The Death of a King

old woman and not royal physicians brought to dress the corpse of the dead king?
    Item—why were Guerney and Ockle so secretive in their custody of the king?
    Item—why did Mortimer categorically refuse to hand over the dead king’s body to the Abbey of Westminster?
    Item—just how did Edward II die?
    Taken individually, I know there is probably a plausible answer to each of these questions, but taken together, they do cast serious doubts on the accepted version of Edward II’s murder. Roger Bacon once said that “Truth is the daughter of time.” But time waits for no man, Richard, and I have decided to approach the Queen Dowager Isabella. She may solve all my problems and I think I am well equipped to coax fresh answers from her.
    I have decided not to inform the king of my intentions, for I shall merely report that I am investigating the Dunheved conspiracy. I beg you to continue to keep silent. God keep you Richard. Written at Bread Street, 22 February, 1346.

Letter Four
    Richard Bliton to Edmund Beche—greetings, I have decided to ignore your advice and, on this occasion at least, reply to you. It was good to receive your letter. It is a pity that such mysterious circumstances have prompted it, but I am sure His Grace the King knows what he is doing. Must you show disrespect both to him and our lord archbishop? Should you be breaking their confidence? I would liked to have been consulted first. I do hold an important position in the Church which cannot be compromised. However, I have given the matter careful thought and believe my rank and status make me the best possible confidant. I would have liked to reply earlier but I had to travel to London on urgent priory business. My real purpose in writing is to warn you not to be impulsive. The king may think you are a steady, industrious clerk but I know you to be stubborn, impetuous and proud. I warn you to be careful and confide in me.
    My second reason for writing was to impart certain information. As you know, Croyland has its own chronicle, and I have spent two busy days of my precious time in researching on your behalf. There are the usual entries about Isabella’s invasion and rule, but the following entries may be of use to you. The first is a confession and I give it to you verbatim:

    In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, I, Brother Thomas Marshall, took this confession from John Spilsby, master carpenter, at his behest on 14 March, 1332.
    My name is Spilsby. I was born in Grantham and became an apprentice carpenter. My skills, thank God, gave me preferment and I entered the service of the crown as a Master Craftsman. A position I held till an accident crushed my legs and brought me a king’s pension to die at Croyland. My life was an uneventful yet quietly fulfilled one. I worked on wood and loved the craft I followed. Life, politics, even religion passed me by. This ended in the winter of 1327. Like everyone at court I knew that the old king had been overthrown and imprisoned at Berkeley Castle. I was working in Gloucester Cathedral at the time, aware of what had happened but not really bothering. That is until the summons came. It was from the old queen. I was ordered to Berkeley Castle on a secret and private matter. I knew that Edward II had died and I guessed with dread, why I had been summoned. I was taken to Berkeley by a large, uncouth Scottish mercenary and given lodgings in the castle. A room in the keep, small, sparse but clean. There were none of Berkeley retainers. I understood that these had been cleared out and the place was garrisoned by Mortimer’s wild Welsh. Except for the keep and the main hall, these were under the direct command of the group I later learnt were the regicides, the old king’s gaol-ers, Guerney, Maltravers and Ockle. For days I kept in my room, food, drink and a change of clothing and bedding were regularly supplied. Eventually, Guerney came to see me. Tricked out in gorgeous colours, he reminded me of a weasel I had once seen; sleek, pampered, well fed and dangerous. He was curt. I was there to measure up the late king’s body for a state coffin to be placed in the cathedral. My protests were ignored. A bag of gold was thrust in my hand and I was told to be ready that evening.
    I waited all day and thought that Guerney had forgotten me when I heard a rap on my door and Guerney’s hoarse whisper of a summons. I threw my cloak round me and opened my door; Guerney and a misshapen hunchback,