The Death of a King

part.
    “Anything else?”
    The question was so abrupt and so apparently harmless, yet I found it difficult to control my mounting panic. I realized that Chandos might suspect there was and I decided that further protestations on my part would make matters worse.
    “There was the question of the Dunheved attack.”
    “What about it?” he replied.
    I hastened to list my queries about how they had been able to penetrate Berkeley Castle and the fact that, despite all of the gang being captured, none had been brought to trial. Chandos seemed unperturbed. He pointed out that that attack had been launched at night, they had received help from within the castle, and they had got no further than the outer bailey. He added that when the Dunheved gang was arrested they had been wounded, exhausted and too weak to withstand the ravages of gaol fever.
    “It’s a terrible disease, Master Clerk,” he concluded, looking straight at me. “It would be a terrible way to die.”
    The quiet, implied threat stung me into a question I had thought about but never intended to ask.
    “Sir John, you seem well informed regarding the details of Edward II’s death. Why hasn’t the king commissioned you to do this assignment?” He shrugged, his eyes slid from my face to a point above my head.
    “I read your reports to the king, and I know something of what happened.” He paused. “Anyway, I am not a clerk, and His Grace the King seems pleased with what you are doing.”
    Before I could acknowledge the compliment, Chandos brusquely passed on to ask, “You are keeping the matter confidential?”
    “Of course.” The lie tripped off my tongue so quickly that I almost believed it myself.
    Chandos then got up and stretched himself. I thought he was going to leave but, as soon as he had wrapped his cloak around himself, he gestured me to follow him and left my room, not even bothering to see if I followed. Of course I did. As we entered the street, I caught up with his long-legged stride and asked where we were going.
    “Patience, Master Beche,” he replied, “all will be revealed.”
    I realized I had little option but to follow his advice, quite aware of his two armed retainers, who had detached themselves from a nearby alley to ensure that I did.
    I thought wherever Sir John intended us to go, that we would travel by barge, but Sir John turned into Fleet Street to make our way through the bustle and throng of the London crowd. I was too nervous to see where we were going. All I remember is Sir John clearing a path before us as we passed up beyond the writing offices of the Chancery, across the Holborn brook up towards the northwest city gate. It is strange what little pictures remain. There was a friar preaching to an old man and a dog near Holborn Bridge. A whore in a black wig and a scarlet, dirty robe trying to wheedle cash and custom from a well-dressed pimply youth, while behind her a yellow-fanged dog urinated on a drunken cripple. I remember the noise was deafening; hucksters bawling their prices, and children running everywhere, dodging the heavy carts going to and from the river. A Jew stopped counting silver to look at Sir John, before glancing pitifully at me. With his yellow star and hunted look, I was grateful at least for his compassion. Sir John pushed ahead, hardly bothering to turn to see if I followed, fully confident in the two shadows trailing behind me.
    Eventually, we turned into the highway which led to the northwest gate of the city. The crowds were thick there and I wondered why, till I also realized that this road led to the Elms, the favourite execution place for traitors. The crowds were waiting for something. There was an air of tension, even the swarm of itinerant tradesmen looked subdued as everybody craned their necks to where a troop of archers in royal livery kept the road open. Sir John pushed his way through, knocking aside women, children and the occasional bold whore or pickpocket, as if they were merely troublesome flies. I and his two shadows followed in his wake. Eventually, Sir John reached the line of archers and, after a few words, we were allowed through on to the hard, rock-strewn road. Sir John then turned right, and up beyond him I saw the massive T-shaped gallows, ladders and rope black against the sky. I began to shiver, and the stares of the crowd made me think wildly about whether I was going to my own execution. We stopped at the enclosure before the gallows and I stared at the