The Death of a King

before and so I decided to ignore it for the moment. Instead I concentrated on where I could begin my search. As I sat staring at the writ I had just received, I suddenly knew where the information must lie—in the office of the secret seal, the one place expressly forbidden me by the king.
    You probably know, Richard, there is the great seal in the custody of the Chancellor, and the privy seal, carried by another royal official. Both these seals are used to issue charters, letters and licences, but the secret seal is used exclusively by the king and covers any delicate or serious matter concerning himself or the kingdom. From my days in the Chancery, I knew that the office of the secret seal had a record depository behind locked doors in the Tower Muniment Room. Documents stored there are usually handed over in sealed caskets by the Chancellor, or even the king himself. No other person is allowed access to them without their express permission. I determined to break into the record room but I knew that I could not use the king’s commission, as it was now considerably dated and not specific enough to fool a Chancery official.
    I decided to resume my search at the Muniment Room and cultivate the venerable clerk in charge of the secret seal records—John Luttreshall. The latter is a high-ranking official, a man grown old in the service of the royal administration. He knew me by sight and, with a little flattery on my part, I soon turned his acquaintance into a friendship. We established a custom of sharing a wine-skin after the day’s work when the other clerks were gone. John would grow expansive and gabble like a chicken about what he had done, whilst I sat open-mouthed in pretended astonishment at his petty achievements.
    Yesterday evening I laced John’s wine with poppy-juice that I had bought from an apothecary. The old man quickly slumped, head on hands, into a deep sleep and I immediately went to work. I removed the chain of keys from his belt and opened the locks on the door to the secret seal records. Once through, I lit some tapers which revealed a long, low-vaulted chamber with white walls reaching up to a black-raftered ceiling. I realized that the depository was modelled on the same system as the rest of the Muniment Room with the documents sealed in small hide-skinned trunks according to the king’s regnal year. Edward III had been crowned in January, 1327, and I had received my commission in his eighteenth, 1345. I found the casket for that year on a shelf near the door and, having broken the king’s seal, began to work my way through its contents. There were a whole series of documents. Reports from spies and traitors at the French court, letters from the king to private individuals, and a collection of memoranda from the royal council. At last, I unrolled a small scroll bearing a broken seal I did not recognise. It was a letter from Manuel Fieschi, a clerk of the Papal Court in Avignon, and as I slowly deciphered the Norman French, my heart began to pound with excitement.
    I hurried out of the chamber. John was still snoring softly, so I swiftly made a rough copy of the letter and returned it. Despite my excitement, I realized that someone would discover that the casket had been tampered with. I softened the wax of the broken seal, closed the casket lid and, pressing the seal together again, hoped that it would escape attention, at least for a while. I then relocked the chamber door, returned the keys to the still sleeping John and quickly strolled back to my house in Bread Street.
    I cannot give you Fieschi’s letter in full, Richard, but its contents, to use Guerney’s expression, would certainly “set all Europe by its ears.” Fieschi claims that Edward II had not died at Berkeley, but had escaped during the Dunheved attack and managed to reach Ireland. From there, he had sailed to France where he had met Fi-eschi at the Papal Court. The deposed king, so Fieschi maintained, was travelling in disguise and only revealed his identity after being given absolution in confession, and then left the Papal Court with the firm intention of travelling to Italy. The letter gave no indication of his whereabouts in Italy, but concluded with the firm hope that our present king would determine the truth of the matter. Even more incredible is that the letter is dated June, 1345 , only three months, Richard, before the king assigned me to this inquiry.
    The contents of Fieschi’s letter may seem