Isabella and the Strange Death of Edward II

by Paul Doherty

  In 1901, an Italian scholar, Constantino Nigra, published the letter with a detailed scholarly analysis. He assigned it to around 1336–7, the earliest possible date. Nigra laid great emphasis on the fact that the Genoese family of Fieschi, especially Manuel and his brother Carlo, were well known in Avignon and England and that the two Italian towns mentioned in his letter – Milasci and Cecime – were also very familiar to Fieschi. Nigra stresses the status and knowledge of Fieschi and maintains that his letter should be taken seriously. Finally, he points out that the letter is signed as ‘Your Manuel Fieschi, notary of the Lord Pope’, not ‘Fieschi Bishop, or Bishop-elect, of Vercelli’, dating its contents before January 1343.

  In 1924, Anna Benedetti, professor of English Language and Literature at Palermo, published her work, Eduardo II. Benedetti, following Nigra and the English writer H. D. Rawnsley, identified the castle of ‘Milasci’ as Melazzo de Acqui. Melazzo is a small castle, which stands on a hill top overlooking a river some forty-five miles north of Genoa. The castle has now been turned into a tourist attraction with renovated buildings and shady courtyards above well laid-out gardens. On the walls of one of the castle corridors are two huge plaques regarding ‘Edward II, Plantaganet King of England’. The first plaque recounts how the English King was deposed from the throne in 1327, escaped from the murderous Thomas Gurney in Berkeley Castle, visited Pope John XXII in Avignon and later travelled to Melazzo. A second plaque commemorates Fieschi’s letter, pointing out how he was a contemporary of both Edward II and Edward III, and where the letter could be found. Of course, both plaques were put up long after Professor Germain published the letter and after the Italian historian Nigra had identified ‘Milasci’ as Melazzo.

  Benedetti also identified the castle of Cecime as Cecime Sopra Voghera. There is no castle at Cecime, only a small fortified mountain village, with walls enclosing an area of no more than nine acres. The village is built on a promontory overlooking the river Staffora, about fifty miles north-east of Genoa. Benedetti argued, quite rightly, that a hermit like Edward II could not live in such an enclosed area without provoking considerable interest. She does point out that near Cecime, high in the Appenines, is the monastery of St Alberto of Butrio, which can only be approached by country trackways and is often referred to as being at Cecime. This then must be the ‘hermitage’ referred to in Fieschi’s letter. St Alberto’s, even today, is solitary and isolated. In the fourteenth century it could only have been reached by narrow paths, virtually impassable in winter, a suitable hiding place for a fugitive king. Its flourishing Benedictine monastery was abandoned in the sixteenth century and most of its records have now disappeared. However, it is still used today by a religious confraternity, and the monastery owns three Romanesque churches. In one of these, Benedetti and others argue, lies the tomb of the ‘hermit king’, Edward II.

  On the west side of this church stands an open cloister with a row of pillars, behind which lies an empty tomb, probably pillaged over the centuries, which has been carved out of rock. It is over two yards long, about a yard wide and two feet high. The tomb itself has no decoration or motifs, only two places for candle-holders. Benedetti has pointed out that the Museum of Art at Turin possesses two large candlesticks, which are said to have come from St Alberto’s. The candlesticks were fashioned in Limoges, and on the base of each are two lions rampant. Benedetti claimed these candlesticks could have been a votive offering to the monastery by Edward III as, during his reign, Limoges was in the English-occupied duchy of Gascony.

  Benedetti has also argued that some of the sculpture and architecture around the cloisters is a secret chronicle of Edward II’s and Edward III’s reigns. G. P. Cuttino and Thomas W. Lyman, however, in their very scholarly article on Edward II, published in Speculum (1978), clearly demonstrate that the sculpture is much older than the fourteenth century and can be interpreted in many ways. The empty tomb itself probably dates from the eleventh century, although, of course, it could have been used in the fourteenth to hold the remains of Edward II. Cuttino’s principal criticism of Benedetti’s and Nigra’s theories was that their research at Melazzo and Cecime came after the publication of Germain’s transcription of the letter and its subsequent publicity. However, in 1958 another Italian historian, Dominicoe Sparpaglione, interrogated a local elder, one Zerba Stefano, aged eighty-eight, who faithfully declared that the tomb at St Alberto’s of Butrio had been the focus of local ritual in his grandfather’s era, well before 1900, and that his grandfather and other locals had talked of an English king who had taken refuge in the hermitage. Germain’s discovery of the Fieschi letter in 1878 was not published in Italy until 1901 but local legend had existed long before then, of an English king who had been hidden and was later buried in the Hermitage of St Alberto.3

  Of course, Nigra and Benedetti’s commentaries are based on the famous letter, and the crucial question remains, is Fieschi’s letter true? Does it reflect what really happened? A critical analysis of its contents is essential and is best done taking each relevant section in turn.

  In the name of the Lord, Amen. These things which I heard from the confession of your father, I have written down with my own hand and for this reason I have taken care to communicate them to your lordship.

  This opening sentence is highly ambiguous. It hints that Fieschi might have already written a letter to Edward III and this was a second missive. Fieschi declares he had met Edward III’s father and talks unambiguously about the confession ‘of your father’. Such a statement can be challenged. Fieschi was a Catholic priest. This hermit, claiming to be Edward II, apparently went to him and made his confession. In the Catholic Church the role of the confessor is sacrosanct: to break the secrecy of the confessional warrants the harshest ecclesiastical penalties. Some might argue that the hermit claiming to be Edward II did not make a sacramental confession but a simple narration of what had happened to him since his escape from Berkeley Castle. However, Fieschi uses the word ‘confession’, then skillfully circumvents it by declaring that he’s only going to mention ‘these things which I have heard from the confession’, namely, matters not covered by the sacrament.

  Fieschi, a papal lawyer, could draw a clever distinction between what was told to him under the seal of confession and those matters peripheral to it. Nevertheless, Fieschi was playing with fire. Moreover, he gives no reason why he accepted the hermit to be Edward II or why he believed him. He provides no description, and the hermit, apart from his story, apparently offered no proof. Nor does Fieschi give any reason why he should communicate these matters to Edward III or why this hermit, who had been wandering Europe for almost ten years, should decide to turn up and tell Fieschi everything. Perhaps the hermit thought he was protected by the seal of confession or that Fieschi, his distant kinsman, would not communicate his findings to the English court. Yet this seems illogical. Most refugees and exiles are only too happy to hide in obscurity. Why should the former King of England suddenly decide to break his silence and put his trust in a man only too eager to betray him? If this hermit was Edward II, he was courting danger. Edward III had clearly demonstrated, by his pursuit of Gurney, that he was both ruthless and relentless. What hope did the hermit have that Fieschi wouldn’t betray him? Within months of his confession, English agents might be dogging his footsteps. The opening sentence lays Fieschi’s own motives open to question.

  First of all he said that, feeling that England was in insurrection against him because of the threat from your mother, he departed from his followers in the castle of the Earl Marshal by the sea which is called Gesota [Wye].

  Fieschi is now providing accurate detail of the events of 1326. Edward II, fearful of his wife’s invasion, fled west and did cross the Severn/Bristol Channel to the castle of Chepstow. This information would have been known to many, but again Fieschi is clever. He says Chepstow Castle was held by the Earl Marshal and this is accurate. Thomas Brotherton, Earl of Norfolk, half-brother of Edward II, had been created Earl Marshal in 1313
and the castle given to him.4 Edward II did flee there for a short while during his fruitless escape from the invading forces of Isabella and Mortimer.

  Many people would have known of Edward II’s flight from his kingdom in 1326 but only a few were aware of his arrival at Chepstow and that this castle was held and maintained by the Earl of Norfolk. The second sentence clearly reinforces Fieschi’s assertion that he had heard the confession of Edward II, especially when he talks of ‘your father’ and ‘your mother’.

  Later, driven by fear, he boarded a vessel, together with Lord Hugh de Spencer, the Earl of Arundel and a few others and landed in Glomorgom [Glamorgan] on the coast. There he was captured together with the said Lord Hugh and Master Robert de Baldoli [Baldock] and they were taken by Lord Henry de Longo Castello [Lancaster] and they led him to Chilongurda [Kenilworth] castle and others were taken elsewhere to other places and there, many people demanding it, he lost his crown.

  Again, Fieschi’s factual accuracy cannot be questioned. He demonstrates an inside knowledge of those last frantic days of Edward II. Edward II did take ship with de Spencer and Arundel and landed in Glamorgan where he was captured along with de Spencer and another adherent called Baldock. Edward II was taken by Lancaster to Kenilworth whilst the others, as has been noted, were brought to Hereford for execution. The writer only makes one omission: Edward II was not immediately taken to Kenilworth by Lancaster but, as noted above, to Monmouth, where he surrendered the Great Seal to Isabella’s envoys.

  Finally, they sent him to the castle of Berkeley.

  If this sentence is studied in connection with the previous one, it seems a non sequitur, as if Fieschi had been talking of where the imprisoned Edward II had been after Kenilworth and before he was taken to Berkeley. Fieschi then apparently changed his mind, deleted this entry and decided to concentrate on Edward II’s imprisonment at Berkeley in April 1327. This non sequitur actually enhances his story. Edward II had been imprisoned at Kenilworth under the custody of Henry of Lancaster but then transferred, by indenture, to the care of Sir John Maltravers and Lord Thomas Berkeley. To throw off pursuers like the Dunheveds and others, the deposed King was not taken immediately to Berkeley but to other castles in the kingdom before being transferred to Berkeley. The phrase ‘Finally, they sent him to the castle at Berkeley’ proves this. This would certainly have provoked the interest of Edward III and enhanced the value of the letter: very few people knew about Edward II’s peregrinations before his final incarceration at Berkeley. At the least, Fieschi had listened to someone closely involved in Edward II’s downfall and imprisonment.

  Later the attendant who guarded him, after a time, said to your father: ‘Sire, Lord Thomas de Gornay and Lord Simon d’Esberfoit [Beresford] knights have come to kill you.

  Again, this is an accurate reflection of what happened. Simon de Beresford had been Mortimer’s lieutenant and was hanged at Tyburn in 1330 as his accomplice ‘in many crimes’. Thomas Gurney was held directly responsible for the murder of Edward II, which explains his flight from England in 1330 and Edward III’s later pursuit of him through Europe. At the same time, however, this section sits uncomfortably. Both Beresford and Gurney were dead and unable to corroborate or deny Fieschi’s story. The statement also makes no reference to the other man specifically accused of Edward II’s murder, William Ockle. Moreover, this anonymous attendant is highly suspect. Undoubtedly Edward II had people who guarded him, but Fieschi specifically names ‘an attendant’ as if he was the only one, more of a servant than a gaoler.

  Furthermore, Mortimer, ‘with his tribe of wild Welshmen’, would hardly have entrusted the custody of his enemy to one attendant. How did the attendant know that Simon de Beresford and Thomas Gurney were going to kill the King? Mortimer and Isabella didn’t advertise whom they had chosen for this horrific and grisly task. Moreover, there is no evidence that Beresford was involved in the actual murder. True, he may have been with Mortimer at Abergavenny. Beresford was regarded as the accomplice of Mortimer ‘in all his crimes’, but the Parliament of 1330 did not name him as a regicide and Lord Berkeley never mentions Beresford as being directly associated with Edward II’s murder.

  ‘. . . If it pleases you then I shall give you my clothes then you may escape more easily.’

  This assertion is highly questionable. Berkeley was a formidable fortress and Edward II would have been closely confined. It would have needed more than a change of clothes to effect an escape. If Swynbroke’s assertion is correct, Edward was stripped of all royal attire and, as a prisoner, would have hardly worn distinctive dress. Fieschi’s statement also implies that, by mere chance, Edward’s attendant had the same strong and striking physique as his royal prisoner. In this matter, Fieschi’s tale borders on the incredible.

  Then, dressed in these clothes, he came out of prison by night and managed to reach the last door without opposition because he was not recognized. He found the porter sleeping and straight away killed him. Once he had taken the keys of the door, he opened it and left together with the man who had guarded him.

  Fieschi depicts a lack of security at Berkeley difficult to accept. According to the Italian priest, Edward changed his clothes, managed to get out of his prison, walked along corridors, across baileys in the dead of night and reached some postern gate in the castle. He then killed the porter, opened the door and escaped. No other guards were on duty either around the prison itself or in the castle grounds and so Edward II escaped ‘because he was not recognized’. The castle in fact would have been swarming with Mortimer’s henchmen. Gates would have been guarded, all entrances heavily defended. What’s more, such an escape would need careful planning. Berkeley was surrounded by a moat. If anyone left by a postern gate they would have to swim this and then thread their way through treacherous marshy grounds. Once they were clear of the castle they would need horses. Even if the security had been as light as Fieschi’s letter describes, the escape would have been noticed, the hue and cry raised and a full pursuit organized.

  The said knights, who had come to kill him, seeing that he had escaped, and fearing the Queen’s anger, for fear of their lives decided to put the porter in a chest, having first cut out the heart. The heart and the body of the said porter they presented to the wicked queen as if it were the body of your father and the body of the porter was buried in Glocestart [Gloucester] as the body of the King.

  The reaction of Beresford and Gurney to the escape beggars belief. They are not bothered about an escaped king wandering the highways and byways of Gloucestershire but about what Queen Isabella might do or say. If indeed they did replace the King’s body with the porter’s, they would have needed the connivance and co-operation of others in Berkeley Castle, including Lord Thomas, John Maltravers and other knights and guards. They would also have needed to be extremely fortunate in managing to secure a corpse which, by sheer luck, resembled the dead King. This part of the story can be dismissed out of hand except for one fascinating detail: the business of the King’s heart. The clerk Hugh Glanville supervised the funeral arrangements of Edward of Caernarvon. He had to pay a woman, probably from the locality, for embalming the body, removing the heart and then taking it to Isabella. Nevertheless, as shall be shown later, this was done under great secrecy, and Glanville even tried to ‘doctor’ his account to hide what this woman had done – it only came to light because of some scrupulous clerk at the Exchequer. The only other source of the story of the heart are the Berkeley accounts, which describe how Lord Thomas bought the special casket for the heart to be taken to the Queen. Fieschi, amidst his farrago of possible untruths, has specified one correct factual detail to strengthen his credibility in the eyes of Edward III. True, the story of the heart being removed may have eventually become public knowledge, but Fieschi was writing during Isabella’s lifetime when such details were still a matter of secrecy. Glanville did not present his account until 1335, eight years after the murder.

  After he had escaped the prison of the aforesaid castle h
e was received at Corf [Corfe] castle together with his companion, who had guarded him in prison, by Lord Thomas, castellan of the said castle without the knowledge of Lord John Maltraverse, the lord of the said Thomas, in which castle he remained secretly for a year and a half.

  Corfe Castle in Dorset has figured prominently in the captivity of Edward II. The deposed King was taken there before he was placed in Berkeley. Edmund of Kent truly believed that Corfe was his half-brother’s hiding-place. This part of Fieschi’s story, however, must be taken with more than a pinch of salt. In his account there is no reference to the Dunheved gang or to the other conspiracies and covens being formed in Buckinghamshire or Wales. Instead, we are presented with a picture of the liberated king, not pursued by horsemen or Mortimer’s hordes, but travelling through the English countryside, arriving at Corfe, disguised as a hermit, and staying there eighteen months. It could be argued, if the story were true, that Edward might well have chosen a place his pursuers would least suspect, under their very noses, but it was a highly dangerous ruse and very unlikely. The deposed Edward II had friends and partisans all over England. He could have called on men like Rhys Ap Griffith to hide him in the fastness of Wales and spirit him abroad to France, Spain, or wherever else he wished to go. Or there was the Dominican Order, with its international network of houses, which would have provided a marvellous chain of escape for the deposed King. Others, too, would have helped but Edward apparently ignored them, according to Fieschi’s account. He arrived at Corfe and was able to shelter there unnoticed for eighteen months.