The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  I have now reached my real subject, Richard, the captivity and death of Edward II. After a short time at Monmouth, Edward was escorted to the castle of Kenilworth, where he remained under the care of the Earl of Lancaster. Meanwhile, Isabella and Mortimer consolidated their victory. A parliament met on 7 January at Westminster, where it was decided that Edward should be deposed for incompetence and his son put in his place. A deputation from this parliament visited Kenilworth and offered Edward the alternatives of either resignation or deposition. The poor king showed little fight and was forced to accept the inevitable. He was led in front of the deputation, clad in black, and, dazed with confusion, tearfully announced that he would yield to the wishes of Parliament and appoint his son as his successor. Then the leader of the deputation renounced homage and the steward of the old king’s household broke his wand of office to indicate that Edward II’s reign was finished.

  The pathetic ex-king was then led back to captivity. The records maintain his treatment at Kenilworth was good. He lacked nothing and was honoured as a closely guarded state prisoner. This is quite likely, for although Henry of Lancaster had taken a leading part in bringing about the king’s deposition, he was profoundly conscious that his prisoner had been his anointed prince. However, Isabella seems to have thought that Lancaster was too kind. At the beginning of April, 1327, Edward was taken from the care of Lancaster and transferred to Berkeley Castle under Lord Thomas Berkeley and a Somerset knight, John Maltravers.

  Here, Richard, begins the last stage of Edward II’s captivity, and it is hidden in both mystery and tragedy. Once Edward was at Berkeley, the account of the chronicle of St Paul’s becomes very meagre and I could only trace the details of the king’s imprisonment at Berkeley Castle from the dusty documents now stored in the Tower Muniment Room. I can start with a few known facts. Custody of Edward was vested in Thomas Berkeley and John Maltravers on 3 April, 1327, and within a few days of this, an allowance of five pounds per day was assigned to these two, “for the expense of the household of the Lord Edward, formerly King of England.” At first, this seems a generous amount. Five pounds a day could keep many a man in considerable comfort, but whether the money was actually spent on poor Edward seems dubious. The chronicle of St Paul says he was much ill-used and his captors may have regarded the allowance merely as a bribe to abuse their unfortunate prisoner. One rather surprisingly new fact was that Berkeley and Maltravers were assisted by two others, Thomas Guerney and William Ockle. In fact, this precious pair were the actual gaolers, whilst Maltravers and Thomas Berkeley were merely custodians of the castle. Landed gentry might have a healthy respect for a royal prisoner, but the same cannot be true of anonymous killers who would gleefully crucify their mothers.

  The garrulous chronicle had other gems in store for me. Once Edward was transferred to Berkeley Castle, rumours began to circulate that there was a plot to free him. The ring-leader of this plot was Brother Stephen Dunheved, a Dominican friar, an eloquent preacher and confessor to the deposed king. If the chronicle is to be believed, Edward II had sent this friar to the papal court to secure a divorce from Isabella. On his return from this fruitless quest, Friar Stephen found his former master had been deposed and at once began to plot his release. Fresh urgency was lent to his efforts by the rumours which had begun to circulate concerning Edward’s ill-treatment at Berkeley. According to these whispers, the deposed king was kept in a pit along with decaying animal corpses and only his splendid constitution saved him from a pestilential death. By the beginning of July, 1327, Dunheved was ready. Men from many different regions and professions banded themselves together to free their former king. According to the chronicle of St Paul, Dunheved launched his attack against Berkeley Castle on the night of 16 July. He managed to enter the castle by stealth but his attempt to free the king failed. The chronicle does not say what happened to either Dunheved or his followers.

  It seems that Isabella and Mortimer then decided to murder Edward and despatched the necessary orders to Berkeley Castle. On the night of 21 September, 1327, Guerney and Ockle entered the king’s cell. They forced him down to the floor and thrust a red-hot iron up into his bowels so as to kill him without leaving any trace of violence on the body. The king’s hideous shrieks, however, told the entire castle of his horrible death and drove many to their knees to pray for his soul. After his death, it then appears that from 21 September to 21 October, Edward’s corpse remained at Berkeley under the custody of his former gaolers, for which they were paid five pounds per day. Isabella and Mortimer had decided that the dead king should be buried at the nearby cathedral of Gloucester but even when the body was removed from Berkeley, Guerney and Ockle remained responsible for it. They conveyed the royal corpse to the chapter house of Gloucester Cathedral, where it lay in state for a few days before being solemnly interred in the cathedral itself.

  Once I had finished a detailed reconstruction of the late king’s imprisonment, I immediately became aware of one glaring discrepancy. The chronicle of St Paul, popular opinion and even His Grace the King all categorically maintain that Edward II was murdered on the Feast of St Matthew, 21 September, 1327. Yet, according to these same records, all orders for the feeding and housing of the royal prisoner suddenly end on 21 July, some two months before his death.

  For a while, every effort on my part to fill this gap in the records proved futile. First, I attempted to explain it through an omission in the records themselves, but this would not account for the total absence of any mention of the imprisoned king. I then considered the possibility of Edward II being starved to death, but this contradicted the theory that he was violently murdered. Moreover, a man starved of all food would not take over eight weeks to die and, if his corpse was displayed to the public view, such emaciation could be sufficient proof that he had been murdered.

  I could find no solution and decided upon an immediate visit to Berkeley Castle, despite the snow and sleet of this miserable winter. There, I hoped to find some record of the king’s gaolers requisitioning supplies locally, although this was a vague hope from the start. The Exchequer had carefully supervised the royal prisoner’s welfare since his capture in December, 1326, and there was no reason why such care should suddenly end two months before Edward II’s death. Nor was there evidence of any order transferring the responsibility for Edward’s welfare from London to his gaolers. I, therefore, concluded that a visit to Berkeley was essential. His Grace the King would certainly think me careless if I failed to visit the castle where his father had been imprisoned.

  Once I had decided on the journey, I began my preparations. I left London on Saturday, 22 January. I took my mare and a sumpt-er-pony laden with a change of robes, provisions and blankets. The Exchequer had answered my draft for fifty marks, twenty-five of which went into my purse whilst I stitched the rest into my thick leather sword-belt. Kate went with me to Aldgate to bid me an affectionate farewell though I had little doubt she would soon console herself. Once I was out of the city, I travelled north-west through Acton, Ruislip and Wallingford, towards the Berkeley demesne.

  The journey was bitterly cold. A leaden grey sky and the countryside, so beautiful in summer, were hidden by driving winds and sleet. I passed through small, squalid hamlets and stayed at a series of miserable inns, where the one topic of conversation was the war against the French and the government’s insistent demands for war supplies. The people I met were dressed like scarecrows, scavenging in hedges and fields for anything to eat. Their lot is pitiable. The men are recruited for the king’s wars, and only the crippled return, thrown out to fend for themselves. Even in time of peace, whatever the season, the peasants are heavily taxed. In summer, the royal purveyors move like a plague from village to village collecting produce and after them, the tax-collectors, followed by the bailiffs and sergeants of the local seigneurs. Where I could, I distributed some of the money I had received and it was taken without thanks by cold, grasping hands. I had heard about the growing violence in the countryside and
now I witnessed it firsthand. On a number of occasions, I passed corpses decomposing in ditches and, at every crossroads, the gibbets were heavy with their rotten human fruit. The intense cold kept me safe, for only once was I threatened, outside Wallingford, by a group of ruffians, who soon dispersed when they heard the hoofbeats of a scouting convoy from Wallingford Castle.

  My near escape did not deter me and I pressed on, until a week after leaving London the battlements of Berkeley Castle appeared on the skyline. The castle, dominating the western road linking the North and Southwest of the country, is situated on a plateau some fifty feet above the floodable meadows of the River Avon. The great keep soars high and on its turret fluttered a multi-coloured banner emblazoned with the arms of the Berkeleys. The morass which surrounds the castle’s crenellated walls forced me on to the causeway which led to the main gate. I was about twenty paces from it when a voice rang out, ordering me to stop and state my business. I tried to raise my voice above the wind, waving the royal commission as if it was a pennant. After a long, silent wait a postern door opened. I dismounted and led in my mare and then returned for the sumpter-pony. The door was slammed behind me and a serjeant clattered down from the parapet, shouting questions at me. I curtly informed him I was on the king’s business and wished to speak to Sir Maurice Berkeley. The man nodded and bawled at a shivering groom to look after my nags. He led me across the outer and inner baileys, into the keep and up a flight of stairs to the great hall of the castle.

  It was a long spacious room, with black rafters spanning walls covered in silken Flemish tapestries. At the far end, a few figures, huddled in great cloaks, lounged around the high table. My guide bade me stay where I was and hurried forward to an over-dressed young man sitting in the centre of the group. I knew this must be Lord Berkeley. After a brief conversation with the serjeant, Berkeley beckoned me forward and stood to receive the commission I held. Despite his rich robes, Berkeley is no fop; his muscular frame, fiery red hair and tense scarred face mark him as a soldier, more suited to the camp than the court. He scanned my commission, said a few words to his companions and led me over to a window embrasure. The arrow slit was sealed with wooden shutters and we crouched on stools around a small, sweet-smelling brazier. Berkeley came swiftly to the point and asked if I had come to question him, or simply to see the cell where the king’s father had died. I told him both, and added that I would like to inspect the accounts for Berkeley Castle during the period Edward II was held prisoner there. Berkeley asked why and I glibly informed him that the king wanted my history to be based on documentary evidence, as well as verbal accounts. He seemed satisfied with this reply and I thought the interview over when he began to speak softly, as if to himself.

  “Edward II’s death was a crime, Master Clerk. A perpetual stain on the Berkeley name, but the real pity is that my father knew nothing about it. God rest his soul.”

  “How’s that?” I asked.

  Berkeley looked intently into the brazier. “Because, Master Clerk, my father was not at Berkeley when the king was killed, but at Bradby, a few miles away, suffering from an illness which nearly proved fatal. Believe me, this is no fable. My father’s absence was attested to by many independent witnesses.”

  I was impressed by the man’s earnestness, but equally determined to exploit his eagerness to clear his family’s name.

  “My lord,” I asked tentatively, “did you or your father notice anything peculiar or extraordinary during the late king’s imprisonment?”

  Berkeley pursed his lips. “You must understand,” he replied, “that though Edward II was imprisoned here, the Berkeleys were not responsible for his custody. My father was a kinsman of Mortimer, but he was a sick man and used his illness as an excuse to leave this castle as often as possible. Mortimer chose this place because of its vast remoteness, as well as its proximity to his own lands on the Welsh border. The castle was filled with Mortimer’s retainers and Edward II’s imprisonment was entrusted to three of Mortimer’s closest henchmen, Sir John Maltravers, Sir Thomas Guerney and William Ockle. The first was a Somerset knight who hated the deposed king. Guerney was a professional killer and Ockle was a hunchbacked, misbegotten nonentity.” Berkeley paused for a moment. “Maltravers had little to do with the prisoner. He was simply my father’s lieutenant and custodian of the castle. He has been accused of being involved in the murder but Guerney and Ockle kept the king even from him. In fact, this precious pair kept themselves and their captive from public view and only spoke to the messengers Mortimer sent from Westminster. No one in the castle even knew that the king had died until it was announced a few days afterwards that he had expired from natural causes, and then Guerney ordered us all to leave the keep while the royal body was prepared for burial in Gloucester Cathedral.”

  “Were the preparations for burial carried out there?”

  “No, here,” Berkeley explained, jabbing his finger at the floor, “in the great hall itself, but no one was allowed admittance. Not even the royal clerks who brought the shroud, coffin and other materials for the burial.”

  “Then who dressed the corpse?”

  “Ah, now that’s strange. Not any court physician, but an old woman, a witch from the Forest of Dean. She was hired by Queen Isabella to prepare her husband’s body for burial and then disappeared.”

  “So no one saw the corpse?”

  Berkeley laughed drily. “For a clerk, you have a fanciful imagination, Master Beche. No, the old woman was probably hired because a skilled physician would soon recognize that the king had died violently. However, we all saw the corpse before its burial. It was taken from here to Gloucester, where it lay in state, its face uncovered for days, before being buried with great pomp in the cathedral.”

  “Do you know how the king actually died?” I asked.

  Berkeley shrugged. “You’ve heard the stories,” he replied. “I’ve never heard anything different. The king was abused before he died, he had a reputation as a sodomite and Guerney and Ockle were spiteful, twisted bastards.”

  Even though a great deal of his story tallied with what I had already learnt from the records in the Tower Muniment Room, I thought that Berkeley’s narrative contained many valuable items of information. The most important were the reasons for the great secrecy which had surrounded the king’s death. Naturally, his assassins would only be too eager to hide any evidence of the crime.

  After a moment’s reflection, I asked Berkeley why Edward had been so closely guarded. I pointed out that he was far from popular, which accounted for the success of his wife’s invasion.

  “There were rumours,” the man replied, “that some fanatics were plotting to free him. There were reports of groups gathering in the Forest of Dean and all along the Welsh March. Strangers were seen and reported in the surrounding hamlets, many armed contrary to the government’s instructions. One group, led by a monk Dunheved, actually attacked the castle and managed to get down to the old king’s cell, where they murdered one of the guards, a Gascon called Bernard Pellet. Anyway, most of the attackers were killed or captured before being beaten off. The rest, including Dunheved, got away. I believe he and his band were later rounded up by Mortimer’s agents and disappeared for ever.” Berkeley paused and smiled wryly, “I remember all these details for I was 16 and all agog with curiosity.”

  After that, Berkeley began to ask for news from London and the court. He said that he had been serving with the army abroad and was eager to return. When I asked why he had not joined the court in London, he shrugged and explained that he had been at Berkeley since the previous June when the king had visited the castle.

  “Did he inspect his father’s dungeon?”

  Lord Berkeley shook his head. “No, he showed no interest in the place. In fact, he and Sir John Chandos spent most of their time in Gloucester, inspecting the cathedral.”

  Berkeley then chatted freely about the king’s wars before he cut himself short with an apology and offered to show me where the king’s father
had been imprisoned. I quickly accepted and Berkeley, taking a torch from the wall, led me down the cold, draughty stairwell to the base of the keep. There he began to tug at a ring on one of the damp sandstone flags. After a great deal of effort, he managed to raise it on to its side. In the flickering torchlight, I saw a wooden ladder going down into the darkness. Lord Berkeley, tightly gripping his torch, descended and I followed a little more carefully. The cell was really an underground cave and I saw there were signs that it had once been occupied. Sconces to hold rushlights rusted on the wall and a rotting mass of straw in a far corner probably once served as a bed. Berkeley explained that when the cell was occupied, the ladder was taken up and the flagstone replaced while small slits in the floor above ensured the prisoner did not suffocate. As I inspected this place of abomination, flickering and dancing in the light of the torch, I silently prayed for the king who must have crouched there before dying in unspeakable agony. The place stank of mildew and the sickly sweetness of decay. I felt as if I was in some antechamber of hell and was only too grateful to get out. I courteously declined Lord Berkeley’s invitation to dinner and, pleading fatigue, I was shown to a small chamber above the great hall. There, I tried to analyse what I had learnt but my tired brain kept returning to that evil, dark pit until I dropped into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning Berkeley showed me the muniment room and the castle account rolls for the years 1326 and 1327. The hour-candles he lit for me had burnt two of their rings before I finished what proved to be a futile search. There was no record of Edward II’s being dependent on the supplies of Berkeley Castle after 21 July, 1327. In fact, the records corroborated my findings in London, for there was a roll of receipts which tabled the amounts the Exchequer had sent to Berkeley, as well as their date of issue. The list was identical to the one I had drawn up in London and I noticed with despair that the last sum sent from London was twenty shillings on 21 July, 1327. For a while, I wondered if the present Lord Berkeley could help me solve the mystery. But if his accounts could not help and he was only a lad of 16 when Edward II was murdered, I realized my questions would achieve little except to publicize my secret suspicions.