The Death of a King

but this would not account for the total absence of any mention of the imprisoned king. I then considered the possibility of Edward II being starved to death, but this contradicted the theory that he was violently murdered. Moreover, a man starved of all food would not take over eight weeks to die and, if his corpse was displayed to the public view, such emaciation could be sufficient proof that he had been murdered.
    I could find no solution and decided upon an immediate visit to Berkeley Castle, despite the snow and sleet of this miserable winter. There, I hoped to find some record of the king’s gaolers requisitioning supplies locally, although this was a vague hope from the start. The Exchequer had carefully supervised the royal prisoner’s welfare since his capture in December, 1326, and there was no reason why such care should suddenly end two months before Edward II’s death. Nor was there evidence of any order transferring the responsibility for Edward’s welfare from London to his gaolers. I, therefore, concluded that a visit to Berkeley was essential. His Grace the King would certainly think me careless if I failed to visit the castle where his father had been imprisoned.
    Once I had decided on the journey, I began my preparations. I left London on Saturday, 22 January. I took my mare and a sumpt-er-pony laden with a change of robes, provisions and blankets. The Exchequer had answered my draft for fifty marks, twenty-five of which went into my purse whilst I stitched the rest into my thick leather sword-belt. Kate went with me to Aldgate to bid me an affectionate farewell though I had little doubt she would soon console herself. Once I was out of the city, I travelled north-west through Acton, Ruislip and Wallingford, towards the Berkeley demesne.
    The journey was bitterly cold. A leaden grey sky and the countryside, so beautiful in summer, were hidden by driving winds and sleet. I passed through small, squalid hamlets and stayed at a series of miserable inns, where the one topic of conversation was the war against the French and the government’s insistent demands for war supplies. The people I met were dressed like scarecrows, scavenging in hedges and fields for anything to eat. Their lot is pitiable. The men are recruited for the king’s wars, and only the crippled return, thrown out to fend for themselves. Even in time of peace, whatever the season, the peasants are heavily taxed. In summer, the royal purveyors move like a plague from village to village collecting produce and after them, the tax-collectors, followed by the bailiffs and sergeants of the local seigneurs. Where I could, I distributed some of the money I had received and it was taken without thanks by cold, grasping hands. I had heard about the growing violence in the countryside and now I witnessed it firsthand. On a number of occasions, I passed corpses decomposing in ditches and, at every crossroads, the gibbets were heavy with their rotten human fruit. The intense cold kept me safe, for only once was I threatened, outside Wallingford, by a group of ruffians, who soon dispersed when they heard the hoofbeats of a scouting convoy from Wallingford Castle.
    My near escape did not deter me and I pressed on, until a week after leaving London the battlements of Berkeley Castle appeared on the skyline. The castle, dominating the western road linking the North and Southwest of the country, is situated on a plateau some fifty feet above the floodable meadows of the River Avon. The great keep soars high and on its turret fluttered a multi-coloured banner emblazoned with the arms of the Berkeleys. The morass which surrounds the castle’s crenellated walls forced me on to the causeway which led to the main gate. I was about twenty paces from it when a voice rang out, ordering me to stop and state my business. I tried to raise my voice above the wind, waving the royal commission as if it was a pennant. After a long, silent wait a postern door opened. I dismounted and led in my mare and then returned for the sumpter-pony. The door was slammed behind me and a serjeant clattered down from the parapet, shouting questions at me. I curtly informed him I was on the king’s business and wished to speak to Sir Maurice Berkeley. The man nodded and bawled at a shivering groom to look after my nags. He led me across the outer and inner baileys, into the keep and up a flight of stairs to the great hall of the castle.
    It was a long spacious room, with