The Death of a King

vestry. At the far end, two figures sat hunched over a trestle table. They looked up as we entered. Chandos ordered me to kneel and an age seemed to pass before a resonant voice told me to sit on the stool Chandos had pushed alongside me. I slumped on to it and, raising my eyes, found myself staring straight into the king’s face. My first thought was that the golden boy we students cheered so wildly as he passed through Oxford to his palace at Woodstock had disappeared. The blond hair had turned a dull grey, a mottled hue of criss-crossed veins now patterned the tawny face and his belly’s so big that it seems our king has lost his youth, not on the battlefield, but at the board of countless banquets. Yet his eyes, though puffy and ringed with shadows, were keen and alert enough to force me to shift my gaze to the person sitting on his left. There, I recognized the red-haired, foxy features of our father in Christ, John Stratford, Archbishop of Canterbury.
    For a few moments, both Edward and his archbishop studied me. The king then leaned forward and asked if I knew my history. I replied that I had studied Polybius, Tacitus and the other ancients, which only brought neighs of laughter from Stratford.
    “No, Master Beche,” the king said with a half-smile, “a little more recent than that. Such as the events of my late father’s reign?”
    Anyone at court from porter to Earl Marshal would have sensed the danger in such a question, so I muttered a few phrases about my low station, scholarly seclusion and comparative youth when the late Edward II had been deposed and brutally murdered.
    The king stirred restlessly and quickly silenced me. “Master Beche,” he snapped, “if you cannot recall the events of my lamented father’s reign then let me refresh your memory. My sire came to the throne in July 1307. The following January, he married Princess Isabella of France. In March 1312 I was born, then in the next eight years came my brother John of Eltham and my two good sisters, Joanna and Eleanor. My father, however, never spent much time with us. He was too involved in a constant struggle with his cousin, Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, over who would govern the realm. Despite your protests, Master Clerk,” he added drily, “you probably know the outcome. In the spring of 1322, Lancaster aided by the Earl of Hereford, Roger Mortimer and other miscreants, rose in rebellion against my father. Mortimer burnt Bridgenorth but was forced to surrender at Shrewsbury and was imprisoned in the Tower. Lancaster and Hereford fared even worse. They were trapped at Boroughbridge in Yorkshire on the river Ure. In the ensuing skirmish, Hereford died with a spear up his arse whilst Lancaster was captured and decapitated.”
    The king paused to drink from a pewter goblet. “My father’s victory,” he continued, “marked the rise of two court favourites, Hugh Despenser the Elder who became the Earl of Winchester, and his son, Hugh the Younger, also known as the Lord of Glam-organ. This precious pair virtually owned Wales, ruled my father and ruined his kingdom. My mother,” the king continued as if reciting a lesson, “the Queen Dowager Isabella, opposed them, but to little avail. The Despensers humiliated her and she was eventually stripped of her lands and possessions.”
    The king leaned back, nodding at Stratford, who continued the recital in that unctuous tone reserved by leading ecclesiastics for addressing the lowly and less intelligent amongst their flock.
    “In 1325 Lady Isabella and His Grace,” Stratford nodded towards the king, “then only a boy of 13 summers, managed to escape to France on the pretext of being involved in certain peace negotiations. Once there, Lady Isabella refused to return and allied herself with Roger Mortimer, who had previously escaped from the Tower. To cut a long tale short, Master Clerk, the Queen received help from me and many others and invaded England. Edward II and the Despensers, being deserted by all, fled to South Wales where they were later captured.”
    Stratford fell silent as the king touched his arm before resuming the narrative himself. “Look, Master Clerk. You were 20, a student at Merton College, Oxford, when all this happened. So let us be brief. The Despensers were executed and my father deposed and imprisoned. For the next four years, Mortimer ruled the kingdom.”
    The king cleared his throat and fairly rushed the rest of his evidently carefully prepared speech.