I then took the reins of my horse and headed for the place in the woods I had marked earlier in the day. It was about a mile from the track, a small moonlit clearing which fringed an evil-smelling marsh. I unhorsed my captive and, having spread-eagled him, lashed and pegged his hands and feet to the ground. He struggled to rise, but I kicked him between the legs and told him to keep quiet. He peered up at me. “Ah, it is the clerk,” he grunted. “Come for vengeance? Where’s Mistress Launge? Not here? Ah, well, there’ll be another day.”
“For her and for me,” I replied, “there might be. You’re never going back and your queen, the French bitch, will have to find herself another mongrel.” In the light of the torch, I saw his fear. He struggled against the cords and gazed wildly into the surrounding darkness.
“You’re not to slay me, Master Beche,” he gasped. “You’re a clerk, I’ll be missed.” My look must have only confirmed his fears and he began to shout at me in a mixture of pleas, oaths and threats which ended in a shriek as I drove my dagger into his hand.
“Did you kill the girl in London?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“As a warning to you to leave the past alone.”
“Is that why you attacked me?” I drove my dagger into his other hand.
“Yes,” he shrieked.
“And what about Edward II? Did you have anything to do with his death?”
“No,” Again I pressed the dagger into the fleshy part of his right hand, causing him to shriek and writhe.
“God is my witness,” he shouted, “but I know nothing. I only do what the queen orders.”
“Did she order Guerney’s execution?” I asked.
He nodded and quickly told me that in 1333 he was acting as Isabella’s spy at her son’s court. When the king heard that Guerney was in Naples, Isabella had ordered him to volunteer for service in the force sent out to apprehend him. Once Guerney was captured, he was to gain his confidence by promising Guerney the queen’s support and protection once he was back in England.
“Why?” I asked.
“To see what he knew.”
“About what?”
“Her husband’s death.”
“Why was the queen so interested?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you gain anything?”
The Scot nodded. “Only a little. Guerney said he had news which would set all Christendom by its ears. When I pressed him for details, he merely smiled, although on one occasion he did say, ‘Kent was right; he knew all along.’ ”
I made him repeat this and asked if there was anything else.
“No,” the Scot replied. “I carried out Madam’s orders and began to lace his water with a poison she had given me. It was a rare Italian mixture, which only acted over a number of days. It led to cramps, pains and eventually a coma, from which the victim never awakes. I did that before we arrived at Boulogne, but that’s all I know. I swear it.” The man looked at me beseechingly, but I remembered Kate and drove my dagger straight into his heart.
So, Richard, I have taken a life. Edmund Beche, the student who would vomit if he saw a dog go under a cart. Murder? It was self-defence, justice for Kate and peace for many others. He brought about his own death and I bear no scruples for doing what the public hangman gets paid to do more slowly.
But the purpose of this letter is not to moralize. Once the body had stopped twitching, I loaded it with stones, cut the ropes, then dragging it to the edge of the marsh, threw it in. It sank without trace, as did the knife and cords I threw in after. I then washed away all traces of blood in a nearby brook, mounted my horse and rode out of the wood. I skirted King’s Lynn and struck south for Cambridge. By the time I reached the small village of Burwell, I felt so tired that I hobbled my horse and fell asleep on a bed of bracken.
I woke about midday the next morning and pressed on for Cambridge, which I reached the same evening. The halls and colleges were all closed, so I lodged in a traveller’s rest just inside the city walls. There I tried to make sense out of Guerney’s reference to Kent. I decided it must be an allusion to Edmund, Earl of Kent, half-brother to Edward II and uncle to the present king. He had joined Isabella and Mortimer against Edward II but then fell from favour and was executed in 1329. I had made a rough copy of the chronicle of St Paul’s description of the four-year reign of Mortimer and Isabella, and recollection of the bizarre details surrounding Kent’s death sent me feverishly rummaging in my saddlebag. I unrolled the greasy parchment and found a story which corroborated my suspicions about Edward II’s imprisonment and death at Berkeley.
According to the chronicler of St Paul’s (who based himself on official records), in 1329 certain men came and told Edmund of Kent that Edward his brother was not dead but still alive in the Castle of Corfe. Edmund travelled as fast as he could to that castle and had a long conversation with John Deveril, the constable there. Kent begged the constable to tell him whether Edward II was imprisoned there and, if he was, he begged to see him. Deveril replied that Edward was alive, but he dare not show him to anyone without the express command of Queen Isabella and Sir Roger Mortimer. Whereupon the Earl of Kent gave Deveril a letter for his brother, but the constable immediately went to London and delivered it to Mortimer and Isabella. They then used the letter against Kent, claiming that he was stirring up sedition in the country with lies that his brother was still alive. They had him arrested, tried and judged as a traitor at a parliament swiftly assembled at Winchester. Once sentence was passed, Kent was immediately taken out and executed by the common hangman of the city.
After I had finished reading, I kept thinking about Guerney’s words, “Kent was right, he knew all along.” I immediately realized what he meant. The chronicler had maintained that the story about Edward II being at Corfe Castle was a deliberate lie, concocted by Mortimer to trap Kent. But why? The earl would never have accepted such a story, unless he had good reason to believe his half-brother was still alive somewhere. On the other hand, Mortimer would never have gone to such lengths to trap Kent, a nonentity, unless he knew that the earl had seen through one of the greatest deceptions ever practised in this realm. The body buried at Gloucester in October, 1327, was not Edward II. I believe that Edward II escaped from Berkeley during Dunheved’s attack and a corpse was substituted for the royal burial.
The Dunheved gang, it must be remembered, were only detected after they left the inner bailey where Edward II had been kept. They probably intended to use the secret exit from the castle but, once they were discovered, Dunheved must have urged the now free Edward to flee while he covered his escape. Dunheved’s men were either wiped out there and then, or rounded up very soon afterwards and quietly murdered in prison. Isabella and Mortimer must have frantically searched for the deposed king but, when this proved fruitless, decided to cover up the escape with a mock burial. This was the only way to discredit Edward, if, and when, he re-emerged on to the political scene. The cover-up was easy. Remember, Richard, my conversation with Novile, the loquacious steward at Berkeley? He pointed out that the body of Pellet, the guard killed during the Dunheved attack, was preserved in spirits for conveyance to Bordeaux. I believe that this corpse was never sent, but lies buried in the royal tomb at Gloucester Cathedral.
Why was the deception so successful? Well, Novile described how the corpse was laid out. Only the face was exposed and it is quite simple to see how people believed it was the face of a dead king. First, the corpse was kept at Gloucester, away from the prying eyes of the court physician, and attended to by an old hag. Secondly, if anyone did notice anything strange, suspicion could easily be allayed. Edward II (as the effigy at Gloucester illustrates) usually wore a long, curly beard but, according to Novile, the hair was covered by the cowl of the shroud, whilst the face had been shaved for burial. Moreover, those who saw the corpse would accept the radical changes usually imposed by death: the pallor of the skin, the bloodless lips, the sharpness of the features and the sunken cheeks. T
hese would be even more readily accepted for the corpse had been embalmed and above ground for two months before burial. In a word, people believed what they came to see, a dead king laid out for burial. How the Earl of Kent saw through the deception is unknown; the chronicle of St Paul’s says that certain men “informed” him, but his doubts may well have begun when he paid his last respects to “Edward’s” corpse at Gloucester.
Isabella must have found out about these doubts and enticed Kent into treason and summary execution by feeding him false information about Edward II’s whereabouts. I believe she would have eventually got rid of Guerney, Maltravers and Ockle. I know she tried to kill me, and will probably try again. She realizes that I saw through her tissue of lies. I do not even believe her story about the embalmed heart. I suspect it belonged to Mortimer, not Edward II.
Of course, Edward may have been recaptured and secretly killed, but I think not. First, Mortimer confessed to Orleton that he had not murdered Edward II. Secondly, Isabella’s conduct proves that her husband not only escaped but may still be alive and well. She hides in a secluded fortress and hires a private army to protect her from a vengeful husband. Every day must be a nightmare, wondering what horror stalks the wet dark woods of Norfolk.
A few things still puzzle me. Does our present king know about this? I think he suspects but how did he find out? And why is the matter now so urgent and secretive? After all, the world believes that Edward II was killed over fifteen years ago and now lies rotting under his marble tomb at Gloucester. All I do know is that the great ones of this world do not like their secrets revealed. To be frank, I fear for my own safety, and I am only going to reveal all I know when the circumstances favour it.
A bizarre story, dear Richard, but I do believe that Edward II escaped from Berkeley and I intend to find out why and what happened to him. I have other tasks to accomplish. I cannot tell you what they are, for as a churchman you would surely object. I beseech you to keep this quiet, even from your confessor. I intend to send this and future letters concealed in personal gifts for you. My messengers are always trustworthy men, well paid for their services. I hope you do not object. Your knowing about what I do is a guarantee for my own safety. God keep you, Richard, and pray for me, for I feel as if I sorely need it. Written at Cambridge, 29 May, 1346.
Letter Eight
Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, Prior of Croyland Abbey, greetings. I reached Gloucester a week after leaving Cambridge and, apart from dropping off my horse through sheer fatigue, losing my way and, on one occasion, riding for my life from a group of outlaws, my journey was fairly uneventful. As the poet sang, “Sumer is i-cumen,” the countryside lay like the garden of Eden and I momentarily forgot Kate’s death, Michael the Scot and even the grim task which lay before me.
When I reached Gloucester, I lodged at the Cross Keys, a small tavern in one of the many back streets near the city’s west gate. I paid for a month’s board, arranged for the stabling of my horse and then once more visited the cathedral. I devoted particular attention to the position of Edward II’s tomb which lies on the left side of the high altar, about four roods in distance from the great north wall. I went outside and was relieved to find that the exterior of the north wall facing the tomb was not only free of other buildings, but fringed by an overgrown cemetery strewn with clipped stone crosses and choked with weeds and briar bushes. Using the last window of the north wall as a bearing, I measured out ten paces to a particularly dense clump of gorse and judged that I was standing directly opposite the tomb. I repeated the whole performance a number of times till I was certain and then returned to the Cross Keys to saddle my horse.
I rode out of the city’s west gate and took the road leading to Monmouth until I came to the bridge which spanned the meet ing of the Wye and Severn Rivers. Across this lies the cool, green darkness of the Forest of Dean, and I had only penetrated half a mile into it when a party of royal verderers appeared. They asked my business and I flourished the now yellowing royal warrant. They carefully inspected the royal seal and became only too anxious to answer my queries about the whereabouts of the nearest mine-works.
Ever since the time of the Romans, the Forest of Dean has been quarried for its iron, tin and coal, and there are still workings throughout the area. Following the directions of the verderers, I came across the nearest in a huge clearing, dotted with wooden huts and littered with heaps of rubble, disused plankings and round iron pitchers. Over all hung a thick, heavy smoke which weaved across the clearing and into the trees beyond, fouling the air with the stench of burning pitch. I was approached by a small, wiry man, dressed in boots, moleskin breeches and leather jerkin, all of which were covered in dirt and dried crusts of tar. He introduced himself as the mine’s overseer. I showed him the king’s commission but placated his evident concern by pointing out that I was not there to snoop, but merely to satisfy my curiosity. I explained that I was a keen student of engineering, being attached to the office of the king’s Surveyor of Royal Works.
The man seemed satisfied and took me on a tour of his domain, just as Virgil led Dante through the nethermost parts of hell. He answered my questions about vents, shafts, tunnels, stays and the use of guide ropes. My brain became bemused by all the dangerous intricacies of mining. Eventually, the tour was finished. I thanked the man and gave him a mark for his service which left him speechless with gratitude. I mounted and rode to the nearest pool to drink and bathe the dust from my face.
The city gates were closed when I reached Gloucester just after dusk, and only a great deal of argument and a small amount of silver persuaded the watch to open the postern gate and let me through. That night I slept so soundly that it was midday before I left the Cross Keys. I walked up the dirty cobbled street to the City Cross and the multi-coloured striped awnings of the market stalls which surround it. I wandered across the great square, my hand on my purse and my eyes wary of the cut-purses and thieves who flocked to such places like all the plagues of Egypt.
The warm spring weather had brought the crowds swarming in to buy gewgaws, food, clothes, or even potions from the quacks who wandered the countryside selling their elixirs. There was a mangy bear being taunted by even mangier dogs, while all around the pit, jugglers and tumblers entertained the crowd. I had become so immersed in the king’s private affair that I realized how little time I had taken to relax and enjoy myself in that most enjoyable of occupations—sitting in the sun and watching the world go by. I then thought of my walks with Kate through the markets of London, and this brought me back to grim reality.
I quickly went around the necessary stalls; from one I bought a number of large, thick, hempen sacks, from another, two small pickaxes and shovels, three hundred yards of thick cord, and a stack of short wooden planks. I bundled all my purchases into one of the sacks and then returned to the cathedral churchyard, where I buried them beneath the rubble of a collapsed tomb. The rest of the day I spent at the inn, eating, dozing and waiting for nightfall. When the cries of the watch announced that the city was asleep, I quickly snatched some old clothes and returned to the graveyard. Apart from the screech of a hunting owl, all was quiet. I quickly changed my clothes, dragged out a pick and shovel and began to dig on the spot I had marked the day before. The earth was soft and loose and soon I was using the planks to create a primitive shaft, like the ones I had seen in the mines of the Forest of Dean. Once I had judged this to be deep enough, I began to carve out a tunnel, gathering the rubble into the sacks. Once a sack was full, I strengthened the tunnel with more wood and clambered out to empty it into a ditch which ran along the far end of the cemetery. I began the task with vigour but, by dawn, I had only emptied three sacks from the tunnel and I was aching in every part of my body. My hair was full of dirt and my hands, so used to the tender work of the Chancery, were sore and chapped. When the stars began to disappear, I judged it was time to leave. I covered my tunnel with planks and then replaced the surface sods I had so carefully removed. After that, I stripped, wip
ed my body with some wet rags and, dressed in my usual robes with a hood covering my head, I walked back to the inn for food and sleep.
By now, Richard, you must have realized that I intend to break into Edward II’s tomb. I do not believe it is sacrilege; the real desecration took place seventeen years ago when Isabella and her paramour duped Lords, Church and Commons by staging a mockery of a royal funeral. I needed to open the tomb, not only to expose their sacrilege, but to silence a nagging doubt behind the king’s motives in ordering this inquiry.
The tunnelling took two exhausting weeks and suffered many setbacks. Sometimes the tunnel collapsed and, on one occasion, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a fear that the earth would close in on me and stop my breath. Time and time again the dead met me, the eyeless skulls and the empty skeletons of the countless bodies buried in the soil through which I ploughed. I prayed that Christ would understand my desecration, but the empty eye-sockets, glaring at me in the light of my small flint light, made me dread the work I had begun. Sometimes, as I returned to the inn, I felt as if these disturbed dead pattered beside me to fill my dreams with haunting nightmares.
My growing paleness, coupled with the strange hours I kept, eventually aroused the suspicions of the landlord. I only silenced him with the king’s warrant and a handful of silver. Nevertheless, I wished my business was over. So far, my labours have gone undisturbed, as graveyards are left well alone, even in daylight. Yet I was weary and tired and becoming anxious at my growing mounds of rubble. I was also afraid that my frequent purchases of planks and sacking might arouse curiosity. If I was caught, I could expect little mercy. Grave-robber or witch, whatever the verdict, I would surely hang and the king, who knew nothing of what I was doing, could never save me. Twelve days after beginning my work, I was beneath the cathedral wall. The tunnel I had dug was now about the height and width of one prostrate man. I had used a guide rope to ensure it ran straight, but I had met so many obstacles and the light was so poor that I strongly suspected that I had gone off course. Nevertheless, I was pleased with my work which I had planned on what I had learned in the Forest of Dean, as well as my meagre military knowledge about the mining of castle walls. After another week’s work, I managed to wriggle under the curtain wall and began to hack at the sandy soil beneath the cathedral flag-stones. The morning I thought I should have reached the tomb still found me digging, and so I decided to tunnel to my left. Another night passed and, at last, I found what I was looking for—a tunnel similar to the one I had dug. I managed to clear the loose rubble away until I reached solid rock. I pushed my torch towards this, almost singeing my face, to find a man-made wall of dullish red brick. I probed the section directly facing me and loosened enough bricks to clear a small passage. Once through, I emptied my pouch into my lap, found a flint and lit the two rush-lights I had brought. I knew I was in some form of cavern for, despite the heavy mustiness which cloyed my throat, I could feel space on every side of me. The rush-lights flared to reveal a small chamber, a complete square with walls of brick about two yards high. Above this lay the flagstones of the cathedral and the gorgeous memorial to King Edward II, and, on the floor, directly in the centre of the chamber I had entered lay a long oaken chest. It was about four feet high and about the same across. I fixed the rush-lights in two of the sockets on either side of it and I was not surprised to find the lid easy to move, though it creaked as I pushed it aside.
The Death of a King Page 8
