I turned and peered through the darkness of the alley-way, looking for the source of my rescue. Then suddenly, the small fat man was beside me. He seemed so calm, his head slightly to one side as he looked quizzically at me. Behind him, I could see three other shadowy figures each armed with a squat crossbow. My rescuer smiled and took my dagger from my grip as if I was some naughty child.
“You were lucky, Monsieur.” The man’s voice was deep and pleasant. Despite his good English, I realized that my rescuer was French. I wiped the sweat from my hands and muttered thanks. The man shrugged.
“I am sorry that we could not save your friend, Master Beche, but,” he smiled, “we saved you. Come.” He almost snapped his fingers at me and then turned away. I realized that I had no option but to obey and we left poor Harnett and his murderers in the stinking alley as we made our way back into the city. We walked quickly, the small fat man in front while his three shadowy companions ensured that I followed. We must have walked for miles through a maze of streets which eventually led to a piece of wasteland covered with the ruins of some ancient temple. My guide kept on walking to a group of large stones. He then sat, gestured to me to do likewise, and then stared at me as he mopped his brow and drank from a wine-skin he suddenly produced from his cloak. Behind me I heard his companions settle themselves. I remembered the fate of the three thieves and decided to sit as quietly as possible. The silence was eerie, broken only by the wine gurgling in the fat man’s throat and the far-off hoot of an owl hunting its prey under a clear Roman sky. Eventually, the fat man belched and passed the wine-skin to me. I drank gratefully and realized that the wine was good, not the vinegar of a Roman tavern.
The fat man smiled and leaned towards me.
“You,” he said, “are Master Beche, a clerk of the English royal Chancery, and I am Master Jean Raspale, clerk of the French royal Chancery.”
He seemed to find the coincidence amusing.
“I am correct, am I not?”
“Yes,” I replied. “You are correct.”
“Good. Then tell me as one professional to another. Have you found him?”
I stared back at him with feigned innocence.
“Found whom? I am an English clerk on royal business.”
Master Raspale cut me short with a laugh and a shake of his head.
“Master Beche, we have established that you are a clerk but not on royal business, otherwise why should your king want you dead?”
I stood up protesting but Raspale curtly ordered me to sit, and then he passed a thin yellowing roll of parchment towards me which he had pulled from his wallet. I opened it and read my own death warrant. It was from the king and dated three days after Crécy and it declared me “Wolfshead,” an outlaw to be killed on sight for a suitable reward from a grateful king.
Raspale watched me steadily as I carefully rerolled the parchment and handed it back to him.
“Well, Monsieur?” he murmured.
I shrugged. “Even clerks make mistakes.”
Master Raspale got up and put his hands on my shoulders.
“Monsieur, you owe me a life.”
“I never asked for your help.”
“No, but you got it,” the little Frenchman replied. “Moreover, you do not have to tell us much. We too have our spies. We know that you are investigating the death, or should I say disappearance, of Edward II.”
I looked at him sharply.
“As I have said, we also have our spies. We have known about it for some time, just as we know about the Fieschi letter. So, have you found him?”
I shook my head.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No,” I replied. “and, if I did, how would it benefit you?”
Raspale slumped back on his seat. “Edward III has claimed the crown of France. He has ravaged the country and just recently destroyed an entire French army. Anything we can use against him we will. Who knows,” he said in a half-whisper, “what we could find? Our spies knew you had sailed to Italy. It was only a matter of time before we picked up your trail here.”
“Do you expect me to find Edward II for you?” I asked.
“No, just find him and we will be behind you. We have confidence in you,” he smiled. “We can wait.”
“And the English king’s men?”
“Let us hope that we can complete our business before they arrive.”
“I want to complete this mission myself,” I replied.
Raspale rose and handed back my dagger. “Do what you have to, Englishman, but we shall be there.”
Raspale looked into the darkness and then suddenly turned. “Come,” he snapped, “follow me.”
I had little choice. I wrapped my heavy cloak round me and followed him into the night. Behind me, padding like faithful mastiffs, came his three companions. Raspale, despite his size and bulk, was a rapid walker. I followed him down a maze of stinking streets. Cats, black against the poor light, snarled and vanished hunting their elusive quarry; still we walked, Raspale slightly in front and his small retinue guiding me before them. We crossed small plazas and entered the more salubrious area of the city. Pilgrims, pimps and prostitutes began to jostle us as we threaded our path through them past busy churches and even busier taverns. At the corner of one plaza Raspale paused, his hand raised as if to give us a warning. I stopped behind him and gazed across the square towards a tavern entrance with torches blazing above the sleek horses tied there and men, heavily muffled against the cool of the night, moving to and fro. Then in an instant, one figure detached itself from the crowd and stood in the pool of light thrown by the flickering cressets. Under the long blond hair, I recognized the gaunt hawk features of Chandos. I could not believe it. He was here in Rome! I turned to see Raspale studying me, his head slightly cocked to one side like an inquisitive robin.
“Well, Monsieur?”
I looked at him.
“Chandos has been here for a few days,” he whispered, following me deeper into the shadows.
“How did you know?” I asked.
Raspale shrugged and looked across at the tavern entrance, now deserted except for the restless horses.
“We know, Master Beche,” he replied. “We also know that he has been tracking you. We also know that he is going to kill you.” He nodded towards the tavern.
“You owe me your life, Master Beche. Twice. Once in the alley and now this.”
I looked at him.
“If we had not found you,” he continued, “they would have.”
I gazed into his dark liquid eyes and I realized that he was speaking the truth.
“I thank you, Monsieur, but...”
“But nothing Monsieur. We wish to know things. And,” he tapped his nose, “we can tell you something.”
I nodded my agreement and Raspale seemed pleased with this.
“Be at the tavern tomorrow, Monsieur.” He then nodded at his companions. “They will see you home.”
So they did, Richard. Through the maze of streets back to the Franciscan monastery. They evidently knew where I was staying—but what really concerns me is how did Chandos learn where I was going—and learn so quickly? This thought still concerns and worries me. I must end this letter. Written in haste from Rome. October, 1346.
Letter Eleven
Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. The day after I sent the last letter to you proved to be momentous. Let me first explain, I do apologize for the length of this letter, but I did say I would tell you all I know. Moreover, like any good clerk, I find it easy to solve a problem. Once I have transcribed it.
Early in the morning I was to meet Raspale, I awoke, washed and, after eating the bread and grapes supplied by the little brothers, made my way down to the tavern. It was strange to enter its tangy, bitter-sweet atmosphere so early in the day and to find Raspale already there. He looked pert and fresh as if the previous evening’s exertions had no effect on him. He sat at his ease behind a corner table, on one side of which lay a small vell
um scroll and on the other a cup of wine and the remains of his breakfast. Raspale smiled a greeting, waved me to sit down and called for more wine and a bowl of fruit. He waited until they had been brought before speaking.
“Monsieur, you owe me your life on two counts. So, I think there is a debt to be paid. I have too much respect for you to think I can get it by torture or any other foul means but, as I said last evening, we know a great deal about your mission and for whom you are looking.”
“Why?” I asked. “Why is it so important to you?”
Raspale shrugged nonchalantly and twirled the cup in his hand, watching the wine twist and turn.
“I have already explained that,” he answered. “It does not affect you, and it is a matter of deep concern to my masters.” He put the cup down and gazed at me.
“Anyway, why should it concern you? You have no love for your master, King Edward III.”
I nodded in agreement, although I was quick to notice that Raspale had almost omitted the word “King.” However, I let that pass, as a simple reaction of a French clerk who has seen his country plundered by English armies.
“What can I tell you?” I asked.
“As much as you know,” Raspale answered.
He looked beyond me at the ceiling.
“Time is short, Monsieur. I would appreciate a quick summary of what you have found.”
I thought for a while. There was nothing to lose. Raspale seemed an honourable man, who had saved my life on two separate occasions. He was right. I owed him a debt and it should be repaid. So I put my arms on the table, leaned forward and began to give him an account of what had happened since that interview so long ago in the chapel at Windsor Castle. Raspale listened intently and, now and again, asked me to repeat certain incidents, placing particular emphasis on Edward III’s evident concern for my mission. Of course, I never told him everything. I omitted the fact that I wrote letters to you, and said nothing about Michael the Scot, or Isabella’s attempt to kill me. Even so, I was almost hoarse before I ended my story.
Raspale then simply put his wine cup down and stared quietly at me. He then placed his square, stubby fingers on the table and, to my astonishment, asked for my story once again. I protested so loudly that heads in the tavern turned to stare at the corner in which we were sitting.
“Monsieur,” Raspale whispered quietly, his face now a few inches away from me. “I want the story again. After all, you do owe me your life and I can be of assistance to you.”
He picked up the small scroll which had been lying near him and tapped the table with it. So, once more, I began to recount my adventures and once more Raspale listened attentively, his head slightly cocked to one side as if this helped both his hearing and concentration. After I had finished, Raspale asked me a series of questions. To my surprise, he seemed to concentrate on the Dunheved gang. I told him what I knew about their attempt to free Edward II at Berkeley Castle and of my belief that they probably succeeded, referring once again to the funeral arrangements for the supposedly murdered Edward II. Almost angrily Raspale pushed this aside.
“No, Monsieur,” he rapped. “We, or rather I, are much more concerned about Stephen Dunheved’s journey to Rome.”
For a while I was nonplussed. Then I remembered that in the spring of 1326, a few months before Isabella and Mortimer invaded England, Edward II had sent Stephen Dunheved to the Pope at Avignon. There were rumours that this mission was in connection with Edward II’s attempts to gain a divorce from Isabella. I suddenly realized that I had never paid much attention to this. After all, it was a natural reaction of an angry king when he knew that he was being cuckolded. Moreover, nothing had come of it, and I had found no trace of the mission in any of the royal archives. I wryly recollected that an omission of something from the royal archives does not necessarily mean that it was unimportant.
“Why?” I asked Raspale. “Why do you pay so much attention to this mission. Is there something I should know?”
Raspale shrugged and smiled.
“Perhaps, or perhaps not. We shall see.”
I stared at him.
“Do you expect me to lead you to Edward II?”
Raspale shook his head.
“No, Monsieur Beche, we follow different paths. But, remember, we shall watch you, and be careful. We do know that Chandos bears orders to kill you outright. Who would care if an English clerk disappeared in the wilds of the Italian countryside? Take care!”
He rose from his stool, tossed the small roll of parchment towards me and quietly swept out of the tavern, his faithful shadows padding behind him.
I decided not to wait any longer myself. I gazed quickly around the room, looking for strange faces or for eyes watching me intently. There were none, but I knew that it was only a matter of time before Chandos discovered where I was and where I drank. I took up Raspale’s parchment, leaving the tavern for the last time and made my way quickly back to the monastery. In the solitude of my cell I opened the parchment that Raspale had given me. It was written in Norman French, in a small neat hand, and my heart leapt with excitement when, on a quick perusal, I noticed the word “Dunheved” appearing repeatedly on the first folio. It proved to be a confession and I give it to you word for word.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. I, Peter Crespin, former monk, former conspirator, former friend of the Dunheveds, and one of the last loyal adherents of good Edward II, being of sound mind—though sadly not for long—make my last confession. Soon I will be dead. Neck stretched, tongue out, bowels loose. Yet, what is the use? More to the point, what is the difference between me dead and me living? I was always ready to stretch my neck out, tongue clacking, that is why I am here in a stinking French gaol miles from England and its green grasses and cool rivers. Rouen! What a place to die! And for what? Helping myself to a purse of gold and having to kill a fat merchant for it. I tried to explain to the French notary that I was hungry and that I had not intended to murder. Thank God I told them that I was a former monk. Knowing these bastards they would have probably burnt me. I think it so ironical to be hanged for a theft when the Dunheveds and I plotted treasons so great that we were constantly under sentence of death. When the Dunheveds were broken, I fled England, thinking I would be safe in France. It is so ironical that Death crossed the Channel with me.
I survived on my wits for years but I suppose my luck has just run out. The Dunheveds will turn in their graves laughing and be the first to meet me in Hell. I told the notary I had something to say and I can see that the clerk writing this is becoming impatient because, so far, I have said very little. I am not going to tell all. Why should these bastards, who are going to hang me, know everything I did? I could shake thrones with my knowledge. Stephen Dunheved could have done that, too. He and his clever brother, but they are dead. Isabella, the old bitch, saw to that. Poor sods! They came so near to success, now the grand design is nothing more than their bodies rotting in the ground while I rot in this piss-pot or a gaol.
Time is passing, so I will begin at the beginning. I was born in Hampshire. My parents were free peasants. My father had earned his freedom and then expanded his holding and could boast of twenty bovates of land and an oxen team to till them. His immediate overlord was the Bishop of Winchester, but my father always bragged of his independence. My mother too was proud of their status but was, unfortunately, too wearied to rejoice in it. She bore ten children but only four survived into adulthood. I was the only boy and so my parents doted on me. They spoilt me, gave into me and so I began my long journey both to the priesthood and this gaol.
Let me explain. Although my parents were free and I, too, was free-born, we were still peasants. My father had to work from morning to night. His arms, neck and back developed muscles like a bull and he was almost as coarse as one. He smelt of a mixture of beer, sweat and urine. I can never forget his thick roughened fingers, ingrained with dirt, pushing food into his mouth, which was then swilled down with huge draughts
of rude ale. My mother would gaze at him adoringly before turning to me with the admonishment to grow up and be like him. I knew I could never be. I hated the work, the dirt, the grunting of my parents in bed at night, which invariably seemed to leave my mother pregnant. Another little bundle to be wrapped in rags and dumped in a small, simple hole in the graveyard.
But where could I go? A life of military service? I considered it but was sharp enough to realize that it was easy to go but so few came back. While those who did return were cripples who had to live off charity. I recall a group of lads volunteering to be part of the Bishop of Winchester’s contribution to Edward I’s great force of 1297 against the Scots. I remember watching them go. I ran alongside them admiring their new boiled-leather jackets as they swung down some leafy long-forgotten sunny lane. None came back. They got trapped in some God-forsaken Scottish bog and were slowly slaughtered like a group of dumb oxen.
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