The Death of a King

discovered the king had ordered her to live in splendid isolation in the great Norman fortress of Castle Rising in Norfolk. I thought it wise not to tell the she-wolf I was coming to her lair, so I packed my belongings and set off for Cambridge. I by-passed that place and, after a week’s travel, arrived at King’s Lynn. I lodged at The Sea Barque, a bustling tavern where sailors and fishermen from the port of Hun-stanton rub shoulders with the burgesses, merchants and farmers of the fertile Norfolk broads. From the inquiries I had made amongst curious locals, I knew that Castle Rising lay a few miles to the east, but I decided to stay in King’s Lynn to sniff out the lie of the land before proceeding any further.
    I kept to myself, drinking and eating alone, until I merged with my surroundings. In Norfolk, strangers who bustle in are usually cold-shouldered or, as a local proverb so aptly puts it, “the man who tries to move too fast, never moves at all.” I soon became accepted for what I pretended to be, a clerk from Cambridge in pursuit of new employment in some great merchant’s house. One evening I managed to draw a group of local farmers into conversation about the queen mother. After some perfunctory remarks about having such a great lady in the area, one of them slammed the table and launched into a surprisingly savage attack upon the old queen. He damned her as a public nuisance, who ruled the area worse than any bishop.
    “The old she-wolf,” he declared, “rides through the countryside with her bodyguard, taking what she wants. The poor unfortunate she plunders is simply told to present his bills to the sheriff for payment. Of course, the sheriff refers him to London, and who could afford to make such a long trip on the slender hope that the Exchequer would make a just and prompt reimbursement?” His words won growls of approval from his companions, but I was more intrigued by the mention of the bodyguard and asked if they were the king’s men.
    The farmer laughed out loud and dug his red bulbous nose back into his tankard, before explaining. “Master Clerk, they’re not king’s men but a band of ruffians, hired by the old hag herself and led by some rogue called Michael the Scot.”
    “Why does the old queen need such protection?” I persisted. “Does she fear attack?”
    The farmer shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps she’s frightened of the ghost of her murdered husband. I don’t know.” He then grumbled on about great lords and ladies and the conversation drifted on to more mundane matters. I sat and let the talk flow on, realizing that the queen I was going to visit had certainly not resigned herself to a gentle retirement. She would have to be approached with great care. I had studied the queen’s reputation. Her shrewdness was legendary. In 1313 on a visit to France she met her three sisters-in-law and gave each of them presents of satin gloves. A year later, on a return visit to France, she noticed those same gloves being worn by three young knights of her father’s court. Isabella reported the matter to her father, and so initiated a court scandal which rocked France and delighted the rest of Europe. Evidently, Philip’s three daughters-in-law had set up a love-nest with these young knights in the Tour de Nesle in Paris, where they met for secret parties and orgies. Their stupid mistake in passing on Isabella’s gifts led to their discovery and humiliation. The princesses were immured for life, but their lovers were broken on the wheel at Montfancon. Isabella was dangerous.
    The next morning I rose early, dressed carefully and rode out of King’s Lynn towards Castle Rising. I reached it about midday, but by-passed the small village and began to make my way up the winding path to the main castle gate. I was about half-way there when a troop of horses emerged from the trees on either side of the track to block my path. I have never seen more fitting candidates for the gallows. They were dressed in a motley collection of gaudy rags but they looked seasoned fighters and were armed to the teeth with swords, daggers, shields and crossbows. Their leader was a huge, beetle-browed man, dressed in half-armour, his head capped in a steel conical helmet, while lying across his saddle pommel was a huge double-edged axe. He cantered towards me and asked my business in a thick Scots burr which declared, without any introduction, that this was Michael the Scot. I tried to hide my anxiety