At first, I never considered the church for our vicar, Father William, was even dirtier and coarser than my father. He could just about mumble a few words of Latin. His sermons were incomprehensible and he was invariably drunk. I always remember a story about my father’s going to see him about the marriage of one of my sisters. Father William had to consult the blood-book, which records the blood-line relationships in the village. It is the church’s surety against incest and consanguinity, as well as guaranteeing that the village’s idiot population did not develop even further. Evidently Father William got the book down from behind the altar and then sat down to consult it. My father knelt near him for a while, then, when this became too protracted, rose and crossed to Father William, only to find our reverend priest trying to read the book upside down. My father’s shouts of outrage could be heard the length and breadth of the village. Poor Father William hid in the church tower for days. My father was a powerful man with a reputation for an evil temper at the best of times.
No, Holy Mother Church did not attract me. Then, all at once, matters changed. My father used to make visits to Winchester, and in the summer of my thirteenth year, he grandly announced that I could accompany him. It was a great honour. I had been no further than my village, and Winchester was as near to me as heaven is now. It was a day I shall never forget. Even now it cuts like a knife through the cynicism, disillusionment and tragedy of my life. Winchester, I suppose, is no great marvel, but to me it was the heavenly Jerusalem that Father William used to babble about in his sermons. Great stone buildings, cobbled thoroughfares, columns, colours and more people than I ever imagined could exist. Buildings, houses, four storeys high, ladies in silks with painted haughty faces and their young men in velvet hose and fur-trimmed capes. Yet it was the cathedral which fascinated me: long white columns of stone soaring into the sky and then bending back to give curved spacious arches. Each arch, each curve told a story or sung a hymn of praise to its creator. Everywhere the curved and intricately carved masonry presented the visitor with scenes of heaven and hell. Naturally, it was the latter with its grotesque half-man, half-beast population, which caught my wandering attention. They presented a world turned upside down; dogs with human faces and humans with the faces of sows, dragons and other beasts I hardly recognized.
My father left me gaping there whilst he went searching for the treasurer’s office. I spent those hours in the cathedral, but it was when I wandered into the cloisters that the seeds of my vocation were sown. I remember wandering there in the warm sunshine listening to the bees hum and sing as they plundered the honeysuckle and other wild flowers which grew there in abundance. Leading off from these cloisters were the cells of the monks: clean, whitewashed, comfortable and attractive in their ordered simplicity. The monks, themselves, slipped and padded by me. A few would smile and raise their long white fingers in half a blessing. I envied them. I envied their world, so ordered, so clean, so calm in such beautiful surroundings.
I went back to my village, fully determined to become a monk. Yet I did not tell my parents, as I felt that there was still something missing. My parents, as I have explained, had spoiled me. I was used to being the centre of attention, but if I became a monk then I would lose this. I was attracted by the clean, sophisticated simplicity of their lives, but repelled by the anonymity. I can see the clerk, who is transcribing this, smirk. Of course, I know why the little bastard smirks. My pardon. He knows I had no vocation. Well, let me tell you, I’ve met few who have. How many of our priests live like Christ? You could count them on one hand.
Anyway, I’m digressing. The clerk has just informed me that he is putting down my oaths and profanities. Good! That’s the way I want it. He has also told me, the snivelling little snot, that time is passing and I’ve told them nothing. Well, what does it matter? I am going nowhere and I do have something to say. Anyway, at least I’m making sure that one clerk does a decent day’s work. It is important for me to tell about my early life, it explains what happens later and reserves my name from the monotonous anonymity of death. My parents would have liked that. Some compensation for all their money and efforts.
To my youth again. I kept my vocation secret as I still had doubts and reservations. Then, one day, a friar came to the village. Not one of your Franciscans, but a Dominican. I had heard vague rumours of these. Clever men, fierce preachers who travelled the countryside preaching God’s love and the equality of man. The Dominican who came to our village was no different. Tall, sunburnt, with cropped head and grey-blue eyes, he seemed to tower above us all in his striking black and white robe. He took over our church, ignored the bleatings of Father William and proceeded to deliver sermons to all who would come and, if they didn’t, he went looking for them in their homes or working on the great outfields of the bishop. His voice was dark and rich and, with his long fingers curling and twirling, he painted pictures of God and the life hereafter as if he had been there himself. It was a drama which held us spellbound and, when he left, I knew what I wanted to be. A monk, but a Dominican who would hold the stage and yet enjoy the cool, clean solitude of the monastery.
My friend, the clerk, is beginning to mutter, so I’ll pass quickly on. Suffice to say that I told my parents. My poor, tired mother was overjoyed, while my father was torn between losing his one and only son and the chance to get rid of what he secretly thought was a cuckoo in his nest. He had daughters and they would provide him with sturdy, industrious grandchildren. There was a great deal of travelling back and forwards to Winchester. Money was exchanged for letters of recommendation and then it was finally settled, I would enter the Dominican house in Oxford.
I left my parents and my village with hardly a backward glance and travelled to Oxford to begin my studies. My dream was realized and, with a few minor exceptions, I was not disappointed. I came to love the clean austerity and regular routine of the monastery, even the religion, for I had a quick brain and a good actor’s aptitude for any role. My future as a priest, monk and preacher was assured until I met the Dunheveds, Thomas and Stephen, brothers from a prosperous Gloucestershire family, who had entered the order for the very same reasons as myself. They were like two peas in a pod. Small, dark, intense, with a love of life and a detached cynicism to all around them.
Soon the Dunheveds and I became close friends. Naturally, our superiors frowned on this but, when they discovered there was nothing unnatural or unhealthy about our relationship, the matter was dropped. As I have said, the Dunheveds were as hypocritical as I was. During the day they were regular and committed to their monastic training but, quite often at night I would join them on their forays into the city. The university provided a varied, exciting social life. We drank with the students at the many taverns and, on occasions, even visited some of the brothels near the city gates. So, time passed on. My contacts with my family were seldom and short. Together with the Dunheveds I entered the novitiate, took my vows and was ordained a priest in the summer of 1311. Thomas Dunheved was sent by the order to Wales. Stephen and I, excellent students, were kept at the house in Oxford. Both of us were used to instruct new entrants and to carry out administrative duties of the order. One of these duties was to investigate cases of heresy or schism, these were usually minor matters, hedge priests who had little grasp of theology or some illiterate peasants who claimed they had seen visions of the Holy Ghost.
However, in the summer of 1313, a much more serious matter was brought to the attention of the church authorities. A young student of the University of Oxford, one Simon Palmer, claimed that he was the real son of Edward I and that Edward of Caernar-von was an imposter. He maintained that he had been told all this through a vision whilst walking in Christchurch Meadows. Such impostors were not rare, but this student had a persuasive tongue and was preaching at a time of great political discontent in the country. Edward II was losing the war in Scotland and there was upheaval and unrest following the execution of the King’s favourite, Piers Gaveston, by the Earl of Lancaster and oth
ers. Edward II had sworn vengeance against his barons and Gaveston’s body was still lying in state at King’s Langley as Edward refused to allow it to be buried. Even the seasons seemed to conspire against us: a late spring had been followed by a very wet summer. The harvest would be poor and there were other omens and spectres which disturbed the common peace.
Stephen Dunheved and I were instructed to attend the investigation into Palmer’s allegations. The Tribunal sat in the refectory of New Hall College with the King’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer present, they questioned Palmer whilst we simply sat in as observers. Palmer’s story was that years ago at good King Edward I’s palace at Woodstock he, Palmer, then the king’s first-born, had been playing in the courtyard when he had been attacked by a sow, who had bitten off his left ear. The nurse in charge of him had been so frightened of the old king’s temper that she had switched him for a peasant child. Palmer’s proof of these allegations was that he bore a passing resemblance to the old king. He also showed us the scar where his left ear had been torn off and, of course, he maintained that his story explained why the present king, in effect a peasant, was so interested in rustic pursuits, such as wrestling, farming and thatching. Dunheved and I wondered whether to laugh or simply advise the royal justices to dismiss Palmer as an idiot. However, the justices were in no mood to treat the matter lightly. They privately informed us that Palmer’s allegations were believed by certain members of the court and these charges were bringing the royal name into common disrepute. They concluded that Palmer must be put to torture, even though this was against the law of the land, and the truth ascertained.
A week later the court reconvened, but this time we were informed that the king would be present to watch the proceedings from a gallery. Palmer was brought once more before the justices, and this time he was a different man. He had to be upheld by two sergeants and it was more than evident that he had been tortured. His left eye was closed, his face and neck were covered in bruises, and he had lost the use of his left arm. In a broken voice he confessed that he had been dabbling in black magic and that the devil had promised Palmer that if he proclaimed his story, he would be believed, Edward II would be deposed and Palmer would become the new king of England. The justices asked him in what guise the devil appeared and Dunheved and I had to stifle our laughter when Palmer replied that it had been in the form of a cat. Palmer was then taken back to the cells. The justices were summoned to the royal presence and both Dunheved and I were also ordered to attend.
The king had taken up residence in the infirmary and, when we entered, was standing with his back towards us, studying the one and only tapestry in the room. The justices then knelt before him and we did likewise. The king, however, continued to look at the tapestry and, when I raised my eyes, I thought that he was crying, it was only after a while that I realized that he was shaking with laughter. Eventually he turned and ordered us to rise. My first impression was that Edward II was a king in every aspect. He must have stood over six feet. Long blond hair fell down to his shoulders. His face was long and tanned. His eyes clear blue. He was dressed simply in dark blue robe and hose, with a quilted jerkin over a white cambric shirt. A cloak of the same blue lay thrown across the table, his only ostentation being the large number of rings on each hand, which twinkled and glittered as the king kept nervously stroking his moustache and short fair beard. He looked pleasant and relaxed, though one could detect tension and nervousness as his eyes constantly flickered backwards and forwards. I remembered all the stories about Edward of Caernarvon’s being a lover of men. I could not say if they were true, but it was more than evident that men could love him.
He questioned the justices in a low clear voice and then turned to us.
“Well, learned Fathers?” he asked. “What do you think I should do about my brother?”
Dunheved answered immediately that the king’s brother was an idiot and should be treated as such. The justices gasped and stood rooted with terror while even I thought that Stephen’s impudence would provoke the royal wrath, but Edward simply stared at him for a while and then broke into loud, ringing laughter. He then walked across the room, embraced Dunheved and placed a kiss on each of his cheeks before turning and leaving the room. The justices glared at Dunheved and myself and immediately followed him. The following day we learnt that the justices had had their way as Palmer was to be hanged outside the city walls, although the king’s macabre sense of humour prevailed for a cat was also hanged alongside him.
In the following weeks I noticed that Dunheved became quieter, remote and difficult to talk to after our interview with the king. It took me some time to realize that Dunheved had become infatuated with Edward and had fallen under the same spell which had ensnared other men. I remember asking him why he had replied with such impudence, he simply answered that he believed that that was what the king wanted him to do. I could only agree. Edward’s presence had been magnetic and even I, cynic as I was, realized that the king was the type of man who either compellingly attracted or totally alienated other people. I could also see that Edward had been attracted, as I had been, by Stephen Dunheved’s forthright manner. Consequently, I was not surprised when, six weeks later, Stephen was summoned by the provincial of the order, who informed him that the king had ordered him to be his personal confessor and that he was to join the royal household once it returned from the French court.
Both the Dunheveds and I had now parted company. We kept in touch through frequent letters, but we rarely met and the few times I did encounter Stephen, it was more than obvious that he was a fanatical adherent of the king, the implacable foe of all those who opposed his royal master.
Then, in the winter of 1326, at the height of the crisis between Isabella and Edward II, Stephen Dunheved came to see me. There was a blizzard blowing through Oxford and the city was in virtual hibernation. Stephen simply came to my room, entered without knocking, shrugged off his cowl and sat on a stool near the room’s one and only brazier. I let him sit there for a while, hands outstretched, staring into the glowing charcoal. He then turned to me and, even in the poor light, I could see that royal service had aged him. He had that gaunt, passionate look of the fanatic. He was brusque in his manner and informed me that he had come to take leave of me as well as receive letters from the Father Provincial, be cause he was on an urgent and secret royal mission to Avignon.
“Why?” I asked.
Stephen pursed his lips.
“It’s something terrible. The king wants a divorce.”
I pointed out that this was not so surprising in the circumstances. But Stephen shook his head.
“It’s the reasons for the divorce,” he whispered.
I urged him to tell me more but he refused and, after exchanging personal news over a cup of mulled wine, he left as quietly as he came.
I can see that the clerk who is transcribing this is beginning to get agitated. Night has fallen, the torches flicker and he is tired. So I must move quickly to the major part of my story. Unlike Stephen Dunheved, I did not become involved in the political disputes between Edward II and his baronage. I stayed in Oxford as an adviser to the order and, though not too happy with my life, was content with the vocation I had chosen. I was a spectator of the events of 1326 when Isabella, that adultress bitch, returned from France with her lover Mortimer, and started a revolution against her husband. Our order was always well informed and I heard with dismay about the king’s rejection by the Londoners and his consequent flight into the West.
Isabella brought her hordes of mercenaries and exiles to Oxford. The Mayor of Oxford had to go out to greet her and I was asked by the Provincial to accompany him to Woodstock where the queen had taken over the royal palace. We found the place packed with mercenaries from the Low Countries and Mortimer’s Welsh adherents. The French bitch received us in the great hall of the palace. She affected to wear half armour, but even the dimmest member of our delegation recognized this as simply dress armour intended for ostentatious displa
y. Nevertheless, there was nothing unreal or soft about her attitude. She sat behind a great table at the top of the hall, on her left sat Mortimer, who said nothing but simply stared at us. On her right sat the young prince, and around her the principal captains and advisers of her army. She received the allegiance of the city of Oxford with no more than a nod, demanded the supplies and provender she needed, and pushed a roll of vellum across to our mayor, who by then was almost filling his breeches with fright. The roll was a list of her enemies and included all well-known supporters of Edward II. I noticed with relief that my name was not included but the two Dunheved brothers headed the list. The queen asked me if I knew of their whereabouts. I simply shrugged, made veiled reference to the fact that I was protected by the church and claimed that I had no knowledge of the whereabouts of Stephen or Thomas Dunheved. The queen dismissed my plea with a look of contempt and waved us wearily away.
A day later her army took up pursuit of Edward, who was now fleeing through South Wales with an ever diminishing retinue. I thought of Stephen still in France, and wondered whether Thomas had joined the king in his flight. A few days later the provincial informed me that Thomas had joined the king and had been proclaimed an outlaw. The same edict also ordered the immediate arrest of Stephen Dunheved, if and when he returned to England. We were kept informed of the pursuit of the king and learnt, early in November, of his pathetic arrest at Neath Abbey. Edward, deserted by all, was bound and taken to Kenilworth Castle. I thought of the king I had met a decade ago and felt nothing but pity and compassion at his sudden fall from glory. The Despensers were brutally executed and, for a while, Isabella let the London mob have their way in hunting down and murdering any loyal adherents of Edward II who were foolish enough to remain in the city. I learnt with relief that Thomas Dunheved had managed to escape his pursuers and knew that he would probably go into hiding in his native county of Gloucestershire, probably in the Forest of Dean, where no royal forces would be able to catch him. I also knew that royal searchers were watching the ports and keeping a vigilant eye on all ships travelling to France with the specific purpose of arresting Stephen Dunheved.
The Death of a King Page 13