The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  I thought he would never return. Then, one autumn evening in 1327, I returned to my cell after Compline to find Stephen waiting for me. His eyes looked tired and he had definitely aged, but there was little else to signify that he was an outlaw—almost a “wolf ’s-head” to be killed by anyone on sight. We embraced and then he told me that his “business” in Avignon had been shortened by the news of Isabella’s invasion and Edward’s captivity. He had managed to land in a Northern port, disguised as a seaman, but then travelled south as a Dominican under a false name and on a mythical mission, thanks to a friend in one of the northern Dominican houses. I knew such support would not have been difficult to obtain as Edward II had patronized our order and several of the brothers had been arrested for preaching against the new regime.

  I told him to sit down and relax while I went to the refectory for food and wine. When I returned, Stephen was fast asleep on my cot. I let him rest, noticing how the lines on his face had now disappeared. He woke after a few hours, roused by the bells ringing for prime. I did not go down for the dawn service and the ritual chanting which I loved but did not believe in, instead I sat and listened to Stephen’s account of how he had crossed the Pen-nines to meet his brother and others who were now hiding in the Forest of Dean. Stephen’s sallow face became flushed with excitement and his eyes glinted with fanaticism. He briefly informed me that Edward II had been moved from Kenilworth to Berkeley, just a few miles from the Forest of Dean, and that he and his brother intended to free the king before the inevitable secret murder of the imprisoned monarch. Cynical as I was, I gasped in horror at what Dunheved had said. I thought of Edward II as I had seen him, tall, regal and vibrant with life.

  “They will not kill him,” I protested. “He’s the king, God’s anointed.”

  Dunheved’s abrupt laughter cut me short.

  “At Kenilworth,” he said, “the king was safe. Henry of Lancaster would see to that, but Berkeley is controlled by Mortimer.”

  He looked directly at me.

  “They will kill him. One way or the other. They will say he died of natural causes or of an accident.”

  Dunheved silenced my protests with a gesture.

  “Kings do have accidents,” he replied. “William Rufus had a hunting accident. Rufus’ brother, Henry, died at the table and so did John Lackland. Edward II will prove no different.”

  Dunheved rose and went across to the small slit which served as the only window to my room. He stood listening to the faint chanting, wafted across by the early morning breeze.

  “It’s a strange task for a monk,” he said, almost as if he was thinking aloud.

  “It’s not what I intended but we all take paths that we never meant to.” He paused. “Peter, will you join us?”

  Before I could stop myself, I replied.

  “Yes, of course. You know I will.”

  I have often thought why I never even paused. Perhaps it was because I was getting old, tired of the order and of being a hypocrite, of acting a role but never really believing in it. I had realized my dream and found that it was only a dream but, above all, I was bored. I wanted change, something to happen and this was it. The advantage of being a monk was that my possessions were few. I collected food from the refectory and money from the almoner. Stephen and I then slipped out of Oxford and travelled without mishap to Gloucester. Here I finally discarded my Dominican robe and, after sheltering for a few days at an inn, we made contact with Thomas Dunheved. He simply joined us one morning at the table, acting as if he had always been with us. He had not aged like his brother. He was still the arrogant, cynical, cocky bastard he had been in his student days. He was not surprised to see me but simply smiled, kissed me on both cheeks, and welcomed my support to what he described as the “noble enterprise.” He then told us to finish our meal and join him at the horselines.

  We left Gloucestershire late in the afternoon and made our way to the fringes of the Forest of Dean. Before I entered, I looked up at the windswept, rain-hanging sky and realized that now, on a wet September afternoon in the year 1327, I was about to become an outlaw. I felt no regrets, only a determination to see the matter through, to release some of the violence pent up during my long monastic career. No sooner had we entered the forest than a guide, who had been expecting us appeared and began to lead us through tortuous ways and tracks to where the Dunheved group had assembled under Sunyat Rocks. These cliffs tower high above the forest and provided us with a view stretching across the trees to the north and the Wye valley to the south. The gang Dunheved had assembled there was a motley collection of outlaws. Scum of both city and forest as well as those few loyal aherents of Edward II, who had either escaped execution or had not fled abroad. They included one or two knights of the shire, a number of Dominicans, and a few members of the household of Edward II or the Despens-ers. They were determined ruthless men. Many had grievances against Mortimer because of the way he had extended his power in South Wales and along the Welsh March. Most were men from that part who knew the forest well and were totally determined to attack Berkeley and rescue their former king. They did not welcome me and, at first, regarded me with suspicion. However, once they saw the high regard in which I was held by the Dunheved brothers, then they came to accept me as one of the group.

  The ballads we often sing about life in the greenwood forest may sound pleasant, but even in the early autumn the reality is very different. We lived in rough shelters, constantly moved camp and attempted to keep fires to a minimum. We depended for supplies on sympathisers from local villages and in the city of Gloucester. We were under no illusion that Mortimer had despatched search parties all along the Welsh March, as well as into the Forest of Dean, hunting out potential sympathizers of the late king. Moreover, there was always danger of traitors in our midst. Of spies who would sell us for a bag of gold or a promise of a free pardon. In fact, one of our group, Matthew Taylor, was tried and hanged by the Dunheveds after it was established that he was in communication with the sheriff of Gloucester and royal officials in the city. I was shocked at Stephen Dunheved’s ruthlessness. The proof he produced was not convincing; letters found on Taylor’s person which proclaimed throughout Gloucestershire and the rest of the countryside that Dunheved and his gang were traitors. I noticed with a silent shiver that my name too appeared in this proclamation. Taylor attempted to protest but the Dunheveds simply had a rope tied round his neck and three of our company were detailed to take him a few yards to an overhanging oak tree and hang him.

  The Dunheveds hardly bothered to wait for his body to stop twitching before they ordered an assembly of all the company and detailed their plans. They pointed out that Isabella and Mortimer were going to be in the north for their projected campaign against the Scots. This would mean that Mortimer would take as many troops as possible north with him. Stephen Dunheved also pointed out that Edward II had been some time in Berkeley Castle and that it was only a matter of time before the former king’s death was arranged. He announced that we would be leaving the Forest of Dean in small groups and assemble at the village of Bardby, only a few miles from Berkeley. There we would be joined by other volunteers, who would bring us all the necessary arms and provisions. I remember questioning him on how we were expected to attack a fortified castle, but Stephen simply smiled and said that difficulty had already been overcome.

  I was detailed to accompany the Dunheved brothers and, as we travelled north to our assembled point, I tried to question both of them regarding what we should do if we were successful in our venture. I then realized that these two hot-headed fanatics really accepted that Edward, who had been deposed without a blow, would be able to rally tremendous support behind him once he had been freed. I also realized that they had not thought of the political implications of what they were doing. I tried to point out to Stephen that Edward II’s son was now crowned king—a beautiful young man accepted by all sections of society. Stephen simply looked at me for a while and then gently reminded me of his mission t
o the Papacy at Avignon: He told me that he had information and proof which would bring down Isabella, her son and Mortimer with the greatest of ease. When I pressed him further on this, he simply gave me that strange slight smile and told me to reserve my strength for the journey and the struggle.

  I began to wonder what madcap scheme I had so quickly allowed myself to become embroiled in, but I never regretted it. I enjoyed the freedom, the sense of purpose, the military talk of my companions and the desire to achieve something before I died. I reasoned that if I succeeded, then a source of power would be open to us, and if we failed then, remembering Edward as I saw him in Oxford, we had died attempting to achieve something memorable and outstanding. This thought comforted and reassured me.

  On 21 September, 1327, the Dunheved brothers and the rest of their companions assembled in the forest outside the village of Bardby. None of our companions had been captured, which seemed to prove the Dunheveds’ belief that the search parties organized by Mortimer had now been called off because of the Scottish campaign in the north. There were wagons at our meeting points full of arms of every description, helmets, breastplates, jackets and leggings of boiled leather, chain-mail, axes, grappling-irons which must have been taken from fighting ships, as well as bows, crossbows and bundles of long ash-made arrows. When I saw this armoury I realized that the Dunheveds and the captive Edward must still have friends in powerful positions.

  On the evening of the same day we moved to Berkeley. The Dunheveds made us go in groups and keep to the forest. We were anxious to avoid any mounted patrols from the castle, yet we encountered none. It was dark by the time we reached the assembly point. Thomas Dunheved divided us into two groups, one would stay with him (I was included) while the other group would go with Stephen. Apart from the two Dunheveds, none of us knew how this second group was to enter Berkeley. We were informed that it was by a secret route, but not given any further description. Thomas was to wait for fire arrows to come from the castle before moving his group up to the walls. Thomas and Stephen drew away from us all, exchanged whispered comments, clasped each other closely and then Stephen called softly to his group and disappeared into the darkness. We whispered our farewells and then crouched quietly listening to the lonely hoot of a hunting owl and the soft crackle of undergrowth as the night life of the forest went hunting or was hunted.

  Eventually, Thomas whispered his instructions, and we moved forward as soundlessly as possible. Despite the cool of the night, I found myself sweating, tense, clutching the sword and shield I carried so tightly that the steel rubbed my hand raw. I was terrified and yet exhilarated. The fact that we were now moving intensified the urge to break and run, to be free of that hot crouching line of men following each other into the darkness. A slight rain had fallen earlier in the evening, turning the fallen leaves and bracken into a damp covering underfoot. Once I slipped and fell, the man behind me cursed as I flailed out with the shield strapped to my arm, and for a moment I felt like lying there, my hot face pressed against the cool dark earth. I arose and moved on, conscious only of my thudding heart my sweating body and the figure moving ahead of me. Just when I thought I would be unable to continue, a whispered order told us to stop. I immediately dropped both my sword and shield and lay down. Above me, through the interlaced leaves and branches of the forest I could see the stars as the autumn rain clouds broke up under the quickening breeze. I realized that I was still a peasant’s son, anxious about the weather, the clouds and the winds. The next moment I was asleep only to be wakened by Dunheved, who hoarsely whispered me forward. I took my arms and moved up with the rest.

  We had reached the edge of the forest. The moon, much to Dunheved’s concern, had broken clear out of the clouds, revealing how the ground dropped away to flat marshlands which surrounded the dark mass of Berkeley Castle. My heart sank as I looked at the tall walls, high towers and sealed drawbridge, so distinct in the light of the autumn moon. I wondered how we could cover the ground underneath and then scale those sheer walls. It seemed an impossible task. Nor did the castle garrison look as if it was unwary. I saw the tiny jabs of flares of torches on the battlements and the pinpricks of light through the arrow slits. I whispered my angry objections to Dunheved, but he ignored me and looked at the sky and waited, listening intently to the sounds around us. Once I thought I heard the faint clash of steel on the night air but then dismissed it as a phantom of my fevered imagination. Dunheved sat crouched like some hunting dog, while around us the rest of the group fidgeted and whispered and concentrated on the castle before us. I was wondering what the Father Provincial would think of us now and took pleasure at the prospect of his solemn pomposity’s being pricked, when Dunheved suddenly clutched my arm. I looked to where he was pointing and saw the moon slide behind thick, heavy clouds. We waited tense and expectant. Then, one after another, like falling stars, we saw the fire arrows break the darkness above the castle walls.

  Dunheved said, “Come, keep to the causeway.”

  We then clambered down the slope and made our way towards the walls. We had been warned to keep to the causeway and avoid the marshy, swampy ground. One of our company failed to follow this advice and we left him floundering in our mad rush to the walls. I wondered wildly how we were to cross the narrow, stinking moat that our scouts had warned us about. I also noticed that none carried ladders or grappling hooks for us to clamber the walls. Then an arrow whipped past my face, another took the man behind me full in the throat. I turned, but he was already choking on his own blood. A hand pushed me forward and I blundered on. I realized that Dunheved was leading us away from the causeway and the main gate. Ahead of us I saw a spluttering pitch torch being waved as a signal further along the wall. I realized that Stephen Dunheved had not only got into the castle but had seized a postern gate. Arrows still sliced the darkness and I saw and heard some of my companions go down. Then we were at the gate. Stephen Dunheved was there. No longer the Dominican or secret conspirator but a wild fighting man. His clothes were torn and his right arm and the sword he held were covered in blood. He yelled at us and threw the torch up the steps leading to the battlements. Then the moon broke from its clouds and behind him, across the castle yard at the foot of the great keep, we could see a struggling mass of men. Thomas pushed his brother back towards them and shouted at us to follow him as he rushed up the steps to the parapet behind the crenellated castle walls. I did not know what was happening but later realized the tactics the Dunheveds were using. Evidently, Stephen’s group had launched the surprise attack, hoping to reach the royal prisoner while Thomas’s group were to attack those members of the garrison still manning the walls. This would prevent them joining the group near the keep, as well as spread the impression that the entire castle was under a major assault. At the time, however, I could not analyse such military niceties. I was hot, tired and so terrified that I felt my bowels dissolve like water. I could die or, even worse, be taken a prisoner. Terror is a great lifesaver and I followed Dunheved up those steps, determined to live.

  The ensuing fight was a bloody struggle. Before we reached the top of the steps, the enemy was there. Determined men, they soon realized that we blocked the way down and yet, on the narrow, stone walk way, they could not deploy their full force. Instead, they concentrated on pushing us back down the steps. I never really saw them, but I hacked and stabbed at the mass before me. My sword arm grew heavy, and at one time I felt that I could scarcely breathe in that thick struggling mass. Slowly we were pushed back down the blood-slippery steps. Once I looked across to the keep and noticed that the group, much smaller now, were also being pushed back towards us. I felt I could not go on and slipped back into the group of men behind me, allowing another to take my place, and stumbled wearily to the bottom of the steps. A group of companions still stood guard near the postern gate. I looked for Stephen but I was informed that he had been taken wounded back to the forest. I looked back up the steps at the now uneven struggle and wondered how long it could all last. Then I
heard the long, haunting sound of the horn coming from the forest, cutting across and, for a moment, silencing the fury of the killing ground. Twice it was repeated, ordering us to fall back, to retreat. I did not wait. Other braver souls may have stayed to guard the postern, our only exit and means of escape but I was through it. I made my way cursing and sobbing to the causeway and I ran, casting away my sword. Behind me I heard others following but, as the fighting in the castle ended, the deadly rain of arrows began again. I heard them whistle and thud and that soft smacking sound as they dropped a screaming man. Soon, I was at the bank climbing up to the same spot from where we launched our attack. I paused, just for a while, then I rose and staggered into the trees. I knew I had to hide before horsemen from the castle began their hunt. I suddenly realized that I was alone, and I wondered where the Dunheveds were and if they had been successful. Was Edward II free? I found that I did not care. I was tired, bruised, and could only curse the terrible restlessness which had taken me from my village and then my chosen profession to fight to the death alongside fanatics and rebels.

  Eventually, cursing myself, the Dunheveds as well as every prince and king, I took shelter in some heavy undergrowth and fell into an uneasy sleep. I woke the next morning cold, bruised and so numb that I wondered whether I could still walk. The morning was sunny and clear, and the song of the forest birds mocked my horrors of the previous night. I listened intently for sounds of pursuit and then crawled from my hiding-place. I ate some dried meat from my pouch, drank and bathed in a small stream. I began to feel better and decided to keep to the forest and return to the assembly point near Bardby before moving back into the Forest of Dean. At first, I found it difficult to walk, but the previous night’s sleep and fear of capture kept me going. I saw no sign of pursuers, except a corpse swinging from a tree in a glade that I did not cross but went around. I thought I recognized the body, a member of the Dunheved group, but I dared not approach it. I reasoned that any pursuit from Berkeley Castle may have already swept this part of the forest, or that the local commander may have even concentrated on another area. After two days I was near Bardby and so struck deeper into the forest, searching for the assembly point. Eventually I found it, a small clearing near some overhanging rocks. When I arrived, it looked deserted, then I saw the figure seated, head down as if asleep, against a tree. It was Stephen Dunheved. I looked around and, once satisfied that we were alone, began to move towards him. At once the head snapped up and I stopped when I saw the raised crossbow with its barbed, evil bolt pointing towards me. Stephen’s face was white and gaunt, and the eyes were black circles glaring at me. I could see that his right leg was covered in dark crusted blood. I hoped that he was not too feverish to recognize me.