The Death of a King

“Mortimer proved to be a worse tyrant than the Despensers. He had my father murdered at Berkeley Castle. He executed my uncle, Edmund, Earl of Kent, on a fictitious charge of treason and he brought my mother into disrepute. In November 1330 matters reached such a climax that I,” the king paused, “that I intervened. Mortimer was arrested at Nottingham and hanged for his crimes at Tyburn. My sweet mother decided to relinquish affairs of state in order to dedicate herself to good works on her country estates.”
    The king stopped abruptly and ordered Chandos, who was standing at the back of the room, to serve me with wine and sweetmeats whilst he and Stratford conferred quietly together. As I ate, I realized the king had told me nothing new and omitted the more scandalous items of the story. His father was a well-known sodomite who died with a red-hot poker thrust up his arse. Isabella, the king’s “sweet mother,” was little better. Her ferocity had earned her the nickname of the “She-Wolf.” She had, by all accounts, been Mortimer’s whore, his partner in tyranny, as well as his accomplice in the murder of her husband. If it had not been for the intervention of her son, she would have certainly joined Mortimer on the scaffold. The truth is all-important, Richard, but you never tell it to princes. Especially when you sit with them and drink their wine.
    Eventually, the king ceased his whispering and, turning to me, came bluntly to the point. “Master Edmund,” he began, “are you wondering how events which happened so long ago affect you?” He shrugged, not waiting for an answer. “It’s quite simple. I want you to investigate the circumstances surrounding my father’s death. You will draw on the Exchequer, the royal treasury, to meet any expenses and receive a warrant permitting you to question anyone, as well as the right to search any records. However,” the king waved an admonitory finger at me, “you must not flaunt your commission at court nor can you work amongst any records covered by the secret seal. There is nothing there touching this matter and a great deal which concerns the security of our realm in the present war against France. Finally,” the king looked hard at me, “your task is to research the background of my father’s death. Not, I repeat, not to hunt down his murderers. That is the task of others.”
    The king gulped a little more wine, raising his hand to fend off my questions, so he could continue. “I know, I know, Master Beche. Why do I want such an investigation and why do I choose you and not a group of royal commissioners? The answers are quite simple. I was only 15 when my father died. I was king in nothing but name. Mortimer controlled the realm as if it was one of his own Welsh shires. I knew nothing at the time but,” the king extended his hands, “now I want to know. The dust has settled and a discreet inquiry will satisfy my curiosity. I chose you because you will observe discretion. You are a royal clerk, skilled in research and proficient in dealing with records. You have other qualities and assets which recommend you.” He picked up a leaf of parchment from the table. “You are the only son of Jocelyn and Ann Beche, farmers who held land in Yorkshire. They died some time ago, but not before they saw their only son enter Merton College and emerge well qualified in the study of law. For a while, you served as a clerk in the retinue of the Earl of Montague in two campaigns against the French. On his recommendation, you were accepted into the royal Chancery where you have distinguished yourself as a competent, industrious and, above all, discreet clerk. You have many acquaintances but no friends unless, of course,” the king added wryly, “we include your mistress in Cheapside.” He let the manuscript fall back on the table.
    “Well,” he added abruptly, “is there anything you wish to ask?”
    The king’s speech had surprised me but I managed to conceal my astonishment behind an obvious question. “Your Grace,” I blurted out, “most of the people connected with Mortimer’s regime are dead, although a few are still alive.” I looked as meaningfully as I could at Stratford.
    “True,” that old fox replied caustically, “I was in the service of Queen Isabella when Edward II died but I know nothing of the old king’s death. If I did,” he added firmly, “His Grace would surely know of it.”
    I knew that Stratford was lying. He had an