by Paul Doherty
The funeral was celebrated in an open and ostentatious way, with all due honours being shown, although it was held shortly before Christmas at the height of winter to ensure it did not become a public attraction. Pope John XXII, in his letter to Isabella of 1330, emphasizes, with great irony, the way the funeral was celebrated. He accepts Isabella’s assertion that Kent was at the funeral, but both he – and Lancaster two years earlier in 1328, when he staged his rebellion against Isabella – made the same important point: that once Edward II had been transferred to Berkeley, both before and after his death, no one was allowed to see him. Certainly none of his kith and kin, be it his half-brothers or the great magnates of the land.
By January 1328 Isabella and Mortimer were able to relax. Edward II had not emerged: a royal death had been announced and a royal funeral had taken place. The real threat to their regime had been removed. Isabella was now free to act the genuinely sorrowful widow. No Pope, magnate or bishop could declare, or even hint, that perhaps it was time she left Mortimer and rejoined her husband. All the evidence indicates that at least for a while their plan worked. No objections were raised, no protest voiced until 1328 when Edmund, Earl of Kent began to voice growing suspicions.
Kent had been executed for his conspiracy to free Edward II from Corfe Castle in March 1330. This was the end of a search which had begun in 1328, when Henry of Lancaster had despatched a letter to the mayor and citizens of London, saying he had certain news from Kent but dared not communicate it in writing. Kent then went to Avignon to visit Pope John XXII in the autumn of 1329 where he informed John XXII of his suspicions that his half-brother was still alive and that he intended to free him. According to Kent, Pope John XXII gave him his blessing and promised moral and financial support. Naturally, when the conspiracy failed and the Earl was executed, Pope John XXII publicly rejected his story – but did so in a highly ironic manner.
Kent had been a leading magnate of the country. Stories about devil-raising friars aside, why did this important noble believe that his half-brother was alive? What proof did he possess? Isabella rejected his conspiracy, pointing out that Kent, like others, had attended the funeral but, as Pope John XXII replied, all Kent saw was a coffin, not what it contained. True, it would be easy to depict Kent, not noted for his constancy, as being prompted by guilt, remorse, even hatred towards Isabella and Mortimer but he did not act alone. His conspiracy included remnants of the de Spencer faction but also two leading churchmen, William Melton, Archbishop of York, and Stephen Gravesend, Bishop of London. Both these prelates were a cut above the court bishops of Isabella and Mortimer; they were saintly men, dedicated to their dioceses. Melton, in particular, had tried to defend his flock from the depredations of the Scots and was generous in lending money, without interest and with little expectation of repayment, to those in need. At the same time they were politicians, astute men, responsible for the management of far-flung dioceses, with more than a finger on the political pulse. Both these bishops supported the Earl of Kent. Melton even furnished the conspiracy with the stupendous sum of £5000 and sent one of his leading clerks, Taunton, to accompany Kent on his mission to Avignon. Melton and Gravesend would not have been convinced, or pleased, by stories about devils appearing to friars. Kent, therefore, must have had more precise details in order to elicit their support.
The Brut Chronicle, extremely well informed on this matter, published the letter Kent allegedly wrote to his brother who, he thought, was hiding in Corfe. It reads as follows:
Sir knight, worshipful and dear brother, if it pleases you, I pray heartily that ye be of good comfort. For I shall so ordain for you that you soon shall come out of prison and be well delivered of the distress that you be in. And understand, your great worship, that I have assisting me all the great lords of England with their force that is to say, with armour, with treasure, and without number they will maintain and help your quarrel so that you shall soon be King again as you were before. And this they have all sworn to me upon a book, prelates as well as earls and barons.3
This letter rings true. It also shows the depth and extent of Kent’s following. Men like William of Melton and Stephen Gravesend would not have entered into such a conspiracy, taking oaths on the Bible, unless Kent had furnished proof. So what was this? Undoubtedly, some of the evidence mentioned above provided some proof, possibly reinforced with rumour and gossip from Berkeley Castle and the principality of Wales. But in the end Kent failed because, like Mortimer, he did not know where his half-brother truly was. At this point, Mortimer intervened: Kent had to be caught and shut up as quickly as possible. If he was looking for his half-brother, then why not bring the matter swiftly to an end and furnish him with a false lead?
Kent rose to the bait. He was lured to Corfe Castle and trapped. When he was arrested at Winchester, according to the Brut Chronicle, Mortimer confronted him.
Sir Edmund Earl of Kent, you shall understand . . . that ye be his [King Edward III’s] deadly enemy and traitor and also a common enemy unto this realm for you have been, many a day, working to deliver Sir Edward, some time King of England, your brother, who was put out of his rule by common assent of all the lords of England, in conspiracy against our Lord the King’s estates and also of his realm:
This same declaration was repeated when Kent was formally interrogated by the coroner of the King’s household.4 Neither statement actually states that King Edward II was dead, only in that in trying to deliver him from prison, Kent had committed high treason. The repetition of the same passage in a chronicle, a direct quotation of the charges made against the Earl, only increases suspicion that Edward II was not actually dead. Queen Isabella, in particular, was furious at Kent for putting her husband back in the centre of the political arena. She visited her son ‘and bade him with her blessing that he [Edward III] should be avenged upon him [Edmund Earl of Kent] as upon his deadly enemy’. She swore an oath ‘by her father’s soul’ that she would be avenged on Kent and refused the disgraced Earl both compassion and a fair trial: Kent was dragged out and executed, at the Queen’s express command, to silence him quickly and quietly.5
Isabella and Mortimer did their level best to quell all rumours about Edward II’s possible survival. In doing so, they also pinpointed the real source of Kent’s story: – Dunheved’s assault on Berkeley Castle. John Walwayn was the clerk sent to Berkeley to clear up the chaos after the attack: Walwayn, by no coincidence, was also Isabella’s emissary to Pope John XXII to scotch Kent’s story. If Walwayn’s panic alerted historians over 660 years later, it must have had the same effect in the hurly-burly days of 1327. Did Kent discover this? And did Isabella send Walwayn to ‘purge’ his mistake before the Pope?6
The Earl of Kent’s execution proved the last straw for the young Edward III. The coup which toppled Mortimer and Isabella in the autumn of 1330 at Nottingham Castle provided him with a heaven-sent opportunity to discover the truth about his father’s death. At this point Isabella may have been questioned; Mortimer and Beresford certainly would have been. The Marcher lord was held for at least a month, Beresford for two months, before execution was carried out. Mortimer was not allowed to speak at his trial in 1330. On the scaffold he expressed, or was forced to express, deep contrition at the way Kent had been trapped and executed. But was he really admitting that Kent’s plot had been a tissue of lies, not really justifying his summary execution? Or was he openly proclaiming, in a highly ambiguous way, that Kent’s death was unjust, that the Earl had been executed for discovering the truth?
Edward III was certainly in no great hurry to arrest the others involved in his father’s death. Mortimer fell from power on 19 October 1330. Parliament did not pass sentence on Gurney and Ockle until 26 November, posting rewards on their heads, dead or alive. Another week passed before the general warrants of arrest were issued. Edward III apparently wanted to give these men a good headstart and, apart from Gurney, little evidence exists that his pursuit of them was ruthless or relentless.
The on
ly person who didn’t flee was Lord Thomas Berkeley. Berkeley had weathered many a crisis during a long and complex life. An astute, wily man, he must have known that Mortimer was set for a fall. Nevertheless, he still had to be brought before the bar of Parliament and face very serious charges. Friends in high places are one thing but treason and regicide tend to cut across them. Berkeley must have had some assurances that he wouldn’t be following the same path as Beresford or Mortimer, especially as his replies to charges were both blunt and shrewd (see chapter 6 pp. 158–163). When asked about the King’s death, Lord Thomas coolly replied: ‘That he was never consenting, provided assistance or procured his death.’ This was followed by the most surprising assertion: ‘And he never knew about this death until the present parliament.’ This bald assertion, that he didn’t even know about Edward II’s death, some three years earlier, until this Parliament, at first sight beggars belief. The remark is not just a throwaway line, however, but a very clever hint to the young King. To paraphrase, it would appear that Berkeley was really saying: ‘How can I be tried for the death of a man who may well still be alive? And I can produce proof that this is the case.’
Finally, Berkeley’s defence is the convergent point of Fieschi’s letter, Kent’s story and the Dunheved attack itself. The latter was highly successful: inside help must have been provided. Did Lord Thomas Berkeley in 1330 claim, rightly or wrongly, the credit for this, a defence which could not be publicly aired but secretly put forward in some form or other? Did Berkeley claim that, all the time, he was a secret opponent of Mortimer and used the Dunheved attack as proof of this? Dunheved was certainly supported by ‘great ones of the land’. Kent, a born plotter, was one of these. Berkeley, too, with his consummate skill at political survival, might have had a finger in this particular pie, or at least pretended to. Kent perhaps used this in his secret negotiations with Pope John XXII and Fieschi got to know of it.
The Italian priest’s letter may be a farrago of truth and lies but it might actually support this story. Fieschi talks of a mysterious ‘Lord Thomas’, not a knight but a ‘Seigneur’, a ‘Dominus’ – which accurately describes Berkeley’s status. This ‘Lord Thomas’ apparently received the escaped King, sheltered him at Corfe against Maltravers and later aided his escape to Ireland. It is my belief that Fieschi stumbled upon some aspects of the truth here. In a rather garbled way, the Italian priest is describing Lord Thomas Berkeley’s secret defence of his actions at the November Parliament of 1330. Fieschi must have learnt this either from some source in England or from the papal court. Making such a defence was, on Berkeley’s part, a brilliant move. Who could contradict it? Who would want it debated in public? Why should an innocent man, who’d done so much for the old King, be punished? As for the events of September to October 1327, Lord Thomas had little choice but to co-operate with Mortimer. After all, hadn’t Edward III been forced to do the same?
Thomas Berkeley, it would seem, would be the last person Edward III would want to bring to trial. Indeed, considerable evidence exists that Berkeley not only protected himself and issued a subtle threat of blackmail, but even helped the other suspected murderers, especially Gurney, to leave the kingdom as speedily as possible. If this was the case, why did Edward III in the spring of 1331 begin his two-year pursuit of Gurney? The answer to this may lie in the Parliament records. Mortimer and Beresford had been condemned for being responsible for Edward II’s death. The rest had fled. Berkeley had been questioned and he had adroitly side-stepped the issue: ‘I don’t know what really happened. I did my best but I wasn’t directly responsible. Only Gurney has the answer, he might know what happened to your father.’
Gurney, then, would have been able to clarify all doubts, corroborate or disprove Berkeley’s story. No wonder Lord Thomas helped Gurney and others to escape; he could pass the blame onto them whilst they were in no position to disprove his story. The Crown might have had its doubts about Berkeley, hence the seven-year delay in issuing a full pardon to him. However, in view of Berkeley’s public, not to mention his private defence, what could the King do but go after the one person who might know the full truth – Thomas Gurney? The pursuit of Gurney was motivated not by revenge but by a desire to know the full facts about the fate of Edward II. Did Gurney talk before he died? Or was he too ill, too tired? Did he take his secret to the grave? Probably the latter: Edward III’s arrest of ‘William the Welshman’, as well as Fieschi’s letter, indicate that secret doubts remained.
Little wonder, therefore, that Edward III spent so much money and time on Gurney and very little on his father’s grave. The abbots of Gloucester, thanks to the growing fame of their abbey church, St Peter’s, with its royal tomb, transformed it with the some of the most magnificent perpendicular architecture of the Middle Ages. But there is scanty evidence that either Edward III or Isabella singled out St Peter’s, Gloucester, for patronage and lavish expenditure. Edward III wanted to erase all memory of his father. Moreover, why should the Crown spend sums on a royal tomb, which could have possibly housed the remains of some unfortunate look-alike?
In conclusion, the central question still remains: if Edward II escaped, what happened to him? Why didn’t he proclaim himself and become a rallying point for rebellion and dissent? A number of possibilities present themselves. First, Edward II may have been broken in body and spirit by the time he was released in July 1327. The chroniclers’ description of him during the deposition process illustrates a man at the end of his tether. There is considerable evidence that once he was taken from the custody of Henry of Lancaster, he was hurriedly moved around the country and probably abused, physically and mentally, by his new gaolers. The Dunheveds may have released a man whom they could scarcely acknowledge to be their King. Perhaps there is some truth in ‘William the Welshman’s’ story? It is possible that Edward II, a broken man, wandered through Europe, rejected by many because of his appearance and lack of wits. He was, however, accepted by the papacy, furnished Fieschi with a good story and spent his last days as a hermit in the mountains of northern Italy.
A second possibility is that Edward II, during the Dunheveds’ ferocious attack upon Berkeley, was seriously injured or wounded and later died elsewhere. However, if the Dunheveds were harbouring him, some legends would have grown up, local folklore about a king dying and being buried. And it is unlikely that his liberators would have allowed his corpse to remain in an unmarked grave but would probably have converted it into a shrine, which would eventually have attracted public attention.
The third possibility is that Edward II escaped unscathed but that Mortimer’s men pursued him and the Dunheveds, in what the medieval knights called, ‘une lutte à l’outrance’ (‘a fight to the death’). Edward II and his adherents would have been massacred, killed on the spot. However, if this was the case, Mortimer would no doubt have had the corpse, wounded or not, taken back to Berkeley, dressed and embalmed for burial, then exhibited so as to stifle any protests or doubts. Moreover, if the King’s corpse had been brought back, a great deal of the speculation stirred up by Kent, Edward III, Berkeley and others, would not have arisen.
There is one other possibility. It’s not a fairy-tale ending but, knowing what we do of Edward II, a possible outcome. Edward II escaped from Berkeley towards the end of July 1327. For a while there would have been disorientation and confusion. However, within two months of his escape, Mortimer and Isabella were announcing to a full Parliament at Nottingham how Edward II had died at Berkeley, and the remaining months of 1327 taken up with staging a most elaborate funeral.
If Edward II had re-emerged he would have faced immediate imprisonment and execution as an imposter. After the events of Berkeley and the public funeral in St Peter’s, what hope did he have in a country controlled by his former wife and her lover? True, he may have elicited the support of men like Kent and Lancaster, but what then? What guarantee did he have that his reappearance would automatically lead to his restoration? Would Lancaster and Kent keep faith with him, men
who only a few months earlier had gleefully participated in his destruction and that of his favourites?
A further clue may lie in Edward II’s own character and attitude. He had been King for almost twenty years. He had lost his wife and his crown. He had faced constant opposition from his nobles and seen his favourites seized and barbarously executed. He had been deserted by his family as well as leading magnates in both church and state. Perhaps he did not wish for a restoration. The constant complaints of chroniclers is that Edward II never really wanted to be king. He had provoked the crisis with Thomas of Lancaster and other barons by trying to abdicate his responsibilities as king and give them to someone else – at the beginning of his reign, Gaveston; at the end, the younger de Spencer. Edward II might have wished to live out the rest of his life in peace, either at home or abroad. A man born to be king, the crown had proved most hazardous to him: he not only realized the danger of a public re-emergence but fundamentally lacked the will to achieve it.
In the end, the true fate of Edward II can only be a matter of speculation. However, there is considerable evidence that the corpse in the lead coffin beneath the beautiful Purbeck marble sarcophagus in St Peter’s at Gloucester is not Edward II’s.
Notes
A Note on sources
The primary source material for medieval England and Europe is plentiful, and has been brought together by different individuals and organizations. Most of the chronicles of the period were written in different monasteries up and down the kingdom, often borrowing from, and interdependent on, each other. In the main they have been published either by learned societies or the great Victorian historians like William Stubbs in the Rolls Series. Some chronicles have not been published and can be found in manuscripts either at Canterbury or the University of Cambridge.
