The Death of a King

by Paul Doherty

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Mysteries; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

The fate of a king is not always glorious... The dramatic events of Edward II's death are told with masterful skill by acclaimed writer, Paul Doherty, in The Death of a King. Perfect for fans of Michael Jecks and Ellis Peters. England's Edward II so angered his wife, her lover, and his subjects that they revolted, deposed him, and made him prisoner. History records that Edward II was eventually murdered in Berkeley Castle and buried publicly in Gloucester cathedral. But was he? The heir, Edward III, charges Chancery Clerk Edmund Beche with uncovering the truth of the matter. Beche's investigation is torturous, blocked by hidden records, outright lies, unexpected confessions, double crosses, and a high body count. Grave digging, burglary, and soldiering at the bloody battle of Crécy await him. But Edward is a most determined man... What readers are saying about Paul Doherty: 'Doherty writes well and paints a very believable picture' 'Mr. Doherty's research is only topped by his imagination ' 'The intrigue! The intrigue! What can I say? Read it... NOW! '

Release date: June 6, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 176

Sample

Edward, by the grace of God, King of England, France and Ireland, to Our faithful clerk, Edmund Beche, health and greetings.
We command you to meet Us at Windsor on the first Sunday after the Assumption to discuss a matter touching Our Crown. It is
Our royal pleasure and your duty to attend. Under no circumstances will We excuse your absence.


Written at Westminster and despatched under the secret seal,

10 August 1345.

Edmund Beche to his faithful friend, Richard Bliton, Prior of Croyland Abbey, health and blessing. It is a long time Richard,
since we studied together at Oxford, yet our friendship seems to have stood the test of time and changing personal fortune.
You are the prior of a great abbey but I, now 35, continue to scratch away as a clerk in the royal Chancery. True, I have
no great desire to change. My fees suffice to provide robes, food, a sound horse, a house in Bread Street and a pert young
woman in Cheapside. Should the latter offend your ‘holiness’ then I apologize but, unlike you, I have no vocation to remain
celibate or, like so many, worsen my state by matrimony.


The writ I enclose from our king, Edward III, now threatens my humdrum existence. A royal messenger delivered it with all the arrogance he could muster on the morning of 12
August, and small and terse though it is, the writ caused me great concern. As far as I knew, I had done nothing wrong, but
you can never be sure. Some of my work in the writing office of the Chancery deals with royal correspondence of varying degrees
of secrecy. If ale had made me loquacious in some Holborn tavern, then perhaps my comfortable existence was going to end rather
abruptly. So, from the moment I received the summons, my agitation grew and the actual journey to Windsor did little to curb
my anxiety.


The bells of St Paul’s were clanging for Sunday Prime when a mailed clatter outside my lodgings rattled me awake. I pushed
open a casement to find a courtier whom I knew by sight, Sir John Chandos, and a group of sergeants wearing the blue and gold
of the royal livery staring up at me. Sir John, tall, grey-haired, with a face like a hunting falcon, was courteous but firm.
The king, he shouted, wanted me at Windsor and I was to accompany him there immediately. I dressed swiftly in my best robes
and hurried down to join him. I was grateful that the problem of how I was to meet the king had now solved itself, but worried
sick over why a military escort had been sent to take me. We marched down to Queenhithe’s wharf where a barge, flying the
golden leopards of England and the silver fleur-de-lis of France, lay waiting. We clambered in, the order was given to cast
off and soon we were in mid-stream, rowing north through the swirling morning mist.


Apart from the splash of the dipping oars, the journey was a quiet one. I did not question Chandos and he confined himself
to a few conventional remarks about my work in the Chancery and my brief military service against the French. His presence
did little to comfort me. Sir John Chandos has a reputation as a ferocious fighter, totally devoted to a king who had elevated him from relative obscurity to
be a member of his council. A mysterious figure always in the shadows, he acted as bodyguard and confidant to the king. He
had been a member of that select group of retainers who had aided the king in the famous coup of 1330, which destroyed the
rule of his mother and her lover Mortimer. Sir John had led the party which actually arrested Mortimer, killing in hand-to-hand
combat two of the latter’s bodyguards. Since then court chatter had Sir John Chandos as the paramount figure in a number of
secret and dangerous assignments. Some called him a spy but others dismissed him as the king’s secret and most professional
assassin.


By the time we docked at Windsor, the sun was beginning to lift the morning mist but the fear twisting in the pit of my stomach
kept me cold and clammy. We left the barge and headed towards the huge donjon of the great grey castle, the armour of the
sergeants echoing along the rutted streets like the tambour-beat of a death march. We crossed the great yawning moat and entered
the main gate. The portcullis fell with a crash. The escort was dismissed and I followed Chandos across the castle yard into
the recently renovated chapel. We walked up the main aisle, genuflected before a winking sanctuary lamp and, turning left,
entered a small, cool chamber which must also serve as the vestry. At the far end, two figures sat hunched over a trestle
table. They looked up as we entered. Chandos ordered me to kneel and an age seemed to pass before a resonant voice told me
to sit on the stool Chandos had pushed alongside me. I slumped on to it and, raising my eyes, found myself staring straight
into the king’s face. My first thought was that the golden boy we students cheered so wildly as he passed through Oxford to
his palace at Woodstock had disappeared. The blond hair had turned a dull grey a mottled hue of criss-crossed veins now patterned the tawny face and his belly’s so big that it seems
our king has lost his youth, not on the battlefield, but at the board of countless banquets. Yet his eyes, though puffy and
ringed with shadows, were keen and alert enough to force me to shift my gaze to the person sitting on his left. There, I recognized
the red-haired, foxy features of our father in Christ, John Stratford, Archbishop of Canterbury.


For a few moments, both Edward and his archbishop studied me. The king then leaned forward and asked if I knew my history.
I replied that I had studied Polybius, Tacitus and the other ancients, which only brought neighs of laughter from Stratford.


“No, Master Beche,” the king said with a half-smile, “a little more recent than that. Such as the events of my late father’s
reign?”


Anyone at court from porter to Earl Marshal would have sensed the danger in such a question, so I muttered a few phrases about
my low station, scholarly seclusion and comparative youth when the late Edward II had been deposed and brutally murdered.


The king stirred restlessly and quickly silenced me. “Master Beche,” he snapped, “if you cannot recall the events of my lamented
father’s reign then let me refresh your memory. My sire came to the throne in July 1307. The following January, he married
Princess Isabella of France. In March 1312 I was born, then in the next eight years came my brother John of Eltham and my
two good sisters, Joanna and Eleanor. My father, however, never spent much time with us. He was too involved in a constant
struggle with his cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, over who would govern the realm. Despite your protests, Master Clerk,”
he added drily, “you probably know the outcome. In the spring of 1322, Lancaster aided by the Earl of Hereford, Roger Mortimer and other miscreants, rose in rebellion against my father. Mortimer burnt Bridgenorth but was forced to surrender
at Shrewsbury and was imprisoned in the Tower. Lancaster and Hereford fared even worse. They were trapped at Boroughbridge
in Yorkshire on the river Ure. In the ensuing skirmish, Hereford died with a spear up his arse whilst Lancaster was captured
and decapitated.”


The king paused to drink from a pewter goblet. “My father’s victory,” he continued, “marked the rise of two court favourites,
Hugh Despenser the Elder who became the Earl of Winchester, and his son, Hugh the Younger, also known as the Lord of Glamorgan.
This precious pair virtually owned Wales, ruled my father and ruined his kingdom. My mother,” the king continued as if reciting
a lesson, “the queen dowager Isabella, opposed them, but to little avail. The Despensers humiliated her and she was eventually
stripped of her lands and possessions.”


The king leaned back, nodding at Stratford, who continued the recital in that unctuous tone reserved by leading ecclesiastics
for addressing the lowly and less intelligent amongst their flock.


“In 1325 Lady Isabella and His Grace,” Stratford nodded towards the king, “then only a boy of 13 summers, managed to escape
to France on the pretext of being involved in certain peace negotiations. Once there, Lady Isabella refused to return and
allied herself with Roger Mortimer, who had previously escaped from the Tower. To cut a long tale short, Master Clerk, the
Queen received help from me and many others and invaded England. Edward II and the Despensers, being deserted by all, fled
to South Wales where they were later captured.”


Stratford fell silent as the king touched his arm before resuming the narrative himself.

“Look, Master Clerk. You were 20, a student at Merton College, Oxford, when all this happened. So let us be brief. The Despensers were executed and my father deposed and imprisoned.
For the next four years, Mortimer ruled the kingdom.”


The king cleared his throat and fairly rushed the rest of his evidently carefully prepared speech. “Mortimer proved to be
a worse tyrant than the Despensers. He had my father murdered at Berkeley Castle. He executed my uncle, Edmund, Earl of Kent,
on a fictitious charge of treason and he brought my mother into disrepute. In November 1330 matters reached such a climax
that I,” the king paused, “that I intervened. Mortimer was arrested at Nottingham and hanged for his crimes at Tyburn. My
sweet mother decided to relinquish affairs of state in order to dedicate herself to good works on her country estates.”


The king stopped abruptly and ordered Chandos, who was standing at the back of the room, to serve me with wine and sweetmeats
whilst he and Stratford conferred quietly together. As I ate, I realized the king had told me nothing new and omitted the
more scandalous items of the story. His father was a well-known sodomite who died with a red-hot poker thrust up his arse.
Isabella, the king’s “sweet mother,” was little better. Her ferocity had earned her the nickname of the “She-Wolf.” She had,
by all accounts, been Mortimer’s whore, his partner in tyranny, as well as his accomplice in the murder of her husband. If
it had not been for the intervention of her son, she would have certainly joined Mortimer on the scaffold. The truth is all-important,
Richard, but you never tell it to princes. Especially when you sit with them and drink their wine.


Eventually, the king ceased his whispering and, turning to me, came bluntly to the point. “Master Edmund,” he began, “are
you wondering how events which happened so long ago affect you?” He shrugged, not waiting for an answer. “It’s quite simple. I want you to investigate the circumstances surrounding my father’s death. You will draw on the
Exchequer, the royal treasury, to meet any expenses and receive a warrant permitting you to question anyone, as well as the
right to search any records. However,” the king waved an admonitory finger at me, “you must not flaunt your commission at
court nor can you work amongst any records covered by the secret seal. There is nothing there touching this matter and a great
deal which concerns the security of our realm in the present war against France. Finally,” the king looked hard at me, “your
task is to research the background of my father’s death. Not, I repeat, not to hunt down his murderers. That is the task of
others.”


The king gulped a little more wine, raising his hand to fend off my questions, so he could continue. “I know, I know, Master
Beche. Why do I want such an investigation and why do I choose you and not a group of royal commissioners? The answers are
quite simple. I was only 15 when my father died. I was king in nothing but name. Mortimer controlled the realm as if it was
one of his own Welsh shires. I knew nothing at the time but,” the king extended his hands, “now I want to know. The dust has
settled and a discreet inquiry will satisfy my curiosity. I chose you because you will observe discretion. You are a royal
clerk, skilled in research and proficient in dealing with records. You have other qualities and assets which recommend you.”
He picked up a leaf of parchment from the table. “You are the only son of Jocelyn and Ann Beche, farmers who held land in
Yorkshire. They died some time ago, but not before they saw their only son enter Merton College and emerge well qualified
in the study of law. For a while, you served as a clerk in the retinue of the Earl of Montague in two campaigns against the
French. On his recommendation, you were accepted into the royal Chancery where you have distinguished yourself as a competent, industrious and, above all, discreet clerk. You have many acquaintances
but no friends unless, of course,” the king added wryly, “we include your mistress in Cheapside.” He let the manuscript fall
back on the table.


“Well,” he added abruptly, “is there anything you wish to ask?”

The king’s speech had surprised me but I managed to conceal my astonishment behind an obvious question. “Your grace,” I blurted
out, “most of the people connected with Mortimer’s regime are dead, although a few are still alive.” I looked as meaningfully
as I could at Stratford.


“True,” that old fox replied caustically, “I was in the service of Queen Isabella when Edward II died but I know nothing of
the old king’s death. If I did,” he added firmly, “his grace would surely know of it.”


I knew that Stratford was lying. He had an innate genius for survival and promotion. A friend of Lancaster, Minister under
Edward II and adviser to Isabella. He had attained the pinnacle of success under Edward II, who had made him Archbishop of
Canterbury. I knew he would evade any question I would ask.


So, tired of platitudes, I asked if I could question the queen dowager, but the king wearily informed me that his mother could
tell me very little for she knew nothing more than she had told him already. I remembered to smile understandingly and let
the matter drop, as far too dangerous to pursue.


The king pushed a small scroll towards me. “Here is your letter of commission. It does not specify your task. You will keep
that secret under the pretence of writing a history of my late father’s reign.” As he rasped out his last order to me, Stratford’s
gnarled hands pushed a book of the gospels towards me. No sooner had I risen to swear myself to secrecy than Stratford gripped my wrist, forcing me to gaze into his narrow, yellow-flecked eyes. “Master Clerk,” he lisped,
“you will send your reports direct to the king. Your task is important, a matter of state. Divulge it and you are an attainted
traitor. You do understand?”


I nodded dumbly. Stratford relaxed his grip and handed me my commission which I thrust into my belt-pouch. The king seemed
a little disconc. . .