The Death of a King

I later learned to be Ockle, were waiting for me. They held torches, I always remember those torches, the way they flickered, spluttered and revealed the gargoyle features of the regicides. I was taken down to the main hall of the castle. It was cold and deserted. A poor light was given by a few ensconced rushlights which lit up the long trestle table on the dais at the top of the hall. As we approached it, I began to shiver. I had seen Edward II in life. I had never thought that I would be the one to measure his corpse. I found I could not stop the panic within me. The hall was so quiet, so cold and dominated by the corpse lying huddled under a thick purple robe. I turned to Guerney and asked:
    “The king?”
    Guerney stopped and turned, his eyes as cold and black as any marble.
    “The former king,” he rasped.
    We then walked to the dais. Guerney told me not to lift the cloak but simply measure the corpse. He would stand by me. I recognized the threat, knew he was armed and was more than aware that, though the hall was deserted, it was surrounded by every cut-throat in Wales. I shrugged my shoulders. It was a job. I was not responsible for that terrible figure lying so quietly under the cloth. I started my work, the measuring rod clutched in my hand as tightly as a vice. My task was nearly completed, I measured the body and made a few notes which Guerney carefully checked. Then it happened. Perhaps it was the poor light, or my own fears, but, as I moved to the top of the table, I stumbled and collided with Guerney. For a second we stood poised, then both of us crashed against the table. It quivered, then gently, almost gratefully, it let its terrible burden slide from under the purple cloth on to the floor. I watched in terror. In the poor light I saw a shaven blond head, a pale face and legs, and, as the body rolled in its white shroud, I saw the blue-black holes of the stab wounds. Then everything went black as Guerney threw a cloak over my head. His arm wrapped round my neck like an iron collar, and I felt the prick of a dagger against my heart.
    “That was a mistake, Master Mason,” he whispered. “An unfortunate accident. You saw nothing.”
    I nodded, terrified at what I had seen and that piece of steel so near to my heart. Guerney pushed me off the dais, removed the cloak and hustled me out of the hall to where Ockle was waiting. The hunchback must have heard the crash, for he began to babble with questions. Guerney silenced him with an order to take me back to my room and, as we left, I heard the hall doors close behind us. That night I expected to die, I could not sleep for fear for my own safety and at what I had seen. Nothing happened. The next morning Guerney came to my chamber and handed over to me the illegible notes I had made the night before. He did not refer to the events of the previous night except to stare at me before saying that I would be taken back to Gloucester that same day. I realized then that the only reason I was being left unharmed was that Guerney wished to protect himself.
    That afternoon, the same Scottish bully took me back to Gloucester. I was excused from normal work and, when the timber arrived, began work on the coffin. Within a week it was finished and sent by road to Berkeley. I received a fresh purse of gold and to all intents and purposes my task was finished. Nevertheless I could not forget that whirling white body, the lolling head, the blue-black mouths of the wound. I saw it roll towards me in my dreams. I knew I had seen the body of the murdered king. But whom could I tell? Who would want to know? Who would care? I went to be shriven but my tongue refused to describe what my eyes had seen. Then the accident occurred. A timber slipped and I was thrown into space and blackness. I remembered opening my eyes after I fell only to feel the savage pain in my legs and back. I thought I saw Guerney’s face in the crowd which surrounded me, but that must have been a delusion. I was discharged from the king’s service and sent to Croyland Abbey. Now, I am dying, I can tell everything and get rid of the haunting vision of a whirling white body with its blue-black gems.

    The confession, cryptic as it is, then ends. Spilsby died a few days later and Brother Thomas too is dead. All that is left is this confession of a broken man. You may use this information for its worth. The second piece of information is more mysterious. Whilst searching among the chronicle entries I