The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  “Stephen,” I said. “It’s Peter.”

  Stephen stared, then gave that slow smile and, lowering his crossbow, said, “Peter, are you alone?”

  I nodded and he waved me forward. I knelt beside him.

  “Stephen,” I said, “Is there anything I can do?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did the king escape?” I asked.

  Again, he shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. He paused, grasped his leg and let his head sag forward on to his chest. I thought that he had fainted but then he continued.

  “I don’t know if the king escaped. I thought I saw a figure being carried towards the gate.” He gasped and waited till the pain passed.

  “I’ve seen nobody except you. Perhaps I’ll never know.” He turned and smiled.

  “And you,” he continued, “what will you do now?”

  “Try and get you to a place of safety,” I replied.

  Stephen shook his head and pulled a small fat purse of gold from his belt.

  “Take this,” he said, “and go, now!”

  I tried to plead with him, half-heartedly, I admit, for I could see that it was impossible to move him, because of his wounds. Stephen was adamant. I was to leave, and so I prepared to go. However, just before I rose, he grabbed my arm.

  “Peter,” he said, “let me tell you the secret I took to Avignon.” He then pulled me closer and whispered in my ear. I was so astonished that I recoiled in horror and stared speechlessly at him. Stephen then waved his hand at me.

  “Go, Peter, now you have the secret which would rock kingdoms and thrones.”

  I left him there, alone in the glade, and turned deeper into the forest. I found it difficult to grasp what he had told me but, at the same time, fear and self-preservation made me concentrate on securing my own escape.

  To cut this long story short, Master Scribbler, I did escape and came with my “secret to totter kingdoms and thrones” to France. I have had a number of trades but never once acted as a priest. That is behind me. I heard rumours of the capture and death of the Dun-heveds, and then the news of Mortimer’s fall. I even heard news of Edward II’s being alive and free but nothing substantial. However, what I know, I will hold.

  So, Master Clerk, stop sitting there on your cold little pink arse and go and tell your masters that I have news that will shake and overturn the throne of England but, in return, I want a pardon and thirty pieces of gold.

  This confession was taken from Peter Crespin, a self-confessed murderer and thief, in the town gaol of Rouen in December of the year of Our Lord 1344 by one Henri Tillard, clerk to the king’s justices.

  Post Scriptum

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton. This long confession of Peter Crespin seems to hint that my mission has something more to it than finding out what happened to Edward II, or even if he is still alive. It is connected with the mission of Stephen Dunheved and I could curse myself for overlooking that episode. Crespin knew something, he learnt it from Dunheved and it must have bought him his life, otherwise how would Raspale know? I believe that Crespin gave details about his early life to establish his authenticity, and both he and his story must have been accepted by the French court. This explains Raspale’s mission to Italy as well as his interest solely in Dunheved’s mission. The latter is evidently more important than Edward II’s escape? What could it be? I feel like searching Raspale out and asking him but that would be too dangerous. God knows. Pray for me.

  Rome—October, 1346.

  Letter Twelve

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. I have found what I have been looking for and, though my mission is at an end, I shall tell you all, rather than cry “finis” and lapse into silence. This letter is the last that I shall ever send you. Indeed, I think I shall never see you again. I am sending this letter in a copy of Aristotle’s Metaphysics. This is a gift to you, Richard, a token of friendship I shall always cherish.

  I awoke early the next morning, determined to get out of Rome as quickly as possible. I intensified my searches, always aware that Raspale might be watching me and that he could well be joined by envoys from England. I felt like the hunter who was quickly becoming the hunted. I decided to ask the Franciscans for aid, and I approached an English friar who had befriended me and lent me the guide book. I swore him to secrecy and vowed that my mission was not immoral or dishonest, but that I needed to leave Rome as quickly and quietly as possible. The friar smiled, padded away and came back with a Franciscan robe.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “certain of the brothers are leaving Rome. Put this on and go with them. It would be safer if you camped outside the city.”

  I did as he said. The following morning I put on the brown coarse robe, paid the brothers for a small sturdy cob and left the eternal city as a bowed, cowled friar. The Roman countryside was a peaceful contrast to the heat and dirt of the city. The red soil, the leafy vineyard terraces and cool olive groves. When I thought it was safe, I dropped to the back of our silent cavalcade and turned quietly into an olive grove. I took off the brown heavy robe and made my way deeper into the grove. I decided to stay near the main highway and resolved to camp in a cave at the foot of some cliffs at the far end of the grove. From there, safe from Raspale, I continued my searches.

  I never gave up hope and I was planning to extend my radius even further, when I visited the small monastery of St Albert at Butrio. Butrio is a small, whitewashed village nestling at the foot of a cypress-filled valley. The monastery lies a few miles to the east of the village. It consists of a small chapel, a cloister and a cluster of outbuildings, bounded by a thick, huge wall. I made my way to the main gate and pulled hard at the bell rope. A smiling lay brother, chattering like a magpie, opened the postern door and beckoned me to enter. He never asked my business but, bowing and smiling, led me through the cloisters and into the small, whitewashed cell of the prior. The latter was a plump grey-haired man who sat peering at a manuscript which rested on an intricately carved lectern. When the lay brother announced me, the prior sighed, closed the manuscript and rose to meet me.

  “Have you read Boethius, De Consolatione?” he queried in perfect Latin. I quoted an extract fluently and his brown face broke into a charming smile. “Good,” he exclaimed, “now I know the story about all Englishmen being tail-wearing barbarians is false.”

  He went across to a table, poured me a goblet of wine and asked how he could help me. I explained, as I had already done a hundred times, that I was looking for an Englishman who, I understood, had retired to a monastery near Rome. The prior ran his hand through his mop of grey hair and shook his head.

  “An Inglese? Here? A member of our order?” He shrugged and shook his head. “No, my son, there is no one here from your misty island. Our monastery is comprised of local men.”

  His gaze wandered back longingly to the lectern and the manuscript that he had left. Then he gasped; “Ah, mi fili, of course, I am thinking of the brothers. But there is Hugolino or Hugh, as you would call him. He is not a brother, but he works here as a gardener and a carpenter.” He pointed to the lectern. “He carved that. Poor Hugolino, he has been here so long that I almost forgot him.” He shrugged in that charming way the Italians have. “Sic transit me-moria mea.”

  The name “Hugolino” awoke a dim memory and set my heart thudding with excitement. “May I see him?” I exclaimed. “Of course,” the prior replied. “He is attending the flower-beds around the cloisters. I shall take you there.”

  I hadn’t noticed anyone when I passed through the cloisters before, but when the prior took me back, I saw a man, dressed in a brown robe, turning over the soil around a young rosebush.

  “May I see him alone?” I asked.

  The prior smiled understandingly and padded quietly away. I stepped over the yellowing brick wall and walked softly across the grass, but the man heard me and turned swiftly. He was a thick-built man, about six feet tall with grey, close-cropped hair. His face was dominated
by hooded eyes and a nose which curved like the beak of a hawk. I only had the faintest description about Edward II, but something about this man’s bearing told me that he was no common gardener. I decided to waste no time and, just before I reached him, I knelt on one knee, bowed my head and murmured, “Edmund Beche, clerk, petitions Edward of Caernarvon, King of England, Duke of Aquitaine and Lord of Ireland, for a favour.” Only the tinkle of a small fountain broke the silence which followed my salutation. I kept kneeling and was beginning to wonder if I had acted too hastily, when a low, steady voice speaking fluent Norman French ordered me to rise. When I did, I found the gardener sitting on the low cloister wall, gazing speculatively at me.

  “Sit down, Master Beche,” he said. “Tell me, do you always call common gardeners king and lord?”

  I looked directly into his face and noted how the laughter lines crinkled his mouth and pale, blue eyes.

  “No, sire,” I replied, “only to Edward of Caernarvon, who escaped from Berkeley Castle and confessed as much to Manuel Fieschi at the papal court in Avignon.”

  At the mention of Fieschi’s name, the gardener grimaced and threw down his trowel.

  “So,” he said meditatively, “the man prattled, broke the seal of confession.” He laughed. “Perhaps he didn’t, for I told him who I was after absolution. But who are you? Who sent you? The king? My good wife? How many men have you brought with you? I warn you not to harm these good brothers. They do not know who I am, so if I have to die, take me out to do it. After eighteen years, I am more than ready.”

  I was alarmed at the drift of his speech and, without hesitation, I began to tell him all I knew. He ignored the bell for the midday meal and I talked until my voice was hoarse, whilst he, head bowed, probed at the ground with his trowel.

  When I had finished, he rose and extended his hand. “Come, Master Beche,” he said, “you have travelled far, talked much and need refreshment.” He led me across the cloisters to one of the outbuildings where he had his cell, a small, clean chamber with a bed, a table and a few stools. He poured me a cup of wine, pushed a basket of fruit into my lap and then sat opposite me on the edge of his small bed.

  “Where shall I begin, Master Clerk?” he asked. “Both of us know who I am, but you are wrong on one small count. I am not a king. I was legally deposed and, in the eyes of my former subjects, I have even ceased to exist. All you have told me is true, but I can guess at the question which is still eating away at you. Why have I not returned? Why did I not raise troops to win back my throne, instead of hiding away in a small Italian monastery?” He smiled and swilled the wine around in his cup.

  “At first,” he explained slowly, “I wanted to do all these things, but once I was free from Berkeley, I also found that I had escaped the hurly-burly of kingship. No one gladly relinquishes his power, Master Beche, but in my case, it is true. My father spent all his life training me to be his heir but when the crown came to me, I found that I not only had to fight the French, the Scots and my own barons to keep it, but live with a woman I grew to hate. It’s a high price to pay for any crown, but I was forced to pay more: my only friends, the Despensers, were taken from me and executed. Both did wrong, as I did, but they died simply because they were the king’s confidants, and so carried the blame for all his mistakes. My father wanted me to be king, my wife derided me because I did not act like one, and the barons attacked me because I refused to be the kind they wanted. They would have certainly killed me at Berkeley, but Dunheved organized my escape. I never knew how Dunheved managed to enter the castle. I merely heard scuffling, then the flagstone covering the pit was raised, I was dragged up, a bundle was thrust in my hand, and I was led to the postern gate of the castle. My guide managed to get me through but, whilst I was following him out, an arrow took him straight in the neck. Despite my imprisonment, terror forced me to run, and only after a few hours did I stop to rest. I opened the bundle and found a set of clothes, some bread, a knife and a bag of gold. For a while, I waited for Dunheved but, when I could gather no news of his whereabouts, I decided to flee to Ireland. From there, I sailed to France and wandered to Avignon, and from there into Italy. At first I thought that Isabella and Mortimer would instigate a great search for me. But then I heard about their mock funeral and decided that silence was the better part of valour. I was forced to reconsider my position. If I did claim to be king, I would either be dismissed as a fool or executed as a dangerous fanatic. However, the failure of Edmund of Kent’s pathetic plot showed that there was little chance or even support for my restoration. On the heels of this decision, came the swift realization that I had no desire to be restored. All I really wanted was peace, and here I have found it.” He paused to light two candles before continuing.

  “I was not an evil king, Master Beche, but simply a man unfit to be one. My country suffered because of it. My friend, Hugh Despenser, died because of it. That is why I took his name, as an act of reparation.” He looked at me beseechingly. “Do you understand?”

  “Sire,” I began.

  “Never call me by that or any other of my titles,” he inter rupted. “If you do, I shall be forced to ignore you. Well,” he smiled, “your question?”

  “It concerns the Queen Dowager,” I muttered, “Isabella, your wife.”

  Hugolino laughed throatily.

  “Isabella ceased to be my wife when she opened her legs to another. To be charitable, one must be just, Master Edmund. Isabella was, is, and will probably always be a veritable bitch, a she-wolf. She has never changed and she probably thinks the same about me. So she guards herself against my return. But,” he rose, “let the dead rest, and Isabella is dead to me. Come,” he smiled, “I’ll show you to your quarters and tomorrow you can rest and we can talk again.”

  Since then, Richard, I have continued to stay at Butrio. I have no desire to return to England to face the vengeance of either the king or Isabella. Nor is there anything there to draw me back. At Butrio, on the other hand, I have found peace. The prior was only too willing to house an Oxford clerk with whom he can debate the finer points of theology, as well as one so proficient in the use and treatment of ancient manuscripts. Hugolino, too, pressed me to stay and we have become constant companions. We discuss every topic under God’s heaven, except the English court, a subject he studiously avoids. So, Richard, I shall never return to England. I beg you to destroy all letters I have sent and to keep, as if under the seal of confession, all I have ever told you.

  Goodbye. Written at Butrio, 30 November, 1346.

  Letter Thirteen

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton. I am sure that you of all people never expected another letter from me, but I want to write to tell what has happened, for you, my dearest of friends, have a right to know. The psalmist was certainly correct when he said, “Nothing lasts under the sun”—not even friendship. Hugolino and I settled down at Butrio, oblivious to the world and with an equally childish belief that the world had become oblivious of us. I was arrogant in my belief that I had evaded and would evade, all my pursuers. I was awakened to the stark reality on the morning of the Feast of the Purification. It was a fair day. The prior and Hugolino had drawn up a list of articles they wanted me to purchase in nearby Butrio. I ambled down to the village on the monastery’s one and only donkey and was returning past the Carafe, a small inn, when I distinctly heard a sharp English voice which cut through the hot midday air like a knife. I immediately dismounted and rushed to investigate, but all I found were four, swarthy individuals who answered my inquiries with blank looks, shrugs, and when I pressed them further, a stream of profanities which would have done justice to any denizen of the Roman slums. I began to scour the countryside. All I found were some fresh horse tracks. But whose were they? Innocent pilgrims or my pursuers from the French and English courts? Then early one brilliant morning I found the French. I came up a small hill with an olive grove scattered along the top. I saw some horses grazing aimlessly well away from where the first corpse lay face down in the g
rass with the garrotte cord still tight around his neck. I hurried forward into the trees. There in a clearing I found Raspale and his group lying as if in sleep, the hempen cords of their assassins wound like necklaces around them. I found a few footprints but it was obvious that Chandos’s group had struck probably the night before. They had disposed of the guard and then destroyed Raspale and his group with consummate ease.

  I returned perplexed to St Albert’s and said nothing, although Hugolino noticed that I was troubled. My fears grew a few days later when the prior bustled anxiously into my cell and reported that the brothers had begun to notice small groups of horsemen which did not hinder them, but kept the monastery under close surveillance. I pacified him, but not my own fear, which pierced my belly with red-hot needles. I went and told Hugolino all I knew. He listened quietly then, putting down the shovel he was holding, announced with great conviction, “They’re the English king’s men.”