The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  So elliptical! I hope this letter has been of use to you, Edmund. Remember my advice about the king and confide in me if you must, but do remember my position. God keep you. Written at Croyland—February, 1346.

  Letter Five

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. I am sending this letter in haste, so I apologize for the scrawled handwriting and the inferior parchment. I received your letter with some surprise, as I did not expect or ask for a reply. Of course, I will always remember your position, as if I would be allowed to forget it. Nevertheless, it was good of you to write and send the information you did. I do not know what to make of Spilsby’s last confession. Did the murderers of Edward II really expect that the people believed the old king had just died in prison? Spilsby’s confession tells me little new. Regarding the searches made at Croyland, I cannot comment though I understand such searches are quite common in times of crisis.

  What really concerns me is Spilsby’s implicit admission that his involvement in the affair at Berkeley led to his maiming. I can understand his fears. I, too, share them. What do you know of Sir John Chandos? The question is a rhetorical one. It is just that the man mystifies and, indeed, frightens me. Two days after the despatch of my last letter, I arrived back at my lodgings. A grandiose description for a room above a merchant’s warehouse. As I mounted the winding wooden stairs I noticed that the door of my small room was slightly ajar. At first, I thought it was the work of some of London’s riff-raff. Nothing is safe nowadays and burglary and housebreaking are almost as popular as drunkenness. I drew the small dagger I always carried and with forced bravado pushed open the door. Nothing was disturbed, no disarray except for Chandos, who was lying on my rough truckle bed staring at the ceiling, almost parodying the way I do. He never moved as I came in but kept staring upwards. I slumped on to the only stool in the room and waited, quite determined not to show my nervousness at what was an unwarrantable intrusion. At last he turned his head towards me.

  “Good-day, Master Clerk. You’ve kept me waiting.”

  I tried to hide my annoyance in the sarcastic rejoinder that I did not know that he was coming, and I could not remember inviting him. Chandos smiled and swung his legs off the bed to sit, head in hands, on the edge. He looked tired and travel-stained but his face still had that predatory cruel look.

  “How is your research?” he asked bluntly.

  I repeated verbatim the report that I had sent to the king. He seemed to listen for a while, but then interrupted me.

  “Don’t you find it strange to be involved in such a task?”

  “No,” I lied. “His Grace’s father died, was murdered in mysterious circumstances, and this mystery must be clarified.”

  “You find nothing strange?” The same question in a different way.

  “Well,” I said, “apart from the fact that the money supply to Berkeley ended two months before Edward II’s death.”

  Chandos shrugged. “There’s little mystery there,” he pointed out. “We understand that Guerney paid for food from his own purse, hoping to reclaim it later.”

  I knew this was a lie. I am a trained clerk and I had been through the necessary issues. There had been no such payments to Guerney. However, I nodded as if fully satisfied on that part.

  “Anything else?”

  The question was so abrupt and so apparently harmless, yet I found it difficult to control my mounting panic. I realized that Chandos might suspect there was and I decided that further protestations on my part would make matters worse.

  “There was the question of the Dunheved attack.”

  “What about it?” he replied.

  I hastened to list my queries about how they had been able to penetrate Berkeley Castle and the fact that, despite all of the gang being captured, none had been brought to trial. Chandos seemed unperturbed. He pointed out that that attack had been launched at night, they had received help from within the castle, and they had got no further than the outer bailey. He added that when the Dunheved gang was arrested they had been wounded, exhausted and too weak to withstand the ravages of gaol fever.

  “It’s a terrible disease, Master Clerk,” he concluded, looking straight at me. “It would be a terrible way to die.”

  The quiet, implied threat stung me into a question I had thought about but never intended to ask.

  “Sir John, you seem well informed regarding the details of Edward II’s death. Why hasn’t the king commissioned you to do this assignment?” He shrugged, his eyes slid from my face to a point above my head.

  “I read your reports to the king, and I know something of what happened.” He paused. “Anyway, I am not a clerk, and His Grace the King seems pleased with what you are doing.”

  Before I could acknowledge the compliment, Chandos brusquely passed on to ask, “You are keeping the matter confidential?”

  “Of course.” The lie tripped off my tongue so quickly that I almost believed it myself.

  Chandos then got up and stretched himself. I thought he was going to leave but, as soon as he had wrapped his cloak around himself, he gestured me to follow him and left my room, not even bothering to see if I followed. Of course I did. As we entered the street, I caught up with his long-legged stride and asked where we were going.

  “Patience, Master Beche,” he replied, “all will be revealed.”

  I realized I had little option but to follow his advice, quite aware of his two armed retainers, who had detached themselves from a nearby alley to ensure that I did.

  I thought wherever Sir John intended us to go, that we would travel by barge, but Sir John turned into Fleet Street to make our way through the bustle and throng of the London crowd. I was too nervous to see where we were going. All I remember is Sir John clearing a path before us as we passed up beyond the writing offices of the Chancery, across the Holborn brook up towards the northwest city gate. It is strange what little pictures remain. There was a friar preaching to an old man and a dog near Holborn Bridge. A whore in a black wig and a scarlet, dirty robe trying to wheedle cash and custom from a well-dressed pimply youth, while behind her a yellow-fanged dog urinated on a drunken cripple. I remember the noise was deafening; hucksters bawling their prices, and children running everywhere, dodging the heavy carts going to and from the river. A Jew stopped counting silver to look at Sir John, before glancing pitifully at me. With his yellow star and hunted look, I was grateful at least for his compassion. Sir John pushed ahead, hardly bothering to turn to see if I followed, fully confident in the two shadows trailing behind me.

  Eventually, we turned into the highway which led to the northwest gate of the city. The crowds were thick there and I wondered why, till I also realized that this road led to the Elms, the favourite execution place for traitors. The crowds were waiting for something. There was an air of tension, even the swarm of itinerant tradesmen looked subdued as everybody craned their necks to where a troop of archers in royal livery kept the road open. Sir John pushed his way through, knocking aside women, children and the occasional bold whore or pickpocket, as if they were merely troublesome flies. I and his two shadows followed in his wake. Eventually, Sir John reached the line of archers and, after a few words, we were allowed through on to the hard, rock-strewn road. Sir John then turned right, and up beyond him I saw the massive T-shaped gallows, ladders and rope black against the sky. I began to shiver, and the stares of the crowd made me think wildly about whether I was going to my own execution. We stopped at the enclosure before the gallows and I stared at the raised platform, the long red-stained bench and black-hooded figures warming themselves around the three glowing braziers. My heart was beginning to pound so violently that I found it difficult to breathe and, when the crowd roared behind me, my panic spilled over. I grabbed Sir John’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at me. He smiled as if enjoying some secret joke, then quietly removed my sweaty hand from him.

  “Don’t alarm yourself, Beche,” he said soothingly. “It’s not for you—is it? Just watch!”


  I looked around and saw my two shadows smirking to themselves. My panic and fear subsided. I tried to control my breathing as Sir John led us to the side, to where a group of archers guarded the steps up to the gallows platform. I dimly realized why I was there. I was going to witness an execution. Not mine, but one intended for my benefit. I looked down the avenue where the crowds had roared and I saw a small procession advancing towards us. A number of horses moving slowly, something bumping behind them on the ground, though most of it was masked by its leader, a mounted sergeant and two archers walking beside him. I knew what was coming. I had never witnessed an execution, but I had heard enough to know what terrible bundles those horses pulled. Roger Mortimer had suffered a similar fate, being dragged on a hurdle to these very gallows and then hanged, drawn and quartered. The cavalcade reached us and stopped. I was conscious of men scurrying about, horses whinnying at the smell of blood, shouted orders and the moans of the prisoners. There were two of them, naked except for a loincloth. One quite old with balding pate, wispy beard and thin emaciated body. He had been dragged on a rough sledge from the Fleet prison. He was covered in dirt and his back was one open sore. He seemed only half conscious and two of his guards had to hold him up. His companion was much younger and may have been his son. He may have been quite good-looking but his body was a mass of bloody, muddy gouges. His dark hair and beard were matted with blood. Two dark bruises had half closed his eyes, his mouth was cut and his lower jaw was broken. I will never forget them, not just their wounds—I have seen many before—but the air of restrained terror which surrounded them.

  They were hustled past me up on to the platform beneath the gallows. A richly dressed man in robes and chain of office came to the edge of the platform and began to shout from a short roll of parchment. His voice was deadened by the clamour of the crowd which had followed the macabre procession, and now surged like an angry sea around the execution area. Sir John Chandos turned to me and, looking directly into my eyes, said cryptically:

  “Traitors, Master Beche. Father and son, they are, well, were, mariners, who were selling the French information about our navy.”

  I looked away from him at the grey smoke curling up the braziers, dark against a leaden sky. I tried to look anywhere except at that black platform. The swinging rope, the dancing feet, the roar and animal smell of the crowd. I knew why I was there. I was being taught a lesson, given a warning. I had had enough. I turned and began to push my way through the crowd. I did not care for Chandos or his retainers. It did not matter, they made no attempt to stop me. I stumbled to the edge of the crowd, retched violently and then ran, leaving Chandos, the burning braziers, and those two bodies twisting and dancing. Eventually, I reached Bread Street and the dirty but welcoming warmth of a tavern. I sat there till Kate joined me. I listened to her chatter and drank and thought about the day’s events. Why had Chandos gone to such lengths to warn me? What was the real purpose of this assignment? Should I have accepted it? Perhaps, Richard, I should never have written to you, but now we are committed. Written at Bread Street, March, 1346.

  Letter Six

  Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. It is more than two months since you have heard from me and so much has happened. Then, apart from Chandos’s threat, I thought the death of King Edward II was an academic problem. Now it is a mystery which threatens my very existence, as this letter will describe.

  After the incident at the Elms I wanted to leave London and I decided it was time to approach the queen mother. I cast about amongst my colleagues and other minor officials of the court as to where the old bitch had gone to earth. Eventually, I discovered the king had ordered her to live in splendid isolation in the great Norman fortress of Castle Rising in Norfolk. I thought it wise not to tell the she-wolf I was coming to her lair, so I packed my belongings and set off for Cambridge. I by-passed that place and, after a week’s travel, arrived at King’s Lynn. I lodged at The Sea Barque, a bustling tavern where sailors and fishermen from the port of Hun-stanton rub shoulders with the burgesses, merchants and farmers of the fertile Norfolk broads. From the inquiries I had made amongst curious locals, I knew that Castle Rising lay a few miles to the east, but I decided to stay in King’s Lynn to sniff out the lie of the land before proceeding any further.

  I kept to myself, drinking and eating alone, until I merged with my surroundings. In Norfolk, strangers who bustle in are usually cold-shouldered or, as a local proverb so aptly puts it, “the man who tries to move too fast, never moves at all.” I soon became accepted for what I pretended to be, a clerk from Cambridge in pursuit of new employment in some great merchant’s house. One evening I managed to draw a group of local farmers into conversation about the queen mother. After some perfunctory remarks about having such a great lady in the area, one of them slammed the table and launched into a surprisingly savage attack upon the old queen. He damned her as a public nuisance, who ruled the area worse than any bishop.

  “The old she-wolf,” he declared, “rides through the countryside with her bodyguard, taking what she wants. The poor unfortunate she plunders is simply told to present his bills to the sheriff for payment. Of course, the sheriff refers him to London, and who could afford to make such a long trip on the slender hope that the Exchequer would make a just and prompt reimbursement?” His words won growls of approval from his companions, but I was more intrigued by the mention of the bodyguard and asked if they were the king’s men.

  The farmer laughed out loud and dug his red bulbous nose back into his tankard, before explaining. “Master Clerk, they’re not king’s men but a band of ruffians, hired by the old hag herself and led by some rogue called Michael the Scot.”

  “Why does the old queen need such protection?” I persisted. “Does she fear attack?”

  The farmer shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps she’s frightened of the ghost of her murdered husband. I don’t know.” He then grumbled on about great lords and ladies and the conversation drifted on to more mundane matters. I sat and let the talk flow on, realizing that the queen I was going to visit had certainly not resigned herself to a gentle retirement. She would have to be approached with great care. I had studied the queen’s reputation. Her shrewdness was legendary. In 1313 on a visit to France she met her three sisters-in-law and gave each of them presents of satin gloves. A year later, on a return visit to France, she noticed those same gloves being worn by three young knights of her father’s court. Isabella reported the matter to her father, and so initiated a court scandal which rocked France and delighted the rest of Europe. Evidently, Philip’s three daughters-in-law had set up a love-nest with these young knights in the Tour de Nesle in Paris, where they met for secret parties and orgies. Their stupid mistake in passing on Isabella’s gifts led to their discovery and humiliation. The princesses were immured for life, but their lovers were broken on the wheel at Montfancon. Isabella was dangerous.

  The next morning I rose early, dressed carefully and rode out of King’s Lynn towards Castle Rising. I reached it about midday, but by-passed the small village and began to make my way up the winding path to the main castle gate. I was about half-way there when a troop of horses emerged from the trees on either side of the track to block my path. I have never seen more fitting candidates for the gallows. They were dressed in a motley collection of gaudy rags but they looked seasoned fighters and were armed to the teeth with swords, daggers, shields and crossbows. Their leader was a huge, beetle-browed man, dressed in half-armour, his head capped in a steel conical helmet, while lying across his saddle pommel was a huge double-edged axe. He cantered towards me and asked my business in a thick Scots burr which declared, without any introduction, that this was Michael the Scot. I tried to hide my anxiety by curtly informing him that I was on the king’s business and wanted an audience with the queen mother. He asked to see my commission. I waved it at him but refused to hand it over. He seemed amused by the gesture for his great, black ugly face broke into a sneer which ended abruptly as he
plucked the reins from my hand. “If you wish to see the queen, little man,” he roared, “then see her you shall.”

  Whereupon the rest of the band surrounded us and we set off at a breakneck gallop up the winding track and thundered across a drawbridge into the main castle forecourt. I was dragged from my horse, while deft hands plucked both my sword and the king’s commission from my grasp, and I was hustled across the yard and up countless steps into the castle solar. A huge, gaunt room, it dwarfed the small figure dressed in black who sat near a window embroidering a piece of tapestry. I was pushed forward and then roughly forced to my knees as the figure rose and advanced towards me.

  “Eh, Michel,” a soft voice asked, “qu’ce que ce petit homme?”

  “A clerk, Your Grace,” the huge ruffian replied, ignoring the Norman French. “He carries a royal commission and claims to be on the king’s business.”

  “Have you the commission?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Then we must receive him accordingly. Michael, a chair for our guest.”

  I rose and sat. I tried to hide my trembling breathlessness, my eyes riveted on the queen. Men have called her many names, “La Belle,” “French whore,” “Jezebel,” “She-Wolf,” yet all I saw was an ageing but still beautiful woman. She sat opposite me, with Michael the Scot standing beside her, his helmet in the crook of his arm and his small pig-eyes glaring at me. I dismissed him with a swift glance of contempt intended to hide my fear of him and then I turned back to Isabella. She was dressed in widow-weeds but they were costly velvet, not sackcloth. Concession had been made to fashion and the long black dress was fringed with Bruges lace around the neck and cuffs, and a silver filigree chain belt clasped her slender waist. Her hair was covered with a black coif but this only enhanced the white, bejewelled fingers which constantly rearranged it with fluttering touches. The face so many men have talked about is heart-shaped, scarcely wrinkled, although slightly marred by pursed lips and violet eyes which never smile.