The Death of a King

raised platform, the long red-stained bench and black-hooded figures warming themselves around the three glowing braziers. My heart was beginning to pound so violently that I found it difficult to breathe and, when the crowd roared behind me, my panic spilled over. I grabbed Sir John’s shoulder, forcing him to turn and look at me. He smiled as if enjoying some secret joke, then quietly removed my sweaty hand from him.
    “Don’t alarm yourself, Beche,” he said soothingly. “It’s not for you—is it? Just watch!”
    I looked around and saw my two shadows smirking to themselves. My panic and fear subsided. I tried to control my breathing as Sir John led us to the side, to where a group of archers guarded the steps up to the gallows platform. I dimly realized why I was there. I was going to witness an execution. Not mine, but one intended for my benefit. I looked down the avenue where the crowds had roared and I saw a small procession advancing towards us. A number of horses moving slowly, something bumping behind them on the ground, though most of it was masked by its leader, a mounted sergeant and two archers walking beside him. I knew what was coming. I had never witnessed an execution, but I had heard enough to know what terrible bundles those horses pulled. Roger Mortimer had suffered a similar fate, being dragged on a hurdle to these very gallows and then hanged, drawn and quartered. The cavalcade reached us and stopped. I was conscious of men scurrying about, horses whinnying at the smell of blood, shouted orders and the moans of the prisoners. There were two of them, naked except for a loincloth. One quite old with balding pate, wispy beard and thin emaciated body. He had been dragged on a rough sledge from the Fleet prison. He was covered in dirt and his back was one open sore. He seemed only half conscious and two of his guards had to hold him up. His companion was much younger and may have been his son. He may have been quite good-looking but his body was a mass of bloody, muddy gouges. His dark hair and beard were matted with blood. Two dark bruises had half closed his eyes, his mouth was cut and his lower jaw was broken. I will never forget them, not just their wounds—I have seen many before—but the air of restrained terror which surrounded them.
    They were hustled past me up on to the platform beneath the gallows. A richly dressed man in robes and chain of office came to the edge of the platform and began to shout from a short roll of parchment. His voice was deadened by the clamour of the crowd which had followed the macabre procession, and now surged like an angry sea around the execution area. Sir John Chandos turned to me and, looking directly into my eyes, said cryptically:
    “Traitors, Master Beche. Father and son, they are, well, were, mariners, who were selling the French information about our navy.”
    I looked away from him at the grey smoke curling up the braziers, dark against a leaden sky. I tried to look anywhere except at that black platform. The swinging rope, the dancing feet, the roar and animal smell of the crowd. I knew why I was there. I was being taught a lesson, given a warning. I had had enough. I turned and began to push my way through the crowd. I did not care for Chandos or his retainers. It did not matter, they made no attempt to stop me. I stumbled to the edge of the crowd, retched violently and then ran, leaving Chandos, the burning braziers, and those two bodies twisting and dancing. Eventually, I reached Bread Street and the dirty but welcoming warmth of a tavern. I sat there till Kate joined me. I listened to her chatter and drank and thought about the day’s events. Why had Chandos gone to such lengths to warn me? What was the real purpose of this assignment? Should I have accepted it? Perhaps, Richard, I should never have written to you, but now we are committed. Written at Bread Street, March, 1346.

Letter Six
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. It is more than two months since you have heard from me and so much has happened. Then, apart from Chandos’s threat, I thought the death of King Edward II was an academic problem. Now it is a mystery which threatens my very existence, as this letter will describe.
    After the incident at the Elms I wanted to leave London and I decided it was time to approach the queen mother. I cast about amongst my colleagues and other minor officials of the court as to where the old bitch had gone to earth. Eventually, I