The Death of a King

horse.
    I rode out of the city’s west gate and took the road leading to Monmouth until I came to the bridge which spanned the meet ing of the Wye and Severn Rivers. Across this lies the cool, green darkness of the Forest of Dean, and I had only penetrated half a mile into it when a party of royal verderers appeared. They asked my business and I flourished the now yellowing royal warrant. They carefully inspected the royal seal and became only too anxious to answer my queries about the whereabouts of the nearest mine-works.
    Ever since the time of the Romans, the Forest of Dean has been quarried for its iron, tin and coal, and there are still workings throughout the area. Following the directions of the verderers, I came across the nearest in a huge clearing, dotted with wooden huts and littered with heaps of rubble, disused plankings and round iron pitchers. Over all hung a thick, heavy smoke which weaved across the clearing and into the trees beyond, fouling the air with the stench of burning pitch. I was approached by a small, wiry man, dressed in boots, moleskin breeches and leather jerkin, all of which were covered in dirt and dried crusts of tar. He introduced himself as the mine’s overseer. I showed him the king’s commission but placated his evident concern by pointing out that I was not there to snoop, but merely to satisfy my curiosity. I explained that I was a keen student of engineering, being attached to the office of the king’s Surveyor of Royal Works.
    The man seemed satisfied and took me on a tour of his domain, just as Virgil led Dante through the nethermost parts of hell. He answered my questions about vents, shafts, tunnels, stays and the use of guide ropes. My brain became bemused by all the dangerous intricacies of mining. Eventually, the tour was finished. I thanked the man and gave him a mark for his service which left him speechless with gratitude. I mounted and rode to the nearest pool to drink and bathe the dust from my face.
    The city gates were closed when I reached Gloucester just after dusk, and only a great deal of argument and a small amount of silver persuaded the watch to open the postern gate and let me through. That night I slept so soundly that it was midday before I left the Cross Keys. I walked up the dirty cobbled street to the City Cross and the multi-coloured striped awnings of the market stalls which surround it. I wandered across the great square, my hand on my purse and my eyes wary of the cut-purses and thieves who flocked to such places like all the plagues of Egypt.
    The warm spring weather had brought the crowds swarming in to buy gewgaws, food, clothes, or even potions from the quacks who wandered the countryside selling their elixirs. There was a mangy bear being taunted by even mangier dogs, while all around the pit, jugglers and tumblers entertained the crowd. I had become so immersed in the king’s private affair that I realized how little time I had taken to relax and enjoy myself in that most enjoyable of occupations—sitting in the sun and watching the world go by. I then thought of my walks with Kate through the markets of London, and this brought me back to grim reality.
    I quickly went around the necessary stalls; from one I bought a number of large, thick, hempen sacks, from another, two small pickaxes and shovels, three hundred yards of thick cord, and a stack of short wooden planks. I bundled all my purchases into one of the sacks and then returned to the cathedral churchyard, where I buried them beneath the rubble of a collapsed tomb. The rest of the day I spent at the inn, eating, dozing and waiting for nightfall. When the cries of the watch announced that the city was asleep, I quickly snatched some old clothes and returned to the graveyard. Apart from the screech of a hunting owl, all was quiet. I quickly changed my clothes, dragged out a pick and shovel and began to dig on the spot I had marked the day before. The earth was soft and loose and soon I was using the planks to create a primitive shaft, like the ones I had seen in the mines of the Forest of Dean. Once I had judged this to be deep enough, I began to carve out a tunnel, gathering the rubble into the sacks. Once a sack was full, I strengthened the tunnel with more wood and clambered out to empty it into a ditch which ran along the far end of the cemetery. I began the task with vigour but, by dawn, I had only emptied three sacks from the tunnel and I was aching in every part of my