The Death of a King

and flee towards him on the main castle wall. What was most significant was Tully’s claim that Dunheved’s men actually got into the castle and were escaping before being either cut down or forced to surrender. This contradicted earlier statements that Dunheved’s gang were stopped at the walls. I copied Tully’s confession down and returned the roll to Sir Thomas, who had been anxiously watching me.
    “Is that all you need?”
    “Yes,” I replied, “and now, Sir Thomas, I must say goodbye.”
    We shook hands, promising that we would share information. I told him where he could contact me and I walked into the yard of the inn and shouted for my horse.
    Sir Thomas followed me into the frosty yard and watched as I mounted.
    “Master Beche?” he asked. “Why do you think the king informed neither of us that the other was involved in this business?”
    The same question had occurred to me and I gave him the same conclusion I had reached. The king had assigned me to write a history of his late father’s reign, not the task of tracking down his father’s murderers. Tweng looked about as satisfied as I felt at such an explanation, but time was pressing. We both agreed to keep our meeting together a secret. I nodded farewell and continued my departure.
    My journey back was uneventful. I reached the capital this morning and I was in Bread Street when the bells of St Paul were calling for the midday Angelus. I left my horse in the hands of the ostler of The Green Man and entered its cool darkness. The place fell strangely quiet. At first, I thought it was due to my dusty appearance until Noyon, the landlord, bustled up and, avoiding my eyes, told me to sit. I gathered from his face that he brought bad news, common knowledge to all, but affecting only me.
    “It’s Kate, Master Beche,” Noyon answered my look. “She’s dead, murdered three nights ago. She was found with her throat cut, near St Martin-le-Grand.”
    The coldness which numbed me then still lingers on. I asked if there was a culprit, but Noyon was uncertain. He told me a huge, black-faced man with a foreign accent had been making enquiries about me the day before Kate’s death. “Perhaps it was he, but the coroner was unable to question him, as he vanished as mysteriously as he had come. This,” Noyon added, “was found in one of her pockets.”
    It was a piece of parchment with the words “ mortui mortuos saepeliant ” — “let the dead bury the dead”—and I remembered that the she-wolf had given me similar advice at Castle Rising.
    I thanked Noyon and stumbled back to my lodgings, where I lay staring for hours at the parchment. I have it now, neatly folded in my wallet, and I intend to return it to the Scot. Somehow or other, he murdered Guerney; he has tried to kill me once and probably came to London to finish the job. When he found me absent, he must have decided to kill Kate and terrorize me into silence. That old bitch, Isabella, works the man like a puppet but if I cannot reach her, then I will be satisfied with the Scot. I beg you, Richard, not to write with texts to leave vengeance to the Lord. By the time this letter reaches you, such vengeance will have been carried out. God keep you. Written at Bread Street, 11 April, 1346.

Letter Seven
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. You must not think I ended my last letter with vain, empty threats. I was distraught at Kate’s death. Indeed, I still am. I did not love the girl, but I feel sorrow and guilt that such an innocent should suffer because of me. The morning after my return to London, I visited her small, forlorn grave and wept unashamedly. I ordered a stone cross to be placed there and paid a fee for masses to be said by a Chancery priest.
    I also settled other affairs in London before using the king’s commission to draw further monies. The Exchequer clerk told me that one day I would have to account for it all. He looked even angrier when I said that the king had received more than he could ever give me. I left my old mare at The Green Man and bought a splendid beast, more suited for a knight than a clerk at the chancery, but past experience had already shown that my life could depend on the speed of a horse. I then fastened on my sword and dagger and left the capital for Cambridge and King’s Lynn.
    It seemed so empty to leave without a kiss from Kate, and for the first time in my life I felt a loneliness that was more than a mere state of mind. I have no kin.