The Death of a King

pomp in the cathedral.”
    “Do you know how the king actually died?” I asked.
    Berkeley shrugged. “You’ve heard the stories,” he replied. “I’ve never heard anything different. The king was abused before he died, he had a reputation as a sodomite and Guerney and Ockle were spiteful, twisted bastards.”
    Even though a great deal of his story tallied with what I had already learnt from the records in the Tower Muniment Room, I thought that Berkeley’s narrative contained many valuable items of information. The most important were the reasons for the great secrecy which had surrounded the king’s death. Naturally, his assassins would only be too eager to hide any evidence of the crime.
    After a moment’s reflection, I asked Berkeley why Edward had been so closely guarded. I pointed out that he was far from popular, which accounted for the success of his wife’s invasion.
    “There were rumours,” the man replied, “that some fanatics were plotting to free him. There were reports of groups gathering in the Forest of Dean and all along the Welsh March. Strangers were seen and reported in the surrounding hamlets, many armed contrary to the government’s instructions. One group, led by a monk Dunheved, actually attacked the castle and managed to get down to the old king’s cell, where they murdered one of the guards, a Gascon called Bernard Pellet. Anyway, most of the attackers were killed or captured before being beaten off. The rest, including Dunheved, got away. I believe he and his band were later rounded up by Mortimer’s agents and disappeared for ever.” Berkeley paused and smiled wryly, “I remember all these details for I was 16 and all agog with curiosity.”
    After that, Berkeley began to ask for news from London and the court. He said that he had been serving with the army abroad and was eager to return. When I asked why he had not joined the court in London, he shrugged and explained that he had been at Berkeley since the previous June when the king had visited the castle.
    “Did he inspect his father’s dungeon?”
    Lord Berkeley shook his head. “No, he showed no interest in the place. In fact, he and Sir John Chandos spent most of their time in Gloucester, inspecting the cathedral.”
    Berkeley then chatted freely about the king’s wars before he cut himself short with an apology and offered to show me where the king’s father had been imprisoned. I quickly accepted and Berkeley, taking a torch from the wall, led me down the cold, draughty stairwell to the base of the keep. There he began to tug at a ring on one of the damp sandstone flags. After a great deal of effort, he managed to raise it on to its side. In the flickering torchlight, I saw a wooden ladder going down into the darkness. Lord Berkeley, tightly gripping his torch, descended and I followed a little more carefully. The cell was really an underground cave and I saw there were signs that it had once been occupied. Sconces to hold rushlights rusted on the wall and a rotting mass of straw in a far corner probably once served as a bed. Berkeley explained that when the cell was occupied, the ladder was taken up and the flagstone replaced while small slits in the floor above ensured the prisoner did not suffocate. As I inspected this place of abomination, flickering and dancing in the light of the torch, I silently prayed for the king who must have crouched there before dying in unspeakable agony. The place stank of mildew and the sickly sweetness of decay. I felt as if I was in some antechamber of hell and was only too grateful to get out. I courteously declined Lord Berkeley’s invitation to dinner and, pleading fatigue, I was shown to a small chamber above the great hall. There, I tried to analyse what I had learnt but my tired brain kept returning to that evil, dark pit until I dropped into a fitful sleep.
    The next morning Berkeley showed me the muniment room and the castle account rolls for the years 1326 and 1327. The hour-candles he lit for me had burnt two of their rings before I finished what proved to be a futile search. There was no record of Edward II’s being dependent on the supplies of Berkeley Castle after 21 July, 1327. In fact, the records corroborated my findings in London, for there was a roll of receipts which tabled the amounts the Exchequer had sent to Berkeley, as well as their date of issue. The list was identical to the one I had drawn up in London and I noticed with despair that the last sum