The Great Revolt

by Paul Doherty

  ‘Brother Athelstan?’

  The friar turned and glanced around. Compline had finished, and the dark, cowled shapes of the community were filing out.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Athelstan smiled at Brother John, ‘I was distracted.’

  He followed the lay brother out across the concourse to the priory council chamber; a high-beamed room, its lime-washed walls decorated with painted cloths depicting scenes from the life of St Dominic, its wooden floorboards polished to a gleam and sprinkled with crushed herbs to provide a pleasant smell. The great iron-bound candelabra had been lowered and the tapers in the rim of the wheel lit to bathe the long council table in a sheen of light. Prior Anselm sat enthroned at the head, the others ranged either side: Procurator Fieschi, Cassian and Isidore along with Brothers Hugh, Matthias and Roger the chronicler, who had bundles of manuscripts before him. He seemed excited and impatient to speak. Prior Anselm began proceedings by intoning the ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’, then he welcomed them, explaining that Athelstan was present to take the place of Alberic, who would be buried the following morning. Hugh and Matthias were also here to assist. Matthias would act as the prior’s clerk; Hugh would advise on the royal tomb, its possible opening and the care of the King’s remains, the usual process when an exhumation took place. In the meantime, the prior smiled, Brother John would serve some food.

  The gatekeeper kept coming in and out of the chamber with jugs of wine, goblets and platters heaped with strips of toasted bread covered in a cheese and herb sauce, portions of cold pork with sage and servings of cherry-red pudding. Trenchers, knives and napkins were placed before each person. Prior Anselm swiftly blessed the food and asked his companions to eat whilst Brother Roger explained what he had found.

  ‘It’s very interesting.’ The chronicler was so impatient he pushed away his trencher, grabbing the goblet of wine to wet his throat. ‘The actual death of King Edward II,’ he continued, ‘does not concern us; strangulation, suffocation, death by natural causes or through a red-hot skillet being pushed up his anus into his bowels, are the different stories of the chroniclers. According to all of them, Edward died on the Feast of St Matthew, the twenty-first of September, 1327.’ Brother Roger rubbed his ruby-red face, sheened with glistening sweat. ‘However, what happened next is very important. Item,’ he held up a stubby thumb, ‘the King’s corpse should have been brought across country to Westminster; its abbey is the mausoleum of our royal family. The Benedictines of Westminster did send a delegation demanding this, but Queen Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer declared it would be unsafe to convey the royal corpse across the kingdom lest it stir up agitation amongst the people.’

  ‘Conspiracies are one thing, but popular uprisings in favour of a deposed king?’ Athelstan asked sharply. ‘Edward still enjoyed such support?’

  ‘He certainly did.’ Brother Roger glanced quickly at Prior Anselm, who simply stared down at the table top. ‘Father Prior,’ Father Roger insisted, ‘I know you wish to say something on this matter.’

  ‘Edward II, God rest him,’ Anselm lifted his head, ‘dead or alive, enjoyed deep support amongst us Dominicans who preach to the people.’ He cleared his throat. ‘There, it is out in the open, we know that. We accept it as a fact. I have mentioned this before but now I emphasise it with all the authority I can muster. Our order and that of the deposed king have always been intertwined. The Dominican friar Thomas Dunheved was the King’s confessor and closest counsellor. When marital relations between Edward and Isabella broke down after she had fled to France and joined the exiled Mortimer, Thomas Dunheved travelled to Pope John XXI to seek an annulment to the King’s marriage with Isabella. However, by the time Dunheved returned, Mortimer and Isabella had invaded the kingdom. They swiftly destroyed the Despensers, captured the King, deposed him in favour of his son and despatched him to life imprisonment at Berkeley, a fortified castle close to Mortimer’s power on the Welsh March. What happened next accounts for us being here and for what it means to our order.’

  Anselm paused, fingers going to his lips, lost in his own world. His words, and above all his tone, seemed to represent the collective memories of the Dominican Order in England about Edward II. Athelstan recalled one old friar telling him that no English king had done so much for the Dominican Order as Edward II. Nevertheless, that king had fallen from power and the Dominicans had not been with him in his hour of need, leaving a legacy of guilt and shame. The prior had certainly summoned up ghosts, memories and stories from the past. Was it simply that Edward II had fallen from power and the Dominicans had been unable to help? Or was it something else, the matter now being touched on here, the actual fate of that deposed king?

  Athelstan glanced at his companions. Fieschi’s round, cherubic face betrayed his mood. He seemed troubled, glancing swiftly at his two companions, who looked equally uneasy. Roger was nodding in agreement at what the prior had said, though Hugh and Matthias stared in puzzled indifference. Whatever was happening, Athelstan concluded, the past had certainly swept in; the ghost of this long-dead king now stretched across the years with chilling spectral fingers to clutch the living. Something was wrong. Athelstan was convinced, this was now more than just a discussion about a king who had died at Berkeley and lay buried in nearby Gloucester.

  ‘Prior Anselm?’ Athelstan tapped the table top. ‘What is all this really about?’

  ‘Brother Roger,’ Anselm murmured, ‘you had best continue.’

  ‘Prior Anselm is correct,’ the chronicler declared. ‘The Dominican Order in this kingdom had a deep personal loyalty to King Edward II. He always defended our rights and the good brothers responded in kind. When the great earls executed Peter Gaveston, Edward II’s beloved favourite, at Blacklow Hill in Warwickshire, the local Dominicans sewed the severed head back on the corpse. They honourably tended the remains, keeping them embalmed above ground until Holy Mother Church ordered their burial in our friary at Oxford.’

  ‘Brother Roger,’ Athelstan interjected, ‘what are you implying here? We all know the essentials of history here. Edward II was deposed, imprisoned, murdered and buried in Gloucester. What else is there that need concern us?’

  ‘That he escaped,’ Roger declared, provoking cries of surprise.

  ‘No …’

  ‘Father Prior,’ Fieschi intervened, ‘I don’t know how our learned colleague here has reached such a conclusion so swiftly.’

  ‘I do.’ Isidore, his face contorted with fury, half rose until Fieschi pressed him on the arm and he sat down.

  ‘Not for the moment,’ Fieschi declared, glaring at the chronicler, who looked rather shame-faced, though he was still clearly eager to reveal what he knew.

  ‘What is not for the moment?’ Athelstan demanded. ‘What do you mean, Procurator Fieschi? I fully understand our present prince’s desire to have a saint in the family, but I have a feeling there is more to this than merely the sanctity of a long-dead king. It is not going to be as straightforward as we thought.’

  ‘Athelstan,’ the Prior replied, ‘you are on the road to the truth. We all know the accepted story about Edward II’s fall and death, but there is more to it than that, and Procurator Fieschi wishes to be thorough. He and his comrades arrived at the end of January and have spent the time since travelling extensively round the country.’

  ‘But mainly to Gloucester and Berkeley,’ Fieschi intervened, his tongue stumbling over the English place names.

  ‘Yes, and now they are in London,’ the Prior continued, ‘to meet His Grace the King but also to study the relevant records. They are housed here because they are brothers in our order. We can protect and assist them, particularly you, Athelstan, with your keen mind and sharp wit.’ Athelstan smiled bleakly at the flattery, bowed his head and beat his breast as a sign of compliance.

  ‘So, Brother Roger, let us strike at the heart of the problem,’ Anselm lifted a hand, ‘without interruption.’ He let his words hang in the air, the silence broken only by the constant rasp of secretarius
Matthias’ quill pen racing across the vellum stretched out in front of him.

  Brother Roger began again, glaring around to challenge any objection: ‘The accepted story of Edward II being buried at Gloucester must be seriously questioned. Primo, he allegedly died on the twenty-first of September and was kept above ground until solemn interment at Gloucester. The corpse was moved from Berkeley to St Peter’s Abbey on the twenty-first of October and was buried during a snow storm on the twentieth of December, Isabella and Mortimer being present. We have very little evidence about the funeral. Now,’ Roger was thoroughly enjoying himself, ‘note how late this burial was, as if there is nothing suspect. Nevertheless, there is.

  ‘So, secundo. The corpse was above ground for months but was scarcely viewed. It was exposed for a short while at Berkeley and seen from afar by a number of dignitaries. In addition, at Berkeley the corpse was sheathed in a shroud of pure lead which was then placed in a wooden casket for transport to Gloucester, where it lay in state. Of course the actual body was sealed in and a life-sized effigy of the King placed on top of the coffin casket, the first of its kind, I understand. Tertio,’ Roger pressed on. ‘The corpse was dressed for burial not by a royal physician, leech or apothecary but by a local woman from the Gloucester countryside. She prepared the corpse and removed the heart which, according to the chamber accounts, she placed in a silver casket and took to Queen Isabella.’ Roger sniffed noisily. ‘When that good lady died at Castle Rising in 1358, in something akin to the odour of sanctity, this silver casket was placed in her coffin before burial at Greyfriars in London.’

  He paused, as if gauging the effect his words were having. Athelstan had been listening intently, his mind racing at the possibilities. He was aware of the tension in the chamber, where the daylight was dying and the shadows stretching out from corners and enclaves as if to greet the ghosts now gathering close.

  ‘Quarto.’ Roger’s voice was as harsh as a cracked whip. The chronicler was now a storyteller, a minstrel taking them all back into the bloody, mysterious past. ‘During Edward II’s imprisonment at Berkeley there were numerous attempts to free him, the most notorious being an assault on the castle during the summer of 1327. The leaders of this enterprise were two Dominican friars, Thomas and Stephen Dunheved. According to a letter written by Lord Berkeley himself, the attackers got into the castle and, in Berkeley’s own words, “Took the father of our present king from our guard.” In other words, Edward II was freed.’

  Athelstan whistled under his breath; the mystery was deepening.

  ‘Quinto. Rumours persisted that Edward II had escaped and was hiding in Dorset at Corfe Castle. We know these stories were enhanced and spread by Dominican friars, who even persuaded Edmund, Earl of Kent, Edward II’s half-brother, to write a letter to the former king, not dead but in hiding, promising to return him to his throne. Kent boasted that he had the blessing of the Holy Father as well as the support of leading notables in both church and state. People later said all this was just a ploy by Mortimer and Isabella, to trap Kent, a man of straw, a feckless young wastrel. They certainly had their way. In March 1330, Edmund of Kent was condemned as a traitor and arrested at Winchester. He was forced to stand in disgrace at the city gates until a drunken felon cut off his head in return for a pardon.’

  Roger sipped from his goblet and reorganised the pieces of parchment before him. Athelstan gazed at a wall painting depicting St Dominic resplendent in a blue-gold chasuble. The great preacher was fending off Satan and his minions, fiends with monkey faces and lizard bodies, tongues of fire erupting from their snarling, fanged mouths. In the dark, troubled sky above them, fresh hosts of demons mustered in black, drifting clouds, ready for battle.

  ‘Sexto,’ the chronicler continued. ‘The royal chamber accounts of 1338 list payments to Edward III, eleven years after the events of 1327 when he was abroad in foreign parts. The money was to pay expenses for going to meet a man called William the Welshman, who claimed to be the King’s father. Now, these payments mention the city of Cologne. Septimo,’ Roger continued, blithely ignoring the exclamations of surprise from Athelstan and the others. ‘We have a letter, do we not, from your uncle?’ The chronicler pointed dramatically at Fieschi, who, tight-lipped, gazed stonily back. ‘Your uncle, Manuel Fieschi, wrote a letter to Edward III in 1342 claiming that the King’s father did escape from Berkeley; that he travelled through Europe visiting the shrine of the Three Kings at Cologne before journeying south into Italy and sheltering at the abbey of Sancto Alberto di Butrio.’

  Roger paused as the three Italians conversed swiftly in their own tongue. They were deeply agitated, especially Isidore, who kept shaking his head and glaring at the chronicler. Athelstan leaned back in his chair, trying to hide his consternation. Butrio! Pernel had a medal from there, and that was the name Master Luke the messenger had overheard.

  Prior Anselm rapped the table. ‘Press on, Roger,’ he insisted. ‘Then we will have the questions.’

  ‘Octavo, finally.’ The chronicler picked up the sheet of yellowing vellum. ‘In 1330 Roger Mortimer fell from power and was arrested by the young Edward III at Nottingham Castle. Mortimer died at Tyburn. Queen Isabella was dispatched into honourable retirement, her beloved son making it very clear that he would accept no criticism of his darling mother and that everything which had occurred over the last four years was Mortimer’s fault, not hers. The alleged assassins fled. Ockle was never found. Gurney was arrested in Naples and died on the journey back to England. The two men actually responsible for the royal prisoner, John Maltravers and Thomas Berkeley, fell under deep suspicion. Maltravers fled abroad but was later pardoned. Thomas Berkeley, however, kept his nerve and coolly arrived at Parliament in November 1330, where Mortimer was condemned. Berkeley, too, was summoned to the bar, but he boldly stated, when accused of being involved in Edward II’s murder, that he didn’t even know the King had died until this present Parliament.’

  ‘What?’ Athelstan ignored Prior Anselm’s objection to the interruption. ‘Sir Thomas, keeper of Berkeley Castle, insisted three years after the old king had died and been buried nearby, that he did not know of it until that Parliament?’ Athelstan laughed. ‘Of course Berkeley was playing a game.’

  ‘He was presenting the classic defence,’ the chronicler agreed. ‘How can he, Berkeley, be accused of regicide if the alleged victim is still alive? How can Edward II be murdered when the King had actually escaped?’ Roger sipped from his goblet. ‘The crown made no response to his plea so that was the end of the matter.’

  ‘Not quite. We have questions.’ Isidore, his sallow face suffused with anger rapped the table. ‘Prior Anselm, you knew what Friar Roger was going to say tonight?’

  ‘Yes, he told me.’

  ‘What are his sources?’

  ‘We have had records brought here for our use, you know that.’

  ‘And the schedule of documents stolen from Brother Alberic’s chancery satchel?’ Isidore pointed a finger at Roger. ‘All that you say can be found in those documents. Did you steal that schedule? Did you murder poor Alberic?’

  ‘This is nonsense!’ All good humour drained from Roger’s face. ‘Father Prior, please tell them.’

  Anselm rose to his feet, his lean, lined face exuding authority as his gaze swept the council chamber. ‘You all know, Procurator Fieschi, Brothers Isidore and Cassian, that records have been sent here from both the Tower and Westminster. Brother Alberic, God rest him, had long conversations with Brother Roger. Both historians, they helped each other. Alberic’s schedule was not stolen. He loaned it to Roger for his perusal. He did so because Roger himself entertained profound doubts about the accepted story of Edward II’s death.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that?’ Isidore accused.

  ‘Because my father prior told me not to,’ Roger retorted, ‘well, not until I had read and studied what these documents contain. Alberic loaned them to me; once I have finished my scrutiny, I shall return them. Like you,’ the chronicler add
ed sardonically, ‘I pursue the truth.’

  ‘What Brother Roger says,’ Athelstan intervened tactfully as Anselm retook his seat, ‘is both logical and correct. It is more important to answer certain questions on this matter than to argue about who knows what.’ He turned in his chair. ‘Procurator Fieschi, you were chosen by the Holy Father in this task because you are a Dominican, but you are also the nephew of Manuel Fieschi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you must have visited the abbey of Sancto Alberto di Butrio? Did you find any trace of Edward II, either that he stayed there or, more importantly, was buried there?’

  ‘Nothing but rumours, gossip that years ago an English king fleeing for his life and disguised as a hermit visited the abbey. However, there is no real evidence or proof of that.’

  ‘Then let us turn to this corpse at Berkeley. Brother Hugh?’ Athelstan asked. ‘You are a most skilled infirmarian, leech and herbalist, a man who has prepared many corpses for burial. Now the only time, or so I believe, that Edward II’s corpse was publicly displayed was at Berkeley during September and early October. Brother Roger will correct me if I am wrong, but the corpse was viewed by notables, though from afar. My question is this: could another corpse have been substituted for that of Edward II?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Hugh’s face creased into a smile. ‘Remember, those mortal remains in that shroud of lead were prepared by a local woman, probably a village leech who might not even know what the King looked like in life. She would have shorn the hair and beard. I also suggest that the face of the corpse was cupped in a coif, like that of a nun, so only the eyes, nose and mouth could be seen. If anybody did have doubts, you could argue that this was due to the effects of death and the preparations for burial, such as the shaving of the face and embalming work on both mouth and nose.’