Teloy realized that their description of the hunchback fitted Ockle and so he immediately travelled to Metz, but he was too late. The hunchbacked Englishman had been mysteriously knifed to death two weeks before his arrival. Teloy then returned to Flanders and wrote to me reporting all he had discovered. I was angry that the king had not informed me about Maltravers. I reproached him, (as an old-time friend and colleague in the conspiracy to destroy Mortimer), for not taking me into his confidence.
The answer I received was stark and brutal. His Grace informed me that Teloy was mistaken on all points. Moreover, he was a disreputable agent, for the king had learnt that he had recently been killed in a drunken tavern brawl with some Hainaulters. I was then ordered to relinquish my task, resign my office of sheriff and assume the custody of Norham Castle. Norham! A bleak, God-forsaken spot on the Scottish March! A prince’s reward for a faithful, dutiful servant. He is a worse despot than his father ever was and cunning with it. Ever since Guerney’s death, I have suspected that there is something mysterious and terrible about the death of the old king at Berkeley. Teloy’s report and subsequent murder—for murder it undoubtedly was—proves that.
I write to you as a bewildered old man, Master Beche. Be very wary in the task the king has assigned you. May God reward you better than he has done me. Written in haste at Taunton, 29 July, 1346.
Poor Sir Thomas. I have a strange feeling that if he ever reaches Norham alive, he will never live the year out. His letter was valuable. It underlines the seriousness of my own position. My burglary of the Secret Seal room would soon be discovered and the king may even know that Tweng had written to me. I began to make immediate preparations for my departure, selling all my moveables and trying to secure passage on a ship bound for an Italian port.
One evening after a last visit to Kate’s grave, I arrived back at my lodgings to find a filthy urchin crouching outside on the cobbles. He babbled incoherently at me, thrust a grubby piece of parchment into my hand and slipped quietly away. I unrolled the scrap and read in a scrawled hand, “Edward II. In the Kirtle at Southwark. Immediately.” I quickly gathered a sword, dagger and cloak from my lodgings and headed for the river bank.
While a powerful wherryman raced his little craft across the choppy Thames, I clutched my sword and wondered who had really sent the message. Southwark at night is London’s answer to hell and the Kirtle Tavern has a worse reputation than the Devil himself. The wherryman must have thought I was going to visit one of the notorious brothels there. He refused to let me land until he had regaled me with advice, telling me I would get my money’s worth at the Mitre, where the bawds rutted like stoats for a penny and would do anything for two. I smiled bleakly, thanked him and headed into the warren of alley-ways which ran down to the riverside. It was dark and if the rest of the city is thronged and busy during the day, then Southwark comes alive at night. Cut-throats, pick-pockets, pimps, vagabonds and outlaws roam the alleys like wolves looking for prey amongst the weak and unarmed. The streets, cluttered with filth of every kind, reek with the rot and decay of an uncleared battlefield. As I moved deeper into the darkness, the shadows which emerged from doorways slunk back as they saw the naked sword I carried. I moved forward briskly but carefully, quite aware that one stumble would bring the shadows back again. I left the riverside and the darkness became broken with the lights and noise of ale-houses and brothels. At last, I found the Kirtle, a small dingy tavern with narrow slit windows out of which poured the sound of violent roistering.