The Death of a King

black rafters spanning walls covered in silken Flemish tapestries. At the far end, a few figures, huddled in great cloaks, lounged around the high table. My guide bade me stay where I was and hurried forward to an over-dressed young man sitting in the centre of the group. I knew this must be Lord Berkeley. After a brief conversation with the serjeant, Berkeley beckoned me forward and stood to receive the commission I held. Despite his rich robes, Berkeley is no fop; his muscular frame, fiery red hair and tense scarred face mark him as a soldier, more suited to the camp than the court. He scanned my commission, said a few words to his companions and led me over to a window embrasure. The arrow slit was sealed with wooden shutters and we crouched on stools around a small, sweet-smelling brazier. Berkeley came swiftly to the point and asked if I had come to question him, or simply to see the cell where the king’s father had died. I told him both, and added that I would like to inspect the accounts for Berkeley Castle during the period Edward II was held prisoner there. Berkeley asked why and I glibly informed him that the king wanted my history to be based on documentary evidence, as well as verbal accounts. He seemed satisfied with this reply and I thought the interview over when he began to speak softly, as if to himself.
    “Edward II’s death was a crime, Master Clerk. A perpetual stain on the Berkeley name, but the real pity is that my father knew nothing about it. God rest his soul.”
    “How’s that?” I asked.
    Berkeley looked intently into the brazier. “Because, Master Clerk, my father was not at Berkeley when the king was killed, but at Bradby, a few miles away, suffering from an illness which nearly proved fatal. Believe me, this is no fable. My father’s absence was attested to by many independent witnesses.”
    I was impressed by the man’s earnestness, but equally determined to exploit his eagerness to clear his family’s name.
    “My lord,” I asked tentatively, “did you or your father notice anything peculiar or extraordinary during the late king’s imprisonment?”
    Berkeley pursed his lips. “You must understand,” he replied, “that though Edward II was imprisoned here, the Berkeleys were not responsible for his custody. My father was a kinsman of Mortimer, but he was a sick man and used his illness as an excuse to leave this castle as often as possible. Mortimer chose this place because of its vast remoteness, as well as its proximity to his own lands on the Welsh border. The castle was filled with Mortimer’s retainers and Edward II’s imprisonment was entrusted to three of Mortimer’s closest henchmen, Sir John Maltravers, Sir Thomas Guerney and William Ockle. The first was a Somerset knight who hated the deposed king. Guerney was a professional killer and Ockle was a hunchbacked, misbegotten nonentity.” Berkeley paused for a moment. “Maltravers had little to do with the prisoner. He was simply my father’s lieutenant and custodian of the castle. He has been accused of being involved in the murder but Guerney and Ockle kept the king even from him. In fact, this precious pair kept themselves and their captive from public view and only spoke to the messengers Mortimer sent from Westminster. No one in the castle even knew that the king had died until it was announced a few days afterwards that he had expired from natural causes, and then Guerney ordered us all to leave the keep while the royal body was prepared for burial in Gloucester Cathedral.”
    “Were the preparations for burial carried out there?”
    “No, here,” Berkeley explained, jabbing his finger at the floor, “in the great hall itself, but no one was allowed admittance. Not even the royal clerks who brought the shroud, coffin and other materials for the burial.”
    “Then who dressed the corpse?”
    “Ah, now that’s strange. Not any court physician, but an old woman, a witch from the Forest of Dean. She was hired by Queen Isabella to prepare her husband’s body for burial and then disappeared.”
    “So no one saw the corpse?”
    Berkeley laughed drily. “For a clerk, you have a fanciful imagination, Master Beche. No, the old woman was probably hired because a skilled physician would soon recognize that the king had died violently. However, we all saw the corpse before its burial. It was taken from here to Gloucester, where it lay in state, its face uncovered for days, before being buried with great